Constructive criticism? Any thoughts?
Prologue
I'd like to say that this whole business might've been different if it weren't for my "ability".
What ability, you say? You haven't been paying attention? Dude...What were you doing this whole time, texting your boyfriend? Sleeping?
Sorry. Got a little carried away there. Well, just sit back. Get comfy. And don't forget the popcorn.
Chapter 1
It's one of those mornings when all you want to do is put on some sweats, pig out, maybe watch reruns of Oprah all day.
Pfft. I wish.
Running late. Again.
I quickly run through my morning routine, showering, blow-drying my hair, brushing out my long, white-blond hair, putting on a little blush and mascara, making weird faces into the mirror, rummaging into my closet for a while until I found a gray and white striped shirt and blue skinny jeans, mismatched socks (one blue stars, the other with pink polka dots) and of course, my favorite (beat up) purple Converse.
I make my way downstairs, passing through what seems like endless hallways, occasionally running into one of my relatives, who stare at me like I've suddenly sprouted wings or something. But I guess most of it is about The Incident, as my Uncle Robert called it when my younger cousins asked, "Why is she here? Where's her mommy and daddy?"
* * *
About six years ago, my parents and I were in the car, on the way home from an art museum. It was a school day, which was pretty cool; my mom always liked to plan impromptu trips like this. Anyways, it was dark, and raining, and some drunk idiot blindsided the front of our car, killing my parents, and leaving me parent-less. They were so calm about it before they were hit--Mom told me she loved me, and Dad told me to be brave. Sweet, considering that those were the last words I heard from them.
Shortly after that, some ER people took me to the hospital, gave me a checkup, and when they said I was okay, yet shaken, shocked, and extremely sad--I'm not kidding, those were their exact words--to social workers came and picked me up, handed me a juicebox, took me home, and loaded all my clothes and toiletries into my suitcase. They didn't take any of my books, though, so I had nothing to read when the one social worker had my Uncle Ernie and Aunt Lisa signed forms that declared them my official guardian, much to the chagrin of their daughter, Anabelle, while the other social worker told the adults about my situation, and that I'd have to live with the whole family. It was kind of funny though, seeing as my parents and I were basically outcasts to the rest of the Drew Clan; we never even got one single Christmas card, never invited to their big house in South Hart, Pennsylvania, never heard about so and so's marriage to their high school sweetheart. In fact, at my own parents' funeral, everyone stood in tightly packed groups, gossiping about me and my mother and father. I tried to eavesdrop, but I was shooed away, just like I would be for the next six years.
My parents and I were kind of...different. My mom always knew what you were thinking, which isn't too bad if you think about it, but when she said that you really should go to that party on Friday, even though you had homework, and you hadn't told her a thing about Carla Miller's 14th birthday bash. My dad could magically "control the air," as I'd said when I was younger; the moment he stepped outside, the winds seemed to slow down and hold its breath, waiting for his very command. But I was the basket case--I could just look at a person and instantly know their name, age, and hobbies. I'd never told anyone, not even my mom and dad, but it made meeting someone new really awkward, and I learned to avoid crowds at all costs. I'd heard some pretty weird things over the years, such as the punk girl that sat in the back of the class secretly loved to make puppet shows, or the star football player actually held the Guiness World Record for fastest cup stacking, but kept it under wraps.
The good thing was that it never worked twice. if I'd seen someone before, I wouldn't get the rush of personal information again. Thank God.
* * *
I run downstairs, almost tripping over a few Barbies, old newspapers, and trucks lying around. I'm immediately hit by the noise of 20 people, all yelling and screaming at once. "Must be Game Day," I think to myself. Game Day is a tradition in my family. On the first Monday of the month, all the adults take off work and watch their favorite football games, back to back. They always egg on the players, even though everyone's seen the tape a bazillion times.
I join the mob of kids heading to the kitchen, most of them tired and still half asleep, or blasting their iPods to block out the noise. "There's the bus, middle schoolers!" cries Aunt Ivory just as a horn honks outside, telling us to hurry it up. I roll my eyes and hurry to the closet to get my backpack.
And then...
BAM.
It feels like I've been hit by a tsunami; I fly towards the mirror on the door. The next thing that happens is...odd, to say the least. I thought I was going to crash into the glass, maybe getting a splitting headache in the process. But instead, I fly right through the mirror, as if it was jelly. The last thing I hear is Anabelle screeching, "Gawd, Ellie! Watch where you're going!"
I feel my butt hit hard ground--no, tiled floor.
"Well, that was a graceful entrance." says a guy's voice sarcastically.
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