I am an everyday girl. At least, thats how I consider myself. I look the part; I have dark brown shoulder length hair, and eyes some indistinct color between brown and green (hazel, my mother calls it, though I find that hazel is much too pretty a name for such an average color.) I’m normal height, not the smallest or the tallest, and wear clothes that blend into the backdrop. I don’t stand out in a crowd; in fact, you probably wouldn’t notice me if I was standing right next to you. Even my name, Annabel Lee Stewart, is everyday. However, I have one trait that sets me apart from all the rest of the student body. I can read minds.
It’s not what you think. When you hear that, some people probably imagine some gypsy-type person with an unhealthy obsession with putrid paisley patterned rags. I’m not that creepy “psychic” you see at carnivals and on those TV shows that are pretty much just a scam to cheat people out of their money. It’s actually pretty simple: if I lock eyes with someone, it’s like a window into their thoughts. I’ve found out lots of things this way from my parents, who haven’t noticed at all. They think I’m just “exceptionally observant”. Using my powers, I also found out the “exciting news” they had in store for me.
Before I go into hysterics about the “wonderful” news they wanted to tell me, let me describe my family. My mother, Rose Elena Stewart, a petite brunette with silky dark brown hair flowing down her back, is the ringmaster of the circus that is our family. Don’t let her size fool you, though; she’s a large presence in a small body. Then there’s my dad, Michael James Stewart, who’s pretty much her polar opposite. He’s quiet and agreeable, then again you’d have to be to marry my mother. With black hair and piercing blue eyes, he’s second in command in our household. And then comes my brother, Conrad Terrence. A know-it-all, he’s three time winner of the State Geography Bee and tenth grade honors student. He has his black hair in a crew-cut, and spends most of his time locked in his room, playing computer games on his laptop and flipping through huge textbooks that find homes all over our kitchen counter. Last, my little sister, Penelope Grace Stewart. A four-year old with a borderline unhealthy obsession for floofy gowns and bedazzled plastic tiaras, Penelope worships princesses and all related memorabilia. Whether it’s a pair of mini heels practically dripping with plastic rhinestones or a t-shirt with Cinderella on it, it must be hers or she throws a tantrum. And then we have Nanny. My grandmother, whom we call Nanny, has been living alone with her cat, Mr. Fuzzlemuffin, ever since my grandpa passed away. A thin, fragile-looking lady, she has a lot more spunk than her image implies. Though knitting and baking occupy space on her “favorite things” list, so do mountain climbing and extreme BMX biking. Oh, and there are a few other “members” that might help you get more of an idea of our special family: our pets. For some reason, we have an abundance of dogs, cats, hamsters, rabbits, and pretty much every pet known to man. Each of us kids has a fish tank in our room, as well as some small pet: for Conrad, Wilhelm the lizard, Penelope, a rabbit named Foofoolina (yes, really), and me, plain old boring Annabel, a hamster. Or gerbil. Anyway, some small mammal that Penelope got tired of. And then, we have the dogs and cats. Fluffy, shaggy, little, and big, we have about five or six. By now, you probably get the picture. A huge, happy family full of well, let’s just say, noise.
Now, a few minutes after dinner (which with that many animals and people, is quite an event), my parents are knocking on my door. They come in with those looks on their faces that let me know that I wasn’t just imagining the information I found out earlier. My mom, quietly walking to the desk where I sat, led me over to my bed and patted the seat next to her. As I slowly sat down, she elbowed my dad, who cleared his throat and began telling me what I already knew.
“Honey,” he said, “we’re moving.” I tried to act surprised.
“What? When? Where? Why?” I gasped, doing my best to get a confused look on my face. “Are we moving far away? I can’t leave school now, the year has barely started! And what about Nanny? Doesn’t she need family nearby to help her?” My voice increased in volume as I continued my rant. “Her stuff is already in our house! She visits so often she’s made a permanent home in our extra bedroom, with a bed for Mr. Fuzzlemuffin and two extra pairs of clothes and pajamas for when she wants to spend the night. It would make her so sad her if we left, especially now, so close to that day four years ago when Grandpa died. And - “
“Don’t worry, dear.” my mother cut in. “Nanny’s going with us. She’s going to live with us now.. And to answer your other question, we are moving relatively far away.” She locked eyes with me, and I knew the answer to my question a split second before she told me.
“We’re moving to England.”
