'Clank!' Granddad smacked his hand on top of the caveman era T.V. set.

Hitting it again didn't help. The screen just went to gray fuzz instead of black and white lines.

"Goddammit!" Granddad said before smacking the poor thing once more. Apparently third time's the charm and Jeopardy came back on. Hayley looked up from her copy Newsweek that she borrowed from Uncle Noah. I tease her about her maturity of an adult all the time, considering she's only nine.

Looking at the clock, I see that it's about seven. I grudgingly get up and walk to the kitchen. Seeing that Maggie won't be home to cook dinner, the feat is up to me. Well, Hayley is supposed to help, but she isn't any help in the kitchen. I'm not the best either, but I can make a cake from a mix with frosting without forgetting to put the eggs in.

I grab one of the fifty other cans of Chef Boyardee and plop the goo into a pot, turn on the heat and set the table. Plastic forks are enough. As well as some leftover pink napkins from Hayley's birthday. Maggie saw them on sale and went crazy. I get out some milk and pour it into cups.

I hear the front door open and shut. Abe, my older cousin of seventeen walks in, holding a newspaper he grabbed for Hayley. He walks over and plops down at the table, after giving the newspaper to Hayley, whose face lights up. She tosses Newsweek aside and her green eyes scan the front page as her blond hair flops in front of her eyes.

"More crappy news on the warfront," Abe tells me, rubbing his temples after another long day at the checkout at Wal-Mart.

I sigh. "What happened?" I ask wearily, stirring the ravioli.

"Air raids," he says simply.

"Shit," I say in a low voice.

Abe raises an eyebrow at me. It really isn't like me to curse.

"What?" I brush my boring brown hair out of my face and rest my elbows on the table, my head in my hands.

Abe sighs and goes over to the steaming pot and plops the ravioli into bowls.

I put them on the table and call, "Dinner!" Hayley drags Granddad away from Jeopardy and everyone sits down at the table while Abe brings Uncle Noah his ravioli, who is sick, again.

Uncle Noah has been like this for a year. He was in real good shape, but he just got really sick at work one day and he never really got better. Maggie's brought him to countless doctors, but all that gave us was a hefty bill.

And to pay for rent and doctor visits, Maggie, my aunt, works all day at the hospital down the street as a nurse. By the time she gets home, she's usually too tired to make dinner, if she gets home at all. Sometimes the hospital gets really backed up and she has to stay overnight.

So, all in all, that is all of our living relatives. In one tiny apartment.

Yay for us.

I probably sound like a whiny bitch, but honestly, I do appreciate Maggie and Abe and everyone, but everyone's on edge with the war and all. Food is rationed; you can only get gas if you are far away from the nearest Wal-Mart, so basically, no gas for us, because we live in Chicago.

Not in the ritzy part, or the middle class. We live in one of those neighborhoods that have the police careening by your apartment every night. All of us are forbidden to go out after dinnertime, even me, and I'm fifteen.

My mom did once, and she didn't ever come back. But I don't like to talk about that.

Dinner was somewhat quiet, Granddad's inspecting his plastic fork for rust, and Hayley is reading the newspaper while absentmindedly eating her tomatoey goo.

"Eva," Granddad asks me, "How was eighth grade today?" He still thinks I'm twelve. I skipped a grade or two. My sister the scholar, but I guess I'm smart too. She skipped fourth grade and is now in fifth. She doesn't even have to try. Mom always pushed us to be in advanced courses, for she wished we would get academic scholarships for college, for she didn't get to go.

Soon enough everyone finished up dinner and Hayley resumed her spot on the couch and Granddad smacking the T.V. every five minutes. I just doodled on a piece of scrap paper that had phone numbers written on the back.

Abe turned on the radio in his room and I heard him play Fleetwood Mac's 'Landslide' through the wall. He got an album of them when our neighbor, Ms. Smith's daughter died in the war, and she was giving away all of her belongings, for she knew her daughter, Liana, would of wanted her to.

Dad got Liana's prized basketball that she swore helped her win all her games. She was a basketball stud. She always wanted to get into the Woman's Hall Of Fame, but she decided join the Marines. Her camp was blown sky high when a bomb was dropped on them.

Dad swears he's going to kill the bastard that was responsible. He always had a soft spot for Liana. She was Mom's best friend since diapers.

Dad is in the Air Force, because he can fly a jet like nobody's business. Top of his class kind of good.

Hayley and I email him sometimes, and Skype, but he has limited time, for the only computer available has a schedule and Dad only gets about ten minutes on Thursday.

I noticed Hayley dozed off again while reading, I half dragged, half carried her to the miniscule room we shared. I set her on her bed and tucked her in with Ralph, a little, round mouse she slept with since she was three. What? We all have our quirks.

First chapter down, a lot more to go. You like, leave a review. You don't like, still leave a review. Flames are accepted.

Quick Question. Who is worse, Rebecca Black, Justin Beiber, or Jonas Brothers? I don't know which song I should play for the brother's birthday. At 2 A.M. Tee-Hee. ^.^