CHAPTER 2 — FRANCINE FLORES
My alarm exploded at exactly six in the morning, drilling into my skull like a malfunctioning firetruck siren. I groaned, rolled over, and smacked it hard enough to make the table shake.
And because chaos is part of my bloodstream, I immediately turned on my stereo and blasted Party in the USA loud enough to make Miley proud. First day of school? Yes, I will celebrate like a deranged Disney character.
I stretched, cat-like, cracked my neck, then stripped off my pajamas as I grabbed my towel and headed to the bathroom—singing a bit off-key from my still groggy voice, but confidently.
Fifteen minutes later, shower done, skin still damp, hair wrapped in a towel, I walked out humming.
Then I opened my wardrobe.
And froze.
My brain lagged like a buffering video.
My closet…
was empty.
EMPTY.
Clothes? Gone.
Shirts? Gone.
Pants? Gone.
Jackets, hoodies, uniforms, even the dumb shirt I hated but never threw out?
ALL GONE.
Only my underwear drawer survived the apocalypse.
"What the absolute—"
I turned off the stereo so I could think without Miley yelling in my ear.
Someone did this.
Someone in this house.
And there were only three possible suspects:
Mom, Dad, or my evil-in-a-princess-dress sister.
My money was on the last two.
Still dripping, towel barely clinging to me, I stormed out of my room because modesty is dead and I have bigger problems.
I knocked on my sister's door aggressively.
She opened it without flinching at my half-naked state, which tells you exactly how normal this household is.
I marched in. "Where. Are. My clothes?"
"No good morning?" she asked while brushing her hair in front of her mirror.
"Bad morning," I snapped.
She shrugged. "Dad took them. I saw him carrying everything downstairs. Might've tossed them in the trash."
My jaw dropped. "Impossible."
She flicked eyeliner expertly. "In this family? Anything is possible."
I hate that she's right.
"And you didn't stop him?" I demanded.
"I tried," she replied with an eye roll. "He ignored me. Shocking, I know."
I groaned and dropped onto her bed. "I can't go to school like this."
"You're welcome," she said, strangely cheerful.
"For what?!"
"For this." She opened her wardrobe—her personal pink, glittery hell—and pulled out a shiny black miniskirt and a pastel pink long-sleeve V-neck blouse.
She handed them to me like they were sacred relics.
I stared at them.
Then at her.
Then back at them, horrified.
"You want me to… wear that?" My face cringed, refusing to believe.
"Yes," she said sweetly. "Be grateful. You could've gone naked."
"Death would be kinder." Yes. Honestly.
Still, I got dressed. Because what choice do I have? I already had my sports shorts under my towel, thank God, so at least my dignity was partially intact.
The blouse hugged me too well. My sister is slightly smaller than me, meaning the fabric stretched across my chest and waist like it was sinfully tailored. The miniskirt ended way above my knees, showing off my muscular legs—legs I'm proud of, but not like this.
Alexis gave an approving nod. "Wow, Warsis. You look… incredible."
"That's the problem."
She grabbed boots—black, shiny, three-inch heels. I glared, but she shoved them into my hands anyway.
The moment I put them on, I became taller than her.
She hated it. I could tell.
That made me feel slightly better.
Oh, by the way, she was older than me by ten months, so we were practically in the same grade. Senior year.
Though my heart leans more to the masculine side, I still have my feminine looks, altogether with long brunette hair; my sister had a dark one. We have the same fair skin; I'm taller than her just by an inch or two. We have opposite status. She's the princess type, and I'm more of a warrior. That's why she often calls me 'Warsis' for warrior sister. I'm fond of martial arts, beating people usually. The only thing my sister has over me is her sexiness and proper girl etiquette. Well, I never really mind. It's not my thing.
"Now fix your hair," she instructed. "Maybe some makeup—"
"No makeup," I said immediately.
She sighed dramatically. "You're hopeless."
I ignored her and sprinted back to my room.
When I caught my reflection, I paused.
Crap.
I actually looked… good.
My waist looked smaller. My legs are longer. My face is softer. My brown hair—usually messy and tomboyish—fell beautifully over my shoulders.
I hated how much I didn't hate it.
"This is only for today," I told the mirror firmly. "Tomorrow, I'm going back to martial-arts-wielding, motorcycle-riding me."
I dusted powder on my face, grabbed my backpack and purse, and went downstairs for breakfast.
Mom sat at the dining table, sipping tea. Elegant. Calm. The complete opposite of my raging inner storm.
"Where's Dad?" I asked.
"At work already," she said.
Translation:
He stole my clothes and ran away like a coward.
My jaw tightened. "Of course he did."
Mom's eyes flicked over my outfit. She smiled warmly. "You look lovely today."
"Don't get used to it."
After breakfast, Sis and I walked toward the garage. I searched for my motorcycle key—the sacred key to my beloved black Yamaha—but didn't find it on the hook this morning.
"I hope Dad didn't take my bike," I muttered.
"Relax," my sister said, pulling the key from her purse. "I saved it."
Relief washed through me—until she added:
"But you're NOT using it."
"Why not?!"
She pointed at my skirt. "That. Is. Why."
"I have shorts on!"
"That doesn't make it less disturbing!" she hissed.
We argued all the way to her BMW. She was irritated, I was irritated, and the car practically absorbed our mutual annoyance.
As we drove, I turned on the radio to ease the tension. It didn't help. She kept glancing at me, like she couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry.
Ten minutes later, we reached the academy.
She parked, then turned to me sharply.
"Look, just—control your mood today."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. And that's okay. But don't act like a warrior in a battlefield. You're wearing a miniskirt. Walk like it. Talk like it. Be at least… presentable."
"I don't even know what that means."
She groaned. "Just… try not to fight anyone before lunch."
"No promises," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.
"Francine!"
I stepped out.
And instantly—
People stared.
Girls whispered.
Guys blinked.
Someone literally dropped his water bottle.
I wasn't invisible today.
Or intimidating.
Or the martial-arts tomboy everyone knew.
I had transformed.
Against my will, yes.
But transformed.
The warrior sister had turned into…
a girl.
A very noticeable, very exposed girl.
And suddenly—
for the first time today—
I wasn't annoyed.
I was nervous.