“Sylvie, your Grandmother is moving in with us.”

That’s probably the worst thing I’ve heard in my whole life. Ever. You have to understand, Grandmother Brown and I don’t get along… to say the least.

Grandmother Brown visits us once a month to criticize my mother, to praise my father (her son, of course), ignore Mason (my twin), and try to convert me into a quiet, conservative, nice Christian girl. Nuh-uh, Grandmother Brown- Not me.

See, I don’t mind it too much when she cries, “Find salvation in the Lord, Sylvie!” I have nothing against being religious. I’m just not. Religious, I mean. It’s when she starts getting all political about it, saying, “These homosexuals should NEVER be able to get married! It’s not in the bible! Therefore, it is immoral!”

Then, my parents give me this Look from across the dinner table and I’m forced to bite my tongue and keep quiet as Mason elbows my side.

“You and Mason are going to have to share a room!” my mother says as we all stand in the hallway, furrowing her brow as her inner home decorator tries to figure out the arrangements. I’m still too in shock AND angered by all of this.

“Mom,” Mason says slowly, running a hand through his long-ish hair. “Do you know how wrong that is?” Dude, he still can read my mind!

“You both took baths together when you were toddlers!” our father says timidly. Mason and I share a look and shudder.

“Yeah. When we were toddlers!!”

I clear my throat. “My dear, darling parents, Mason and I are fifteen and because of the gender difference, it would be majorly awkward. Besides,” I put on my sweetest, most innocent smile. My parents shift uncomfortably. “I know Grandmother sprained her ankle and all, so why can’t she stay in a home for the elderly?” A brilliant idea if I do say so myself. Mason can live peacefully in his own separate space. I can live peacefully without Grandmother Brown breathing down my neck. Mom seems to agree.

However, my father doesn’t. “Syl, Mason, you need to understand that this lady is my mother. Would you put your mother in a home for the elderly after spraining her ankle?”

My mother leans against the wooden railing by the stairs, eyebrows raised with her arms crossed.

“Well,” Mason says before I can open my mouth. “Mom doesn’t look at me and do that weird nose twitchy thing to show her disapproval.” Mason, that was a little weak. But okay.

I still nod my head and say. “Mom does make all these stupid comments about my posture, or ‘radical-slash-evil’ taste in music!” I make air quote for emphasis. “Hello! It’s Sondheim! Sondheim is NOT evil! For Pete’s sake!”

Mom raises one hand, seeing the early signs of a rant. “Sylvie Elizabeth and Mason Patrick. We appreciate your input, but what’s done is done.” She says this sternly, but we can totally tell that she doesn’t want Grandmother Brown here either. I grin at my brother.

“We’ll paint half of your room a more…. Eh, girly color, Syl. You can choose with your mom,” Dad says, looking very optimistic.

“Black,” I say flatly. Mason snorts and trudges downstairs to watch television, or whatever. My mom glares, but my father is so determined to make this work out that sarcasm flies right over his head.

I sigh. “I’ll think about the color,” I add, heading into my room and putting on the Revival Recording of Stephen Sondheim’’s Assassins. I push the next button until I get to number ten, “The Ballad of Guiteau.”

“Look on the bright side!” Charles Guiteau sings hysterically, commanding me to be as optimistic as he is. And my father, for that matter.

“Eeee! We’re not freshmen anymore!” Sarah McAllister, my best friend, squeals into my ear as I search in vain for my new locker. “Let me see your schedule!” she says right after grabbing the paper out of my hands.

“Hey!” I cry in protest as we reach my locker. “My locker combo’s on th-“

“Boo, you smartass! You’re in all these honors classes! Oh hey! We have Art together!” Sarah hugs me around my shoulders quickly. “See you third period! I’m off to SPED math…”

“It’s Geometry! Average! NOT SPED!” I call after her.

As I roam the hallways, looking for room 236-Honors English (the school had the WHOLE English wing redone over the summer), I’m stopped by Mr. Santos, last year’s Honors World History teacher.

“Good morning, Sylvie. I suppose I won’t be having the pleasure of debating with your everyday this year.” He says this in such a way that sounds both sarcastic and disappointed. I smile sheepishly and shrug. “Well,” he continues, “Congrats for getting into AP American History. Now, run off to your next class!”

HN. English and HN. French fly by quickly. My English teacher loves me for my opinions. My French teacher loves me for my accent. (I can do that “r” hacking noise really well)

Third period comes along. I enter the art room to find that Molly Phillips is sitting next to Sarah. Molly is convinced that she can either be Sarah or be Sarah’s best friend. She is not succeeding in either area. Sarah makes her “ew” face until I give her a sympathetic smile. She grins back and nonchalantly points to the table in front of her where Dylan “Rico Suave” Block (her UBER crush) sits. “Lucky!” she mouths, still grinning.

“Yo, Sally,” Dylan (“Rico Suave”) says, nodding in my direction.

“Sylvie,” I correct him, wondering why a “hot stud muffin” like him is doing in an ART ROOM of all places.

Suddenly, a man comes out from behind a large canvas. “Good morning, kids, teenagers, young people,” he says excitedly. I’m the only one who chuckles. “My name is Arthur Daly- Mr. Daly to you.”

Mr. Daly’s a man of medium height (still taller than me, of course), and, he has dark brown hair that’s kind-of balding in the back and wide eyes. Looks about late thirties, early forties.

So, I’m sitting here, thinking that I’m going to like him. THEN, he turns on his little boombox and puts on a Sondheim mix!! I didn’t even KNOW people DID that!! EHMAGOOOOOOD!

Mr. Daly, I barely know you, you’re way too old for me, but I already LOVE YOU.

As I’m looking at him in awe, he pulls an egg from his pocket. Okay, a little weird, but I can deal. “What colors do you see in this egg?” he asks the class. A simple question, but I think there’s more to it.

“White… duh,” Dylan AKA “Rico Suave” calls out. (Okay, I gotta stop with the Rico Suave joke….)

“Not quite,” he says, a grin on his face as he passes out the white paper and baskets of colored pencils. “Your assignment for today is to draw this egg.” He sets said egg on a small table up front.

After staring at my paper (dumbfounded) for a minute or two, I look around the classroom. Most kids are drawing perfect ovals while others leave it blank.

Mr. Daly is walking around the classroom, kind of bopping his head to “You Could Drive a Person Crazy.” I have so much admiration for a man who can bop his head to Sondheim in public…

“Mr. Daly,” someone finally calls from the back. “There aren’t any whites in these baskets.” Mr. Daly smiles and continues to bop.

I stare at the egg for a good five minutes. (Dylan falls asleep during this time period.) Then, I gasp loudly. I see it! I GET IT! I grab purples, blues and any other I see useful as my classmates look on.

Dark colors for the shadows. Yellows and oranges for where the light hits the egg. Some brown? A little gray for the outline. I use my most obnoxious signature on the corner of the paper. Standing up, I head over to Mr. Daly, proudly handing him my work.

He nods and smiles and nods and smiles. And, finally, he holds my paper up for the whole class to see, explaining today’s lesson.

Sarah hooks arms with me as we head to fourth period lunch. “Gawd, Vee, I had no idea you were such an artist!’

“I’m just chock full of surprises today!” I grin, throwing my hand in the air for effect.

“Speaking of surprises, Vee….” Sarah says with a big grin. “Check out THAT guy over there!”

“Huh?” I say stupidly, trying to follow that direction she’s tossing her long blonde hair. “What the FRICK! That’s my BROTHER, Sarah!!” I yell, causing Mason to look in our direction and rolling his eyes at me.

“I love his hair,” Sarah says dreamily. Why his hair? I unhook my arm from hers so I can cover my ears. I am not hearing this. I am not hearing this. I am not-

“Gawd, stop acting like you’re five! Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. Sarah fluffs her hair- a vital part to her flirting method… Oh god. She’s off to flirt…. With MASON. MY BROTHER.

Grumbling, I buy my lunch (a cheeseburger, fries, and water- see? At least I’m drinking healthy…) and snag an empty table. I dig in immediately, ignoring Sarah’s giggler from two tables down.

A voice causes me to look up from my lunch. “Uh… hey, I’m Roscoe Harris,” a tall guy (with light brown hair and blue eyes) says.

“Oh, hey, I’m Sylvie Brown. You new here?” I ask, my mouth full of fries as I gesture to a seat. Not put off by the fact that I’m stuffing my face in his presence, he takes one.

“Yeah! I’ve seen you in all my morning classes.” (Of course! I’m the opinionated, obnoxious girl who sits in the front!) “That whole thing in art… I didn’t get it until class was done! That was great… when you, you know, finished yours right away,” he stutters. Thinking there was a compliment in there, I blush in spite of myself.

“Well,” I say, sort-of modestly, “I didn’t get it right away…. I didn’t think I was right in the first place!”

“So, are you an artist, or somethin’?” Roscoe asks, his mouth full of Sloppy Joe.

“Me?” I squeak. “Eh, god, no. To everyone here, I’m ‘the smart girl’…” I do my usual air quotes and he grins.

Come to think of it… Roscoe’s kinda cute….