Prologue

            I was nine when my brother turned eighteen. That’s right, nine. Do the math, Einstiens. Yup, nine years difference. Big whoop. Got a problem with it? Too bad. Anyways, as soon as Logan was eighteen, we left foster care – which was a good thing. He and his friends pooled together some money and bought a big house in a good part of town, near a good school – which was also a good thing. We all moved in and for six months, migrated from space to space as we renovated the house in sections, partitioning rooms, adding bathrooms, breaking down walls etc. Finally, we settled down and I got my own room – which, yet again, was a good thing.

            So what was the down side to all of this? Well, I suppose it wasn’t that big, but it was definitely uncomfortable. You see, as I said before, I was nine. Thus, I was just hitting the big P known as puberty. The only female mentors I had were my brother’s girlfriend, his friends who were girls and his friends’ girlfriends. Not exactly mother material. There were those awkward and humiliating days cropping up around then when, for example, Natalie, a friend of my brother’s, noticed that it was time for me to get my first bra. She, Ali and Kat told me we were going shopping – not specifying what for, I might add. We got to the mall and, to my total mortification, the first thing they shove with me into the fitting room is a Wonder Bra. I’m not even going to go into what happened on the day I got my period.

            There was also another thing. You know how, during puberty, you can’t trust your hormones for even a split second? Well, one of my brother’s friends, Nick, had a little brother who was a year older than me, named Matt. Total natural albino; white-blond hair, violet eyes and all. It gets worse. Matt, who came over almost every day because his parents were working and he wasn’t old enough to stay at home alone, had friends. Four friends, to be exact. Jarred, Greg, Adam and Darren. All a year older than me. All totally cute to my juvenile tastes. So basically, during my three or four years of puberty, my affections transferred from one to another of these five guys who were constantly hanging around my house, even after they were old enough to be on their own. Can you say embarrassing memories? Oh, yah. Eventually, it passed and we laughed over it later.

            Matt and the other guys are still my friends. My best friends, in fact. Basically, I don’t have lasting friendships with girls. Either they turn out to be using me to get to one of the guys or they just can’t deal with tomboys – which is what most people regard me as. I don’t think I’m really a tomboy. I like all the girlish stuff – make-up, fancy clothes, jewellery, shoes, guys, etc. – but I guess I just see things differently from most girls my age since my closest friends are male.

            Whatever, it doesn’t really matter. I’m fifteen now, almost sixteen. It’s weird to think that it’s already been seven years since Logan and I got out of foster care. Then again, what isn’t weird in life? I hate time. I hate change – except for when I got out of foster care; that I loved. But most of all, I hate loss. It reminds too much of the night I lost my parents in the car crash. It reminds me of the time Logan went into a coma when I was five. Hell, it reminds me of the time when I was four and my two gold fish died.

            Yah, my life hasn’t exactly been the best it could be, but I guess it could be worse. At least I still have Logan, a houseful of surrogate family members and my dog, Radar. Strange? Yes. Comfortable? Now that I’m used to it. Boring? Never in a million years.

A.N. Just couldn’t get this out of my head. I know I shouldn’t be starting a new story since I’m already working on two others and fitting a third in between, but I figure since Just This Moment and And If I’m Not There are going smoothly, it won’t hurt to start this one.