A Teenage Christmas

         A/N: Hey! This is the first time I’ve put anything online, so don’t get all high horse if everything isn’t perfect.
         This is the start of a piece of English coursework that our teacher suggested putting on the web so other people can read it. It’s not finished so I should update very soon (it’s due in this Friday coming)
         Please R/R then if I’ve made any HUGE mistakes I can correct them before I had it in! Mwah-ha-ha! Also, anybody that reviews gets a cookie! And I have many many cookies…

Original Writing Coursework: “A Teenage Christmas”

         This year, Christmas Eve was a bit different.
         The most noticeable change of course, was the extra presence that occasionally stalked through the house, but mainly confined himself to the familiar space that was my elder sisters bedroom.
         Right, like I was going to let them hide upstairs all day. I mean, it was Christmas Eve, we were going to have fun, and whether they wanted to or not. So with a strengthened resolve, and shameless encouragement courtesy of my mother, I stole up the stairs, careful to avoid the bulk of bristly garland flocked with white lights, which coyly twinkled through a mess of green, and the odd plastic pinecone which lovingly adorned the banister.
         My bedroom only ever resembled my sisters twice a year. What before was a heap of worn-out school books, various stationary items contributing varying stripes of colour, once pristinely ironed clothes that now might resemble the wrinkled skin of a lumbering rhino, the novel I was reading, other books waiting to be read, books I’d half-read, dog-eared, then forgotten in the rush of finding another book, some visually abusive CD cases, contents of course misplaced, and more than likely allowance money buried under what my father could only describe as ‘junk’. There was now clear space to stash the Christmas loot, revealing the deep burgundy shade of, my desk. I hadn’t seen it for months until a few days prior, it still surprised me the bold, richness of the colour I now stared at.
         Instead of heaving under the incredible weight of, not ‘junk’, but ‘stuff’ thank you very much, the far end of my workstation now bore my contribution to the holiday cheer. I glanced with proud eyes at my sparsely decorated tree, it was white – matching most of my furniture, which aside from a red desk includes a broad dresser, a broader bed and some chunky looking shelves – and made from the same material of the garland that stubbornly hugged the banister, yes it was stritchy-scratchy, but that did not matter unless for some bizarre reason you wanted to give it a cuddle. The seat of my pride however, was at the tasteful decorations that littered the various branches. Simple white lights were intertwined with another string of lights, and though the colours were the same, the latter had coarse, nylon flower petals encasing the bulb, changing their once harsh glare, to a softer, orangey glow. Small, delicate baubles hung about the branches like little apples, apples that were multicoloured and unabashedly coated thickly in glitter. These I was particularly proud of, I have loved glitter since I was a toddler, and upon seeing the little packs of glitter on a string at a gardening store, that love came back with renewed vigour. Hanging blatantly at the front though, were thirteen red and green rods of mint flavoured sugar. There were originally fourteen, but after making a solemn oath not to eat any until Christmas Day, my body feverishly demanded that I needed to have a candy cane, so I had sat on my bed and munched it guiltily, then proceed to hide the evidence by stuffing the wrapper into an inconspicuous-looking drawer.
         I swiftly found the item that I required, my sister and her beloved now had no excuse not to partake in the Christmas festivities. The item in question came to me in the form of a decidedly middle-sized rectangular box, an ugly rectangular box. The dreary colours were not repulsive though, just dank, and tired. Almost instinctively, a large picture stepped in to shield on looking eyes from the oppressive shades of red and green, those so different compared to my much favoured candy canes. Cubby little children of about seven years could be seen slaving tirelessly on the construction of a gingerbread bungalow, rosy cheeks a-glow and everything. I think they were supposed to be Swiss, as you certainly would not find me with twin plaited pigtails framing my face, or wearing an apron. I reached for the misleading imagery, and the sickly sweet smell of ginger shot up my nose, but was not even bothered, I love ginger! Fortunately.
         After some persuasion, I managed to convince my sister and her arm candy that spending an immeasurable amount of time building a gingerbread mess will be fun. I bounded down to the kitchen, followed none too closely by the happy couple. Upon entering the kitchen however, I was shocked to discover that every conceivable surface was loaded with various food stuffs: a clammy turkey still defrosting from this morning, prepared vegetables sitting inside pots and pans of assorted sizes, homemade desserts and gluten-free puddings for my sister’s boyfriend, and scattered kitchen utensils littered every other miniscule space. My perky expression melted. It was only slightly irritating, and marginally more depressing. I arranged my features to a crestfallen look, and whimpered melodramatically. The two teenagers exchanged glances, whispers, and finally identically smirks, before approaching the mammoth task of clearing the table for us all.
         This is why I love my sister, she gets the hint.
         Nearly an hour and a half later, we were washing our hands of the excess sugar, and mocking the fruits of our efforts. It was seriously that bad, o-oh so very bad. We had begun to arrange the brittle ginger walls into a rough rectangle, then the bo’ noted that we needed to melt some sugar to stick the walls together. I mentally face-palmed myself, duh! What did I think we were going to attach them with, superglue? (Strong, good for book covers, great for shoe soles, but alas, indigestible) My sister salvaged the only remaining stainless steel pan from the corner cabinet, spared the laborious duty of cooking some green vegetable because it was a diddlely little thing. She replaced a pan full to bursting with runner beans with the tiny tin, and stretched across to hob, grasping roughly for the blown glass sugar pot. I watched eagerly as she tipped a generous quantity of white crystals into the searing pan, then stepped up when she gestured at me to take over. My initial delight was short lived, as I succeeded in making nothing but a mess. Honey coloured beads stuck resiliently to the bottom of the pot, gave off a sickly stinging smell like only sugar flambé can. I looked around imploringly, and a timid voice from a lean frame suggested adding water to the gooey mix. The light shone though my sister’s eyes, and she hurriedly tipped a quarter pint of water in the pan. We just stared. What needed to be thick sugar glue, and had resembled grainy burnt sand, now looked more like beach water. I sighed and turned the gas up, until blue flames danced merrily on the copper underside of the pan, hoping to evaporate some of the water. I returned to the table, only to be set the task of finding a suitably Christmassy mat on which to construct the gingerbread hassle. After a few minutes of searching, I returned with a blank look and a bumbling excuse. My sister eagerly took up the hunt, and promptly returned with a large, metallic green cake tray, just the right size. I huffed, and turned my attention to the cooking sugar. I was surprised, despite earlier mishap, seemed to be the perfect consistency. Joined by two additional bubbling voices, I tipped the hot sugar into a microwavable bowl, and so began work on the house of gingerbread.

         A/N2: I’d like to remind people that this is not finished, and to R/R * waves a tray of cookies in the air*