Copyright © 2012 Brittney Musick
All rights reserved.
To all those who believed in me
and told me to keep writing,
this book is for you.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cecilia Granger
Block 4
English Composition
Summer Writing Assignment
Silly Me
An Informative Essay
Draft 1
Even though I’ve done so often enough throughout the years, I always find it incredibly difficult to write about myself. Generally, I think of myself as being pretty boring. Most people—those I do and do not know well, alike—tend to think I’m pretty weird. Admittedly, I suppose I kind of am.
Usually, my brain is filled with a million thoughts. It’s the worst when I’m trying to go to sleep. Questions usually pop into my mind; most of them are a bit silly while others, in my opinion, require a great deal of analysis and serious consideration. I don’t know if this is something everyone experiences. For all I know, it may only happen to me. I don’t normally make a habit of sharing those thoughts with many people.
I mean, really, I can just imagine the look on my parents’ faces if I asked for their thoughts on the meaning of life. Undoubtedly, Dad would ask if I’d been partaking in any illegal substances, which I have not and will not ever do, and Mom would likely scurry about the kitchen, trying to get dinner on the table with a worried look on her face, while asking me if I’ve been having thoughts of suicide. Because, apparently, thinking about the meaning of life automatically means you’re planning to kill yourself.
I don’t often question the meaning of life. Most of the time, I just think about random things—like why is the sky blue and grass green? What if C-A-T really spelled dog? Okay, so I remember the last one from one of the Revenge of the Nerds movies. Even so, it’s something to think about. I don’t even know who made up the alphabet. Should that be something I know?
I often wonder if I’m in the dark about a lot of things; things that most people should just know. I don’t watch the news regularly, so I hardly ever know what’s going on in the world. Just knowing that there are kids around the world starving to death is depressing enough. And I don’t like hearing about parents killing their children or another school shooting. Besides, Dad likes to talk about these things during breakfast or dinner while he reads the newspaper. Sometimes I think he’s just talking to himself because his eyes never leave the pages of the paper.
I think I’m the only one who notices, though. My brother, Luke, is usually too busy playing one of his video games to notice anything, and my sister, Skylar, always brings her mp3 player to the table, so she never hears anything anyone says anyway. They both like to text their friends under the table, too, even though our mom tells them not to “because it’s rude.”
Mom usually doesn’t say much. I think she’s just a quiet person by nature. Sometimes I think we’re alike. I don’t talk much either, really, despite what my siblings might claim. It’s not really because I’m shy or anything. It’s mostly just because of the way my family acts when I do. Who wants siblings who ignore you, a dad who accuses you of being on drugs, and a mom that questions you about being suicidal (just because you want to talk about the meaning of life)?
I don’t.
I mean, it’s not that I dislike my family or anything. It’s just that we don’t really understand each other. Sometimes I think the only thing we have in common is the same last name: Granger.
Well, okay, that’s not exactly true.
Everyone tells me that I have Mom’s nose and eyes. But I have Dad’s ears. So do my brother and sister. I’ve only noticed that because both of them usually have something stuck in them.
I find it odd how the two of them can just shove things into their ears. That just bothers me. Plus, there’s the fact that Grandma Sawyer used to always tell me not to stick anything smaller than my elbow in my ear. (I always thought it would be hilarious to see someone try to stick an elbow in his or her ear. That would be a sight.)
But, yes, we all have Dad’s ears. Actually, my brother looks a lot like Dad did when Dad was younger and wasn’t so gray on top. I’ve also noticed Dad’s started losing his hair in the past few years. I think he’s noticed too because he keeps trying to comb it over. I don’t think it’s doing much good, though, but I wouldn’t want to break the news to him; even so, the idea of buying him a toupee for his birthday did cross my mind. I decided against it. I didn’t want to get grounded for the rest of my life. I bought him a sweater instead.
I’ve also realized, while trying to write about myself and in talking about my family, that I really don’t know my parents very well. Of course they don’t know me very well either, but then again I’m just the weird child.
What I do know is that Dad’s name is Theodore, which reminds me of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Dad actually gets a bit twitchy when he hears Alvin and company. I noticed that last Christmas when we were visiting Mom’s family. Aunt Hadley insisted on playing childish Christmas music. Sadly, no one seemed very keen on listening to it other than Hadley and me, but as soon as the Chipmunks started playing, Dad got red in the face and left he room quickly.
But everyone calls Dad Theo. Only his mom—or Grandma Granger to me—calls him Theodore, and he makes the same kind of face I make when Mom calls me by my given name: Cecilia. Everyone usually calls me Silly. I used to think it was because it was short for Cecilia, but nowadays I wonder if it’s because they really think I am silly.
Oh, the irony.
Or is it? I think it’s only ironic if I’m not actually silly, which I don’t think I am, but I know my family does. So, I’m not sure if it’s really irony.
Anyway, all I really know about Dad is that he likes to read the newspaper during dinner and rant and rave about what he reads. As I mentioned before, I can’t be sure if he’s just ranting to himself or actually talking to the rest of us. He also likes to watch football. He used to play it in high school. I only found that out after I stumbled across his yearbook in the attic and saw that as one of his school activities (as well as the serious mullet he used to sport). I asked him abou
t it—football, not the mullet—later, but he didn’t seem too enthused about talking about it. Maybe he wasn’t that good at it. I don’t know. He likes golf too, but I think it’s possibly the most boring sport—if you can actually call it a sport—in the world. He likes to go a lot in the summer, which is why my family belongs to a country club.
It’s called “Sycamore Grill Acres,” which I think is false advertising because I think I’ve only ever seen one sycamore tree there while all the rest look like pine to me. I don’t like the country club. I don’t know anyone there, and when we go, I usually just wander around or read a book until my family is ready to go.
I like reading. No, that’s an understatement. I love reading. Reading is fundamental, or at least that’s what it always said on those little slips you got for a free pizza at Pizza Hut for reading a certain number of books. I never really cared about whether or not it was fundamental—mostly because I didn’t know what that meant for a really long time—but I really just wanted the pizza. Mom usually seemed pretty pleased about it too. I don’t think it had anything to do with me reading, though. She just likes getting stuff for free. Skylar says Mom is cheap, but then again she usually only says that after Mom tells her she can’t have something she wants.
Mom’s name is Leela. I really like her name. I think it’s pretty, and I’ve always said that I would never name my children, if I have any, after anyone (because I think everyone deserves to have their own name instead of someone else’s), but if I were to name my children after anyone, it would be Mom. I even told her that once, and she smiled and said, “Thanks. That’s very nice, Cecilia.”
Mom is a homemaker. I know some people don’t think that’s a real job, but I do. She’s the backbone of our family. She’s the one that makes sure everything runs smoothly and gets done when it’s supposed to. She’s also a bit of a neat freak. We’re not allowed to wear shoes in the house because she’s afraid we’ll get the carpet dirty, so everyone has to take his or her shoes off at the door.
Well, everyone except for Dad’s boss.
He and his wife came over for dinner once, and Mom didn’t make them take their shoes off. Dad is a financial director for a small company named The Grover Group. I have no idea what he or the company does. When I was younger, I thought maybe it had something to do with Sesame Street, which Dad quickly assured me it did not, but that’s as much as I do know. Dad doesn’t like it when I ask questions. He’s kind of impatient, if you ask me.
Mom, on the other hand, doesn’t mind answering questions—most of the time. When she’s really busy, though, she usually tells me that we’ll have to talk about it later. We typically don’t, but that’s okay.
I know a bit more about Mom than I do about Dad. Mom went to college, and she has a teaching degree. She and Dad met in college and dated for a couple of years. Then they got married after graduation.
Mom taught elementary school (second grade, I think) for a couple of years. She taught while she was pregnant with Skylar and then had her in July of 1988. Instead of going back to teaching, she stayed home with my sister. Sixteen months after that, she had Luke. Then, a little under two years after Luke, I came along.
I’d guess my parents were pretty busy, so it’s no wonder Mom never went back to work and stayed at home with us instead, but she probably had more work on her hands with the three of us than Dad did with his job. My head probably would have exploded if I had to take care of three little ones under the age of four, but Mom is pretty patient. After all, she’s willing to answer my infinite number of questions, or at least quite a few of them at a time.
Mom likes music. I think Skylar, Luke and I all take after her in that department. Her favorite band is Fleetwood Mac (I asked), and I’m pretty sure her favorite song is “Go Your Own Way,” but I can’t be completely sure because she never actually said so. (I’m just making assumptions because it’s the song she plays most.)
Mom used to be in choir in high school. I found that out from Grandma Sawyer (Mom’s mom). Apparently she was really good (got to sing solos and was even a lead in one of the school musicals), but I’ve never really heard her sing out loud. She usually sings under her breath when we’re in the car.
As for me, I sing out loud and clear, and I don’t really care if I’m any good or not. I get told to shut up my siblings most of the time, but I tend to just ignore them the same way they usually ignore me.
As I’ve mentioned several times already, I have a brother and sister. Skylar just turned eighteen, and now she thinks she can do whatever she wants. The weekend after her birthday, she came home with a pierced eyebrow and a tattoo. Mom looked horrified, and Dad started yelling. There wasn’t anything he could do about the tattoo, which was of a butterfly—typical Skylar—on the small of her back (a.k.a. a tramp stamp), but Dad demanded that she take out the piercing or she could get out of the house. I don’t think he was really serious, but I certainly wouldn’t want to test him. Skylar yelled and cried and finally stomped upstairs, slamming the door behind her.
The piercing was gone the next morning. Or so my parents thought. She was really wearing a clear retainer, but it’s not really noticeable unless you’re up close, so Skylar’s been avoiding getting near our parents for the last month and has been wearing her hair down around her eye when she’s in the house.
Skylar and I don’t talk much. I think she’s embarrassed by me to tell the truth. Whenever her friends come over to the house, she always tells me to get lost, but she can be nice when she wants to be. She taught me how to do my makeup when I was twelve. Of course, after Dad saw it, he made me go wash it off because I was too young to wear makeup. (He said something about it making me look like a harlot. I had no idea what that meant at the time, but I surmised it wasn’t a good a thing.) Instead, I started wearing it when I turned fourteen. Not very much. Mostly just lip gloss and eye shadow and occasionally mascara. I tried to wear eyeliner once, but I poked myself in the eye and haven’t been brave enough to try it again.
Skylar likes to wear a lot of makeup. Honestly, I think she looks a bit ridiculous because she always looks like she has two black eyes, which is really just a shame because she has really pretty blue eyes, which I guess she got from Dad except his are a bit darker and duller than Skylar’s. My eyes are green, like Mom’s, but with little flecks of gold. Luke’s are a blue-green mixture of Mom and Dad’s eyes.
Anyway, Skylar is starting her senior year. She’s really excited about it, but I think it really has more to do with going away to college next year. She wants to go to art school. Dad doesn’t really like it. I’ve heard him complaining to Mom about it, but she says that it’s Skylar’s decision, so he doesn’t complain to her about it. She sent off all of her college applications last week. She applied to one school she really wanted to go to, one she would be okay with going to, and then one safety school. I think she’ll get into the college of her choice, though. She’s really good at drawing, painting and photography. I’m kind of jealous, though, because I have to struggle just to draw a decent stick figure.
My brother’s name is Lucas, but we all call him Luke—unless he’s in trouble. Then Mom or Dad can usually be heard yelling, “Lucas Sawyer Granger!” I think our parents say his full name more than Skylar’s and mine combined, which is fine by me because I hate hearing my full name (Cecilia Noelle Granger). Not because I dislike my name or anything, but anytime I hear that I know I’m really in trouble. I usually only get as far as being called Cecilia, and I take that as a warning. Skylar really hates it when our parents call her Skylar Beatrix. She hates her middle name. Not that I can really blame her. I love Grandma Granger, but I’m glad I wasn’t named after her. Beatrix just sounds too much like Bellatrix, which, of course, makes me think of Harry Potter. Sometimes I think Skylar’s crazy enough that she could fancy an evil wizard without a nose.
Luke’s named after Mom’s family. Their last name is Sawyer. I’m not named after anyone, though, and I’m fine with that. I like
having my own name instead of something recycled from the rest of the family. I guess it’s a tradition, but I think I’ll let Skylar and Luke carry it on.
Luke likes sports. He used to play baseball and football, and he’s pretty good at both, I suppose, but last year he quit playing football because he liked baseball better. Dad was kind of bummed because he prefers football, but I think he’s mostly just glad that Luke plays some kind of sport since Skylar and I were never good at or interested in them. I try to make it to most of Luke’s games to try to cheer him on even though I really don’t understand a lot of the rules. At least baseball is easier to follow. I asked Dad to explain football once, and he tried. But I just didn’t get it, so he finally just told me to be quiet so he could watch.
Luke is a junior, and he can’t wait for next year. Dad’s pretty sure he’s going to get a baseball scholarship, and Mom likes that too because, like I said before, she likes to get stuff for free. I guess there’s nothing wrong with that. I like free stuff too. Especially when it’s samples of food at the grocery store. Those are always great.
I don’t think Luke cares much about scholarships. I think Luke’s mostly just like Skylar and anxious to go away to college.
Luke and I don’t talk much either. He usually just tells me to shut up and go away. He’s kind of grouchy, really. I once heard Skylar tell one of her friends it was because he had a lot of pent up frustration. She then said he should just steal one of Dad’s Playboy magazines (Ew!) and lock himself in the bedroom and beat out his sexual frustrations (Double ew!). That was really kind of scarring to hear because I don’t need to know that 1. Dad has Playboy magazines or 2. Luke is sexually frustrated.
Gross. That line of thinking is enough to cause nightmares and result in years of therapy. By the way, did I mention that sometimes I give away too much information without even realizing it?
On a safer note, I will be starting high school this fall. I’ll admit that I’m a little nervous, and it doesn’t help that my brother and sister both told me to pretend like we’re not related. If ever there was confirmation that I’m a complete and utter spaz that would be it.
Infinite (Strange and Beautiful, Book 1) Page 1