Enduring 8

The pungent mixture of expensive cologne and burnt toast wafted steadily up the staircase, an unmistakable indicator that my father was running behind schedule for work. Again. From the kitchen below, I could hear his frustrated voice grumbling to my mother about a particularly challenging case he was handling, while she methodically flipped through the morning newspaper, undoubtedly preparing sharp, analytical comments about the latest political controversy she planned to dissect in her upcoming column.

Typical morning in the Rafferty household. Like clockwork, really.

I carefully swiped mascara across my lashes and examined my reflection critically, tilting my chin upward slightly to check the effect. Perfect. My blonde hair was meticulously straightened to smooth perfection, my uniform tie hung deliberately loose around my neck giving just the right impression of casual defiance, and my nails—painted a glossy, deep black—represented the only truly rebellious statement I could successfully get away with within Tommen's strict dress code policies. With practiced movements, I tugged my slightly wrinkled blazer into place and grabbed my school bag before making my way downstairs, the familiar weight of another school day already settling on my shoulders.

"Colette, grab some toast before you leave," Mum called out as I attempted to slip past the kitchen entrance unnoticed.

"Not hungry," I replied dismissively, continuing my path toward the hallway without breaking stride.

Dad appeared suddenly in the entryway, already halfway out the front door, with a briefcase clutched tightly in one hand and a harried expression on his face. "Try not to get suspended this week, Colette," he said with a knowing look that carried equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement.

"No promises," I shot back with exaggerated sweetness, a practiced response in our familiar routine. He smirked slightly before disappearing through the door into the morning light.

I stepped outside into the crisp morning air as my older brother, Eógan, sat in his slightly battered car. The music was already blasting at an unreasonable volume, some energetic chant that he and his Gaelic football teammates had adopted as their unofficial anthem.

"Jesus, turn that down," I complained loudly, sliding into the passenger seat and dropping my bag at my feet with a thud.

He just smirked mischievously, deliberately turning the volume up for a few extra, excruciating seconds before finally lowering it to a more tolerable level. "Morning to you too, Scorpion," he greeted me, using the nickname that had followed me for years.

I rolled my eyes dramatically at the familiar nickname but didn't bother arguing against it. Even I had to admit it wasn't entirely unwarranted or inaccurate given my reputation.

The back passenger door suddenly popped open with a familiar squeak, and Lizzie climbed in. "I swear to God, if we have Irish first thing this morning, I'm quitting school," she announced dramatically, settling into her seat.

"Same," I agreed emphatically, reaching over instinctively to adjust her perpetually crooked tie. "At least let me fix this disaster before we both get lectured about proper uniform standards again."

Eoghan snorted derisively from the driver's seat. "You two exist in a constant state of 'nearly expelled.' It's actually impressive how you maintain that perfect balance."

"Proud of it," Lizzie grinned broadly, not a hint of remorse in her expression.

The drive to Tommen college was filled with the familiar chaotic energy we'd perfected over years—Lizzie animatedly complaining about various homework assignments she had conveniently forgotten to complete, Eógan half-listening while trying to focus on the roads, and me silently preparing mentally and emotionally for yet another day of carefully navigating encounters with him.