Chapter 1:

It's like they don't understand what I'm saying, how I think. They don't understand why I do the things I do; Like why I experiment with my foods, dipping chocolate chip cookies in melted cheese. Or why I always underestimate myself (as they put it). Or why I always look at the glass half-empty, instead of the usual half-full. They just don't get me.

They look at me as a very complex creature and sometimes they look as though they take me for a simpleton. But truth be revealed, I am both. It's not the way that they look at me as much at it is the way they treat me. They act as though everything must be explained thouroughly and as though I am unlike them completely.

They don't like who I like, they don't eat what I eat, they don't understand how my mind works. They don't understand why I do what I do. But it's okay, because if they did get me, I wouldn't be me. I would be someone else : Someone... understandable.

Chapter 2:

Huddling together, everyone chats about what they did over the weekend, while I sit beside them, eyes closed, but still awake enough to listen to their conversation. They talk about how they went to a big party-one of the biggest that there'll be this school year. And I missed it. I missed it by choice though.

I hear Sarah's voice. She tells them, "Well, Melissa and I didn't go. We hung out at the beach, went to the mall. It was way better than going to a party when we don't even know the person throwing the party." Yep. That's my best friend, Sarah. Always thinking about me and how I feel. Always being... optimistic.

"That's cool." I hear someone say, as though they don't really find it 'cool'.

I awakened form my daydreaming and joined in on the conversation. "You know, this cafeteria smells like dead squirrel." I state. "And how would YOU know what a dead squirrel smells like?" Chelsey asks with a disgusted look on her face. "Don't ask." Sarah replies and grins at me.

A normal conversation between my friends and I usually goes like that. We talk about things that don't make sense to the normal person. But, Sarah... Sarah understood. She understood the foreign language that I speak.

I don't really care what other people think. My other best friend, Milynette, thinks that this is my problem. She explains to me that not caring about what others think makes me more succeptible to rejection. Being my best friend, I take that from Mily. I usually don't let people give me their opinion if the situation has to do with me. But with Mily, I just stick it out and let her say her peace.

But the things that come out of her mouth. She's pretty, she's smart-she just doesn't think before she says things to me. A lot of times she'll do that and I go ballistic. I slam my fist on the desk and tell her what I think.

But anyway, our conversation leads over to the theory of where I came from. You see, my friends don't think that my mother birthed me. I may be the oddest of the odd, but everyone has their quirks.

"You see," Sarah rambles on, "I believe that the stork can travel through time, dimensions, anything! So, anyway, there little baby Melissa sits, all by her lonesome-in the future-and the stork comes and swoops her up in the middle of her famous 'Choco-Chip-Cookies-and-Cheese Ceremony'. He brings her here and we get stuck with her... gross habits."

Barely listening now, I can hear laughter from all of my friends as they share stories about my 'birth'. I sit there, thinking about life as I know it. My friends, my little sister, my family. It all falls into place somewhere in this jumbled up game that we call 'Life'. All of it.

The bell rings and we all get up and head for our next class : Creative Writing. As we get further and further away from the dead-squirrel-smelling cafeteria, the smell of coffee fills my nostrils and for just a minute, it gives me a happy, tranquil feeling. But then, it's lost.

Chapter 3:

I sit next to Sarah in the front row, observing her. With nothing better to do, why not observe my best friend? I look at her and try to decide her hair color. Sarah has a dirty blonde hair color, greenish-blueish eyes, and a perfect tan complexion. When Sarah and I were in seventh grade she decided to cut her hair as short as mine. She got it cut at shoulder length, but now, in eighth grade, it's closer to her elbow.

I turn my attention to Mily's features. I always wish that I was as pretty as my friends. Mily has dark-almost black-hair, chocolate brown eyes, and a slightly tanner complexion than Sarah. Since Milynette is hispanic, she often pronounces things wrong. Or she'll say something like, 'I washed my teeth after I ate lunch.' Sarah and I always jokingly correct her.

And me. Now, I turn my attention to me. Myself. I. I suppose you could say that I'm not the ugliest girl in the school. But not the prettiest by any means... Like Sarah, I also have dirty blonde hair. But she says that I have icy blue eyes. They seem to scare some people. Expecially Sarah. My complexion is not tan at all. On the contrary, I'm actually just a little pale girl with freckles. And I get out way more than Sarah and Mily. Every chance I get I'm outside fishing, going to the beach, playing soccer, playing with my dog. Yet they get the perfect tan complexions while I'm stuck looking like I've never meandered outside a day in my life.

I switched my attention over to my writing journal. While everyone else was chatting, waiting for Mrs. Roasrio to take her place at the front of the class, again, I was writing. I was writing away in my journal, until one snap of someone's fingers hurled me back into the cruel world, filled with reality.

"Dude, wake up!" That was Lorenzo. I simply laughed it off. I couldn't stand Lorenzo. This year he's nicer, not as mean.

"Hey little devil! What you up to?" And that was Eduardo. He's silly, very nice. He's hispanic, so it's a bit hard to understand anything that he says. But I manage. He helps me out in teaching me spanish phrases, so I help him with keeping his grades up.

So from here, class starts. We worked on reviewing what we were working on last week, which was grammar. Afterwards came the best part of the whole day : writing in our writing journals. "Anything that comes to mind!" Mrs. Rosario enthusiastically reminds us.

I began to write, and what I wrote, was this : 'She jumped.' 'She jumped.'? That's all that you could write within the time alloted, Melissa? You have twenty whole minutes and this is all that you can come up with? 'She jumped.' Psha. You're not a writer. You're a fraud. You're not cut out to do this, kid. Go back to your dream of singing. Or maybe making beaded jewelry.

I was angry. Angry at those little people in my head making me think that. All of those little people would pay. Later I'll go home and hit myself in the head with my shoe. That should teach them. I was not only angry at those little demonic freaks inside my head. I was mad at my notebook, my pencil, the teacher, the people around me-but for some reason, I wasn't mad at myself.

As time tick-tocked by, I made no attempt to complete the impossible task of adding onto what I'd written. I sigh and decide that nothing will come of this short and choppy sentence and I go to drawing little hearts all over my paper.

Okay, I know these chapters seem EXTREMELY short, but I'm going to expand on them, using your tips, suggestions, and constructive criticism. So... bring on the constructive criticism! (And NO, I am not done with Chapter 3. That's just where I happened to stop on account of Writers Block.)