I have to do creative writing for Mythology...

So I thought I would let you guys critique.  It's supposed to be a modernized version of a classic fairy tale.  I won't tell you which one, it should be obvious:

Bread.  And here I thought chicken noodle soup was the staple.  Who transports bread in a basket?  My Martha-Stewart-Wannabe mother, that’s who.  No, that’s not even right.  She’s not slugging it across the city.  I am.  Or so she thinks.  I don’t want to go see my grandmother.  So what if she’s sick?  All I’ve ever gotten from that old hag are deprecating looks and “constructive criticism” concerning my lifestyle.  So excuse me if I don’t wear stockings to church, or rather, if I don’t go to church at all. 

            “Rose, get your shoes on.  And for the love of all that is holy, please change into something respectable.  You know how much your grandmother hates that coat!”

            That, mother, I think derisively, is exactly why I’m wearing it.  My tattered red leather jacket is a sticking point to my grandmother.  You could say my mom would rather see me in a pretty pea coat. Maybe a nice wool fabric: with a herringbone pattern.  Maybe she’s afraid I’m ruining her perfect “Suzy-Homemaker” image.  It’s not like my jacket goes with her adorable little picnic basket with its adorable little dishcloth with its adorable little tea set.  I throw on my Chuck Taylors.  The sole is coming off of the left one.  There is nothing like a pair of broken-in Converse…

            “ROSALINE!  You should have left 15 minutes ago! Stop dragging your feet and get your sarcastic, snotty self down the stairs!”

            She’s on a roll today.  Sarcastic and snotty?  I’m loving it.  I lumber down the short staircase at my own pace.  I smack my feet hard against each step, grinning at the exasperated sigh that the action begets from my mother-dearest. 

            “I’m here Mom---”

            “Go upstairs and change this instant! Rosaline, I will not have you deliberately baiting your grandmother---”

            “That will take me at least another 20 minutes.”

            I smile as her face turns a lovely shade of crimson.  This is probably my favorite game.  And of course, I do just love the color red.

            My smile fades as I’m handed a basket full of gourmet bread and wine, for my ailing grandmother.  I’m still trying to come up with a reason we should be trying to help her. I think the whole “sick and dying” look is a good one for her, personally.

            I cough as I open the door and breathe in New York City.   It’s not something my mother wanted, but it’s not my fault her neurotic behavior drove my dad away and we couldn’t afford to live in Albany anymore.  The city suits me.  It’s dangerous and exciting.  It’s the smog that I’m having trouble adjusting to.  I start to breathe through my nose.  That’s better.

            I smile as I watch a hot-dog salesman feed stale buns to a stray dog.  I’ve always liked dogs.  It’s probably because wolves are my favorite animal.  They’re so sleek and intense.  Dogs aren’t wolves, but it’s the closest I’m going to get for the time being.

            I’m bumped out of my thoughts by a rushing business-woman.  Unfortunately, I was bumped to the ground, hitting my head hard on the curb and getting stepped on a few times before I felt myself being forcefully lifted and dragged to the other side of the sidewalk.  

            I felt the earth swim around me, I felt as though I were flying.  I felt something hot and warm.  Sticky.  Somehow I open my eyes. The world is rose-tinted and blurry.  I prefer the world rose-tinted.  It’s colorful, happy.  I do love the color red.  As I blink the color fades and the world regains its original color palette.   As this happens sounds begin returning, and an angry throbbing starts in my forehead.

            “Hey girly.  Come on. I don’t even know where the hospital is, so you’re gonna have to sort yourself out. Look at me. How many fingers am I holding up?”

            Right.  I was dragged to the side of the sidewalk; hence I’m not alone. I look up.  There are 3 fingers.  They are full of auto grease and I can see the start of tattoos leading down his forearm and disappearing into his motorcycle jacket.    

            “There are three.”

            “Oh hey there.  Nice of you to come back.  Can you get up?”

            I nod and stand, leaning against the brick 3-decker.  I get a good look at my “savior” for the first time. 

            He’s lean.  His hair is grungy and falls into his eyes.  He’s got a slightly predatory smile, but it works for him.  His shirt is a grey V-neck that is tattered and stained.  It shows off a tattoo that is reaching up to his neck.  He doesn’t look to be much older than twenty.  He has blood on his hands, a detail that I didn’t notice before.  The red looks good against his skin.

            It’s my blood, I suddenly realize.  I brush a hand through my hair and feel it matting.  I wipe across my forehead and feel a sharp sting.  We have a winner!  I lean down and take my mother’s cutesy little dishcloth out of the basket and hold it to my forehead.  The bleeding is slowing down.

            He grins down at me.  He’s rather tall. 

            “Sorry about your shirt. I got blood all over it”

            He shakes his head and grins.  He asks where I’m heading.  I wish I could say I hit my head hard enough that I didn’t remember, but it’s not true.  He notices my disdain, and extends an invitation.

            Come with me instead.  Simple words. I laugh. I’m not stupid; one doesn’t just go with strangers in New York City.

            He frowns. 

            “I don’t feel comfortable letting you walk 10 more blocks to your grandmother’s loft.”

            What?  This isn’t happening. 

            “Listen: Prince Charming.  I’ve got this.  A little blood never hurt anyone.  It’ll make my visit more enjoyable anyway.” I smiled as I thought of my grandmother’s reaction to my bloodied appearance. “I’m already late, but now I’ve got a good excuse.”

            “Let me walk you.”

            It is happening.  Despite his appearance, I seem to have found the one New Yorker with a heart.  If only I was actually looking. 

            We start walking.  The niceties are observed.  Rose; Cam.  18; 20. Student; Starving Artist/Auto Body “specialist”. 

            Let me make this clear: he is in no way mysterious.  He is a little awkward, despite his tattoos suggesting otherwise.  When he talks he doesn’t know where to put his hands, so they end up running through his hair, or in his pockets, or gesturing so wildly that people often duck to avoid him.  He acts as though he would tell his life story if I was interested.  His “predatory” smile is due to a lack of braces as a child, which left his teeth looking more fang-like then normal.  He is in no way a predator.

            We make it to my grandmother’s.  He leaves me at the door.  I turn, and hand him the bottle of wine.  He smiles broadly, tips me an imaginary hat, and walks down the street.  I brace myself for the sheer amount of pretentiousness I am about to endure, and press the buzzer.

            I emerge an hour later exhausted and irritated.  I have been thoroughly lectured on the dangers of the city and have had to apply horrible smelly cream to a cut on my forehead.  It’s a family secret apparently. 

            I stumble over a pair of shoes on the doorstep.  Shoes connected to a pair of feet and legs. 

            Cam grins up at me, and steadies me before I can fall.  He holds up the bottle of wine. 

            “It didn’t feel right drinking alone.”

            Maybe he is a predator after all.  He’s got me interested all of a sudden. I follow him.  He’s got his own flat, and it’s the typical bachelor pad.  As I polish off that bottle of wine with him that night, I think of all the ways that this is going to upset my mom tonight.

            If I go back tonight.