[1] One [1]

You know that girl with choppy red hair, don't look like she's had sleep for ages, she hates wearing shoes, and she always has to have a source of sugar on her? You know her; she has the really dark coloured eyes and she looks Japanese but is obviously English from the shape of her eyes. You could mistake her for Sherlock Holmes for her great observing skills and logical thinking, but really she's as blonde as they come (meaning she's a red head). Well, that's me. I'm Ella Smith. Half Japanese half English. I've lived in England since birth and I've been brought up by my mother Julia Smith and her husband Ray. I don't know my biological father, but that doesn't bother me because Ray is my dad, he was the one that looked after mother and me. I have a younger half-brother called Ryan, he's sweet, and he's turned eight and has his dads blue eyes and golden hair. Apparently I have an older half-brother too, mum said I did because my father had a son, about five, making him about twenty-one because I'm only sixteen. I turned sixteen in July. Sweet sixteen never been kissed as they say, I apparently look like my brother a lot too and act like him. But what does mum know? She was only with my father for a month whilst she was doing business in Japan, she was sure happy enough to leave him when she had to be elsewhere. Then, after a month or two, she found she was pregnant with me, 'Oh Joy', just when she was starting to date this nice lad she liked. He didn't mind he was in love (this is Ray I'm talking about), sure he lived in a nice pad in New York, but he had businesses everywhere in his Men's and Women's clothing line, even in Japan believe it or not! So, moving to England to help the love of your life raise a kid that wasn't your own seemed a minor thing to him. Eight years down the line the couple decided to have a kid of their own, sweet little Ryan. But when I say 'I'm daddy's little girl' I do mean it, because Ryan is my dad and I'm his daughter. Although, every Christmas and birthday, I got a present of my real dad.

I don't know why I'm writing this to be honest; I guess I feel like I have something to say, which I do, but why go on about it to you. You're not interested now, are you? If you are, that's fine by me, go ahead and read, I'm not promising this is going to be good, because it's not, got it? I'm not a good writer, although my grades say otherwise, but let's not get into that.

So, on this fine rainy day I sit inside on my old chair I use to read on, with a copy of Sherlock Holmes, bare footed, with a coca-cola lollypop in my mouth (we didn't have any strawberry ones). Mum says I stay in my room too much, I say I couldn't care less. The world is too stupid for the likes of me, seeing it in person makes me believe it more. Now, Sherlock is on my level, if you're not like Sherlock, you're not that good to be honest and I'm not particularly bothered in your life story or anything to do with you.

"Ella, dinner is ready," mum called up.

We may be rich because of Ryan's wealth, but mum comes from a hardworking background and loves to do the housewife role by cooking, cleaning, etc... You know the boring stuff in life. So, if I say the food is rubbish, it's not the matter of firing the chef and getting a better one. Mum's stuff likes to...burn, or explode, or just turns out unpalatable. Don't tell her I said that, okay? She just thinks I'm just not a big eater (she hasn't seen all the cakes and sweets I eat).

"No thanks, I'm content with my lollypop," I called back.

"ELLA! You can't live on lollypops, come down and eat some dinner!"

If I don't come back, blame mum ENTIRELY!

I've got the sweetest tooth in the house, I eat sweets 24/7 and if I don't, I feel deprived, my brain starts to whirl, my behaviour goes from one extreme to the next and then I collapse and cry. Eventually, mum lets me have sweets and I go back to normal. The doctors say that they don't know what's wrong with me, but I don't think it bothers them, I don't have any cavities, I'm in perfect health, and I'm top of the class. I also have mild OCD; everything has to be in order, I can spend hours arranging my DVD'S, CD'S and Books, in alphabetical order or by colour, I'm not sure whether this counts but, I also like to stack things.

"I don't like spaghetti," I stated as I sat down at the table.

"Just eat some," said my mother.

"Can I have lemon meringue instead?" I ask, stabbing the worm-like pasta with my fork.

"Eat some pasta Ella," said Ray, "Then you can have some Cherry Bakewell."

"But I don't want cherry Bakewell," I mumbled.

"Mum, I don't want pasta either!" Said my eight year old brother – who loves pasta.

"Yes, you do, now eat – both of you."

I sit there quietly, pushing my food around the plate and by the time everyone else is done my food is cold and mum gives up with me. She cuts up the bakewell and like always, I carry it to my room to eat as I read my Sherlock Holmes book.

I must have fallen asleep at some point because I suddenly jolted up as I heard mum shouting. At first I thought her and Ray was arguing or that Ryan had done something wrong, but it wasn't that sort of shouting, and it was midnight.

"I demand to see her," a man's voice said.

"You and your father have gone long enough knowing she doesn't exist, why do you need her now?"

"I want to see her," the man's voice said, "I've went so long without siblings, I just want to see what she is like."

"You can't see her! I shall not allow it, and if you are sent by your father to retrieve her, tell him to stick it!"

"Father died the Christmas after you had left."

"Why are you saying it like that? It's not my fault!"

"Does my sister even know about her father?" Asked the man.

"She knows what she needs to."

"So she doesn't know that he's dead?"

I stormed out my room and downstairs, "Will you all just shut the hell up!"

That's when I saw him, my older half-brother. The same choppy, unruly hair, dark bags under his eyes, and he stared at me with wide eyes.

"Ella," my mother said taking me by the shoulder and trying to direct me back upstairs, I shrugged away from her.

"You said my father was alive, them presents I got of him; they were from you, weren't they?" I asked.

"I just didn't want you to feel like your father didn't care, I did tell him about being pregnant with you, and I was honest with you from the start (I didn't know he was dead), I just wanted you to feel like you had a real father," she said.

"You know mum, you're really stupid. I was always happy with having Ray as my father," I admitted, "I didn't care about the Japanese bloke that sent me Japanese toys for my birthday and Christmas. I wouldn't have cared. But now I do care, because you lied."

I then turned to my brother, "I'm sorry, but it would have been better if you didn't come," I said.

I went to the kitchen then walked back in, with a handful of sugar cubes, to see that mother and my brother were still standing in silence.

"Well, I'm off to bed, mum be a good hostess, set up the sofa-bed."

My brother shook his head, "I'm staying at a hotel."

[i] What the hell? Why did he have to bloody come? [/i] I shrugged popping a sugar cube into my mouth, "I want explanations in the morning. Both of you."

[i] Even if I have to force it out of them. [/i]