Chapter One

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The day the Tracker came it felt like the world had stopped turning. Everything that could possibly go wrong in world had crushed against me like a wave from the ocean of fucked up. It was obvious that it was something that I considered to be fucked up since the first words I said when I noticed the tall, slender man with a blue crescent moon imprinted in the middle of his forehead were, "Fuck this."

I had gone almost three years without cussing and that streak had been broken in the matter of seconds.

Today was the first day in a couple weeks that I was actually free to do what I wanted to do. Now why does an eighteen year have such a lack of free time? Well that could be explained in one word: Responsibilities. Now most people (mainly adults) that find out I have responsibilities always stick their nose up and make snide comments that usually sound like, "You don't have responsibilities, you're only eighteen," or, "Having a lot of homework and doing after school activities or getting ready for graduation during your senior year does not count as responsibilities."

It's almost insulting how quick they are to make judgements and jump to conclusions just based on the fact that even though I'm legally an adult, they still view me as a teenager. Most of the time I laugh it off without informing them that I have a part-time job to help pay for food and bills. Some of them don't believe I help out and some of them say that's still not having responsibility. Though my job takes up most of my weekends along with what little social life I have.

I used to be a fairly popular girl in school with a good bit of friends. Well, that was until I was forced to move from Chicago to the town of Tulsa, Oklahoma. My father's job had forced us to pack our things up and move to where they wanted my father to work at. My younger sister and I had to leave the only friends I had ever known and move to a place where no one knew us. We didn't have family in this part of the country. Yet that didn't matter to our father because pleasing his bosses was more important that what his children wanted. Though it wasn't completely terrible. I had just had first heartbreak of my life and I couldn't deal with everyone at school asking me what happened between me and my ex-boyfriend because even though we were young, we had been together for two years, which was a while for someone in middle school and first entering high school.

After moving to Tulsa, my mother had suggested to me to find a job to preoccupy my time (and my mind) while I was adjusting to all the changes. I didn't argue with this. Even though my family was pretty well off thanks to my dad's business career, I decided why not start taking some responsibility in my life? Though between my school life, work, and my life at home, I barely had time to entertain myself.

"But can you believe him, Stella?" A high pitched voice scowls in my ear, dragging me from my thoughts.

My brows furrow as I look up from my chili cheese fries to look up at my best friend, Holly. The curls of her brown hair crowned her face as her round, brown eyes stared at me for an answer. "I'm sorry, what?" I question before stifling a cough, a ping of regret washed through me for not paying attention to her. She had clear time her day to hang out me after knowing that it was my first free time in weeks.

"You weren't paying attention to me?" Holly squeaks while slamming her hand on the table. "I was telling you that I caught Kyle talking to another girl on his Facebook yesterday."

"Again?" I speak in tone that said that was such bullshit. Bullshit that her boyfriend, Kyle, had talked to another girl for the fifth time and also because I knew Holly probably forgave, again. "What is this, the sixteenth time?"

Holly clicks her tongue. "It's the sixth time." At this remark, I shoot her a look that says, That's bs. "Alright, I know I've forgiven him too many times, Stella, but I love him. We've been together since sophomore year and I'm not ready to let him go," she pleads her case while munching on some fries.

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