The Girl Who Met A Boy

Prologue

Entry 27

Over the years, people from all over the world use writing or reading in various ways, but I would collectively say most reasons would be(for me anyway) to escape the responsibility and reality of my own life. Again, I guess you could argue that I don't have the worst life in the world, and I don't say that I do. It's pretty easy living for me. Does that mean it's bad that I still feel sad somehow? I feel like it's not fair to feel this way because there are those out there who have it worse. But then could you also say that you can't be happy because somebody else might have it better, couldn't you? Because I mean isn't that the same concept? I don't know. ~ Abigail McNeal

I shut my notebook and glance to the clock in the back of the classroom. 2:40. Five more minutes to go. I look to my desk partner to see him slightly dozing off, as I wring out my aching hand. I really should quit pressing so hard when writing in my book but I just get so intent on what I'm writing that I don't focus on too much around me. I see Ms.Kaligear at her desk, flipping through a Cosmopolitan magazine. I have to say that this English teacher sucks. It's not like I'm going to be with her for much longer, since I'm moving again. This was the first few weeks of school into my senior year and all the teacher has done was sit at her desk and give us a prompt to write on for the class period. She doesn't even collect them.

After this move, I can up my school tally from 15 to 16. 16 schools. God, why did we have to move so much? It's only for my dad's job. What's the point of moving this time? My Dad will barely ever be home with us anyways. It'd be better if he just let us stay here but that won't ever happen. My siblings haven't ever had to move before, so they don't even know what it's like. My Mom wanted more kids than just me, so she adopted two, while we lived here in Fairbanks. I don't even think that they like me. I mean I was a good kid growing up, but I had issues every now and again so I could see why my parents wanted more than me.

The bell's ring stirs me from my thoughts. Everyone quickly moves around me to rush out the doors and go somewhere, anywhere, maybe to the mall with friends, or to a friend's house, or to a sports practice. I was on this school's cheer team the past year and a half because I genuinely enjoyed the sport and I remember having to rush to the practices. I only got along with one girl in particular. Her name was Sarah Johnson. Sadly, she graduated last year and left me with girls that either a)never knew I existed b)didn't like me or c) didn't care enough to try to talk to me when I tried to talk to them. I found it pretty pointless and simply gave up on that. I convinced myself that I was perfectly fine with being alone, or that I had too much to work on to talk with them.

I trudge slowly down the emptying halls to the front gate. I find my car at the back of the lot and throw my bags and brick-like-books into the backseat. I just take my time to get home. Time. How fast it seems it goes? How long ago was the time that I simply was just a kid and adults still told me that I could worry about the rest of my life later? Now it's like the rest of my life creeps up on me constantly, carrying it's burdens called "responsibility" in it's fists. It's always nipping at my heels waiting for the inevitable time that I trip and fall into its grasp. It's a depressing thought really. And that brings me back to my entry earlier today, that writing and reading are my escape from thoughts and realities such as these. I've kept notebooks like those for as long as I could remember. I would write about things that bother me, or things that I think about, or anything I guess. Entries could be long or short, depending on what I'm really writing on at the given time. I normally get rid of the finished books periodically, so my Mom never stumbles upon them. She might think I have problems if she finds them. She would probably even make me go to therapy. I don't want to stress her out any more than I already do anyways.

I finally reach my long winding drive into my neighborhood's housing area. In a few minutes time, I'm staring at my front door, key in hand, taking a deep breath and wondering whether I want to actually walk in or to go sit in my car for a while. I sharply move my hand from it's stiff position and shove the key in it's slot and turning, the conclusive 'click' being heard in the quiet afternoon air.

Upon my arrival, my mom greets me from the other room to "lock the door, and pack up your room immediately." I sigh, yelling a tired"yeah" to wherever she was. And this marks the beginning of our family starting over for the 16th time. The 16th school, the 16th town, the 16th house, the 16th set of neighbors that won't include us or talk to us, and the 16th set of people to label us with some sort of rumor like "I bet the daughter was expelled for being mentally unstable.", or "I heard that the family is a bunch of crazy red-neck recluses." Oh joy, I just can't wait.