The Incredible League of Goth Pizza Haters (RH)

Part 1

Author's Note: Hello! Before you begin reading I just wanted to let you all know that this story has some time errors that I am fixing while editing. They're not too major and they really don't fuck up the plot line too bad. It's just that the story is supposedly set back in 2010 and includes things that didn't happen until years later (like Balz dating Ryan Ashley.) This story is still perfectly readable and I would love for you to check it out! Thank you!

---Sylvia--

One of the main things people remember about me is that my birth mother was a stripper. That's all they need to know I guess. To judge me. My mother was a stripper, a dirty whore, who got knocked up by some douche bag with pocket money. My mother was a whore and they say the apple never falls far from the tree, so I must be a whore too.

No, no I'm not.

I hate when people judge me on just that fact, because I'm more than my mother's reputation. I'm more than my bloodline and I'm more than my past.

But the truth, and I'm just being honest here, is that my mom was a slut. And when she got pregnant with me, she didn't want to be a mom. She wanted to be a slut. But her parents left her when she was a baby, and she didn't want to do the same. I don't know why she didn't just abort, it would have been much easier on both of us. Instead I grew up feeling unwanted from her constant absence at the daycare during pick up time, my school concerts, or basically anything she was suppose to show up for. We had trouble keeping daycares because she wouldn't show up to pick me up and my caretakers didn't want to keep me overnight so my sore mother could pretend she didn't have a sad confused kid.

When I was seven we got into our first real fight. With tears and mascara smeared down her face like soot, she screamed that she wished she never had me, and how much better her life would have been if I didn't exist. I took it, crying quietly because I was a hurt kid. But I still took it.

She died when I was nine.

I spent the next month or so in the care of a social worker.

Then one day she sat me down and told me my options:

Jump around in foster care for who-knows-how many years.

Meet my mom's family in Pennsylvania.

I decided on the last option and found myself staring out the windows of various social worker's cars, being handed off from one to another as they drove me through the states. I stayed with my grandma for a few months until she became ill, then I stayed with a close family friend. A woman named Ivy who had a bad divorce with her husband two years previous. She had two kids, her oldest son's name was Peter. He was a friendly quiet kid in his first year of college. The other's name was Nick, who was a half year younger than me and who became my best friend and partner in crime.

The first few months were hard, I spent most nights crying myself to sleep only to awake crying to nightmares. "She has PTSD" the doctors said, "Post traumatic stress disorder." and they were right. It was a dark night when Ivy came into my room and held me close while I cried, and grew to love me. I grew to love her as the loving mother I never had, and Nick as my brother. They adopted me, and my grandmother passed away peacefully in the hospital.

A few year later Ivy adopted two twins. Their parents had been drug addicts who failed to care for them. They were taken from their parents when they were three, when they came to our home they were eight. Scared out of their minds and untrusting of everyone. Their names were Danielle and Abigail. They became my little sisters, we all grew extremely close and shared a room (and bed) until I was thirteen.

As we all grew up, my brother and I grew apart but I kept my close bond with the twins. After graduating high school a year early, I went to college. After dropping out of college, I joined a band.