Taylors- Short Story #2

This is definitely the best story I've ever written. I have the whole thing written out, I'm just too lazy to type it.

It's four in the morning and the mirror is seriously scaring me.
It reflects a tired, tan girl with massive dark circles and eyeliner more smudged than then the mirror. And that's saying something.
The girl is squinting at the light bulb over the sink when she suddenly yawns and I realize...
Oh crap. This chick is me, Libby Taylor.
As if nightmares weren't enough...
I search blindly for the Tylenol so I can back to sleep, even though it's starting to seem like my hopes are a little too high in that area, when I remember that I used it all up last night, during Kitten's whining fit.
Yeah, I have a cat named Kitten. So sue me.
I hobble downstairs shivering in my cotton shorts ( the pair with the little hearts), hoping to find refuge in the TV's companionable glow, when I spot a lump on the couch. A lump wearing high heels and a leather jacket.
"Rrrrrr---uuuuppppert..." the lump groans. "Would you pass the sh-sh-sherry? I need another g-g-g-lasss..." The lump, now definitely identifiable as my mother, bursts into a gigglefit. "Sherry... what a funny word..." She passes out momentarily, her head going slack against our faded couch. I sigh a big sigh and try to position her in some sort of comfortable way. I knew this would happen, but for some reason I feel an unfamiliar sadness pushing up against my throat, and then I'm crying. I cover her with the blanket and try to put a pillow under her head, but she struggles and won't let me. I go back upstairs, trying to figure out why such a normal routine is making me so-emotional- this particular time.
Because it's not right. Because-because- it's not fair. I want a normal family, with a mom who wears sweat pants and takes me to soccer practice. It doesn't matter that I don't play soccer, it's the principle of the thing. I feel the lump in my throat again, and I desperatly want to talk to someone-anyone- who could understand. But there isn't anyone except my little sister Cassidy, and she's long asleep by now. I never let her see Mom like this anyways. I have to take care of Cassidy, let her have a little bit of innocence as long as she can keep it.
And I have to be strong. Taylors are always strong. Even when it hurts them the most.

I wake up the next morning with pillow face and a monster sized headache. The alarm clock, which probably rang two hours ago, is laying in a corner with the batteries torn out. Cassidy is leaning over my face like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
"Libby!" She shakes my shoulder. "Waaaake uuuup!!"
All the happy quiet daydreams in my head burst into a thousand tiny pieces as I sit up and stare at the demolished alarm clock.
"Ohmygod. What time is it???" I spring out of bed with panic eating it's way into my stomach. "Are you okay?" Cassidy looks okay- she's dressed, and not showing any signs of major blood loss- but I'm still hating myself for leaving her alone until-
"It's 10:00-ish. Will you take me to Nina's house? Because she just got a new puppy and he's soooo cute. He can roll over and everything. Nina says he's a poor bred-"
"Pure bred." I correct as I frantically search for something decent and/or clean to wear.
"Well can you take me?" Cassie taps her little 11-year-old foot impatiently.
"Yeah, sure. Just hold on a minute, I need to get dressed, okay?" I ruffle her thin blonde hair and send her out the door.
Okay. I slept three hours late. No biggie. I'll just clean the house really quick, separate the clothes, get change for the Laundromat, drop off Cassidy, clean up after Mom's 4 a.m. mess, and- that’s it. Except for the laundry, which we can take care of tonight. If there's still any money left on our bus passes...
Here's a quick briefing on my life. My Mom was a hippie; way way after it was in style. She got pregnant with me when she was sweet sixteen. Believe it or not, she has no idea who my father is, and could care less. Charming, right? She named me Liberty, gave me her last name, and left me to fend for myself. I hate to think what she would have named me if she was sober- I could have been Justice.
Cassidy came in much later, four years after I was born. Her father is (was) a drunk with a penchant for torturing my mother, and anything that got in his way. He disappeared one night, and according to Mom (during one of her few sober moments) threw himself under a train. It's hard to keep Cassie satisfied about him- she asks all the time who he was, what he was like- but I just tell her for now that he died before she was born. I worry about Cassidy. What will happen to her if I get my scholarship to college in two years? Could I somehow afford to rent an apartment? I don't know. These are the kind of questions that have me downing Tylenol in the middle of the night.
For right now, Mom has a job as a waitress during the day, and a job doing God knows what at night. She tried to tell me once, but I didn't want to hear it. Paying the bills and buying the food is work enough as it is without having to stress over using "dirty" money. Or what she had to do to earn it.
Someday, things will be better. I'll graduate and go off somewhere, get a fabulous job, work harder than hell to earn whatever Cassie wants or needs. But for right now, survival is everything. Even if it means sneaking on the bus when our passes expire.