Fran.

Chapter One: Fran

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My name is Fran. It's not short for Francesca, or anything remotely attractive or pretty or adventurous, it's just Fran. Oddly it's sort of satisfying to me, the four little letters that come together, just a short name with no real substance to it, you know? My name is Fran, F-R-A-N. Just Fran.

I'd like to thank my mother for that showstopper. She tells me it's the urban definition of 'the most incredible person to be around, boasting beauty, kindness and intelligence', But, of course, it is the urban definition. It's hardly like Oxford is going to recognize me for my shining brilliance as a human being.

Really, its not her fault for the awful name, she can't help being her quirky self. She's always been like a bad sort of hippie. Come on, she is an awful hippie. She works as a banker for crying out loud- although It's only for part of the year. She takes off to tour the festival scene across the country during the summer months. She's been doing it for years, even since before I was born. Which, in hindsight, is probably why I've never met any grandparents. I always imagined them to be prim and proper and strict - the complete opposite to us. Maybe they were sick of my mom's wild-child lifestyle and didn't want anything to do with her anymore. I never asked. Though if I did Mom would probably just find some exciting excuses to avoid the topic altogether, like she normally does. I don't mind it though, if they didn't want to know us then I don't want to know them either. So then we're even.

The only thing she's ever really let me know about relative-wise is my father, and I still don't even know that much about him. My 'Dad' isn't around. Not that he ever was around in the first place. I've never met him, so I don't even know why I call him Dad. I doubt he actually knows that I exist, or that my mom does anymore either. Mom tells me that the Summer of '97 was 'whimsical' and 'erratic'. Logically there's probably a handful of men out there that could be my mysterious 'dad', but she seems set on the idea it was one of the performers that year. The gorgeous musician she hopelessly fell in love with and in a night of heated passion they created me. All of this happened of course without them even exchanging names. Apparently.

Basically, my dear mother Helen is the only parent I've ever known. She's obsessed with strong eastern coffee and her hair lies in huge, curly clouds - deep brown, to match her eyes. It's always pulled back with a large alice band, or thrown into a bun on work days. She always sees the best in people, me especially. Always telling me that grades don't matter to her. Even if my grades were straight F's, as long as I became a decent, law-abiding person who was kind to everyone, she'd done her job as a parent right. Which is great because I've never broken the law before, I mean, not majorly I guess? Does pot really count? Come on people there are murderers out there, get your priorities straight.

All in all. I guess I'm pretty lucky to have her as a parent. I'm never pressured into getting an A+ on a test or to be the perfect kid. Maybe she was forced to live a strict regime when she was younger and didn't want to do that to me, I don't know. Even though she never forces anything on me, I actually get A's pretty often, so I must be doing okay.

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As if by pure fate, the alarm decides to grow legs just to kick my sorry ass awake. Not really, but could you imagine? No? Okay. After hitting snooze around 7 times I finally find the will to get up and out of bed. Despite my efforts the warmth demons still try to drag me back down into my haven of pillows. I really do need to make an effort today. Well I mean I don't, the whole feminist, strong woman thing screams from down below to go in to my new high school looking like a piece of shit, just to show people I don't care what they think of me. But wheres the fun in that?