I apologize for random indenting. Posting a couple chapters today, maybe more. :) Let me know if its hard to read and I'll try to work on formatting more.

Chapter 3

To America

Wilt -my designated driver, I realized with amusement- led me to a tall doorway with a plaque that said "Mr. Herriman's Office". "Wait," Frankie said. "Maybe we should clean you up before you go in... no offense." She looked me over, noticing the mud and red tinge to my otherwise powder-blue skin.

"I'll take it from here, Wilt. Thanks." She scooped me into her arms, much less comfortable and slightly confining. She was much smaller than Wilt, after all. She turned and headed to the bathroom. By the time we got there, to my dismay, I was completely disoriented by the many corridors. Suspicious, I thought. She must be trying to kidnap me. I gave myself a sharp mental slap for thinking such thoughts. Don't be so paranoid, I thought. She drew my bath, making small talk about how I'll love it here and whatnot. After I was comfortably situated in the most luxurious bubble bath I'd ever had, Frankie asked, "So what's your story, sweetie? What brought you to Foster's?" I thought for a moment, and then decided I might as well tell her. "I came to America after seeing an advertisement for your home."

"You're from another country?" Frankie seemed surprised, but the surprise soon faded. "I did notice your accent, I guess."

Ah, my accent. Romanian, with a hint of Russian, to be precise.

"You are the one with an accent," I stated plainly. She simply stared at me, required to be polite, but obviously annoyed. I decided to continue, hoping to patch things up along the way. "I was living in England at the time. The girl who adopted me was turning 13 that year, and her mother said she was much too old for imaginary friends..."

I leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, listening to this woman talk to her daughter about me as though I was a goldfish waiting to be flushed. My cheeks reddened with anger. Stupid, stupid humans! I'm just like everyone else! Just because my hair changes colors and I have blue skin doesn't mean I'm any lower than you!

"You'll be 13 in a few months, Julie! You can't keep her anymore; it just isn't how it's done!"

"Mom, she's my best friend! I can't believe you!"

"Julie," she placed her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "I had to give mine up when I was 9. Your father gave his up when he was 11. It's your turn now. I'm sorry, but that's life."

Julie grunted through her teeth and stormed out of the kitchen, hardly noticing me as she stomped past. Figures. Hypocrite. I rolled my eyes.

"Pack your things, Rose. I'm taking you to the Imaginary Institution in London. You'll love it there, don't worry."

What she didn't realize was that I'd been there 30 years earlier. I did not love it there. Nevertheless, I turned and headed to Julie's room. Julie, who was sobbing on the bed, still failed to notice my entrance. All she knows is she has a reason to throw a fit. We were never friends. Such a pitiful girl. I reached for my suitcase in the closet, having to stack up boxes to be tall enough. "What are you doing?" Julie sniffled. "Packing," I stated frankly. She threw herself back onto the bed. "You're so heartless! I hate you all!" She shrieked in to her pillow. Sighing, I pulled what little clothes I had out from the dressers and put them in my suitcase. I grabbed the soft brush off of the dresser and offered it to Julie. "Would you rather you did, or I?"

"You," she whimpered. I sat down on the bed, situating her in front of me. I proceeded to brush her hair gently, wiping tears back with her hair. "It'll be okay. Have you forgotten Tiffany? Or Hannah? They love you very much," I said soothingly.

"Yeah, but they're just girls. You're special."

"Hmm," I murmured. "What about Chris?"

Julie didn't answer, determined to have a reason to keep me.

"Wouldn't you be embarrassed if Chris found out about me?"

At first, Julie shook her head, but slowly she nodded.

"See? This is for the best. You'll be happy, dear. I promise."

"Tell me how old you are," Julie whispered.

I frowned. I never share my age with anyone, it's such a sad subject. In this case, I couldn't simply say no. I might not have loved her, but we were childhood companions. It's only fair, from her side. I sighed.

"Let's see... 1... 19...2... I am 237 years old."

"Who was your creator?" she whispered even quieter.

I was silent, stroking her hair. She left it at that.

When Julie had fallen asleep, I crept to the window and left, leaving a flower barrette as my only token. I always leave something for them; I know how hard it is to grow up. Feeling an awful lot like Peter Pan, I skirted through the evening streets, heading for the docks. Surely I can hitch a ride. With my small frame, I can fit anywhere unnoticed.

A group of tourists were lined along the dock, waiting to enter their designated boats. I slinked through the throng, dodging legs and unaware adults. I was almost to the loading dock when I was smacked in the face by what could have only been paper. Damn you, paper! I thought. Pulling it from my face, I took it to be an advertisement of some kind.

"Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends" I skimmed to the next large print which stated "1123 Wilson Way" That's it! I made my decision, looking at the picture of the manor. It was bright and happy, not grey and square like the London Institution. This is where I would spend the time waiting to be readopted. I was getting tired of Europe, anyway. I heard Americans were very peculiar. I skipped onto the nearest boat for America.