Prologue

The thing about telling stories is that, more often than not, people start in the middle when they think they’re starting at the beginning, and have to retreat back a couple steps for what happens later to make sense. Sometimes they’ll get to the climax of their story and then realize that their audience is going to be hopelessly confused because they forgot to mention something like a childhood occurrence or an old memory. I’ve never understood why people get so irritated by that; I think it’s a pretty damn cool way of time-traveling.

The thing about this story is that I have no clue how to tell it properly. Obviously I'm going to have to start somewhere, but the question is where, because no matter where I start I'm going to have to go back at some point. I personally enjoy doing that because it feels a bit likeI'm bending time a little whenever I do, but it can sometimes be confusing, and my recollections of a certain event might not match that of someone else's. So this will be as truthful as I can make it. I apologize in advance for the lies.

I suppose I'll start with the summer my grandma moved in with us. That was also the summer I learned to ride a bike without training wheels, entered and lost my first (and last) beauty competition, and actually starting bonding with my brother. It was also the summer my dad left.

Now, before you form all sorts of judgements on my father, let me say that his leaving us is actually one of the kindest things he ever did. Not because he was a bad person - actually, deep inside him, I maintain he was a good person, like I'm sure my mother is somehow - but because he happened to be bad for my mother in particular. They didn't fight or cheat on each other or anything like that. It wasn't like that. But on the day after the last day of school they sat down with us and said Daddy and Mommy weren't going to be married anymore. When I asked why, my mother had said that it was because they just weren't in love like they used to be, and now it was the friendly kind of love. Which, honestly, it was. They weren't shitting with us just because we were kids. They were telling the truth. They're good friends, just not good spouses, at least not forth each other. And that was that.

So my dad left and the divorce was filed, and then grandma broke her hip when she fell down but adamantly refused to go to a home, and so Mom had her come stay with us. She slept in the guest bedroom, which was slightly bigger than a large closet, that was right next door to my room, which also happened to have my brother's room on the other side.

Now, my brother is older than me, and as one might suspect, that led to quite a bit of fighting. But it also led to quite a bit of cuddling, especially that summer. Dad visited often and we visited him often and he stayed in our lives well. He was the one that taught me how to ride a bike. But when I took my first spill and a nasty rock on the sidewalk gashed open my knee, my brother was the one I clutched and cried on as it was being cleaned up.

Like I said, also that summer was my first and last beauty competition. My mother entered me in it because she thought it would be fun and get me out to be more sociable, but with only one person making any money for the household (even with my dad's generous child support) she didn't have the time to help me prepare for it. My brother and my grandmother, on the other hand, did. Which isn't to say they did anything with that time; my grandmother wouldn't help after my brother started to, saying it had turned into a f*g competiton.

Yeah, now you're starting to speculate.

Anyways, my brother helped as much as he could, but he wasn't very good at the concept of feminine beauty. Maybe because he just didn't understand traditional sexist stereotyping - um, sorry, gender roles. But he kept trying to get me to wear dress pants and a nice shirt instead of a dress, and I was five and he was ten and he couldn't for the life of him understand that wearing those wouldn't make me pretty to the judges. "Of course it will, you'll look great," he'd argued several times, before giving in to the dress. He kept shaking his head and saying, "If Mom says I look good in it, why wouldn't you?" as if the rest of the world wasn't as horribly black-and-white as it is.

Anyways, the night of the show came, and he brushed my hair - which was pretty much all he could do with it - and helped me into my dress and fancy shoes, and we rode our bikes to the show, and my mother showed up three minutes after my turn on stage. She couldn't understand why I'd actually gone through with it and how I managed to be semi-decent until I told her Kyle (my brother, in case the implication wasn't clear) had been the one that had gotten me ready when she asked me afterwards. She'd smiled and thanked him for helping me, but then said that that was a little gay and he probably shouldn't do it again.

Still speculating away, I see. Enjoy yourselves.

Come to think of it, I can't for the life of me imagine why I picked this as a starting point when this all could have been filled in later in flashback form. Well. Ah, I've already started, might as well go from here.

Anyway, that was the first relevant summer. It included many shared details about things that pop up in this story. Things that made me unhappy later and my brother even more so. But you don't understand what I mean just yet, so onward we move!

After that summer, I started school. Kyle was already in third grade, so we were only in the same elementary school for about three years. Which, in terms of siblinghood schooling, isn't that long. But it was longer than anybody needed for the whole school to know that no, it was not okay if you bullied me because I was a couple pounds heavier or because I wasn't the fastest runner or the most talented... well, anything, really. He made it very clear very quickly that if anybody gave me any s**t he'd personally cram it back down their throats. In a mentally condescending way. He wasn't much for violence but he was good with words. Unfortunately this meant nobody ever understood what he meant when he called them something like a slime-squeezing, scurvy-covered lowlife, but the fact that he'd explain to me what they meant after he said it made me smile as largely as the other kids had made me frown.

Don't get me wrong, just because I wasn't the best at anything doesn't mean I was the worst. I wasn't a bad singer (though nowhere near as good as Kyle in the shower - that kid could have been famous), I wasn't a terrible artist, I actually liked playing soccer and volleyball even if I didn't rock at them, I read for fun when I felt like it, and I got As and Bs. And it remained that way, me being decent and my brother being shy and supportive (while we both slowly evolved into over-metaphorical sarcastic twats), until I started high school. That was where the insanity began.

Now is when we get to the descriptive part of the story. Isn't that great? No. It's not. It's awful, because, like I've pointed out, I'm not the best as writing. I'm not the worst. But this isn't going to be the best thing you've ever read. Maybe because I have no f*****g clue why I'm even writing it down, since I hated living it once and don't really need to again. Maybe because sometimes I get off topic ("And we reach our first exhibit, this very paragraph," says the bored and snooty tour guide - and don't pretend most of them aren't) or maybe because I don't describe things enough. Whatever. It doesn't matter. But be prepared to be disappointed.

Moving on!

(Fair warning, you'll hear me say that quite often. Or writing it, I suppose. Well, you won't hear me writing it, but you'll read me writing it. Or, no, you'll read that I've written it. Or you'll read what I've written. Gah! I'll write that often, how's that? Along with other various un sundry habits that will probably irritate you.)

So here's where we start. Not my frist day of school, but rather, the day after.

The First Day of School, capitalized for a reason, is usually the one everyone freaks about. I don't know why. Unless you've got some really bad teachers, it's not like you've got a test coming up you've got to study for. There are those assessments, but if you do like they tell you and actually try, the rest of the year is off to a good start whether or not you got a good grade. Everyone tries to have the perfect clothing for the First Day of School, and they make sure they know where to sit, and the newbies have their schedules and everyone is still sporting a summer tan (except for that one kid who stayed inside all summer - come on, you know him/her, we've all met one) and adjusting to spending eight hours a day under artificial lighting instead of the sun's. The teachers read you the same set of rules with a few different variations in every classroom. You find where you'll probably sit for the rest of the year and the people you'll sit with. You try to make a good impression, though on who, you don't know.

However, I've always found the Second Day of School worse than the first. Everyone is still discombobulated and confused and adjusting, but there's no more softening of the blows, and teachers start digging into the lesson plans or preparing you for their lesson plans or making sure you understand the concept of their lesson plans or lesson plans lesson plans lesson plans lessonplanslesonbadlddf;sdfg,;bfa;dnb. And that is the gist of what my feelings for the Second Day of School are. Mostly because you're actually beginning to be schooled when you're still trying to figure out all the new stuff.

Starting high school is ten times more hellish than that. Especially on the Second Day of School.

Something you should know that, if you have any intelligence whatsoever, you won't need to be told to figure out (but I'm stating it anyway because I am an aforementioned overly-metaphorical sarcastic twat and I choose to add condescension to the list): My name is Eleanora and if you actually call me that your head will roll. Nora is acceptable, as is El or Ella. (I like nicknames.)

And so my best friend Lisa and I braved the halls before first-period and discovered that they really are as shovey as they are in the movies. Huh, who knew? (Hollywood did. I just made a joke with myself. Wow. I'm pathetic. Moving on!) We were pushed and shuffled aside and basically tossed by our toes into the air in the hopes we'd move out of their way and land somewhere a bit less annoying. We didn't. We managed to escape the throng of people moving like sheep being herded in front of lockers that weren't ours. Eventually, we endured the crowd and managed to get our things on time. We got to school early the day before, so this was new to us. And a bit discouraging. Luckily, because her last name is Smith and my last name is Smitson, we had lockers right next to each other and shockingly similar schedules (with one difference - she was taking Study Hall while I took band. I play the saxophone. I'm jazzy).

But because my locker is right below hers because we went to one of those schools where there are no full-length lockers and it looks like everyone's either about to get a blowjob or a painful concussion and I was unaccustomed to such stooping, my book tumbled out of my arms and skidded across the cool linoleum. Someone picked it up for me and I -

- a going to cut through the sentence right there because it is absolutely delicious to make you think this is a sappy high school love story for just a moment -

- saw Kyle's face as he handed it to me.

"Thanks," I told him, reaching back into my locker and getting my accompanying folder as I took the book, straightening and slamming my locker shut with no small amount of force. He raised his eyebrows at my blatant display of early hostility toward it.

"Already hate the locker?" he asked, a smirk pulling at his lips.

"Clearly it hated me first," I grumbled, straightening myself and glaring at the dully-colored metal container among several of its kin. Lisa closed her owl locker, as amused as Kyle at my complaints and reasons for them. "Aren't you going to be late for first period?"

Kyle shook his head. "Not to worry, Blake's saving my seat," he answered, referring to his best friend (you know the type where you grow up together and at one point you were just 'oh, cool, you' but then eventually you watched a movie together or read the same book or something and suddenly it's 'OH MY GOD IT'S YOU OH MY GOD').

"And the teacher?" Lisa inquired skeptically.

Kyle chuckled and reached over with both of his hands to ruffle our hair, which we both vehemently warned him against earlier and made us growl warningly. It only caused to make his laugh rise a level of volume. "I'll be there before the bell rings," he said, and then he leaned over and pecked the top of my head and said, "Good luck," before pulling back and adding, "to both of you," before whistling his way towards the bathroom while we called the sentiment back to him. He was a senior; the Red Sea (the nickname for the mass of people moving in the hallway, since our main school color was red and a lot of idiot jocks wore it) parted for him like it never would for us, and we looked at each other before sighing and heading off together for first period.

Now, the rest of the day doesn't matter to the part of this story I'm telling, mostly because I'm not telling it about me, until I get to the part where I step off the bus with Lisa in tow and Kyle follows my lead with Blake.

People are always surprised Kyle's my brother and I'm his sister. We've got the same hair (except mine is way longer), but other than that, that's it. He's pale and he's got a high voice, and a clearly defined chin, and a wide smile, and eyes so blue they're a mix between chlorinated-pool-blue and stormy-ocean-blue. He's tall and thin/fit in the kind of way some male models are. Whereas I'm kind of tall but more average height, have a slightly tanner skin tone, brown eyes that look like... um, brown eyes, and that's pretty much it... and my voice is kind of low and I have two chins when I bend it down to my chest - also, I'm chubby, whereas his arm muscles are actually muscles and not flabs. He looks more like my mother used to, and I look more like my father. Also, and I say this in a way as sisterly as possible, I have seen the way people ogle his a*s, and it is well worth it. My a*s is not. To say the least.

Lisa doesn't look like me at all. I don't know why I wrote that, considering we're not related. Hm. Odd. Moving on! She's got naturally auburn hair but she dyes it this odd kind of rusted orange color in streaks and then lets it grow out so her roots look light brown. I don't know why. She's kind of insane. She's about medium height and weight and she's got a really cute button nose (it's not really a button, just cute) and she wears a lot of purple clothing. I constantly tell her to start wearing green, because it matches her eyes, and the purple makes her skin look green thanks to her hair color, but she never listens.

And Blake... how does one begin to describe Blake Fowwel? And why am I asking you? It's not like you have any idea what he looks like. You're waiting for me to tell you. Why am I rambling? Right. Sorry. I'm back, moving on! Blake has dark hair. I've never been able to tell if it's dark brown or black. It curls, and not tightly, but in loose ringlets, so if he brushes it it's really wavy and then curls once or twice at the tips so he looks like he has a dark halo resting comfortably around his head, slumping on his ears and on the back of his neck. He doesn't brush it often and keeps it trimmed so it never falls over his ears but is never too short it see the curls. And he has eyes I can't begin to describe. They're supposed to be gray, but sometimes at random they'll start looking like thin, faded gold. I'm not describing it well. Told you I'm not the best writer. And Blake is actually kind of short. The top of his head comes up to about Kyle's ears. But he has got some abs that are not something to scoff at.

It's kind of unfair how all of my friends/family are more attractive than I am. At least I can always out-sarcasm them. Is that a word? Out-sarcasm? Maybe it's out-sarcastic. Out-sarcasty? I don't know. I'm more sarcastic than they are. There. Moving on!

Of course we all go into our house, as planned, and Lisa called out, "Hi, Mrs. Smitson," and Blake called out, "I've made your house beautiful by walking inside of it, Mrs. Smitson."

And she, as always, responded by calling back, "Hi Lisa, hello Blake, try not to track too much mud onto the carpet." Even when it's winter and snowing outside like crazy she says that when they come over. She has this odd obsession with having a catchphrase all the time and for some reason she's settled on that one for this purpose.

And so Lisa said, "Of course," and Blake said, "But it's beautiful mud! I touched it!"

Kyle told Blake, "If you touched it, it's either already dead or trying to get as far away from you as possible." So Blake poked him and he pretended to die and when he 'rose from the dead' Blake punched his shoulder and Kyle laughed and offerred him cookies. So Lisa and I stole the cookie jar and took it to my room while they were taking off their shoes (one of my mother's rules) and there we remained, snacking on chocolate chip cookies and chatting about which of our teachers was the most unbearable, until Kyle stormed in and stole the jar and ruffled my hair again. He does it to me because he knows it irritates the hell out of me. When I do it to him it's because he's had a bad day and it makes him feel good to relax and just have someone run their fingers through his hair.

Wow. That got really personal really quickly. I wonder if he'll be pissed at me for writing this? Probably, considering how pissed he was while living it. We were both pretty pissed. And now I'm starting to make myself have to use the bathroom. Great. I'm an amazing writer, right? Yeah, feel free to laugh.

But don't ever stop speculating. If you stop speculating everything gets really, really sad, really, really fast.