Broken (temporary title)

Chapter 5

Ugh, I'm so dramatic. Maybe that's why my head hurt so much.

I remember hearing it when I was little, usually at family gatherings, holiday dinners, birthday parties... 'She's so dramatic, the little one. No, no, not the one in pigtails. The other one, with the bear...'

I had a bear. A small, fluffy, stuffed, big-eyed, light brown plush bear. I constantly created stories about him.

His name was Bo. Bo the bear. He went with me everywhere and anywhere up until I was five. Then I decided he was safer at home. I knew the second that my mother declared him dirty, he was gone for good, and I just wasn't about to let that happen.

The thing about the relationship between me and Bo the bear is, he was the center of my imagination. At the Thanksgiving feast we had when I was four, I wouldn't leave Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Gary alone. They'd sit there, laughing with me at my stories (though now I'm not so sure that they were laughing with me and not at me), stuffed with sweet potatoes and tofurkey.

At a New Year's party the same year, I had dressed Bo up in a shirt from Build•a•Bear that was green and had something about the holidays printed on it. I was horsing around with Sahara and our year-younger cousin, Allen. I remember Rebecca and Gary laughing from the nearby table as I pranced around the dance floor, Bo wrapped in my arms, ranting on and on to Allen about some tale, Bo and I the main characters. Anywhere and everywhere I went, they all said it: I was dramatic. I mean, aside from the whole Bo thing, I ran around like a tornado and knocked over everything in my way and made a scene about it, and I also threw temper tantrums sometimes, and I also cried hysterically a lot, and I also made a big deal about everything, and I didn't share, and I didn't obey instructions, and I was in a play, and...

Mostly, people called me dramatic because of the Bo-the-bear-and-my-stories thing.

Okay, the point is, they said I was dramatic.

I thought of it as somewhere between creative and crazy. Dramatic. Just right.

Except here, nobody's laughing. It's not cute anymore. I'm almost thirteen, I live with 2 drunks (I don't think I count as a third just yet) and a smart, sane, sensitive twin sister. No Aunt Rebecca or Uncle Gary or cousin Allen to enjoy the show. No Thanksgiving feasts or New Year parties.

I guess, in a sick way, I do it to entertain myself. Just not in a comedic way. In a soap-opera-drama sort of way. And the worst thing is, I believe every part of it.

And, I don't have Bo the bear.