Part One: Welcome to Karen Brewer

January 1

I don't expect much from anyone.

It's become my personal belief that if you trust in someone too much, if you put too much hope in a living, breathing human being, they will, without fail, let you down. It always happens. Rich, famous, poor, obsolete. Doesn't matter who you are or who you do, someone is going to let you down (and probably in a most spectacular way) before you expect it and the sooner you accustom yourself to that fact, the easier the disappointment is going to be.

later

Apparently, Dad and Mom think it's a good idea if I write in here as much as I can. Apparently, they think I've got the whole tortured spirit, tortured artist thing happening with me and that the best outlet I have now (since I refuse to talk to the high-priced, know-nothing, Yuppie therapist they hired) is this leather bound book with its gold leafed pages. I don't suppose they're too far off the mark. I mean, I do like to talk, so maybe writing is just as good as talking ought to be. Their thinking still, not mine. Now, that's true, only they keep forgetting that I just don't like talking about that.

Maybe a journal's the best place to do it. Then nobody will be psychoanalyzing every single word I write. That's one thing that I seriously hate. I hate having every word I say (and I never say much) chirped back at me like I'm some kind of a freak to have said it. Like, if I said, "I wish I were an only child for once," the stupid therapist would reply "Why do you want to be an only child? Did you have a fight with one of your brothers or sisters? Do you want to talk about it?" Not likely. Besides, whenever I say that it's usually just because I want to have some peace and quiet in the house instead of listening to all the family bustling around, which I do normally find rather pleasant. See, these therapists dig too deep and always miss their mark. I hate that. I'm fourteen and I could do a better job than they could, I bet.

I'd better go now. We're off to visit Great-Aunt Bethany. She's very old, very senile, and very loaded. Dad and Elizabeth want us to have pleasant memories of her since it's real obvious that she won't be around for much longer. Us kids are trying to play favorites to get into her will. Also, we haven't gotten our Christmas presents from her and she gives the most outlandishly expensive gifts. Last year, she gave me a diamond tennis bracelet. Dad put it into a vault at the bank for safe keeping, but I know he was annoyed that a thirteen year old received such an expensive and inappropriate gift. In his opinion.

January 2

All right. I suppose that I can be a little more disciplined and serious about this whole thing. After all, nobody knows for sure (except, obviously, for me) whether or not I am writing in this journal (diary?). And, nobody is reading, to be sure. So… what's the point in being a smart-ass? So that I can look back and see what a little jerk I was? I'd rather not. After all, I'd rather have a good impression of myself, if I can help it.

I'll start by doing the standard diary opening: I'll introduce myself.

First of all, my name is Karen Brewer. I wish it were Karen Brewer-Thomas, but my mother wouldn't let me take my beloved stepmother's name. There are kids in the house who are Brewer-Thomas kids and I think that they are the luckiest kids in the world, to have a dad as great as mine and a mother as great as Elizabeth is.

Back to me. I'm 14 years old and a Freshman at Stoneybrook High School. Go SHS! *sigh* I have dirty blonde hair that I've let grow for the past three years (to be completely honest, I do it to hide my face better) and by now it reaches just above my butt. I also have blue eyes, fair skin that burns easily, some freckles, and am on the short and skinny side of the girls my age. Reading that back, I guess you could say that I'm pretty cute, but that the last way I feel about myself.

I am a member of a huge blended family. Originally (until I was about 5 or 6), it was just me, my mom, my dad, and my little brother, Andrew, who is now 12. Then, Mom and Dad got a divorce, Mom married a creep and Dad married Elizabeth. Now Elizabeth already had a group of kids of her own. Charlie (who's 26), Sam (who's 24), Kristy (who's 21), and David Michael (who's 15, but only a few months older than I am). Long story short, we started to adopt and "collect" kids, I guess you could call it. First, my new "parents" brought home Emily Michelle (she's 10), a Vietnamese baby, to live with us and brought home Nannie, Elizabeth's mother, to come and take care of us younger kids. After that, Elizabeth gave birth to my half sister, Grace (6). Just when everyone thought the house was jam packed with too many kids, Dad and Elizabeth surprised us with Benny (he's 14 like me), our foster kid who we're going to adopt soon. Benny is especially thrilled that he won't be bounced around anymore and that he landed in a home with a family that he now loves. Awwww….

Our next two newest family members came to us through tragic means. Jessi (she's 19 and a freshmen at Stamford Community College) and Becca (she's 16 and a sophomore at good ole SHS) lost both of their parents and their little brother in a horrendous car accident about three years ago. No, maybe it's closer to four. It'd have to check with Dad or Elizabeth. Anyways, Becca was in a coma for months and poor Jessi the Ballerina had both her legs broken. My parents decided that since they had the room and the money that they would take the girls in and adopt them instead of having them go into the system.

So, that's me and my family. Complicated, huh? Elizabeth says we're probably the biggest, most complicated family in all of Stoneybrook. I laugh whenever she says that because as silly as it sounds, she's probably right.

P.S. Great-Aunt Bethany came through for me again this year. She bought me genuine pearl earrings and a long string of pearls that I have to wrap around my neck a few times before it looks tasteful. Elizabeth suspects it's a string of pearls from the 1920s. How cool is that?

She also held my hand the entire time we were there. I could remember when her mind wasn't so foggy and when I did, tears began to spill down my cheeks. I know I only think of her as a money pot so that I don't remember that she is slowly dying and losing herself in her own head. I wanted to hold her all night and tell her that I would protect her from whatever was to come; that I would be the one to save her. But, Dad said time to leave and I knew that I would have to leave her to the care of her nurses and maids and butlers. God, I'm tearing up just writing about this.

January 4

To be honest… not much has been going on. Mom finally agreed to cancel any further appointments with the therapist since when they do manage to get me there, I sit with my mouth slammed shut.

You can't just go asking someone you haven't even met about the worst experience of their life and expect that person to start chatting away about it. God, it's some topic Elizabeth and her friends would talk about over coffee, so why should I be expected to just spout off about it. It's the WORST thing that has ever happened to me. God. I don't know how some people can live with themselves.

I know that I sure as hell can't, but maybe it's just because I'm a freak. Supposedly, I ought to be getting better and "moving on," but I'm definitely still sick and I'm stuck in one place. I hate feeling like this. It's the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing before I fall asleep. I'm still having nightmare and flashbacks, but nobody seems to know how to fix those.

I feel like I'm becoming someone else. Some weak, pathetic little blob who's scared of her own damn shadow. I'm starting to feel like I'm losing myself to this weak mirror-image of myself and that nobody is going to notice the difference when I'm gone.

Not one person is going to care.

NOT ONE!!

January 6

This is my favorite song right now. I'm kind of a hopeless (very hopeless) romantic and when I heard it in the movie Juno, I just thought that it was fantastic. Barry Louis Polisar is amazing.

If I was a flower growing wild and free
All I'd want is you to be my sweet honey bee.
And if I was a tree growing tall and green
All I'd want is you to shade me and be my leaves

If I was a flower growing wild and free
All I'd want is you to be my sweet honey bee.
And if I was a tree growing tall and green
All I'd want is you to shade me and be my leaves

All I want is you, will you be my bride
Take me by the hand and stand by my side
All I want is you, will you stay with me?
Hold me in your arms and sway me like the sea.

If you were a river in the mountains tall,
The rumble of your water would be my call.
If you were the winter, I know I'd be the snow
Just as long as you were with me, when the cold winds blow.

All I want is you, will you be my bride
Take me by the hand and stand by my side
All I want is you, will you stay with me?
Hold me in your arms and sway me like the sea.

If you were a wink, I'd be a nod
If you were a seed, well I'd be a pod.
If you were the floor, I'd wanna be the rug
And if you were a kiss, I know I'd be a hug

All I want is you, will you be my bride
Take me by the hand and stand by my side
All I want is you, will you stay with me?
Hold me in your arms and sway me like the sea.

If you were the wood, I'd be the fire.
If you were the love, I'd be the desire.
If you were a castle, I'd be your moat,
And if you were an ocean, I'd learn to float.

All I want is you, will you be my bride
Take me by the hand and stand by my side
All I want is you, will you stay with me?
Hold me in your arms and sway me like the sea.

Isn't that just a terribly romantic song? I don't know, maybe it's kind of corny and cheesy and something my parents might like, but I do like it. It makes me think that maybe I won't be alone forever, you know? That maybe I will find someone and someone that I love so much that I will want to be all those kinds of things for that person just because I love them so much. Maybe that's why this song gives me tingles inside while I listen to it. It gives me a little bit of hope and maybe every girl ought to hear it whenever she feels ugly or fat. Just to cheer her up again.

I don't know what I'm saying. Mom's ex-husband # 2 always used to tell me that I talked too much. That I would just chatter on and on without really having a point or knowing what I was saying. I hope I'm making some more sense now that I'm older. I certainly didn't make sense then; when I needed to.

January 7

Mary Anne Spier, Kristy's best friend, is over baby-sitting right now. Poor Andrew considers this a special affront because he's 12, but since he doesn't want anything to do with Emily Michelle or Grace, Elizabeth had to hire Mary Anne so that the girls were watched. I'm technically "not available" unless I want to be. It was the therapist's suggestion and one that I like. It lets me decide to do my homework or whatever I feel like doing instead of feeling pressured into baby-sitting all the time. We haven't gone back to school yet (neither has Mary Anne), so I don't have any homework to work on. All of my over-the-break homework was finished days ago. As you might've guessed, I have no life. All the other kids in the house have put off their homework until the last minute, even little Grace!

The Social Worker is coming tomorrow with the finalized adoption papers. Dad says that we all need to behave and not act like hooligans. Apparently, we're heathens. Anyways, all Dad and Elizabeth need to do to make things final is to sign and initial some papers and then… BENNY IS OURS! Duh duh duh…

I'm kind of getting bored here at home. Don't let anyone, diary, but I'm kind of hoping school will hurry up and get here. I mean, it's only a couple days away, but I'm still bored out of my mind.

January 8

The Social Worker is downstairs right now. Dad decided to ban all of us kids to our bedrooms in order to keep the house nice and quiet. It was a good idea in theory, but everyone is sitting in their doorway, silent, waiting to see if they can hear anything. My door is among the closest to the stairs, so I can make out a lot of what they're saying.

"So, Benny," Emmy, the Social Worker, said. "How do you like living with the Brewer-Thomases? You've been here for a few years now, so you must've made some connections in the family."

"I love it," Benny said, probably with complete honesty. He and David Michael are inseparable. "Everyone is so nice and caring. I haven't lived in a home like this before in my life."

"Not even with the Fitzgeralds? You had a lot of good things to say about them, too."

Benny didn't say anything and I could just picture Dad circling an arm around his shoulder for support.

"Go on, son," Dad said. "There's no reason to feel shy."

"Please," Emmy said so quietly that I almost didn't hear her. "I'd like to have as little interference from the foster parents as possible. I don't mind you two sitting in here, but try not to coach him."

"I wasn't," Dad said, sounding really annoyed.

"Benny? Could you answer my question, please?" Emmy asked quickly, clearly trying to avoid any conflict.

"Well…" Benny said slowly. "I did like the Fitzgeralds, but they were an old couple with no more kids. Watson and Elizabeth have tons of kids. Two of them are even my age. It's cool to have a brother and sister my age."

"I'll bet."

Then they started talking about boring stuff like how Benny was doing in school and what he liked to do for fun around the house, etc. So, I got up and shut myself back up into my bedroom. I already knew all of this stuff and I knew Emmy did, too. According to Benny, she was the first social worker to actually be on top of things. I wish she had been my social worker. Mine hadn't cared about me or my case at all and would've left me dangling in the system had my father not stepped in and rescued me.

Becca's been looking into colleges, according to Jessi. She's got a lot of different ones on her mind. She's been thinking about going to Stamford University so that she can live at home and commute (she'd get her own car), University of Connecticut, Yale, SUNY Stoneybrook (which is in New York State and right near NYC), and a bunch of others. I'd love to see her go to Yale. She deserves to go to an Ivy League.

School starts tomorrow. Finally, right? David Michael's been in a funk about it, but so what? He might just be upset about the Social Worker being here today.

I'll never understand boys.

January 9

How stupid am I? I cannot believe I waited for school to start again. It's the same old bullshit. God damn it! Now I'm crying and smudging my pencil!

January 12

The papers came in. Benny is officially adopted into our family. I could dance, I'm so happy! I know he's happy, too, because all he's been doing since he heard the news is hugging my parents and running around the snowy backyard with David Michael and Shannon, our dog, whooping and hollering. I love my brothers. They're so funny sometimes. OK, they're actually funny most of the time.

I owe you an explanation, diary, for what I said in my last entry. I promised myself not to leave cryptic messages unless I was going to explain what I meant by them later on. So, here's the deal:

I had another flashback while I was at school yesterday and since neither of my brothers are in any of my classes (I'm in all of the advanced courses), they weren't there to tell people to back off or to shut up like they do when they are there. So, when I came around, Mrs. Patterson was holding my hand and stroking my face and talking to me while half the class was white with horror and the other half was trying to cover up their giggles. I couldn't stand it. Them. So, I got up and grabbed my things (I've decided to carry my diary around everywhere I go in case I make some interesting observation) and ran down to the girls' bathroom and locked myself into a stall. That's when I wrote my entry.

I hate having flashbacks, but nobody will tell me the cure! It's like people, everyone, wants me to stay sick. Like what HE did to me is something that everyone else wants to perpetuate by making me have my flashbacks.

At first, it seemed to me to be innocent enough. He would ask me to change my clothes, with him in the room (while my mother was gone), and to put on different party dressed with pantyhose I owned. Sometimes I needed help with the button or lace or hose, so Seth would help me. Sometimes, his hand or fingers would slip and touch me in a place I knew he wasn't supposed to touch, but he never looked ashamed or apologetic about it, so I never bothered to say anything in protest. I always assumed that it was a complete accident. Adults could be clumsy, too. I'd seen Daddy be clumsy before.

January 13

Ever since we said our goodbyes
The onion rings, the phone makes me cry
Something isn't right
Like the Deep Blue without the Great White

In the morning open your eyes
The waterfalls, the fire flies
You're an abacus
And my heart was counting on us

Your heart's got a heavy load
There's still a long way to go
Keep your eyes on the road

Crescent moon sings me to sleep
The birches bark, the willows weep
But I lie awake
I'm adrift without a snowflake

Your heart's got a heavy load
There's still a long way to go
Keep your eyes on the road

Your heart's got a heavy load
There's still a long way to go
Keep your eyes on the road