"BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" shrieks my obnoxious alarm clock.

My hand absently searches for the snooze button. It can't be morning yet... I try to pull myself from my bed, but my pillow seems to have me in its snares. Finally I release myself and groggily hobble to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. My mind tries to figure out the date. Great, another school day, but at least its Friday, right? After this I'll have the first week of my sophomore year down and all the rest to go. Goodie.

After I wash my face, brush my teeth, and make an attempt to tame my curly hair, I return to my room. I choose my outfit for the day: a purple t-shirt sporting a random number, a pair of un-ripped jeans (I can't stand ripped ones), and my purple tennis shoes. Then I tug my cherished whistle that belonged to my mom over my head and pull my long, black hair into a ponytail. After that, I apply some lip gloss. That's all the makeup I wear since there isn't any need for mascara; my ultra-thick hair may be aggravating, but my ultra-thick eyelashes are convenient. Also, I can't stand all that powdery makeup. Finally, I pray and read my Bible. Now that I'm ready, I run to the kitchen.

"Morning, Dad; morning, Mother," I greet.

"Good morning, Charisa," they reply in unison.

I slip into my seat next to where my golden haired, angel faced step-sister has parked her wheelchair. "Morning, Court Jester."

She rolls her eyes and playfully punches my shoulder. It's not my fault there aren't any good nicknames for Courtney.

"I can't wait for music class, we're going to learn 'Pomp and Circumstance'," she says excitedly. While I switch between positive and negative moods on a regular basis, my little sister is an undaunted optimist.

I begin eating my eggs, bacon, and toast breakfast my mother, well stepmother, made. My mom died when I was eight.

As I eat, I look between my parents. They look so different. My dad, like me, is Hispanic and has dark skin, black hair, and brown eyes. However, my (step) mother, like my sister, is Caucasian and has light skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes.

I soon finish my breakfast and wash the dishes. Mornings are crazy- Dad and Mother both have jobs and Courtney and I have school.

Finally, the school bus drives by. I quickly grab my backpack and run out the door yelling good-byes to everyone. I slide into the seat next to my two best friends, Olivia and Nora.

"Oh, hi, Chrissie," greets Nora, pulling a strand of brown hair behind her ear. She wears a different fashion every day. For instance, yesterday she was wearing an outfit that looked like she had stolen it from a model. However, today she's wearing her favorite pair of sweats. "I was just telling Olivia about the contest the school newspaper is having this year. Whoever who has the best written true story will be welcomed on the paper. Eek!"

I smile at Nora's enthusiasm; it's her dream to be a newspaper reporter, despite the fact newspapers are becoming obsolete (a fact I often remind her of). "That's great, Nora, I hope you win."

She smiles dreamily. I turn to Olivia, but she is engrossed in her science book, her head tilted in a way that made her short blond hair obscure her face from view. It might seem rude that she's always reading, but she has multiple levels of focus so she can read and be a part of the conversation (though, she isn't much of a talker). I think it's a genius thing. Besides that, Olivia also dresses like a genius. Today Olivia is wearing her pink sweater over a crisp tan top and a pair of khakis.

Suddenly Nora sighs. "What if I can't find a story?"

"You'll find a story in this city," I assure. "It's Montgomery, Alabama after all."

The bus stops again and Vanessa enters. She struts by, giving me an icy glare before promptly sitting next to her fellow cheerleaders. We've been archenemies since sixth grade when I caught her cheating on her science test with my answers, and I told the teacher.

"Anyway, what movie are you bringing to the slumber party this Saturday?" Nora asks as she cleans her glasses on her shirt.

At the mention of her party, Olivia looks up.

I ponder the question for a moment. "I don't know... it depends."

"That reminds me," Olivia says. "I found a bunch of old home videos, so I thought we could make a theme of it."

"Ooh!" Nora cries. "Great idea, I think I know where ours are."

They look at me and I nod.

The rest of the ride is spent talking about our slumber party.

Halfway between history and English, I detour from my usual path to investigate a strange commotion. What I find is a crowd of kids jeering and laughing, but I can't see what their object is. I shove my way through the crowd and see a skinny boy at the center. I don't know him personally, but I'm pretty sure he's Carl Sanders, the youngest student at this school. He's only twelve, but he's skipped two grades (I think he's the only kid at this school who's as intelligent as Olivia). His backpack is open and its contents are scattered on the ground. A large boy is holding a book above his head, and Carl is attempting to fetch it, but he's much too short.

"Here's your book," taunts the boy. "Don't you want it? Oh, sorry, I'm used to dealing with teenagers."

He lowers the book a little, but Carl still can't reach

I walk forward and yank the book from the boy's hands and give it to Carl, before glaring at the whole group and start gathering the scattered items. Carl helps me, but everyone else silently scatters to their various classes.

Once everything has been put back into the backpack, Carl meekly smiles and whispers, "Thank-you," before hurrying away.

I check my watch; I'm almost five minutes late. I grab my books and run to English. Once I reach my class, I attempt to slide into my seat unnoticed, but alas, I fail.

"Strike one, Miss O'Dell," says Mrs. B., my English teacher without looking up from her book.

Great. Just great.

"You did the right thing," insists Nora, speaking over the roar of the cafeteria.

I play with my pudding, pondering what she had said.

Olivia nods. "It's usually a thankless job, but somebody has to help people."

"It's not that it's a thankless job," I mutter. "I don't expect to be thanked for every good deed I accomplish- though Carl did thank me- it's that I got in trouble for doing the right thing that irks me."

"Chrissie," Nora scolds, "I've never known you to measure yourself and your actions by how others think of you and them."

I smile; Nora always knows just what to say. Well, except when she doesn't. "I guess you're right."

"Now that that's straightened up," Nora begins, "which nail polish colors are each of you taking to the sleep over?"

Once I get home, I drop my backpack and run to my room. I quickly change into my karate robe and comb my hair into a fresh ponytail. Then I work on my homework while I wait for Mother return from her morning job at a local boutique. I've finished two subjects by the time she arrives to pick me up to take me to karate class.

After she has pulled out of the driveway, she asks her usual question, "How was school today?"

I give my usual answer. "Fine."

She nods and tells me a funny happening at the boutique, but I don't really listen; I'm too busy wondering what school will be like next Monday. Finally, we arrive at my karate class. She parks and I jump out with my gym bag.

"Bye," I call.

"Bye, darling. By the way, I'm going to do some shopping, so I might be a little late picking you up. Okay?"

I nod and rush into the building. As soon as I enter, I look around for Olivia and Nora. Once I spot them, I join them.

"Hey, guys, long time no see," I say.

Nora smiles. "Hey, Chrissie."

Olivia looks up from her book long enough to wave.

I plop my gym bag on the floor and start to stretch. They start stretching with me. We've been friends since I moved to this city in second grade. I'd been going to karate classes since preschool, so, of course, I kept on taking them and they persuaded their parents to let them go too. To them, karate is a hobby, but to me, it's a passion.

Mr. Anderson, the karate teacher, confidently enters the room. Immediately, everyone turns to face him. He's just the sort of guy that has that kind of pull.

"I'm going to review some old moves," begins Mr. Anderson, "but I need a volunteer."

A Japanese American boy steps forward. His comrade punches his arm and says, "Way to go, Kyle."

"Thank you for volunteering, Mr. Rivers," Mr. Anderson says. "I need you to stand here."

Kyle obeys.

"Now, these moves are often forgotten and replaced by the more complicated moves, but these basics are important," Mr. Anderson adds. Then he turns to Kyle and orders, "Try to kick me."

Kyle starts to, but before he has the chance to kick, Mr. Anderson pushes one of his own legs into Kyle's offending one, sending Kyle sprawling on the ground.

Mr. Anderson shows us several other basic defense procedures, and Kyle is often on the ground. However, Kyle does not seem fazed; instead, he takes his pummeling with a grin.

After the presentation, Mr. Anderson has us pair up to practice the moves. It's Olivia and Nora's turn to practice together, so I'm left without a partner. When I turn around, however, Kyle is by my side.

"Do you have a partner?" he asks.

Surprised, I force out a, "No."

He grins. "Then I guess I just found mine."

"What about your friend?" I ask.

"Some kid challenged Jake, so he's busy."

"Oh."

"So you'll be my partner?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"Sure." I'm not sure what's come over me, I never lose my cool like this.

We get into position and bow. He strikes first, and I find myself on the ground. The trance is gone, and my focus is shifted to winning. He's got really good form, but so do I. I don't remember much of the fight except that it takes quite some time and a lot of well-placed moves to finally knock him down. Then Mr. Anderson calls our attention. Everyone else has finished their mini battles and are now watching us.

Kyle jumps up and mumbles under his breath, "No fair, I was holding back."

Those words hurt. I know that it is probably a lie to save face, but it taints my victory. And what if it they're true? It was hard enough defeating him as it was, if he was holding back, then he was a much better martial artist than me. It means I would be a failure. And failure is not an option for me. I have to be the best.

I decide that I don't like Kyle very much. He's either a prideful liar, or he thinks he's better than me, or- worse yet- he is. I don't care if he has nice looking black hair or smiling, brown eyes. It doesn't matter in the least that he has expressive eyebrows or a ready grin... I'm not even going to think about him.

I don't pay much attention to the rest of the lesson. I'm too angry to.

After class, I grab my gym bag and join my friends on the bench outside the building to wait for our rides. We talk about our slumber party some more. Then Nora's older brother Andrew arrives to pick her and Olivia up (they're so lucky to be neighbors-) so I'm left alone- but not for long. Kyle approaches and sits next to me on the bench. He waits till he has my full attention before opening his mouth.

"You fight good," he says.

I almost say thank-you, but stop myself when I remember what he had said earlier, so instead I say, "Too bad I wasn't good enough for you to unleash your full power against me."

He looks confused for a moment, and then realization dawns on his face. "Oh- you weren't supposed to hear that."

"Well I did." Just then my mother's car pulls up, and I use that moment to strut away. Except, halfway there, I trip over an outgrown root. I stop myself from falling all the way down, but it's still embarrassing. Seriously, of all the times to uncharacteristically lose my balance! I reach the car blushing. Then I jump into the passenger seat and buckle up. Mother is silent as we drive away, but I know it won't be long until she asks-

"Who was he?"

"Kyle," I mutter.

Mother cocks an eyebrow. "What's his last name?"

"Rivers."

"That sounds familiar... Oh, now I remember- I work with a Mrs. Rivers at the boutique."

I wonder at the coincidence. "Do you think they're related?"

"Well, they look very similar, and she's always telling me about her son."

"So that's a yes?"

She shrugs. "Probably."

When we get home, I retreat to my room to try to finish my homework before supper. I am able to finish everything but science, which is okay with me because physics is my favorite subject.

"What's for dinner?" I ask.

"My specialty: leftovers." Actually, Mother's specialty is lasagna, and she's good at just about every dish, but she's too modest to say so.

I look around the rather empty kitchen. "Where is everyone?"

"I'm here," Courtney answers as she rolls herself into the room. It's so easy to forget she's wheelchair bound unless you're staring right at it. I'd hate being confined to a chair all day, but she says she can still do everything she loves- like play the piano- so she's fine with it.

"Your father is working late tonight," Mother says. Dad is a policeman. Mom was too...

My train of thought is interrupted by Courtney's ranting of the day's happening, but I zone her out and continue my musing. Courtney has only been my sister for four years, when my dad married her mother, and we've been great friends since. She's two years younger than I am, and I'm always worrying that some mean kids might pick on her. However, she doesn't replay any such stories, and she's always happy coming home (and all the time for that matter), so I'm probably worrying in vain. That's probably why I got so angry when Carl was being bullied- his frailty reminded me of Courtney's.

"Earth to Charisa," Courtney says.

"What?"

"What do you think?"

"About what?"

Courtney sighs. "The shopping spree I was telling you about. I know you have a sleepover this Saturday, but what about next Saturday, after you help Mrs. Walters?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, I'd like that," I answer.

Courtney beams. "Goody!"

I plop onto my bed and start reading my superhero comic. It's a sad truth that while other normal, teenage girls read magazines, I read superhero comics.

An hour later, I turn off my light and go to sleep. The day's happenings and my comic's stories mix together in my mind, resulting in some pretty weird dreams.

Or maybe not so much of a dream. At least the siren going off somewhere nearby probably wasn't. But in my half-asleep stasis I can almost hear sounds of a battle intermixed with classic superhero banter...

-Cover in banner designed by outside artist, Ammonia 

-Chapter Breaks by CannibalisticNecro

-Signature by XxEthereal_AngelxX