Rules of a Rebel

Chapter 3: No Sugar

"Okay, Peyton," Mom says exasperatedly. "It's horrible and disgusting, but it's still the theme and I still need you to pick out a dress for it."

"I'm not going out and spending money to look good in a party that glorifies discrimination. " I scoff, crossing my arms, even though that's not my problem.

I just don't want to go a party, period.

Mom crosses her legs. "Why don't I pick out the dress then? And don't you dare say no, Peyton. Do you remember our deal? You're going to have to be obliging to the family and other peoples needs."

I scowl. "Fine."

"Great. Second of all, I'm thinking of making spaghetti, without meatballs, for dinner with apple pie for dessert. What do you think of that? Does it sound delicious?"

I throw her a suspicious look. She never asks me about these things unless she's trying to get something out of it. "I guess."

"Great," She chirps. "There's just one problem. I ran out of sugar yesterday and I completely forgot to go shopping for it today. It's too late now, since all the grocery stores and closed and you can't have pie without sugar, so do you mind doing me a favor and going out to get some?"

I blink. "What? Going out where?"

"Oh, don't worry, it's nothing too bad. You should just go and knock on somebody's door and ask for a cup of sugar or two." Mom waves her like it's no big deal.

"Mom, I can't just go out and knock on peoples doors, asking for sugar. They'll think I'm pranking them or something."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure somebody will be willing to give you some sugar.

"But-"

"The deal, Peyton."

I groan loudly.

"Peyton."

"Fine," I snap, throwing Charlotte to the side. "But your apple pie better be delicious."

"Oh, don't you worry, it will," Mom's eyes twinkle with triumph as she stands up to leave. "Oh, and Peyton? Please get rid of that stuffed animal? It's starting to smell."

She closes the door.

I stand still for a moment, then pick up Charlotte and put her back on the bed. Her eyes stare worriedly back at me. "Don't worry, cutie. I'll never get rid of you." Then, after giving her a pat on the head, I choose my clothes - black and bad, as usual - and go downstairs. My dad, who's watching TV, turns to give me an amused smile.

"Joining your biker gang?" He calls teasingly.

"Funny."

His laughter follows me outside.

The warm air washes over my face as the scent of seaweed and salt water linger in my mouth. I climb outside on my porch. A headache is already starting to form. It's been two months since we moved here and I still can't get used to that awful humidity.

The first house I go to is the Jefferson house, where a couple and two daughters, a teenager and a baby, live together. Mom's good friends with them, which is always bad news.

They look like every other house in this neighborhood. You know the deal, colorful flowers, perfectly green grass, a blindingly start white porch and crystal clear windows that leave plenty of room for the neighbors to see the sparkling chandelier inside. All that bullshit looks cute, but doesn't do a damn but hurt the environment.

I press the doorbell, which sets off some chimes, and wait with my hands crossed behind my back.

The door swings open to reveal a white woman with curled brown hair. Her smile freezes in place when she sees me.