Vivian 3

I walk into the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror, staring at my melancholy face. My nose and eyes are still red from crying, and my mouth is forced downward into an unattractive frown. I will admit, I have had better days. I turn on the cold water and cup my hands, filling them with the water. I splash the water over my face, then take a deep breath. I pull out some paper towels in order to dry my face. I look once more in the mirror, only to find that I'm not alone. I take a deep breath and spin around quickly.
"Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," she says. She walks up to the sink next to the one I'm standing at. She turns on the water and pumps some soap into her hands. She rinses them and then dries them. "I see you've been crying. Is everything alright?," she asks.
I stare at her in wonder, my hand over my racing heart. She's so small and fagile looking. She just stands there, staring back at me with her big, ice blue eyes, waiting for my response. She's wearing a bright pink shirt with black strips on it, a black shirt, legging identical to her shirt, and pink Chucks. This all is very strange to me, considering ths is a private school and when supposed to be wairing uniforms. I figure she's probably just protesting against them or something, so I don't ask. Her fiery red hair is in little pigtails, and she's not wearing make-up. She's very pretty. Suddenly, she jumps a little and puts her hand to her forehead, as if she's ashamed of herself.
"Oh! Sorry! I'm Grace Daniels," she says, putting her hand out for me to shake it. Reid Daniels sister. I'd heard of her, but I'd never seen her. I shake her hand and smile at her.
"How old are you?," I can't help but ask. She looks only about 9 years old at the most.
"Oh, I'm 14," she says. "I know, I look only about 9 at the most, right? I get that a lot."
"Oh. I'm Vivian. Hastings," I say, smiling at her.
"So, Vivian, is everything alright? You seemed really upset," she says.
"Oh, I'm fine. Don't worry about it," I say, brushing the issue away with a flick of my wrist.
"Not comfortable talking to a stranger?," she asks, smiling at me.

Normally, no. But there's just something about her that makes me trust her. Even thought I only met her 2 minutes ago. She just seems so inoccent and....unthreatening. I shake my head and smile.
"No, that's not it. It's just, kind of a hard thing for me to talk about," I say, averting my eyes away from her.
"Oh. I see. I know what you mean. Once, when I was younger, my grandma was really sick and I was worried she might leave me. It was really hard to talk about, but everyone kept wanting to know how she was and stuff. Sometimes, if she was doing bad, I just told them she was fine instead of admiting that she was getting worse," she says, in a voice a little louder than a whisper. My eyes fill up with tears, because I know how she felt. I know how hard it must have been for her. I know because the same thing is happening to me now.
I hold back my tears, and in a shaky voice I say,"I know how that feels. My grandma's in the hospital right now," I say, trying my hardest to keep the tears from flowing.
"What happened?," she asks.
"Well, it all started about a week ago when we moved everything in her room to the extra bedroom downstairs. It was starting to hurt her hip whenever she tried to walk up the steps. Well, I guess I forgot her book up there, and she went up to get it while I was at school. I was sent to the office only to find out that she'd fallen and broken it. Her hip, I mean. And now, with it getting cold and everything, she's got pneumonia. It was getting better, but then it got worse. I'm so scared. I don't want to loose her. She's my best friend," I finish, the tears now flowing freely down my face, dispite my effort to hold them in. I look up at Grace and see that she's crying as well. Not as much as I am, but she's still crying all the same.
"It was really hard to tell me that wasn't it?," she asks. It's a rhetorical question, but I answer anyways.
"Yeah. But, not as hard as I thought," I say. I couldn't believe how easy she was to talk to. Here I am, spilling all my problems out to a 14 year old girl I don't know anything about. I mean, I hadn't even told Mrs. Fairwell about Junee falling down the stairs. I didn't think I had the strength to.
"Well, if it makes you feel better, my grandma got better. And now she's happy," she says. "She was sick too. She'd been sick for a while, but it had finally gotten bad enought that I had to do something. She'd told me to just forgot about it and she'd be better in no time. She hates hospitals. But, when it got bad enough that she wasn't eating or responding to me anymore, I knew I had no choice but to call the ambulance. They rushed to our house and took her away. I later found out that she stopped breathing during the trip there, but they got her back. She still wasn't responding to people, but she was alive. She stayed in the hospital for about a month and then she was better. She came home and made the whole family a giant apple pie. She loves to bake. She had a bakery of her own when she was younger," she says.
I look up at her again. I see she's smiling through the tears. She won't look at me though. It turns out she actually had it harder than I did. Her grandma had stopped breathing. At least that never happened to Junee. Grace puts her hand on top of mine.
"Don't worry, Vivian, your grandma will get better too," she says.
"Thanks, Grace," I say, hugging her. Then the bell goes off. "Oh! Gosh! I missed lunch!," I say.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so nosy," she says apologetically.
"It's not your fault. I'm glad your nosy. I feel a lot better now knowing I'm not alone," I say. She smiles.
"Well, I always come here during the last 15 minutes of class if you need a friend. History is so boring," she says.
"Everyday? Doesn't your teacher ever wonder why?," I ask.
"Mr. Lance doesn't really pay all that much attention to his students," she says.
"Oh, yes. Mr. Lance. I remember him," I say, reminiscing my 9th grade history class.
"Well, I guess we better be going. I don't want to be late to English. Mrs. Konally isn't really the nicest teacher in the world," she says.
"Yeah. I'll see you later Grace! Thanks again, for everything," I say before leaving the bathroom. I walk down the hall to the marble stairs. I walk up two flights and then turn left on the third floor. I walk down to my locker and find my best friend, Dixxie Fairwell, standing next to it.
"Hey, Viv! Where were you? I waited forever! Aren't you hungry?," she says, just as the minute bell goes off.
I unlock my locker and pull out my History book. "Yeah. Sorry. I got caught up," I say.
"Oh. I see. Well, what happened?," she asks, flipping her long, honey blonde hair out of her face.
"I'll tell you later, Dixx. I have to go all the way down to the end of the hall and the minute bell already rang. I don't wanna be late," I say.
"Alright. But don't forget! See ya!," she says, walking across the hall to the Spanish room. That was one thing her mom wasn't very happy about. The fact that she took Spanish instead of French, I mean. I sprint down to my History class.
"No running, Ms. Hastings," says Mrs. Nixon, the History teacher. I slow my pace to a fast walk and make it to my seat about a nano second before the bell rings.
Hope you liked it!