More:
Annalise is goal-oriented, ambitious and high-strung, most of her concentration spent on acing her classes in an attempt to become more than her perception of what her mother is. She hasn't got much use for extra-curricular activities, though, as she spends her free time -- she thinks -- babysitting said mother and trying to make sure she doesn't do anything stupid -- like date every loser she meets. She's preoccupied enough with this task that she's not sure what her own interests are, but she's pretty sure dating is at the bottom of the list.

Sample:
"Mom! Up! Now!"

She reached for the moaning lump under the covers and gave it a sharp shake, eliciting another sound of protest.

"Come on," she snapped. "If you're late again, you're going to get fired."

"Annie, sweetie --"

"Get. Up." She shook her again.

The covers shifted with a sigh, and her mother's tousled head appeared, a wry smile on her lips. "It's time for you to go to school already?"

Annalise tossed her hair, adjusting the straps on her backpack. "Um, yeah. It's seven thirty."

"All right, I'm getting up."

Her mother swung her legs over the edge of the bed just in time for the door of the master bath to swing open, admitting a tall, fit man wearing nothing but a towel.

"MOM!"

"Oh -- Roger, this is Annie, I told you about her last night --"

He cleared his throat, edging away from the teenager's furious expression and at the same time putting on what he likely hoped was a winning smile. "So I see ... nice to meet you, Annie."

"That's Annalise to you," she snapped, then whirled to face her mother. "Just -- whatever!"

Then she pounded out of the room and into the kitchen, where she leaned heavily against the counter for several minutes, struggling to level her breathing. It was some kind of calming technique, she'd heard. Maybe. She was having trouble getting it to work.

She could hear voices in the bedroom. Her mother's, apologetic, and the man's, relaxed, unoffended. She felt her insides start to clench up again, and returned her concentration to her breathing, at least until she heard quiet footsteps walk past the kitchen entrance and the door open and shut.

She straightened, sucked in a last deep breath. She wasn't going to cry, not right before school.

He was sitting on the front step in the process of lighting a cigarette when she opened the door, fully dressed and topped off with -- to her sudden annoyance -- a cowboy hat. Of course he was a cowboy. Of course. He glanced over her shoulder, arching an eyebrow when he saw her glare.

"I do something to offend you just now?"

She tossed her hair. "You were in my mother's bedroom."

"Seems to me that's your mother's business, not yours." He lit the cigarette and took a long drag on it, shaking his head. "I take it you've seen that sort of thing more than once?"

"Only every couple of weeks since Dad walked out on us." She tried without success to keep a ringing note of contempt out of her voice.

"Well, Annie -- Annalise," he corrected himself with an apologetic smile. "Bad things happen sometimes, and folks got different ways of handling it." He paused, taking another drag. "Some turn to their faith to get them through it -- some turn to their friends or their work. And some ... turn to less healthy things."

Her eyes narrowed. "And what about you?"

"Me?" He chuckled, dropping the cigarette, half-smoked, onto the sidewalk and mashing it out with his heel. "I always turned to the open road."

"So -- you run away."

He laughed again, less humor in the sound this time. "That's a little harsh, but ..." He lifted the brim of his hat and looked at her full on, a weary smile on his face. "I guess maybe I do."

She jerked her gaze away.

"Well, if you're gonna run away from Mom, you better do it now, before she gets too attached to you."

He didn't answer, and she stalked quickly down the steps to get to the bus stop before he could.