The Evolution of the Stars

I

     Some say when you die you become a star. You sit there and you 'shine' down on everything below you, and everybody looks up at you. If that's true, then personally, I think being a star would suck. You sit there all high and mighty, looking down on everyone. I definitely would not use the word shine. You stay on your perch, dangling from the sky and you get some know-it-all kid staring up at you, naming you, unaware that before you died, you already had a name. That know-it-all kid would connect you to other stars and make some shape, or person, or design, or letter. Later in life that know-it-all kid gets a girlfriend and gives her the star which, unfortunately, is you. Now you belong to some know-it-all kid's know-it-all girlfriend. Thatis what would suck. And you're stuck like that. You're stuck being owned by some know-it-all girl for the rest of eternity, and if that's what you want, I'm cool with that. But if that's the case, I'm going to try and stay alive as long as possible.

     Now, if you know anything about Greek mythology - and let us assume you don't, for the sake of my rambling - you would know that there is a God or Goddess for just about everything. I'm sure, if you found a weird enough blog, there would even be a God of cream cheese or pizza or whatever it is you fantasize there being a God of. If you can't find a weird blog, then do me a favor and write one up. Maybe a Goddess of socks, or something. That would be entertaining. Now, let's not get sidetracked by my rambling. This is not a book about cream cheese flavored pizza delivered in a sock.

     Anyways, back to the point. You probably know there is a God or Goddess for just about everything. Stars is included in 'everything'. There is a Goddess called Asteria.

Asteria also happens to be my name.

     See, when my mother was looking through the thirty-cent baby names book the hospital provided when I was born, she saw the name Astrid. Granted, it was in the boys section. She decided to give it a twist and call me Asteria. She was unaware of the fact that Asteria was Goddess of the Stars, a beautiful goddess, at that. My mother just liked the name. She thought it was original.

     My mother had everything put together. She thought so, at least. She was only eighteen when I was born, but she was confident in her eight years of babysitting. Confident enough to raise me on her own.

     Needless to say, she couldn't do it, and God forbid she asks for help, so she moved from Vermont down to West California to raise her one year old daughter. She couldn't stand the criticism of her mother or any of the women in that small town, so we lived in a tiny, one bedroom apartment on the not-so-safe side of West California. My mom was gone most of the time, working one of her three or more jobs. In that sense, she wasn't able to be home most of the time, or when I needed her. She worked to pay for schooling, food, and my daily dose of Rugrats.

I lived in a building with all Spanish, Mexican, African and Indian kids. I can't tell you how many kids didn't speak English. I was the only white girl. I was the girl alone all the time, living in apartment L12. The apartment right next to  Jacob. The girl that lived alone.

Or with Mrs. Anderson.

     Mrs. Anderson was a sweet woman, and a teacher. Add the fact that she was one of the only people to come into my house, more than my own mother, even. She was one of two people who cared for me.

But my time with her was short-lived.

     One day she brought over a meal for she and I to eat together. It was something we did three times a week. We would sit on an old, beat down, foam couch placed in the middle of the living room and watch Spongebob, Rugrats, or some other children's show. This time she brought cake.

She brought cake because this was the last time I was going to be able to see her. Mrs. Anderson and her husband were moving to Arizona.

     Other than the few kids whose parents had something serious against white people, I made it along pretty well, socially. I had my group of friends, which was basically every kid within two years of my own age. My closest friends were Tellulah, (three 'Ls' and an 'H'she always smiled) Matthew, and Jodi.

     Now, I'm seventeen years old, looking to get out of California. Tellulah, Jodi and Matthew were more than willing to come with me. Our parents, of course, were fine with our little 'adventure'. Except Jodi's. She was set on coming anyway.

But there was a list of problems.

Problem one: we didn't have a car.

Problem two: we don't have any money.

Problem three: we don't know where to go.

And problem four: Matthew and Tullulah can't leave.

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