So I know I shouldn't probably be starting a NEW fanfic when, as you know, I'm working on Illuminating the Darkness and Fairytale, but this idea popped into my head, and well, I just couldn't resist!

1

The rains falls onto the damp cobble streets below. I let my mouth drop open, catching the silky smooth droplets on my tongue. Luke watches from the living room window, probably wondering if his sister had gone insane. I didn't care. It was worth it, the freedom, the peace, and the water.

"Zoe!" the call resounds through the house and out the front door. I chose to ignore it, though, facing myself back towards the endless downpour of rain.

"Zoe Jackson!" the call comes again, more persistent. Again, I tune it out, nothing more then a bee buzzing it's angry tirade in my ear for disturbing it's slumber.

"Zoe Bianca Jackson!" Uh oh. Middle name treatment. Never a good sign. I sigh, reluctantly stomping up the walkway to the front door. Jumping up the stairs, I kick off my shoes and plop down in defeat on the small, creaky bench by the door.

"Zoe!" my mother begins, her eyes the color of the storm clouds overhead. Here it comes. "We NEVER go outside in the rain! Do you understand me?"

Usually, that was good enough for me. Mom says so, that's the rule. Bada bing, bada boom. But lately, that wasn't good enough. Lately, I had more questions. Why did we have to keep moving? Why did Mom have a knife in her boot all the time? Why did Luke and I never meet our grandparents, besides Dad's mom and Mom's Dad? What was with Dad and his security blanket of a pen?

"But why?" I burst out. "Why can't I go outside in the rain? Why do we have to move every year? Why does Mom have a knife?" At this last question, I can see Mom's hand stray, unawares, to her left boot.

"That is none of your concern," Dad says firmly, his eyes hard. "Just stay inside." With that, Mom and Dad turn on their heals and walk down the hall, muttering amongst themselves.

"Well brilliant," I say sarcastically to Luke, expecting SOME support there. He frowns, though.

"Zoe, Mom and Dad have their reasons," he says. "Just because they haven't told you doesn't mean they're not there."

He turns and walks up the stairs to his room.

"Just think about it!" he yells. I groan. Sometimes it feels like I'm the younger sibling, not the oldest. Luke was blessed, (or cursed, depending on your point of view,) with Mom's eyes. When he was serious, those stormy grey eyes hardened, like silver. That and the stare he has, sometimes it feels like I have three parents running around. As if two weren't bad enough.

The clock chimes in the hall as Dad renters the mudroom.

"Zoe?" he asks cautiously. "Dinner's ready." My stomach growls as I nod sullenly, leaping to my feet to set the table.

As the four of us sit down to eat, Mom eyes me, anger evident in her gaze.

"Zoe," she says. "You know how I feel about the sulking."

I roll my eyes. "Pass me the gravy, Luke."

"Manners!" Luke chides as he hands me the dish. See what I mean about three parents?

"She's a teenager Annabeth," Dad tells Mom. "Remember how you were at that age?" Mom snorts.

"I doubt I was THAT obnoxious," she mutters. Ouch. Thanks, Mom.

"It's in their nature to be self-obsessed," Dad continues. "She'll grow out of it. Don't worry."

"Um, hello?" I interrupt. "I'm right here!"

"Be as that may," Mom says, swiveling back towards me, "-Your attitude is completely uncalled for. I've read stories about feuding Mother's and Daughter's, and we're not going to be one of them." Of course. Typical Mom. Only she would use the word feuding, and read it in a book, not on the internet like any normal person would. Though, as I'm sure you've picked up, my family is anything but normal.

Maybe once you answer my questions, I think irritably.

What my parents called being self-absorbed, I called getting a brain. When you were little, you were your parents mindless little slave. You did whatever they wanted. But once you grew up, you started to think, and get a brain and mind of your own. And at about the beginning of getting a brain, you begin to see the holes in your parents thinking, And those holes grow and grow, as your brain does, until they're so blatantly big there's no chance of avoiding it.

But I knew that wasn't the answer Mom wanted. And if there's one thing I've learned in my years as a teenager, it's go along to get along.

"Yeah," I say. Mom's eyebrows shoot up. "Yes, Mom." Mom nods, satisfied.

"Good," she says. "And don't forget."

The rest of the meal is conducted in silence.