Name: Amber
Location:Portland
Date: September 13th

One of my only memories is learning to ride a bike. I was following Ella, who was younger yet already accustomed with this strange vehicle. Then, out of the blue, I was suddenly tired of following. I had the strangely intense urge to speed up. The road just felt too narrow. Even today, I have no verified explanation for why it happened. My hypothesis is that my claustrophobia triggered my sudden desire to be free.
Independence is precious, even in the most limited form. You may find it a bit frightening at first, but it quickly transforms into pure joy. I turned around toward the fields and gazed to the horizon, while pedaling as fast as I could. I was surprised that I had the capability to go so fast, as I was far from proficient in the use of this two-wheeled device. For one blissful minute, all I did was pedal and admire the blue skies. It was my ogling at the atmosphere that got me.
It's a funny feeling, being suddenly airborne. Just as you realize it, it's over, and you're sinking. After the climax is over, it all goes downhill. I pedaled into a pothole and next thing I knew, I was laying on the ground, fighting for breath. No one knew where I was- Ella was probably still under the impression I was following her.
Eventually, they came for me. The found me hurt and lost. By then, I was mad. To be granted with freedom only to be punished for it immediately was deeply tragic. Yet what three month of healing worth compared to my one truly peaceful minute? I know that I would relive that heavenly minute even if it meant those three month of healing all over again any day.
I still have a scar from that day. It's this huge slit going down my back. Well, actually, I have two of those. One is from another accident, another story. This wasn't the first time I was hurt; it wasn't the last time either. But this was the only time that I enjoyed it.

I was dressed in a gloomy gray sweatshirt, with a 'New York' label across my chest. Hopefully, this will prove to the student body here that I don't belong and in fact, never will. On the contrary, my sister Ella was practically chirping show tunes in the back of my car. She wore a pretty pink shirt and a nice skirt as opposed to my eaten old converse and ripped jeans.
"Be nice" my mom said. Even though she smiled as she said it, I knew she was deadly serious. As proud as I was of my reputation, my mom wasn't big on unladylike behavior. This was supposed to be our do-over, a chance to recreate ourselves, etc. I have gotten the speech- and the warnings- enough times this morning to recite them by heart.
It was the first day of school in the city of Portland, OR. It was my first day of my 'New Life'. I was forbidden to attend, participate or even speculate from afar at a fight. I was supposed to keep up my usual 4.0, ignore the existence of boys, and chomp down my usual three cheeseburgers for lunch. I shall be a good girl, make some friends -preferably cheerleaders, and paint my toenails. Whoever thought this was ideal did not know me at all.
I am Amber Martinez. I hate my name, for it's extremely girly. I am, clearly, not a role model for girlyness. For example, I have an odd tendency to beat up the people who annoy me. I also have a ridiculous case of claustrophobia. The only chance you will catch me wearing high heels is if I'm trying to find something pointy so I can kick someone with it. Yet my name somehow suits me- I've always felt frozen like the unmoving leaves captured in the minerals of the gem. I have only one friend- Natalie. I can't say she's any better than me in the ladylike department.
As for hobbies, I don't do much sport. I'm athletic- completely and utterly superior to all the guys in our school who have the nerve to call themselves jocks- but I don't have a favorite sport or anything. I do love extreme sports, and am very outdoorsy, so I go on a backpacking trip once a year. I also like skiing a lot- I have a need for speed. Natalie says that when she found her passion, it gave her a whole new meaning of life or "enlightenment" as she refers to it. I think that's a whole lot of weight to put on soccer, but she won't have it. She dismisses the case by stating I don't understand, and if I attempt at objecting, she points out the fact that I, unlike herself, haven't been "enlightened".
For all I know, I could have been enlightened and whatnot. I don't remember a day beyond my sixteenth birthday- a true disaster, I might add. I get occasional grainy flashbacks, but nothing major. But that one birthday- it's crystal clear.

I woke up to white scenery. Absolutely everything was white- the walls, the screens, the coats. I was plugged in to various machines, wired thoroughly. I heard a lot of beeping all around me and I saw doctors running around like crazy. Someone went outside and got my mom and Ella.
I was in a complete blank. Nothing came to my mind. Why was I here? I tried to focus. Was I diabetic? Maybe I was in a long coma?
My mind raced with possibilities. Meanwhile, my mom talked to the men in white.
I caught glimpses of her conversation. "Is she alright?", "Will she have scars?", "what does she remember?", yes, but does she know…?"). Mostly, I just glanced around suspiciously. Up until this very day I haven't managed to figure out why I was so terrified of hospitals.
Later, I found out the facts. I had an accident and fell on my head. I had amnesia, which is a doctor-word for me not remembering things I should in an unnatural way (as in, I'm not just getting extremely old). I was to see Dr. Jeb Batchelder twice a week to figure myself out. I told him absolutely everything because, well, I trusted him. I guess he was one of those people that look so incredibly familiar, you just go ahead and give them your autobiography. He had these big blue eyes and a coffee stained shirt, all which added up to look so… fatherly. Then again, what would I know about father figures? I don't even have one. I never got the full explanation, or maybe I did but I just never asked again after the accident, resulting in my lack of knowledge.
Of course, all this happened in New York. The last time I saw Jeb, he was stressed beyond words. He looked around as if he was paranoid and then whispered a few words in my ear. I remember then clear as day, better than any of the grainy flashbacks I have.
"Things are about to get difficult," he said in his raspy voice "but remember this: you define yourself. I have only told you the truth. If you come back I may not be hear" he paused and mumbled something that sounded like "they'll get me by then…" and then continued with his bizarre message "but if you need anything, jump off a cliff" he added with a weak smile and a wink. I knew that it was probably just a result of him staying up too late, but his low chatter scared me more than his creeper daughter, Ariel. I loved her and all, but it was so weird how she got that look as I was having a flashback- which, come to think of it, always occurred when she was around.
Ariel was my main source of income. I was her babysitter when Jeb was in conventions and such (though she often came with him. They were out of town a lot). He always said he was going to help some endangered birds, and Ariel in response always giggled. I didn't really get the joke because that was his job. He saved wildlife and brought it to the lab, to be studied upon.
But that was then and there's no point in reviewing the long list of lost things. I left my life in NYC. Now I had to rebuild it.

The first day of school is always the worst. First, everyone expects you to be in your best clothing for a 'good impression'. My opinion on that is mostly censored, for the public's virtue's safety. However, a briefing of it would basically say 'why make a good impression? Make a real one' followed by a few profanities. This is the reason I ask people not to get me started on posers (a true disaster of western civilization). Secondly, you must squeal and hug people that you haven't seen over the summer because you truly don't give a shit about them, but pretend to like them in light of their social status.
I wasn't too thrilled when I drove into school grounds, to say the least. I was a new kid, an outsider. That's not something that should be happening when you're 17. By that age, you're supposed to simply enjoy yourself- even do your homework from time to time. In other words, 17 is the comfort-zone age. It is not the age where you should be attempting to fish out friends and blend in to the population.
As I walked into the building, the first person I saw was one I knew I'd hate. He was tall, muscular yet somehow lean. He has ripped jeans on (the true worn out kind, not the fake one's some idiots get in Hollister). He wore a grey graphic shirt that said 'The Man' (with an arrow pointing to his face) and under that it said 'The Legend' (with an arrow pointing, well… down there). His black hair was clearly uncombed in a slightly messy disarray and his black eyes we're warm. He was smiling- his white teeth coming in complete contrast to his olive-toned skin.
You must be wondering why I would hate such a good looking guy on the spot. Allow me to explain- I know his type. He's a heartbreaker, the kind I tend to fall for. Just seeing him I can already go by buckets of ice cream (the official break up food).
Obviously, I wasn't too thrilled about the whole high school idea. The general concept is beyond my understanding. I mean, was it a torturing device in ancient Greece? Did some Confucius-like pupil say "hey, let's demand all teenagers of ages 14 through 18 to go to a depressing building and force them to memorize useless information as a condition for getting somewhere with their future carrier which has nothing to do whatsoever with these particular topics? Better yet, add some raging hormones, fashion divas and acne!"? The whole idea is just plain retarded.
I walked by various get-togethers before I got to the secretary. She was tired and had an obvious coffee addiction (see the various empty cups of pure Starbucks caffeine on her desk). I got my schedule and walked away in an attempt to find my first class, English with Mr. Thornburg.
As I sat in the only seat available in the florescent lighted classroom, I noticed two things. The first was that the heartbreaker guy from the hall was sitting next to me. The second was that there was some redheaded girl thrusting her cleavage in front of him. He seemed gleefully aware of this fact. She was, for lack of better words, a slut. The description of her clothe isn't needed, mainly because they we're barely visible. She was wearing too much eyeliner and bright red lipstick. Her heels were so high that her foot was almost vertical. She was truly a tramp.
The guy kissed the redhead a long, passionate, completely inappropriate kiss. It made me want to loss the seven pancakes and two cups of coffee I had. Right as the redhead let out a overly sexual moan, Mr. Thornburg walked in. The magnets separated, and class begun.
First, since I was new, he made me do a little introduction. All teachers like to torture the new kids a bit, but man was he good. He made me seem like such a fool.
"State your name, prior location, and police record" he said in his serious vice. He had that perfect authority voice that you expect from a police man or something.
I, thinking he was serious, stood up and replied "Amber Martinez, New York city, seven arrests". Apparently, the Portlanders found this funny, for they burst out in hysterical laughter.
Mr. Thornburg coughed and said "Thank you for that… informative if overreaching information. You may now sit down" I could tell he was trying to hold back laughter but he didn't succeed, for a giggle escaped from him at the end.
I guess I can see why they found this funny. They probably thought I made it up. I do look somewhat innocent- not muscular or tough. My wavy blond hair and tan skin give me the California girl kind of look, and the "innocent" hazel eyes don't really help. However, they don't know me at all- if they have a little sister watching Disney Channel, they should know that "everything is not as it seems".
Everyone went around and said their names. The heartbreaker guy was Nick, and the slut was Bridget. She also had a clique- two girls named Miranda and Victoria. One was a blond and the other a brunette. Both, for some reason beyond my understanding, risked their last brain cells by using hair spray. Soon enough they won't have two neurons to rub against each other.
Next was Physical Education. I know what you're thinking; Who takes P.E. when they're in high school. What can I say? I love a challenge. They gave us locker and the school uniform. It involved a bright red shirt and unflattering black shorts. We went into the gym and they told us to run to the song. The song was, ironically, Beat It by Michael Jackson. I lapped the girls over and over again, and by the end, I was still full of energy. However, the gym teacher, Mrs. George, stayed unimpressed. She then instructed us to play dogdeball, by which point I attempted not to burst into laughter. She did not know what she was getting herself into. Not to sound full of myself, but I have a decent arm. One trip to the nurse's office later, Mrs. George toke me out of the game to "Judge" with her. Judging with a teacher usually means having a nice conversation about a specific topic they wanted to inquire about.

"What sport do you play?" she asked, rather directly.

"Huh?" I asked intelligently.

"You're obviously athletic. Which sport do you play?" She asked in a serious tone.

"Nothing specific" I replied, confused.

"What team would you like to be on?" She asked.

"Huh?" I asked again.

"Nothing with brains, I hope. You lack intelligence in a sever manner. You, like each and every one of those other girls in here are attempting to impress me. I'll admit, you succeed. Not by impressing me, but by thoroughly surpassing those wieners. You have a talent, and I want to know what school team would you like to try out for?" She said, obviously annoyed.

Taken aback, I racked my brains for a sport that would include a shred of fun, as she continued examining the game.

"Do you have anything with skiing?" I asked.

"Skiing, huh? I'll see what I can do..." She replied.

We walked into the locker room to change. I put on my clothe in about half the time that it took the other girls and then I rushed into the cafeteria, for lunch.

I don't eat the same amount of food that normal people would eat. Try four times that amount. I guess I just have really high metabolism. For this reason I prefer not to buy my lunch, but to pack it at home. I know that it's not as sexy as waiting in line for a puny salad, but that's how I roll. So not leaving campus for lunch, I had to face the American challenge; I had to find a place to sit. The thing with high school is that you cannot just sit anywhere. Where you sit reflects who you are. You define yourself with your lunch table. So, in hopes of defining myself, I went to eat in my car, labeling myself as a loner. Unfortunately, right in front of my car were the two lovebirds, Nick and Bridget. I ate my extra large fries, trying to ignore the giggling and kissing that was going on on the school lawn.

Following lunch, I went to Calculus, then Biology. The day flowed by uneventful, as the stares tuned down a bit and the welcoming words stopped reaching my ears. I let out a sigh of relief as the day ended and I managed to sneak out of the horrible facility. Unfortunately, this came after I bumped into the annoyingly perfect Nick. It was odd, because for that one second we made eye contact, I could have sworn I saw him before. But that was probably just my amnesic brain playing tricks on me, I thought to myself as I preceded home.