so this is only a tiny tiny bit of what I've got so far. And what I have is not much. I know you can't tell very much from just this, but I really need an opinion on it.
Okay, so here's a few paragraphs from the very beginning of October.
I really wished that I wasn’t there, I wished it so much that I squeezed my eyes shut, praying and hoping that when I opened them, I wouldn’t be at a train station....a zillion miles away from my home.
But it was no use, I could smell and hear that I was still at the train station the whole time my eyes were closed. One eye opened, and then the other. I sighed and looked to my messenger bag for a distraction.
But I couldn’t find one.
Including most of my home comforts, all of my books had been taken away by Alex (my dad).
He was punishing me, so to speak, for quitting on high school and trying to run away. The whole month’s events flashed suddenly behind my eyes. I could see him-sitting in his office, disappointed. And at the police station, he was also disappointed. He had probably been angry beyond all words, but he had that look on his face that said “I am disappointed in you and utterly un-proud”, instead.
I tried again and again to explain why I hated my school-it was boring, and the people were snobs, and I hated it.
He had just shaken his head. I also tried to explain why I’d run away-but before I even spoke the first word, Alex just gave me this look.
“I’m sending you to boarding school.” Those had been his first words, spoken coldly and firmly, without interest, without hate. It was out of pure animosity of the idea of boarding school that sent me kicking and screaming in his home office, in our house. A house which I wouldn’t be living in any more.
“Please” I begged and cried after I knew screaming wasn’t going to help me stay home.
“Please I’m scared...” Boarding schools, to me at least, were the most frightening things on earth.
But Alex merely shook his head, “No,” he said. I begged more, and then he just put a hand on my shoulder which made me go all at once as silent and still as a stone.
He said nothing more, only he showed me a brochure for a boarding school, in Northern England, called Darkwood Academy.
My tears had instantly stopped as I saw the name-something about it was familiar, yet unfamiliar, like Déjà vu. I looked up at him, wanting to know why he was shipping me off to England, but the look on his face had silenced me for the next five days before I would leave for England. He didn’t say anything at the airport, either, he just gave me a present, wrapped in silver paper.
And that present still remained unwrapped in my messenger back. Its whole contents were a bottle of water, my sweater, the present, and a camera that the housekeeper, Mrs. Neil had packed. She was old, very near-sighted and deaf. Alex just kept her around because he was being nice, nice to every one but me, anyway.
Now, after a flight and a cab ride to Victoria Station and then a train, I just wanted to be rid of all the horrible flash-backs and the ever-present doom of the future. I was gloomy, half starving, and about ready to open the present when I’d arrived at this train station.
I looked at my watch. Twelve noon. My train didn’t arrive for another forty-five minutes or so. I decided to get up and walk around instead of staying on that gloomy, depressing empty platform.
I hate trains, I thought to myself, and presents, and boarding schools, and...Alex.
I walked off the platform, messenger bag slung over my shoulder, in search of the nearest restaurant. I’d never been to England before, and had heard the food was gross (and I’m purely American so haggis didn’t exactly sound appetizing to me if you know what I mean), but I was so starving that I was willing to eat anything...even cold haggis.
It was a small town that I was at, and food was easily found-in the shape of a little diner-looking place where the people seemed pretty happy with what they were eating off their white-china plates. My stomach rumbled. I bet I even would’ve eaten a china plate.
As soon as I walked in the door, everyone stared at me. I stared down at the floor. This is why I preferred books to people. Books were kind, generous, and unassuming. And people just stared.
I sat at the nearest table, eyes on my green sneakers, wishing I’d have worn less conspicuous and American-looking shoes. For clothes I’d picked my usual ensemble-one that I always hoped would help me blend in and remained unnoticed-a light blue t-shirt with very washed-out jeans. But it was no use; I’d never blend in anywhere. My hair was too red-and by red I mean bright orange (the kind that always looks dyed, but on me is natural). My face was blotchy and turned pink when I was angry or mad or embarrassed, and when I was calm it was a color so white you’d think it was blue. I was small, thank God, so at least I had a little more of a chance at blending in. But somehow, this never seemed to help-it seemed like I was always noticed, and then scoffed at.