It wasn't then when I realized that Aberdeen Buchanan would ultimately change my life. It sounds very cheesy, but, then again, I really don't give a fuck.

She was hard to explain. Here are some adjectives to hint at the idea of her: orphic, insane, stunning, heart-breaking, radiant-I could go on, maybe forever, but I won't bore you. In short, Aberdeen Buchanan was dangerous, in all of the ways. In the good, in the bad, in the crazy. Overall, you can't really explain her without saying, "She's fucking weird as fuck, man."

We met a week before school started. I woke up to the sound of voices outside my open window, which I wasn't used to, ever since our neighbors had finally, as they were seemingly always close to doing, kicked the bucket around a year ago. The place had been gathering dust for quite a while. So, naturally, I sighed and groaned myself out of bed, stumbling over with squinting eyes to look out my window.

A moving van sat in the driveway, three people circulating from inside to outside, to the moving van, and back again. I rubbed sleep from my eyes and looked again, things clearer this time: they were all gingers, for one. But, still, I was (sort of) curious.

I pulled on a shirt and pants I found on my floor that smelled clean, took my morning pee, and then went downstairs. Glancing around the corner to the kitchen, I felt my stomach drop at the sight of my parents. I inwardly prepared myself for the onslaught of questions and comments sure to come, and walked in.

Immediately, Mother said, "Oh, Rodrick, good thing you're up, we were just about to take this pie to our new neighbors!" She said this all with a smile on her face, but as she looked me up and down I could see the slight disappointment in my choice of clothing, wrinkled and probably slightly smelly. She cradled a pie on the counter with both her hands.

I sighed dramatically as I pushed past her and pulled a carton of orange juice from the door. Looking inside, I saw it was almost gone and I tipped it back, downing it.

My mother nearly gasped. "Rodrick, that's gross. Other people drink out of that."

"It was almost gone," I sneered.

She sighed. "You need to go and change into something clean. I saw you wearing that a few days ago, and I know you haven't washed your clothes."

Rolling my eyes, I whined, "Why do I have to go with you?"

She smiled, hidden behind it all the ways she's thinking of killing me without anyone knowing, replying, "Because I said so. And, we have to welcome them as a family, because that's the polite thing to do, and a nice way to be welcomed into the neighborhood."

I knew there would be no arguing with her, added to the look she gave me, which, to be honest, scared me a little, so I agreed to do so, grabbing a box of fruit snacks on the way back up to my bedroom. She scolded me as I walked up the stairs as fast as I could, but I pretended to not hear her.

We waited in front of their door like poster children for suburban families. I didn't smile. I wasn't happy. I'd rather be up in my room, or practicing my drums. I'd even stoop so low as knawing all my fingers off, one by one. And then eating them. In short, I was desperate to escape the situation.

And Greg, little shit like he is, wasn't helping. He was complaining. Out loud. Not complaining-whining is a better word. I was silently praying to what higher power there might be to strike me with lightning. At least then I'd be in a hospital, not here, and I'd have a really cool scar.

I started to whisper my prayer softly, and Mother whipped her head to me and said, "Rodrick."

I smirked at her annoyance and raised my eyebrows, continuing to whisper my prayer, really getting into it and lifting my hands into a steeple, and soon after raising my arms to the heavens like a generic, heavy-set black woman preaching to her congregation.

Mother was bouncing Manny, the weird little shit, perched on her hip, as she glared at me. I stopped after I thought I had annoyed her enough. Father was holding the pie in both hands. The order from the doorbell on the left was Mother, Manny, Father, Greg, and then me.

The Mother Ginger (hereafter known as TMG), opened the door promtly after the doorbell was rung. She greeted us warmly, taking the pie. The Father Ginger (hereafter known as TFG), came behind TMG and set his hand on her hip, also greeting us warmly. I shook hands with both of them, neat and orderly, and then, obviously, we were invited inside.

The Adults started talking. And I thought, Fuck. Just fucking great! We're never getting out of here. We're going to shrivel up and die here.

"We have a younger daughter who's seventeen, too, she's just upstairs," TMG said.

I whipped my head to my mother.

We met gazes.

Say yes. Say yes. Please, holy fucking shit, just say yes. Please.

I narrowed my eyes.

You will say "yes" and let me get the fuck out of this room. I'm dying. I'm slowly being starved of stimulation. Your conversation is more boring than watching paint dry. And watching paint dry sounds very interesting.

"Fine," she sighed.

I walked over and pecked her on the cheek. A disgusted look found her face and I laughed, and then walked up the stairs. Then I stopped. I walked back and peeked around the corner.

TMG said, "The attic," as an answer to my unspoken question.

"Thank you," I said quickly, making my way up the stairs again.

I found the attic door, but i couldn't reach it. I heard music from above me, and I longed to hear it. I looked around for something to, uh, knock with, when Greg came up the stairs with the stick with a hook on the end to open the attic.

I grabbed it from him. "Get lost, Greg," I snapped.

"Why?" he sneered. "Mom said I could meet her, too."

I groaned. "Fine. But don't embarrass me, you little shit."

He nodded. He looked smug, but I slapped his face to keep him in line. Not hard-just hard enough, you know?

I opened the attic door and walked up the stairs. The first thing I saw was shag carpet. Then wood paneling. Boy, this house was dated. But the wood paneling was the same in our, distinctively smaller, attic.

She sat across her bed, the back of it pushed up against the wall to the right of where the stairs were, in the corner, and of the railing that separated them. She was sifting through a box of records, sliding them into a shelf across from a full-sized bed, which was naked except for a pile of sheet and blanket on top of it. She had her back to us, hair pulled back into a high braided ponytail-her hair seemed brighter than her parents. She wore a black tank top and high-waisted jean shorts. She was pale, covered in freckles.

She turned her head to the side to reach for another record, and, noticing us, jumped and said, "Holy fuck," breathlessly.

Turning all the way around, she noticed Greg. "Oh shit-" she started, then stopped herself. She closed her eyes and sighed. "Sorry," she completed.

I laughed, "It's okay, it's not like I haven't said it around him."

She stood, walking barefoot across the shag carpet to where Greg and I were standing. She reached down and shook Greg's hand first, and then mine. Her nails were painted black.

"I'm Aberdeen."