Author's Note: I have been writing this book for almost two years. It's a very complicated book overall, that touches on many subjects that teenagers are not usually comfortable talking to people about. I have bits and pieces of this book scattered all over my bedroom in composition notebooks and scrap paper. I woke up this morning and suddenly decided that maybe I should start putting it together. I decided to start the story out rather light and keep the beginning chapters short in case there are still changes I need to make. I started this book before I even liked writing, so please excuse the bland vocabulary. I want to keep the story's tone the same as when I first mapped it out. I hope at least someone likes it and follows it. If not, of course there is room for improvement and I can go back and make changes. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Please be patient while I sort it all out. It make take some time to post it all.

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It’s finally Summer. Every week of this past semester seemed to have gone by in slow motion. If you knew me, you’d think I’m the type that cries at the end of graduation and hugs all the teachers goodbye. But that’s not it at all. I’m just a prisoner of work. A workaholic they call it. It’s just the way I’m programmed I guess.

My father’s a governor. And what do you expect from the daughter of a governor? Perfection. But by now, the habit of always needing to be doing something, always needing to be the best at everything, has been tightly woven into my personality, like the thread lining the inside of your underwear elastic. Tear it apart and I’ve got nothing left.

I turned eighteen just a few weeks ago. And what does that mean? Nothing. It was completely overshadowed by the birthday that occurred the day after. My brother’s birthday. Matt turned twenty-one years old this year. Not that it really makes a difference in his life. Just more fame, more gifts, although he isn’t necessarily deserving of them.

Matt is an all-star. Another way for my father to live vicariously through his children. Matt has been playing baseball since he was old enough to hold a ball. But what I never understood was that he never really liked baseball. He auditioned for the talent show in grammar school and my father purposely scheduled a dinner with the superintendent of schools the night that the talent show was supposed to take place.

Eventually Matt accepted the only thing that my father would accept him as. A star athlete.

Matt started using his talent to his advantage. Not just for the fun of baseball. He used it to make money by illegally throwing the game, by taking advantage of girls who ended up losing their virginity to the potentially most shallow boy at North High. But my parents never knew what kind of person he really is. They saw the statistics, the newspaper articles, the scholarships. But I saw the desperate, violated girls wishing they could go back in time. I saw the kegs, the weed, the smack, the needles and the pills. I saw the drunken fist fights, the knives, the guns.

And what could I do? Absolutely nothing, of course. Matt was always so much bigger than me. He had more power anyway. I tried to tell my father about him once and he just shrugged it off. Oh, of course, his precious baseball star couldn’t possibly be doing anything wrong. So I could do nothing but sit and watch for years and years. After all, I’m only Christie. Bookworm Christie.

My parents are at some conference and my brother is out with his friends doing God knows what. So I’m left here, trying to occupy my time by doing something productive despite the fact that summer vacation has already begun.

I grab a box of tissues and my own personal bottle of Windex and bring it into my bedroom. Walking past my dresser, I compulsively begin rearranging everything that sits upon it. The minute I move things around, is when I decide that I need to rearrange everything again. I can’t just let it sit there. The clutter in my room lingers no matter how much of my stuff I throw away.

I put the tissues and Windex on my bed and start shuffling through my books. There was one out of order. How are my books out of order? Who touched my books? How did this happen? I blame myself and assumed that I probably wasn’t paying attention last time I dusted my bookshelf. I’m so stupid sometimes.

I scan through all of the authors to be sure they’re all in order and then I alphabetize each book title written by each author. I stand a few feet back and scorn at the uneven heights of the books. Why can’t there be just one standard book size? Why can’t they all be hard cover? This makes my room look so disorganized, it’s ridiculous.

I try hard to distract myself with another dilemma. I swiftly walk to my bed, rolling my eyes at the dull spot in the middle of my glossy, golden, wooden floor. I pick up the bottle of Windex and spray my mirror, sniffling from the misty chemicals entering my nostrils.

Wipe side to side, don’t let it drip down so far. Spray again, wipe side to side. Spray again, wipe top to bottom. There are still foggy streaks. I spray eight times then give up after giving myself a tension headache.

I put the cleaner and tissues away and then carefully lay on my bed, being sure not to disturb the tightly tucked sheets and blankets. Instinctively I pinch myself awake, thinking I have homework to do. Do I have any papers? Any reason to bury my face in a textbook until I pass out? So I get up off of my bed, refluff the bleach-white pillows. I open my desk drawer to take out a pair of shears.

I sit down in the corner of my room, in my pink, fur-covered beanbag chair. I put a few photo albums and a stack of colored construction paper down on the floor next to my feet, just in case. It’s time to do what I do best. Something only I can control, not my brother, or even my parents. Something that makes me forget about school, about my books, about the color coding of the hangers in my closet. The only thing that can take my mind off of the fact that I have no idea who I am.

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Disclaimer: I own this entire book and all the characters mentioned in it. I do not own Windex. The brand is just very commonly used to represent glass cleaner. ) Please review!!