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Imagine a town where the dust perpetually blows and kicks up in your eyes to blind you from the truth. Or something that you think is the truth.

Ah, that's Victory. You know, Victory, Nevada. Never heard of it? Yeah, I wouldn't either if I wasn't born there. Maybe it would help to know that Vegas is a few miles off, like twenty minutes some way. I'm not terribly good with directions. The only thing I'm good at is expressing myself.

Maybe I say what I think too much, if there's such a thing. Expressing yourself too candidly. Yeah. Let me revise, I'd say that may be the only thing I'm bad at.

But, never mind. Back to Victory. The setting of my life.

Over there, in the middle, at the intersection of Main and Cactus. See it? That's St. Luke's. My church. Or rather, everyone's church. Or more accurately, anyone-who-wants-to-be- accepted-by-the-community's church. It's Presbyterian. I'm Presbyterian. Yawn. Not me, the church. White clapboard, a layer of fine sand coating, and stained-glass windows that depict religious events. Your pretty standard house of worship.

Everything pretty much extends from St. Luke's: the grocer's (Anderson's), the post office, the gas station, the firehouse/police station, the schools (St. Luke's Preparatory and Victory High) and the cookie-cutter neighborhoods.

One cookie-cutter neighborhood - Desert Heights - is where I live. Directions? Like I told you, I'm not good with directions. The most basic I know being to start at St. Luke's and go down Cactus, past the prep school, and at the corner of Rosebud and Cactus make a right, past chain link fences, take a left at Dunes and you'll basically be in the Heights. The good ole Heights, the most basic middle-middle class neighborhood. My address:

0239 Dunes Avenue, Victory, Nevada, 29079, U.S.A.

Of course, I can recite that from memory, like they teach you to do in kindergarten, in case you get lost. But if you were to get lost in little Victory, you could just follow Main or Cactus and find your way home. But if you got lost in the actual desert, a dingo can't eat your baby, but you're pretty much toast anyways. The sun being brutal and all.

Jeez, I get side-tracked.

So back to my house. Wood-paneling painted baby blue, two floors, five windows, one door. Amazing, I know. Though, when I say two floors, it may be more precise to say one and a half. Since, the 'second' floor is barely high enough for me to stand, and that's not saying much. I'm five-eight. I should also say that I'm a basketball player, so that height I just gave you is probably a lie. You decide.

I wish I had a basketball court in my backyard. God knows nothing is growing back there to prevent it. Right now I have to settle for a trash can without a lid as my hoop, and the compacted mud as my wood court. Hey, but I do have my own basketball, but let's just say there's no distinguishable stripes. It's one big rubber orange sphere. Reminds me of the mid-day sun.

Wow, I really want to play a game of hoops just this instant. Too bad my Dad's at work, and my sisters Cat and Sis don't play.

Sis is my favorite sister. Shh, don't tell Cat.

Shannon Isabel O'Holly. Sis for short. She's the middle sister.

Catherine Amelia O'Holly. Cat for short. She's the oldest.

I'm just me. Holly Elizabeth O'Holly. I sure got the most rotten name. What sucks even more is that I don't have an affectionate nickname to cover up the blatant fact that my first name is a lot like my last. I once tried going as Elizabeth in the third grade, Liz for short. Suffice it to say, it didn't catch on.

Curse the name lottery. Perhaps I should blame my Mom. I just think she couldn't come up with anymore names, even if I'm only the third and last child. (They were expecting a boy. And I suppose because of that, were unprepared to name sufficiently. They were name-giving impaired that day. Just my luck.)

I guess the name Holly O'Holly wouldn't be that devastating if I was gorgeous. It could be like my calling card when I became famous, and maybe I could eventually shorten it to just Holly, you know, like Cher or Madonna. But, naturally, the gorgeous-genes were depleted by my sisters.

Cat has raven-black hair and piercing green eyes. She looks like a model, or so the twenty-three boys in her senior class say. She's the more glamorous of the O'Holly sisters, with a chic fashion sense and mysterious air about her.

Sis is less into fashion, and more down-to-earth, girl-next-door. Though, the O'Holly gorgeous-gene did not fail to escape her either. She has luxuriously straight auburn hair that sweeps around her face to frame penetrating hazel eyes. She is the antithesis of intimidating with her smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and quickness to blush.

Me, I must have gotten the left-overs. The most flattering compliment I ever got may have been the describing of my eyes as 'chocolate brown', but it was given to me by Sis, who easily compliments everyone. Otherwise, I'm just plain, dull, mouse-colored hair, Holly.

Oh, I have to stop now. Dad's home, and I think dinner's ready. Yeah, it is. I hear Mom screaming from the kitchen. Maybe later I'll challenge Dad to play ball, and then I'll continue. Besides, Victory's a pretty boring town and so was my life --- until Hannah.

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A/N: Confused? Yeah, so was I the first chapter of ~Fall on Your Knees~ by Ann-Marie MacDonald. But that woman is brilliant, so I'm sorry, I just had to imitate. Ah, stream of consciousness.

Victory is fictitious.