a hundred million stories
and a hundred million songs
i feel stupid when i sing
nobody's listening to me
nobody's listening
IN WHICH, the daughter of the forgotten god begins to unearth the secrets of her lineage, uncovering truths so ancient that e...
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I despise school dances with a fervor I can barely articulate. The roots of this aversion trace back to my fourth-grade year, when I was nine. The school had organized a father-daughter dance, mandatory for all the girls. As I stood there, the gymnasium buzzing with the laughter and joy of my peers dancing with their fathers, sharing snacks, and reveling in the festivities, I was alone—per usual.
I wasn't the only one feeling this way, though. In the corner of the gym, I was joined by a small group of girls sat huddled together, each bearing the same somber expression that I wore. We were the children without fathers in attendance. The children without a stable family. Or, in my case, without a family at all.
My "father" at the time was too preoccupied to attend. He had three other children of his own, and I remember his vehement opposition to my adoption. At this point, I don't even recall his name. It shows how little I care—or at least pretended not to care.
Sometimes, it's easier to pretend that you don't care than to admit it's killing you.
That day, however, was not all too bad. It was the day I met my first friend, Anissa. She was the one that talked the most that day, trying to lift our spirits. Usually, I get irritated by people who talk too much, but she just had this aura to her that caused me to like her. She showed me that not everything in the world was bleak, that there were still reasons to smile and moments to cherish. Unfortunately, I lost touch with her the following year, because, of course, my family abandoned me.
At least today's dance wouldn't be as bad. I would be going with friends for once, but neither of them were too fond of dancing.
She remembered when they were first going to Westover Hall. After a couple weeks of stopping over in DC, it was about a twelve hour drive all the way up to Maine. She was still unclear about the intentions of the man, but it was clear he wanted to protect them.
"When you're at the school," he would say, "stay quiet. Don't attract too much attention to yourselves, or else bad things would happen."
"What bad things?" I asked.
"Let's hope you never find out, Mari," the man responded. "It's okay to make a couple of friends, just be wary about who you choose. His power will protect you all for as long as he can."
The man had a recurring theme of referring to another person as "his." He never dropped any hints as to who it could be, and my curiosity never got the best of me. I decided that it would be best to stay quiet and listen to the man.
What worried me were the other two kids who were riding with me. They were much younger than me, twelve and ten, give or take. And what the girl told me about themselves was confusing.
