xX… well, here we go again. As I try to reinvent myself! LOL. Bear with me and enjoy! READ AND REVIEWWWWW! …xX

when I was 8,

"Olive- you're mother isn't coming back"

when I was 10,

"Olive! Will you ever do anything right?"

when I was 11,

"Olive, your mother wrote a letter… I lost it"

when I was 13,

"Olive, COME BACK HERE!"

and now…

"Olive your mother doesn't love you- she never did and never will. You were a mistake…"

My mother sends a letter sometimes, they usually have the same focus- "Olive, how are you? Bombay is nice, blah blah…" She never asked me if I would like to join her in the Bombay Sun. Never. I often feel abandoned. Ok, I am abandoned. I'm a freak. An ugly freak.

My mother's new name is Sagasi Nalapamor. Her old name was Suzan Watson. Her middle name was Suzan Ostrovsky. I miss Suzan Ostrovsky. I never knew Suzan Watson and I'll never know Sagasi Nalapamor. I doubt I even knew Suzan Ostrovksy, though I claim to. Not once has she ever said she loves me. I know it sounds stupid- but sometimes, I Love You can set someone at ease. But I don't even know how those words sound. Strung together like that. Sometimes I wish Suzan Ostrovsky would come to me. All the time I wish Suzan Ostrovsky would come to be. But never do I miss Suzan Ostrovsky. Missing someone is the equivalent of being weak. I can't be weak.

I spell. It's what I'm good at, but barely. You might call me a geek, that's what other people have called me. A long with nerd, loser, fatty, stupid head, ass hole, bitch, pansy and lesbo. I don't know why. But they do. But is it my place to stop them? No. At least that's what my dad says. I don't mind being a geek. Or nerd, loser, fatty, stupid head, ass hole, bitch, pansy and lesbo- because I know that I'm not half of those. I don't mind being called any of those there. There are only a few people like me- spellers. The geeks and freaks that can spell. People- like me.

I don't know why my mother left. She left when I was 4. I didn't realize she wasn't coming back until she didn't reappear weeks later. I cried. All kids cry. I have given up on my mom. It's obvious she doesn't care or she would have come back- but why does she never explain her reasoning. I never wanted comforting. I wanted her. I wanted you, mom. I don't want expensive things or stupid letters with stamps enclosed. I want you. I want to be able to hug you. I want you to be able to drive me to Bee's. I want you to say: I Love You. That's it. Can you take time out of your busy schedule for me, mom? Your daughter?

At first I told myself she'd come back and every birthday I'd wake up and hope she'd be in the kitchen sipping coffee. Or every time I got a report card I'd hope she'd call me to congratulate me on all A's. But after a while, when the letters stopped coming frequently. I quietly forgot her voice, her face, everything. If she didn't want to be part of my life, I didn't want part of hers. Though everything I've said is true.

So it's here, alone, broken and battered that I find myself. Sitting in class, listening to a boring English lesson. I doodle on my notebook, writing words I've been studying for the regional Bee. Anthropology. Two T's? No. One. Metamorphoses. Two M's? No. One.

"Olive, can you fix the sentence?"

Trigonometry. Blasphemy. Banns.

"Olive?"

Startled. I look up-

"Yes ma'am?" the class starts to laugh, I feel myself going beet red, "I mean sir…" I say quickly, I feel the tears swelling up in my eyes. I hear the class laughing. At me. I see Mr. Tompkins face. I put my head in my hands. Thankfully, he picks up the hint and moves on,

"Mitch- can YOU fix the sentence?"

I go back to my spelling. Soon, the class is over.

"Olive- can I see you please?"

Gulp.

"Yes Mr. Tompkins?" I'm standing at his desk, the class filing out. When they are gone he shuts the door.

"Olive, are there any problems? Anything going on?"

What? Other than an abusive father, countless verbal abuse at school and a negligent mother? Other than that!

"No."

"You seem, I don't know, unfocused lately Olive. Are you stressing about the Regional Bee, because really, Olive, it's just spelling."

JUST SPELLING? My life? The only thing I'm remotely good at is "just spelling"?

"I know."

"Good. If anything comes up, come to me please. Last chance- anything the matter, at home maybe?"

"No. sir."

"Alright, here's a pass. Go. Get outta here," he shoo's me out. Anxious to leave. I leave.

Spelling Club is fine. Never fun. But fine. I can't wait though- my first guitar lesson. My first time I'm doing something my dad doesn't approve of. I feel like a rebel. The bell is mercy. After School is done. I bolt out of the school, up the road and I follow the directions I got from Map Quest.

It's a big house, not a small apartment like mine. A large apartment. Still in my uniform, I can tell the woman who opens the door, maybe Zack's mom, doesn't approve. She purses her lips.

"Upstairs," she says, pointing at some stairs. I go up and figure his room is the one of the music coming out of it. I knock. He opens. Dark hair, shaggy. Obviously, his school doesn't have a uniform. He's wearing some jeans and a black shirt. A hem necklace around his neck and a thin string ankle bracelet. He's barefoot. He looks me over… ok, so the uniform doesn't look good on me. Simple red polo shirt and a skirt.

"Hi…" he says, not really all here.

"Yeah…" I say.

"Come on in," he says. I walk in. An unmade bed, hammock hanging over the bed, posters and clippings all over the wall. The shade is crooked and down, making the room dark. It's messy. Clothes, boxers, shirts, pants everything everywhere. A Coke can is in the dresser.

"So… guitar, eh?" he says.

"Um. Yeah."

He hands me a guitar, showing me how to hold it. I hold it, than, taking my hands in his he shows me how to play a chord,

"G" he says.

He takes my hands and moves them; he's right behind me, mirroring me. I can feel his breath, his back. It's frightening.

"B flat"

I laugh. Quietly.

He shows me a scale, than asks to play it back, he backs up. Now facing me. I play it back.

"Good!" he says, "Now…"

the lesson proceeds. Chords. Scales. Rhythms. Towards the end he shows me the basic tune of We Will Rock You. I pluck along helplessly. Whatever that song is. It's been an hour and a half.

"Time to go," I say. Giving him back the guitar.

"Stay for dinner?" he asks.

"Uh…"

he looks at me.

"I REALLY half to go. My dad's expecting me."

I grab my coat and bag and leave, thanking him and smiling, telling him I'll see him next week. As soon as I am out of his sight I bolt. I run all the way home and don't stop.

"Where you been?" my dad asks the moment I open the door.

"Uh. Spelling Club…" I say, softly.

"I just called the school, they said all after school activities ended at 4:30. Its 6. I've been," he gets close to me, inches apart from me. His breath brushes me face, "worried…" he puts his arms around me. I try to wiggle free. He grabs harder, stroking harder.

"Dad…!"

"Shh…" he says, "It's ok, now that you're home. I," he grabs my ass, "was," I try to break free, he holds on tighter, "so so so worried about you," I can't escape, his eyes envelope me, I'm wiggling. My hands limp by my side. He kisses the top of my head. I try to scream, I can't. My face is now buried in his wife beater.

"Daddy's here Olive… it's ok…" he grabs my head and kisses me. Not a fatherly kiss. On the lips. His face is rough. I grab a glass on the table and hurl it at the wall. It's all I can do. It shatters. Into a million tiny pieces.

I go limp.

xX. WELL? …xX