Not really sure where I'm going with this. I think there will be a romance between this character and one of the boys, but I'm not sure which. Any ideas?

Thanks so much for reading! Please tell me what you think!

All my love,

The Author Lady

I had a dream that I was on a stage in front of the world, not doing anything, just standing there, looking out at a sea of cold faces, seeing them stare back at me. Old men, young men, children, teenage girls, poor and rich, beautiful and ugly. There were faces from all walks of life, faces with stories of all variations.

And then, without any warning at all, an unidentifiable voice screams, "Get off the stage!"

A wave of sound crashes into me as the world stands up and, ridiculously, begins to shout at me in unison. "Off, off! Off, whore! Off, whale! Off!" The strobe lights blind me, and, as strange objects strike my face, I cower and cover my face and try to block out the sounds of the world affirming everything that I hear in my head day in and out. The world bears down on me, surging and flowing, radiating hatred and fury and disgust, and…

…a cheerful voice breaks through the haze of my sleep, tearing me out of the nightmare, shaking, sweating, and crying a little. At first, I think it is my father, but that, of course, is completely absurd. It's the nameless man on the radio, the man who has woken me up consistently for the past seven years or so, telling the sleepy early morning the information they scraped up for the morning news. Nothing ever happens in South Park, at least not that anyone would want to report on.

My eyes are tired, but glad to see the grey light of sun through my frosty window, especially after the nightmare, and I roll myself out of bed. I avoid my reflection in the mirror. I don't want to set a negative tone to my day before it has even begun, and, besides, I know what I will see there: tangled, mousy-colored hair, skin like sour milk, freckles that are much too prominent against my pale face, and thick, dark eyebrows. My eyes are the only part of myself that I like, but one of them is currently hidden by an unsightly purple bruise, which, by the way it feels, must be puffing. That means it's getting better, but it also means that it probably looks the worst it will, since it always gets worse before it gets better.

It's always been my responsibility to get myself up and ready, ever since I was very young. My worn, blue parka is laying on my old wooden desk chair, where I always put it the former night. Shoving it over my head, I see that the temperature on the thermometer outside my window reads somewhere below five degrees, but I ignore it. I don't really have any other coats than the parka anyway.

Dust particles dance in shafts of light as I creep down the hallway, doing my best to make as little noise as possible. I count the doors as I pass them: older brother's (smelling of strange substances), baby sister's (smelling of neglect and sour milk), and Theirs (smelling of tenseness and distance). Then comes the open living room, with its stained, flowered sofa, small, square television, and one of Them: my father, clutching an empty bottle with the hand he hits with, lays prone on the ground. In this moment, the world seems almost peaceful, as if there is only silence and me in all the earth.

I rush out of the living room in sudden fear that he will awaken without warning, with the rage of a bull elephant, and his marital ring flashing, threatening to bruise my other eye. My small backpack sits on a rickety kitchen chair, next to my tutoring materials and two bananas I have laid out for myself, stolen from the school cafeteria. Grabbing all, I slide through the screen door as quietly as it is possible to move through any such door, and am surprised, as I am every morning, how incredibly cold the air is.

The bus stop to South Park High School isn't far, but it's much colder than I expected (my thermometer tends to underestimate the weather), and the wind seems to sneak in through the seams of my clothes so that once I reach the sign, I am shivering violently.

As usual, there are four other people standing there. As usual, they ignore me. As usual, I stand at a safe distance from them with my hair hanging over the left side of my face to cover my blackened eye, watching them out of the other eye.

Even as seniors, they haven't changed much. Stan Marsh's hair is still pitch black, and he's still the unacknowledged leader of the four; of course, years of playing almost every sport known to South Park have made him stocky and strong, but he's still obsessed with Wendy Testaburger, and still throws up sometimes when he's around her, though he does his best to conceal it. Kyle Broflovski is still Jewish. He's still ashamed of his red hair, and never takes off his hat. In recent years, he's become something of the school's sweetheart, partially because of his stage of dressing like a member of Jersey Shore and partially because, I believe, he has a genuinely kind heart, but he still has absolutely no idea what to do with girls. Eric Cartman is still fat; in fact, he's fatter than he ever has been. He's still a developing sociopath, still has a voice that could be likened to a nail being dragged down a cheese grater, and is still generally hated by everyone in South Park, all of which are unlikely to change anytime soon. Kenny still wears what seems to be an orange jumpsuit, though he has taken the hood off to reveal shaggy blonde hair and blue eyes. To no one's surprise, he has proven himself to be the most notorious womanizer that South Park High School has seen in recent memory, and is currently dating Bebe, Lisa, Red, Nicole, Rebecca, and the Goth girl, Henrietta , none of whom seem to know about each other. He had a drug phase, but seems to have gotten over it in a way that his brother (who is currently in jail for selling meth) had not been able to do, and seems to be smarter than he wants to admit or let on.

I've always sort of wanted to talk to these people.

Someday, I tell myself.

The bus pulls up. Same angry lady bus driver. They climb on first, and take the same spots they have taken for the past four years: front of the bus, Kyle next to Stan, Kenny next to Cartman. I sit in the back, so that no one will ask about the bruises on my forearms or make fun of me for not being pretty enough, same as always.

Stomach growls. Bite banana, which tastes hard. The day looks like it will have grey skies and gentle snow, as it does every day.

And I will drift through school with my hair over my shiner, not saying anything as teachers place papers and tests on my desk and whisper, "Best score in the class, as always", not looking at Mr. Mackey as he passes by me several times in the hall, trying to get a look at my face. I will tutor children for hours after school to try, in a desperate, futile attempt, to earn some money for the colleges that are begging for me to attend but somehow unwilling to pay enough so that I can actually go. I will walk home, do my homework, eat dinner if I'm lucky, and, if my father has had a good day, will go to bed without any extra bruises or cuts.

Same as always.

So, what do you think? Where shall I go from here?