Unwritten

A tale of two hearts, and the unspoken words between them.

Chapter One

(Normal- Shane, Bold- Mitchie, Italics- letter)

I can't believe my mother is forcing me to write in a dumb diary like a teenage girl. She says that it will 'control my temper, and a private place to voice the flow of your thoughts and emotions, where you can sort through them.' Basically, it's for anger issues, an issue that does not plague me. Anyway, even if I do, my many friends and admirers don't mind. My mother also says I should treat my friends better. I swear, she wants to turn me into a smart aleck geeky guy with no friends, which is the complete opposite of me, THE Shane Gray.

I am ecstatic that my mom suggested me keeping a diary! I haven't had one since fifth grade, when "Miss Popular," aka Alex, stole it and read it to the class. Let's just say I haven't been too popular since then. But, then again, I never was. I mean, I'm very social- I think- but apparently not enough, or too much, for everyone, because I have one friend. But it doesn't matter, because I don't need popularity or beauty (They say I'm not attractive, too,) when I'm perfectly happy with my one friend and a library full of books, as well as a place FAR away from the spotlight.

Everyone loves me, and yearns to be me. I know it's hard, having to live in the wake of the all perfect SHANE GRAY- well, actually, I wouldn't know, I'd just have to guess. After all, I am him, and he is me. But I hate those wannabes who act like they're the best!

I hate people who are hypocritical and brag at every chance they have. Especially if they are well known and famous- people look up to and admire these figures. However, those who have the "ultimate pleasure" to "stand within a five mile radius of my very presence" of these celebrities (like Shane Gray, whose words were just used,) know the real them, and only they realize what a jerk that person, and how terrible it is to take advantage. But, of course, I wouldn't happen to know anyone like this, besides maybe oh- SHANE GRAY!

There are people, of course, who even dare to oppose me- THE Shane Gray! I mean, who could dislike me, I'm SHANE GRAY, for crying out loud! Oh, well I can name maybe one person- MITCHIE TORRES!

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Thursday, April 11, 2009

And now, of course, today at breakfast, my mother, feeling that keeping a "diary" (Eurgh! The evil word, which makes me seem like a teenybopper gushing with emotion. And 'journal' sounds like I'm some insane author or reporter. So I will use the perfectly safe word 'notebook.') isn't inflicting enough pain upon me, insists that I now will converse with a "pen pal." (Another evil word.)

While wolfing down my poached eggs with a side of buttered toast at the breakfast table, she advanced on me, plopping down on the chair across from me. "Shane," she began fondly, laying her hands over mine cautiously, fearing an outburst at her coming words. " I was thinking, last night…" Oh, no! I thought sarcastically, as she trailed off, mumbling the rest. What devil idea will she lay on me next? "Andmaybeyoucangetapenpalanditwouldbesocool!" she rushed, waiting for my reaction expectantly. (And excitedly, and hopefully.)

And the outburst came. "What!" I exploded. "NO! NO! NO! I'm not a wimpy, pansy, girl. That's stupid, and it's not like I am in dire need of fri-" I halted, mid-sentence, half-way out of my chair, as my mother's face fell, her gentle features crestfallen.

I wanted to say no, I really did. But, as much as I don't want to admit, I have one single weakness- only one, mind you. And it's my mother. Okay, two- my mother and little sister. Don't you dare tell that to anyone! Oh, wait, you are a diary. Never mind. It's just… too easy for them to get hurt. Both named Alexandra, they are similar in many ways- bright spirited, a joy to everyone, naïve, too open. It is my job to protect them, partly because dad is never around to do anything. And I can't refuse them- as much as I hate it.

So, somehow, someway, THE Shane Gray ended up sitting at his desk, pen in hand, staring at a blank sheet of paper. I had no idea what to write, I mean, what do you say to some random stranger, whom you know nothing about, before saying you're THE Shane Gray? (I had to make a deal that I wouldn't reveal my true identity.)

At a loss for anything else, I lamely scribbled:

Dear whatever the heck your name is,

You have no idea how much I don't want to do this. It's my dumb mother's fault. I mean, why does my dumb mother have to go and be so weakening? Not that she's my weakness- I don't have any.

So, uh… have a good day? Or don't? I don't really care. Hope it doesn't snow.

I, after awhile, decided to leave not a name, but initials. I signed "S.J.G." with a flourish, then left the room.

Now, I'm on the couch, extremely bored, waiting for dinner. There's nothing to watch on my flat screen besides golf and crummy soap operas, and I lost my laptop. (Lame, right?) I have a feeling my annoying brother, Nate, stole it.

I can't believe I'm writing in this notebook, but, I swear, it is my last resort. And I'm only writing so much, which makes my hand ache, because I don't want to do my algebra, and Jason, my other brother, is doing my other homework, I swear. (Again.)

I must, sadly, (Not), stop writing. Steak and potatoes with gravy awaits,

Shane