A/N: Hola, everyone! ... Um, yes ... I'm a newbie. But don't lose hope! I've been writing in other places! Just ... not here. PLEASE, oh, PRETTY, pretty PLEASE! Review! I'm on here to get better at writing! I need constructive criticism! Speaking, of which, flames will be used to ... *drumroll* ... make COOKIES! Whatever you got, chuck it at me! Just write something in the dang text box!

Thank you, for your cooperation!

Yours truly, a nervous BasketballChamp

PROLOGUE

I Am Not Perfect

Me. I am not Wonder-Girl. I am not super-duper gorgeous, or extremely popular, or really athletic, or amazingly gifted. I don't have secret powers, I am not a vampire, or a werewolf, or a demigod. I have never been to a world beyond our own, and I don't have an incredible love life. In short, I am not similar to the dreamed-up characters in most books. I am an ordinary- if unlucky- person.

I hope you can live with that. If you are looking for a book chock-full of action and dashing heroes, you can stop reading now.

My name is Sylvestra Daniels. I am named Sylvestra after my mom, whom I have not seen for over 5 years . . .

CHAPTER 1

My Ordinary, Every Day, Hard-Knock Life

I woke up to my alarm clock screaming in my ear.

I franticly searched, banging on, and cursing at buttons, trying to find the one that turns it off- It couldn't kill those people to just put a large button with "OFF" written on it in plain sight, could it? It would improve my life a lot.

Finally, after a minute or two of horrible screeching, I find the right button and shut off the cursed thing.

That woke me up.

I dragged myself out of bed, with much groaning, and proceeded to my dresser. My dresser is white, faded and the paint is chipping, but it does its job well enough.

I pulled on some worn-thin, faded, denim shorts and a T-shirt. After pulling out most of my tangles with a hairbrush, my long, toffee hair falls in a mane over my back. I turned to the wall, and fidgeted while I looked in the cracked, dusty mirror. My hair. I had always hated my hair. It was an uninteresting shade of tawny, golden brown. It wasn't manageable, either. It ran down my back in a wildly thick tangle of waves and curls.

On top of that, I had always been extraordinarily tall. Not in a good way. I had sprouted like a beanstalk over the past few years, and was taller than most adult women. I stood out like a sore thumb in most public places because of the sheer unnaturalness of my height.

I was a skinny as a bean pole, as well. I can recall my mother gently teasing me about it, making comments like "Don't go outside, Sylvestra! You'll blow away with wind, you will!" with twinkling eyes.

Eyes. I think that is really my only claim to fame at all with my appearance. They are big, and rounded in my face. The thick, curling lashes frame grey irises. I'd say my eyes are the only thing I really like about my appearance.

I walked silently over the thread-bare carpet and down the hall to the tiny, miserable excuse for a kitchen.

While I was eating a stale-tasting biscuit (I am sure you don't want to hear about that), why don't we give you a little background information concerning my house?

I have always been ashamed of my house. It has two bedrooms, one bathroom, a hallway, and a kitchen. The whole thing is creaky, banged-up, and falling apart. Bobby always said we needed a hammer and nails, and we could patch it all up- I always said Duct-tape fixes anything and everything.

Well, as I was still chomping on a biscuit, you get to hear some about Bobby: Bobby was my little, six-year-old brother, He was the sweetest baby brother anyone could ever have. He has brown hair, eyes that match my own, and a cheerful, innocent aura that little, untainted children have. He can cheer me up when I am down, without half-trying, and I love him more than anyone or anything else in the world.

I have practically raised him. My mother left when Bobby was a one-year-old. I think she was sick and tired of my father, but I still don't know if I have forgiven her, even if I can sympathize with her. I would leave- run away, sever all ties, and never look back… if it were not for Bobby- he needs me. I practically run the place. My father is almost never here.

Some of you are probably saying to yourselves, 'But that doesn't make sense! Why doesn't she contact some long-lost relative? The neighbors? The Police? Common sense!' But the thing is, what would happen then? One of two things could be the outcome, a) being that they will make our father promise to do better, which will have no effect whatsoever, or b) they will take us away to live somewhere else, as foster children, or orphans, or something similar. That is not acceptable. I will not allow that to happen. Bobby and I could get separated, and it would put an end to his happy, oblivious innocence. He would become like other foster children I've met: quiet, broken, and filled with an unbearable sadness.

I know not all foster children are that way, but it would be the case with Bobby. This is his world. I am his world. It would shatter him, with little cracks and splinters flying everywhere.

My father: he disappears for days at a time, sometimes even weeks. He comes home half-drunk, 99.9% of the time, and doesn't stick around. He brings home some money, and I bring home some money. I don't know where he gets his money- but I get mine roaming the neighborhood, doing odd jobs. People always have things that need to be done- little nagging worries at the back of their heads. I put those things-left-undone to rest.

Well, I had now finished my biscuit, and it's time to go meet Bobby.

I walked briskly down the hallway, and open the creaky door. The room is similar to mine- tiny, grey and white, with a bed in the corner, and an old, chipped dresser with faded clothes inside.

"Bobby?" I called softly. No reply from the silent, curled figure in the bed. "Bobby?" I call a little louder this time. I have more success this time, and he turns over, and sits up. His little, six-year-old fists rubbing his eyes, and his face scrunched into a yawn.

The first thing I noticed is that there were dark circles under his eyes. Rough night, I thought, and waved the observation away.

"Sylvie? Is it morning time?"

"Yes, Bobby. It is morning time. You get dressed, and I will go get you some breakfast. OK?"

"OK, Sylvie"

As I closed the door, I smiled at the name … 'Sylvie.' I would never let anyone else call me that, no one except Bobby, because Bobby is special. I selected a biscuit, and got a chipped plate from the cupboard. After I had set these out for Bobby, I got my old sneakers, and laced them up. I packed my backpack, with things I could need for my odd jobs- pruning shears, a dog leash, little kid games, oh, and another biscuit for my lunch (Bobby loves the biscuits- plus, their cheap), so and so forth, and I slung it over my shoulder.

Bobby was coming down the hall and into the kitchen, smiling cheerfully. He is wearing blue faded jeans, and a huge red T-shirt that once belonged to me. His dark, chocolate brown hair is sticking up all over the place, and his nose has a smudge of dirt on it. In short, he looks like the cute, messy, six-year-old he is.

Just his walking into the room makes me smile. It makes me forget about the long day ahead of me, and feel like, no matter what, everything will be okay- like we haven't been basically abandoned by our parents. I tried to hold back, but his grin is infectious, and slowly it creeped across my face. Losing battle, there, I thought to myself.

With a new smile on my face, I asked him "Do you want your biscuit hot, or cold?" my voice now had a light, bouncing tone to it.

We did have a creaky, smoking old toaster- but even if it is a little run-down, it still did its job.

He thoughtfully sat down in one of the moaning, wooden chairs. "I think . . . hot."

"Well, then let's warm it up!" I said, smiling, gently poking him in the belly.

"Belly Poke!" he squealed, laughing.

I allowed myself a small peal of laughter as I popped the biscuit into the rusted toaster, and smoke began to seep out the top.

Don't worry- that's normal.

Bobby was still giggling when I pulled the other chair over to the table as we waited for his biscuit.

With a devious grin on his face, and a twinkle in his eye, he lunged forward with his pointer aimed for my stomach, and I gave out a small "Oof!" as his finger found its target. "Belly Poke" I said, as I waggled my finger at him with a stern expression on my face.

BANG! The biscuit popped up, smoking slightly.

I plucked it from the toaster, trying not to burn my fingertips, and popped it onto Bobby's plate. Smiling, like this is the breakfast of kings, he started to take bites, even though I warned him not to burn his tongue. Then I sighed, as he yelped at the heat of the biscuit.

Shaking my head, I said "How did you sleep?"

He paused, thinking.

"Well, my throat did hurt a little."

I frowned, saying "Really? Does it still hurt?"

He nodded his little head solemnly, his mouth full of biscuit.

Oh, holy peanut butter! We do NOT need a sick child! I thought to myself.

"Well, you just rest today, K?"

"OK, Sylvie." He said, cheerfully, as if he would do anything for me.

Smiling, I reassured myself- He probably just needs a drink of water.

"I will come back later today, all right?"

He nodded, having a mouthful of hot biscuit again.

I opened the groaning front door, stepped outside into the summer morning, and pulled it shut behind me.

Well, here goes…