Oh why must I? Why must I give a slight f... puck? Just forcing myself to have the motivation to do homework is draining in itself. Anyways here you go.
"Deborah!" Her mother exclaimed, her voice reaching shrill octaves as her eye pierced her daughter with distaste.
"Why on Earth would I even allow you to play a disgustingly dirty game like football? She continued to fuss, her fingers twirled the desperate pearls around her eloquent throat.
Debs, as she like to refer to herself, tug on her messy ponytail, a nervous tick she took on whenever her mother tried to shove femininity down her unpolished throat. The ripped frayed jeans clad legs rocked back in forth; her heels dug into the thick plush carpet.
"But" Debs began
"No!" Her mom stated, putting a resounding punctuation on the conversation.
"In fact" She continued, her voice now careful with musing, "I'm going to put you into Cheerleading" She turned on her heels and left before Debs could even give a rebuttal.
"And stop putting your beautiful long hair in that nasty ponytail" Her mother called out from whatever distance she had taken before she disposed this horror on Debs' scabbed and sun-burnt shoulders.
So she took scissors to her long hair, leaving it at awkward jagged angles and weird splits, as fine hairs fell onto her body, into the marble sink, and was left discarded into the sliver antique wastebasket.
Her father just gritted his teeth, jaw clenched and hands curled up into a tight fist. They were already enduring a war of silence between each other. He called after her, affection replace with mockery in his tones "you are the son I never wanted."
Her mother with curls squeeze tightly between her delicate fingers, fainted at the first glance.
Debs just walk to the custom made fridge, reflection of her new do appeared in the distorted images of the stainless steel appliances in her kitchen. Her hand circulate around the red Gatorade bottle, and she journey outdoors where her friends were waiting. Their sweaty bodies seem to glisten in the sun, beautiful grimy fingers clutched the weathered football.
"Nice hair" they simply told her, passing the ball in her direction.