A/N: I began writing this a few months ago, and I popped out the first five chapters within just a couple of weeks, and they haven't been edited very much at all, so you might notice that the writing seems a little raw. Also, this has been my first serious piece of work (meaning one that I've thought through more than a few words ahead of where I've written), and I haven't written anything in ages, so I may be a little rusty or awkward in my style sometimes. If there are any changes you think should be made, suggest them, and I will take them into consideration.

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I sat in my little corner just outside the circle of furniture in our living room and held my notebook close to me on my knees as I wrote frantically. If someone who didn’t know me walked in, they would have thought I was angrily trying to poke holes in the paper and break my pen, but of course I wasn’t. I loved my notebooks and pens; they were truly the only friends I could confide in. I merely write quickly because emotions and words and thoughts come at me so fast, I have to grab at them as fast as I can and put them down before they escape my grasp. A net would probably come in very handy during my writing sessions.

I heard the screen door open and the doorknob turn, and I glanced up from my work before going back to my little world. It was my mother getting home from her job as a waitress at a local café, as I had expected.

Mom. The word had meant so much to me those past 9 years since my father’s death, and I just hoped she knew it, for the thought hadn’t been spoken in our home for too long. She’s so beautiful, and I don’t just mean her thick black hair, olive skin, or large brown eyes. She accepted me for who I was when no one else would, and she was just about the only person who I could say really knew me.

“You’re going to get to meet Emmet and his brother and friends later tonight.” she said. I hate it when she talks to me while I’m reading or writing because I feel compelled to listen, and the interruption breaks my train of thought and throws me off course. Of course, if she only spoke when it was perfectly convenient, I’d never hear a word out of her because I’ve always got a book or pen in my hand. I suppose I like it this way though; my mother’s got a pretty aggressive personality, and I don’t think I could have her any other way. She keeps the balance with such an extreme person around as me. Though I doubt 'extreme' is the proper word. “Met and I have been going out for three months now, which is longer than I’ve kept a man since your father, so I figured it was time.”

My father. He and I were very close while he was alive. He wasn’t outgoing like Mom, but he was very musical. Ever since I could remember, he had sang me to sleep every night, and once I was old enough, he taught me the piano, the guitar, singing, song writing: everything that was his life apart from his family.

I poised my pen and waited for a moment to hear if she was going to say anything else. After a few seconds, I gathered my scattered mind and went back to making use of the beautiful pen I had gotten for my birthday the year before.

My reverie didn’t last long, for just a moment later, the timer went off in the kitchen, and I had to get up to go check on it.

Mom walked in from the bathroom where she had been changing from her work clothes, “Mmm, something smells great. Is that lasagna? And lemon cake?”

She knew that the question would be rhetorical when directed at me, so she looked over my shoulder into the oven.

“You don’t know how lucky I am that I have a daughter who is so skilled in the culinary arts.” she said, putting extra emphasis on the last two words. She knew better than to tease me like that. Luckily, she turned it on herself. “If you weren’t, we’d be stuck eating undercooked bacon with burnt toast, lopsided bologna sandwiches, and half-frozen tv dinners every day. I was hoping you’d fix this meal because we always have so many leftovers, there ought to be enough for Emmet and them.”

I hate to sound selfish, but I had been planning on just eating leftovers for the next two days so I wouldn’t have to cook again for a while, but it was for guests.

“So are you going to go to cooking school someday?”

I shook my head.

“Ah, plain old college. Going to major in something artistic?”

Yet again, I shook my head. I wasn’t totally sure what I wanted, but I knew I had to go to college and take advantage of my math skills. Not to brag, but I’m able to do long division, add long rows of numbers, and do algebra and some simple calculus in my head faster than nearly any calculator can. But of course, no one knew that because I rarely had the opportunity to put my ability to good use. My school didn’t offer any classes higher than Algebra I and basic Geometry.

“Oh, so you’re going to be an engineer type?”

I shrugged.

Mom took the cake out to cool while I set the table. I turned around and saw her take the bottom pot out of the cabinet. I leaped to pull her out of the way as the pans came tumbling to the floor.

She waved the little pot with a flustered look, “I was going to make tea...”

I knew that it was no accident. Sometimes she would put herself in danger so that I would yell out to her, but she always made the mistake of having me close enough in the vicinity to save her with no words. I knew she was doing it out of love, but I just wasn’t ready to speak yet. I figured it would most likely take time and determination before I could, not being scared. I didn’t have the hiccups, after all.
As I set out the silverware, I glanced at the timer on the stove. Twenty minutes until the lasagna was done. I was glad because that would allow me a short break to write down an idea I had just had for my term paper I was required to write for school in four months. Before you start laughing your head off, let me say in my own defense that planning ahead always lets me get things done well and on time.

Yes, laugh all you want, but you will soon learn how far from normal I really I am.