Samantha
My name is Samantha Baxter. I'm 17, six-feet tall, and I've been blessed with long legs and impressive strength.
I grew up with five older brothers, so every day was a competition--I had to wake up before dawn if I wanted to shower with hot water, run fast enough to get what I wanted from the dinner table, and if I wanted an increase in my allowance, I needed to get a perfect score on an exam.
And that was only during my elementary school years.
Jokes and sports were staples in our household. So were hugs, because of mom, but I never got the hang of that scene. Unfortunately, my brothers did, so whatever.
But like a car crash, it happens.
Scarlett Baxter was in a convenience store, shopping for snacks when three men in masks barged through the doors and demanded for everyone to get on the floor.
One of the men held a little boy hostage. He was ten and kept crying for his parents.
She sprinted toward the men. She and one of them fought over the gun. There were cries and screams of terror.. and then a gun shot.
Scarlett Baxter died at 45 years old. Theodore Baxter became a widow at 46.
I was twelve and mother-less. Nothing was ever the same again.
As time passed, pain turned to memory. My father and five older brothers grew more protective of me since that night, and although I appreciated the concern, I always saw the hurt in their eyes whenever they looked at my face.
I inherited mom's features. Her big blue eyes, plump lips, pointed nose, and sleek raven hair.
Over the years after my mother's death, I began to change my appearance, not because I wanted to, but because of my family's influence. They constantly urged me to look more masculine and less feminine, to wear shorts instead of skirts, to wear caps instead of makeup and jewelry.
My hair, which once streamed down to my waist, has been cut at a chin-length, making me seem more boyish.
In high school, I excelled in all sports, and until now, as I am a college freshman, I am captain of the hockey team and co-captain of the swim team. In my spare time, I play soccer at the park and play basketball at the recreational center. Sometimes, I play badminton and visit the gym regularly.
The life of an athlete, though fulfilling, remains a lonely one.
Though I love engaging in sports, I love video games just a tiny bit more, and that is why I am currently studying computer science.
Author's Point of View
On Wednesday afternoon, Samantha bobs with the other swimmers in the crystal blue water of Manhattan's Henderson Memorial Natatorium, listening to their youngish, former-Olympian coach, Noreen Kincaid, scream at them.
The pool is twenty-five yards wide, fifty yards long, with a small diving well. Huge skylights mirror the length of the pool, so when you do backstrokes in the evening, you can look up and see the stars.
Sam holds on to the wall and pulls her cap over her ears. Okay, better form. She really needs to concentrate today.
Ben paddles over to her, then puts his hands on the wall before glancing at her. "Baxter. Where were you yesterday?"
With his freckles, piercing blue eyes, slightly stubbly jaw, and beautifully chiseled swimmer's body, Ben Morrison is hot, right? But there was just something about him that irked Samantha.
