My hair had always been unnaturally white; Jann and Tom, my parents told me it was because of my aunt’s very, very blonde hair. I knew it was a lie, I even doubted that I was related to Mum’s Aunt. The difference in my family wasn’t that well hidden. My white hair, blue eyes and pale skin clashed against Jann’s light-brown hair and brown eyes and Tom’s blonde hair and tanned skin. I even look different from Curt, my older brother, who mainly took off of Mum. I mean I didn’t even call my parents Mum and Dad, even though they greatly insisted on it; it just never seemed right. Every time I tried to raise the subject of adoption my parents would lecture me and recite the tales of my glorious birth and even grossly show me the video of the joyous day which always made me reconsider the having children bit of my future.
I starred at my alarm clock and watched the minutes creep by. I never slept much, but Jann and Tom wouldn’t let me stay up late so I passed my time itchingly starring at my bedroom walls. It was 6:12 and I knew that on cue of 6:15 Jann would wake me up with one of her inspirational quotes from the newspaper and I would have to get ready for school. Not that I didn’t enjoy school it’s just the fact that I can’t stand it. All day sitting in a classroom students giggling their heads off and teachers trying unsuccessfully to do their job. It sucks.
Jann crashed through the door and pulled my out of the bed by my leg. She was really strong for a woman in her forties, probably from chasing me and my brother around the whole time. “Some people dream of success, honey, while others wake up and work hard at it. Come on wake up darling! Time to face the world!” See what I mean, corny. Even though I would have loved to jump-out and run around I had watched the morning ritual on TV and that was not in the script. So instead I moaned, groaned and pretended to fall asleep on the floor; my face itchy on the carpet. Since I was so not-normal the least I could do for my family was pretend to be a normal teenager in the morning.
Thirty minutes into my first lesson of maths I was busting to get out and do something. I had something my parents called ADD; meaning I can’t sit still or hold attention for too long. But I think that’s just a way for parents to classify the fact that they have an active child who doesn’t want to obey all their rules. The only lesson I enjoyed was dance, though you’d think I would love sport I frankly just hate sport as much as school. People scoring goals and beating each other up for money or victory is not sport – it’s just a game. Sport is meant to be fluid, like when I run all I feel is me and my muscles working into action, all I hear is my feet on the ground, my heart pumping loudly and my quick breaths. When I run it’s peaceful, when I play mainstream sport it’s hot and sweaty. Sure, running gets hot and sweaty but it’s different. Sport is not graceful, so that’s probably why I love dance so much. The fluidity of it, the flowing feeling. Knowing where one muscle starts and where another one ends and working all those 206 bones in a perfect order.
