Love, Your Secret Admirer

Chapter 1

I closed my laptop, when I finished my essay, and looked in the mirror in my room.  I looked at how much I look like my mother.  The resemblance never ceases to amaze me, the fact that we look so much alike, yet we could not be more different.  I look at my curly, bleach blonde hair and chocolate brown eyes.  All the way down to my blue toe nails, that my mother made me paint.  I have never been the girly type.  Ever since I was little I always liked playing in the dirt and discovering new bugs.  I never liked wearing skirts or dresses, to my mother’s dismay.  It always seemed like she forced me to be the shadow of my older sister, Sarah.  She was the captain of the cheer squad, dated the varsity football quarterback, and never, ever, played in dirt or wore pants.  Sarah graduated high school last year and went to college at UCSB only to study in fashion.  Needless to say that was probably the saddest day of my mother’s life.

            When I get down stairs I see my mother in the kitchen, not that that was a big surprise.  My mother is always in the kitchen.  She’s always making breakfast or dinner or just cleaning something.  You can always tell, however, that something is wrong.  Whenever my mother is sad or angry about anything, she bakes something.  When her mom died she made chocolate chip cookies.  When Sarah went off to college she made banana nut muffins.  She made a whole cake when someone stole her car.  She says it’s a way to help her keep her emotions in check.

            My father is sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper.  My father has always been the quiet type.  When he and my mother argue, he never yells.  He always keeps his voice steady and level.  My father is always preoccupied with something.  In the morning it’s the paper.  In the afternoon it’s his hand held FreeCell game.  At night it’s the paper again.  Ever since I can remember he has had this routine.

            “Hey sweet pea,” says my mother from the stove.

            “Hi," I reply.

            “Are you okay?  You look a little down.” 

            “No.  I’m okay.  I’m just a little late, that’s all.”  I walk over and kiss my mother and father on the cheek.  “See you guys later,” I call over my shoulder.

            “Love you sweetheart,” my mother yells just as I close the door.

            I walk to the end of my driveway and across the street where my light blue, convertible VW bug is parked.  I unlock the door, get in, and throw my book bag into the passenger seat.  I can feel the car start under me as I turned the key in the ignition.  As I drive down the street I turn on the radio to my favorite station.  “Haven’t Met You Yet” by Michael Bublay fills my car. 

“Story of my life,” I mumble to myself.

I believe that love only finds certain people.  Those people happen to be everyone except me.  It seems that everyone in school is with someone else, other than me.  I mean I want a boyfriend but I believe that boys want girly girls who wear skirts and high heels.  Not shorts and high tops.

I used to have a boyfriend in my freshman year.  His name was Luke and he had short brown hair that lay flat on top of his head from wearing a baseball cap all the time.  He was tight end on the JV football team and short stop on the frosh/soph baseball team.  He was the best thing that ever happened to me.  One day I was sick from school and I felt like total crap.  I was congested and my hair looked like I was playing the part of Medusa in a movie.  When school was over Luke came into my room with some chicken noodle soup.

“Don’t look at me," said hiding under the covers.

“Why not?” he asked walking toward my bed.