Assassin (Chapter One)

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“You stupid little miscreant!” my boss yells. “You almost got killed!”
“Um, hell-o, I’m an assassin! It’s my job to almost get killed!” I scream back at her. I flip my long, black hair to the side while blowing my finely shiny black nails. I can tell people are staring at my tan skin because everyone is looking at my face. My face is the only thing that is not covered up. The rest of my body is covered up with a tight black leather jumpsuit, with leather kick-ass boots and my hands are covered with leather gloves. My handgun is noticeable. It’s right in my hand and my hand is gripping the handle.
My boss, Hannah Macintosh, also my aunt who’s in her twenties, has medium length blonde hair, tanned skin, has one earring on both ears and she’s got on her Catholic Schoolgirl disguise. It does not suit her at all. She also has a Blowpop in her hand.
“Nicola Macintosh,” Hannah says, “you are a sixteen year old girl. Do you really want to get killed at such a young age and never have a boyfriend, or possibly a wedding and a baby?”
A baby?! I think, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s funny, Aunt Han, but I will never fall in love,” I say with a little laugh.
Hannah gives me a serious look. “So you want to die at a young age?”
“Pfft! No; if I wanted to die at a young age I would have killed myself once I knew how to drive,”
“Don’t even joke about that. You’re mom did that when she and I were kids and it terrified our grandmother and our mom.”
“Mom? No, my mom, Evangeline, she’s a lawyer. She’s so totally serious. No. That doesn’t sound like her at all. Joking to kill herself? No.” I shake my head.
“It’s true,”
“Whoa,”
My mom, Evangeline Macintosh, is a lawyer. A very serious person, at that. My mom has bleach blonde hair, blue eyes, always wears a business suit and she has tanned skin (yeah, tanned skin is popular in my family). She had me when she was fifteen and right before I was born my father banished. Or died. Banished or died; neither my mom nor the police know what happened. Dad just up and disappeared.
“Look, I don’t want to end up like my mom: meeting some guy who only wants me for my looks, wants to have it with me and ends up disappearing before the kid is born. No. That’s why I ignore every single date invite boy’s give me.” I say, applying black lipstick to my lips and looking into my small black compact mirror.
“You are a serious gothic, girlfriend,” my best friend, Peach, says with a laugh. “But I don’t care. You’re my BFFL and I accept that,” she adds with a smile.
She’s a black girl who is seventeen who has black hair, olive green eyes, and big luscious lips with lip gloss. She’s wearing a baggy yellow sweater that shows one shoulder, jeans that has peaches and has her name sewed onto them.
“I know, Peach.” I say, turning around and giving her another once-over. It was about the thirteenth time I did it that afternoon. “Oh, and you’ve got some salad in your teeth leftover from lunch,” I add.
Peach gasps and starts picking her teeth. She could be such a drama queen sometimes. 3

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