Shift

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That Sunday started like any other on Morris Island.

Moms.

Yelling up the stairs.

“Shelton Devers!” Her voice arrowed through my door like it wasn’t even there. “Get out of bed, lazy bones! It’s almost eight thirty.”

“I’m up!” I lied, burrowing deeper into my blankets.

Need my beauty rest.

But I knew a personal visit came next. My mother does not tolerate slacking.

Groaning, I rolled from bed and stumbled to the bathroom, slapping my Avatar poster for luck along the way.

Toilet. Shower. Toothbrush. My brain slowly churned awake.

I was halfway through a second round of flossing — you’ve got to protect your gums — when One Direction blasted from my iMac’s speakers.

New message.

“That’s what makes you beautiful.” Mumbled, as I dropped into my desk chair.

Hey, I don’t care. Haters gonna hate, but them dudes can sing.

I located my glasses — black, box-framed, with inch-thick lenses — and slid them onto my nose. Necessary evil. I’ve tried contacts a thousand times, but can’t pop the little buggers into place. Something about touching my eyeball — I break into shivers just thinking about it.

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