Sadly, I didn't get a new pen to add to my stolen pen collection.

All I got was an uncle with an attitude and an ever-present cigar.

According to Jonah, he was James' older brother. Jonah never talked about his brother to the press, because, well, they didn't know anything about James or Samantha or me.

Sure, we had newspaper articles circling over how my parents disappeared, where I had gone, if I'd gone with them, etc., etc.

It was all gossip about how much people cared—which they didn't. They only acted like they cared because that was what society wanted them to do. Pretend.

They could've cared less about what happened to a little kid after a fire in his house and the mutation of some crazy cat-thing. They could've cared less where he went—foster homes, adoption centers, and alleys.

I was just another blotch on our society's record.

And, whether with whiteout or bleach, they were going to try everything in their power to make that blotch invisible.

It was working. I was invisible to the human eye and to myself.

I felt like a vampire staring into a mirror, waiting to see what I looked like, but being sourly disappointed when all I could see were the white, sun-bathed walls of the room.

But, that was typical, wasn't it?

I was invisible. And, honestly, I liked it that way.

I wanted to be invisible right about now.

Okay, let me repeat—I WANT TO BE INVISIBLE RIGHT NOW.

Guess who isn't invisible.

I sighed, looking between the two angry faces of my guardians.

Nick and Jonah were fighting over me.

Normally, I'd be totally fine with people fighting over me, but not when they were throwing forks and knives and glass plates at each other from across the kitchen.

The first thing that went wrong was that fact that I told Nick about Jonah.

Nick, suspiciously, wanted to have a formal dinner with him to chat.

That was bad thing #1.

Nick barely ate dinner with me—why the hell would he want to eat dinner with my rude uncle?

But, I didn't think twice about it—if they got to know each other, hit it off and didn't end up killing each other by the start of the main course, maybe I'd have a chance at peace in my screwed up family.

That speck of hope was bad thing #2.

Bad thing #3 was having the kitchen right next to the dining room.

Bad thing #4 was having the knives newly sharpened and in plain sight.

Bad thing #5 was to leave the room to take a piss.

Bad thing #6 was drinking the entire bottle of Mountain Dew at dinner, which caused my bladder to grow three freaking sizes larger.

Bad thing #7 was talking to my new cousin, leaving Nick and Jonah in the same room for thirty minutes more than I should have.

The list goes on and on, now that I'm reflecting over it.

I should explain what happened, at the beginning of dinner.

We had a bunch of food set out—piles upon piles of home cooked food, bottles of soft drinks and really delicate china that Nick had stashed away in his ex-wife's cupboard that he'd somehow kept when they divorced.

Jonah's son, John, clearly wasn't happy about being forced to have dinner with us. He kept glaring my way and muttering under his breath, "I could be having a goddamn party with horny-ass strippers right now, but, nooo, I have to hang out with my dead uncle's son."

I knew right away there was no way I would get along with Mr. I'm-An-Astronaut-I'm-So-Much-Better-Than-You, but I had vowed to Nick I wouldn't burst into flame and burn John alive.

We sat down at the mahogany dining room table, our forks clicking against our plates, through some thick meatloaf Computer had whipped up. I took a bite, trying not to grimace at the dry taste.

I'd never had home cooked food before. I mean, sure, from what I remember, my mom used to cook every night. She was a natural. Her food was always amazing, cooked to perfection.

Maybe the difference between a real mom and a databased version was what made food taste amazing and barely edible. I think it was the fact that the home-cooked food was cooked with love and the other food was cooked from calculations and instructions.

I grabbed a bottle of barbeque sauce and drowned my meatloaf.

I took a bite and smiled. I couldn't taste any meat.

Jonah cleared his throat. "So, Nick. Where do you work again?"

"I'm a police officer," Nick said, cutting up a piece of meatloaf and placing it in his mouth.

Nick seemed to think better of it, pulling the fork away as the revolting taste of meatloaf touched his tongue. Nick pointed his fork at Jonah, aiming the piece of meatloaf at his head. "And, you're what? Some mouthy guy on the news?"

I jagged Nick in the gut, which ended up hurting my elbow more than I would've suspected. I remembered the fact that he was the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. and that he was most likely wearing his bulletproof vest under his clothes, like he usually did.

I rubbed my elbow underneath the table, staring at the chunks of meatloaf floating in thick barbeque sauce. They were like desolate islands surrounded everywhere by ugly oily water.

Jonah had finished choking on his water. "I do much more than mouth off," He growled, glaring at Nick.

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Really? Enlighten me."

"I give this city news they can't get anywhere else," Jonah spat.

Nick glared at him, hard. "News? You mean, complaining about a guy in a costume who saves people out of the kindness of his heart."

Jonah scoffed. "He's a costumed vigilante who puts our people's lives at risk in order to save them. You're a cop. Shouldn't their lives mean something to you?"

Anger rippled across Nick's face. "Of course their lives mean something to me! Their lives mean everything! There is nothing I wouldn't do to save someone—that's what Spiderman does every single day of his life, and what does he get? Criticism!"

Jonah's face grew tomato red with anger. "He doesn't save anyone! He puts them at risk! Have you seen what Manhattan looks like after he's been through? It's destroyed!"

I stood up abruptly, tired of hearing everyone accuse someone as innocent as Peter. I shoved my hands into my pockets, turning on my heel and walking to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.

Now, I'm sure you all don't want me to go into great detail unless you're all perverts, but I took a piss and was scrubbing my hands under a flush of steamy water when someone knocked on the door.

"I'm not decent," I said, turning off the running water and wiping my hands on a blue towel as the door swung open.

I yelped, shielding my crotch, even though my pants were up.

John rolled his eyes.

"You little creep!" I scolded him. "I could've been butt-naked!"

John glared at me. "Look, kid, I know you're one for dramatics, but calm yourself."

I glared at him, crossing my arms. "I have a name, you know."

John completely ignored me, tilting his head to the side. "Do you wear colored contacts?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Um… Why?"

John pointed at his own eyes. "Your eyes. They're orange."

I turned to face the mirror. My eyes were defiantly orange, only a thin swirl of blue left in the iris. I stared at myself in shock, until I realized John was still awaiting an answer.

I laughed. "Yeah! They're for my … Halloween costume!"

John raised an eyebrow. "What are you being?"

"Oh, you know, a werewolf," I said, shrugging nonchalantly.

John's brow furrowed. "But…"

I held up a hand. "I ordered yellow ones, but they sent me an orange pair. It's too late to order new ones. I've been trying to get accustomed to the feel of them."

I began to push John out, when I heard the first plate break.

I shoved past him, rushing into the kitchen.

Nick held knives in his fists, as if he had Wolverine claws.

Jonah held up a china plate as if it were a shield, his blue eyes leveled at him as he shouted, "My brother would be alive if it weren't for you!"

I froze in the doorway of the kitchen.

Nick shouted back, "Your brother's alive, Jameson! He's in hiding!"

Jonah screamed back, "I DON'T BELIEVE YOU!"

Jonah chucked the plate forward.

The plate was sliced into pieces by the knives Nick held in between his knuckles.

It seemed unreal—the fight reminded me of something out of a movie, where they used green screens and computerized special effects. But, I couldn't see a green screen and Nick and Jonah didn't have suctions tied together with wires taped to their skin.

As wave after wave of silverware was thrown, I started to feel more and more helpless, more and more angry, and more and more feverish. It felt like someone had spun the dial on the heating.

My body grew hotter, the air around me simmered, and I could feel my skin bubble into lava. I knew I was going supernova, but I glanced down at my fingertips to see that they looked like the tips of ET's fingers, glowing red instead of yellow.

Thankfully, Jonah was too preoccupied with throwing another plate at Nick to notice that I was on fire.

I spotted a thin curtain away from other flammable objects—that should break up the fight enough to help me run for cover and smother my flames before they got out of control.

This was the first time I was actually aiming liquid fire at something, but I needed to take the risk to stop them from stabbing the poor wall, or you know, each other.

I concentrated, aimed and fired, watching the magma touch the air, turning into lava, sloshing through the air and attaching to the rough fabric of the curtain, igniting.

Jonah and Nick freaked out, to say the least.

John tackled me down, screaming, "Stop, drop and roll, kid!"

Water was doused over me. My body sizzled in protest; smoke exploding off my arms in plumes. I coughed, suffocating at the lack of oxygen.

John stepped away from me as I coughed my lungs out.

Jonah and Nick stared at me from the kitchen doorway.

Jonah's mouth was a small, thin line. "James really did it," Jonah muttered forlornly. "He found out how to infect people with the fire."

Nick's shoulders slumped. "Fortunately and unfortunately."

I went skating at Skate Daze yesterday …

Two words—I suck.

I was terrible; I kept tripping and falling and had to hold onto everyone with a death grip because I was afraid to fall, which I did anyways.

Everyone was showing off—even little four year-olds were better than me.

So, ignore how much I suck at skating, and just review.

Just. Review.