Okay, so here it is. It's all mine, my ideas and plot and stuff. Except for the obvious things that I do not own, I own everything.

F.S.

APRIL 17, 2011

"Is there any possible way we could postpone this?" Katrina Silver asked of her aunt, "Or, better, avoid it altogether!" Katrina Silver, age fifteen, was being forced to go with her aunt and uncle to a local restaurant with six of the neighboring families. Count 'em. Six. Katrina had long, dark auburn hair, as the natural red color was dimmed by the lack of sunlight all winter. She kept it in a tight bun, unusual for a modern American teen. She had green eyes, almost an unnatural shade of green, as they tended to darken with her anger, darker than the most secluded glade, or brighten with happiness, as bright as a spring leaf. She possessed the Silver family nose, which was a small, slightly upturned feature that received the occasional compliment. Silvers were proud of their noses. Her china-pale face was also accompanied by perfectly arched eyebrows. This was a natural feature, too, (no plucking involved) inherited from her mother, who was not part of the Silver bloodline, but married to one. Her mother's maiden name was Klime, or something like it. Regardless, Katrina counted her lucky stars she did not receive her father's genes here, as Silvers had unusually large, bushy eyebrows that tended to grow together at an alarming rate. With lashes like clock springs and full lips, she would have been pretty if not for the sour expression characteristically plastered to her face.

Her aunt, Felicia Silver, a woman in her mid-forties, had fading-blonde hair, her family nose, or as Katrina called it when she was in a foul mood, the "McGruder snout", and a few laugh lines etched on her features. She was reasonably pretty for her age as well. She fixated her gray eyes on her niece, her brother-in-law's last living relation besides her own husband, Jeremy Silver. They had agreed to take the child in because of her looks, smile, smarts (we'll get back to that later), love, and because their son, Sammy, was longing for a play-mate. And, of course, they felt so sorry about that horrible flood that carried off Katrina's family. Not even a year ago, though it seemed lifetimes away and hurt anew everyday.

"No, Katrina, for the final time, you will accompany us and you will not complain. Or talk about your little submato-hoozie-matrons," Katrina's strange interests were dead giveaways to who she was. Felicia fought hard to keep her voice level; she was losing. Katrina sighed, obviously tired of explaining everything to everybody.

"Sub-a-tom-ic-part-i-cles," she said slowly, enunciating very clearly, hoping her aunt would understand this time, "and, those things are so third grade," she added, a spark of average teenage-girl showing. Her aunt just nodded, finding it better to agree with Katrina than to put her in her place. The last time Felicia tried, she ended up taking a three-hour nap and a few aspirins. The reason the Silvers (minus Katrina) wanted to make such a good impression on the neighbors was because the families of the old neighborhood in the old state had heard of Katrina. She attracted attention without really meaning to. But, the Georgia flood, though terrible, provided the family with the opportunity to make a relatively fresh start. Felicia was determined to reign in her niece's fiery temper and big vocabulary. She would not be belittled again. Her family had already been looked down upon due to their accents. Born and bred noble Southerners. The angrier one of them got, Katrina in particular, the thicker the accent became, until they eventually abandoned grammar and pronunciation. Even Katrina had let her accent slip; several times, in fact.

"Well, are we ready, ladies?" Katrina's uncle, Jeremy Silver, walked in just then, disrupting the muted argument. He was a nearly-bald man, late forties, with a large brown beard and warm green eyes. He had the customary Silver nose and eyebrows, and his smile could put a banana to shame. He was a police officer, a deputy, and he was well-built, despite his slight roundness. He took pride in polishing his guns everyday after work, promising himself (and Katrina if she happened to walk by) that he would look after his adopted "daughter" if she came home after having a bad day involving any sort of teenaged male. His son, Katrina's three-year-old cousin, Sammy, held his hand, dressed up in a polo shirt and toddler jeans. Sammy looked nothing like his father, but rather, his late uncle. Suspicions arose at this at first, but after a DNA test by Katrina, proving Sammy to be 100% Jeremy and Felicia, Mr. Silver accepted it.

Sammy had a pale face framed by black hair with bits of brown in it. He got his own portion of the Silver genes in the nose and eyebrows, but his eyes were all his own. A deep, endless blue. No one else had blue eyes in the family tree. He was an oddity, a treasure, in his own household.

"Yes," said Mrs. Silver, picking up her son, "we're ready to go," She walked past her husband, not once looking at Katrina. The teenager became tight-lipped and betrayed no emotion. She followed her family to the beat-up mini-van in the dusty, under-used garage. As Katrina fastened Sammy in and then herself, she was overcome with a vague sense of expectancy. It was squashed when she remembered where she was going. Mr. Silver gunned the engine, shot out of the garage, and began to drive down the curvy, two-lane street through their tiny neighborhood, heading towards "Senor La Multa Gaseosa Come", the so-called restaurant one of the neighbors had picked out. Katrina briefly wondered if anyone knew that the English translation of that was "Mr. Gassy's Fine Eats". Hardly appetizing. Katrina really should have eaten that Moon Pie cookie thing when she found it in the cupboard. It was going to be a long three-hour dinner.

The restaurant was more horrible than anything Katrina could have imagined. Smoky, over-crowded, with a horrible aroma that seemed to be everywhere, including on the furniture and customers. There seemed to be a rainbow shine on everything, confirming her theory that places like this were nothing but giant grease traps, clogging up arteries everywhere. They were like diseases. Awful, yet interesting, and spreading too quickly. A skinny, pimple-faced teenager stood behind a podium made to look like a happy taco. The taco reminded Katrina of clowns seen in paintings. Seemingly happy on the outside, screaming for help on the inside. The teenager, chin in hand, glanced at the family before flicking his eyes to stare at the walls again. Katrina cleared her throat, fixing the rude boy with a cold stare; she could feel her eyes getting darker with each passing second. The lanky teenager let out an exaggerated sigh. He pushed four menus into Mr. Silver's hands and motioned for the group to follow him. They maneuvered their way through screaming toddlers and greasy waiters.

Mrs. Silver veered off from the group unexpectedly, causing the waiter showing them to their table to stomp his foot in a very annoying way. Katrina shot him another look, but he took no notice. Mrs. Silver was conversing with another woman, who happened to be in a very large group. A few smiles, a laugh, and Mrs. Silver eventually came back to join her family, nearly toppling a small waitress.

"Come on, Jerry. It's Elaine and the rest," And with that, the Silver family was ushered towards their neighbors. Elaine was a tall African-American woman with neatly parted hair and a sweet smile. She sat with someone Katrina assumed was her husband, an equally tall man with a clean-shaven head and business suit. Very out-of-place in such a pigsty, in Katrina's opinion. She allowed her aunt and uncle do the talking until they were invited to sit.

"Oh, my, you look fabulous," an aged lady with a pink jacket complimented Mrs. Silver.

"Thank you, Anita," Mrs. Silver replied, praising Anita's practically fluorescent jacket.

"Jerry, how've you been?" said a blonde man in his mid-thirties to Mr. Silver. And this was how it went. Somewhere between the genuine compliments and white lies, the Silvers had been seated, brought menus, and had ordered. Katrina had not been allowed to order. An old man across from her wouldn't allow it. He had a thin, white mustache, and had a sombrero perched comically on his egg-shaped head. The rest of his face was too squinty and wrinkly to make out any real features. He ordered for her, not even considering what she might actually want to eat.

"Young ladies should enjoy a meal, not go to the trouble of making difficult decisions." He said, winking at her. Mr. Silver smiled a bit. It was an uneasy smile. Not an "oh-dear-here's-the-man-I-owe-five-dollars-to" smile; more of an "I've-got-to-explain-to-my-neighbor-why-I-blew-up-his-garage" smile.

"Trevor, Katrina can order for herself," he said gently to the old man. "Trevor" waved the comment away. Katrina grimaced, half bristling at Trevor's unwanted offer, half dreading the macaroni and cheese that was to come. The adults talked animatedly, in an almost constant buzz, and pretty much all at the same time; but there was a gap in the sound waves on the side of the table opposite Katrina. She tuned in, angling her head inconspicuously. Talking, talking…talking, talking, and talking. There! Katrina realized. Someone wasn't partaking in the conversation. With nothing left to do, she allowed her curiosity to get the best of her; she glanced up. She scanned the faces of her apparent neighbors, looking for an unmoving mouth. She searched twice before she noticed someone. A boy. Looking right at her. He casually glanced away, pretending to have a conversation with Anita. The old woman happily complied. Katrina glared at the boy. Striking red hair, thick tinted glasses, and a black turtle-neck. Suddenly, Katrina's aunt spoke up. Above the din of the restaurant, Katrina had to strain to hear her.

"Dexter, how's school been, sweetheart?" Aunt Felicia said in a honey-sweet voice. The boy looked up. Katrina took care not to appear too interested.

"Fine, thank you," he answered, accent drowning out all conversation. Katrina's ear swiveled slightly to funnel the sound to her eardrum. Stupid bat ears of hers. They moved slightly when detecting a new sound, much like a cat's or a dog's. Forcing her face to remain the same color and to not turn red with embarrassment for her crazy ears, Katrina waited to hear more of the conversation, or even to be asked to join, as bored as she was. However, the food arrived then. Katrina grudgingly reached for her plate, but was stopped short by the same old man who had ordered for her.

"Let me get that for you, dear," he said. He took her plate, and attempted to cut up her macaroni noodles. With a spoon.

"Girls shouldn't be too close to knives," he said, smiling that oh-so-annoying smile of his. Katrina scowled. She could handle a knife. She had been eating with silverware for ten years, thank you very much. She could order for herself, too. She smiled at Trevor, contemplating if saying something was worth ruining her aunt's little gathering. The old man pushed her plate towards her, handing her a fork (a child's fork with rounded prongs), asking a waiter for a refill on her water, though it was full, and, in an attempt to start a conversation, Trevor asked her how her sewing was going. Six seconds of awkward silence followed. The rest of the table had decided to listen in at this incredibly inconvenient time. Sewing? Katrina could not sew.

"I can't sew," she said, gazing steadily at the man. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dexter move his head towards them. It was nearly unnoticeable, much like her own maneuver. Trevor seemed taken aback.

"Well, what can you do, my dear?" he asked innocently.

"I can type five-hundred words a minute, read in thirteen languages, write in twelve, speak fifteen, take apart a computer, rebuild it, and make it run four times as fast, no matter what model it is, and I can recite Gone With the Wind word for word," Katrina finished. One of Dexter's eyebrows arched. Just barely. Aunt Felicia slapped her forehand with her hand. Even Sammy knew that Katrina had somehow screwed something up. The old man got a strange look in his eye, almost… disappointment; anger? He turned to Katrina's uncle.

"Jerry, I hope you've taught this girl her place. In the kitchen and whatnot, I mean. Running a clean house. At the very least, sewing for her man!" The man sounded thoroughly surprised, insistent. Dexter frowned slightly. Uncle Jerry looked at his wife. Aunt Felicia pretended to be busy with a piece of burrito. Katrina glowered at the man.

"That," she growled, sure her eyes looked nearly black, "is the single most male-chauvinistic comment I have ever heard in my entire life. Welcome to the twenty-first century, you moronic imbecile. I assure you, women are perfectly capable of doing more than just crawling around on the floor with a broom and mop. Women are now doing jobs in factories, airports," she paused, feigning surprise, "even… the military." Mr. Oldie balked at her before regaining his composure. No girl was to speak to him like that. She would have to be taught her place, whether it be in a public place or not.

"Now, dear-" he said, trying to be calm. Katrina cut him off.

"Don't 'dear' me. You ought to realize when you're out of line, ordering for me, when I'm perfectly capable of reading and talking simultaneously; handing me my own silverware, telling me to sew for 'my man'." She spat the last words out like a sour pecan. She pointed an accusing finger at him. For the next eight seconds, Katrina became unintelligible, as her anger went on, unchecked. As previously stated, when she was upset, no one could understand her, so her accent was a little more than a string of gibberish. Albeit angry gibberish. She stood up and slapped her hands flat on the table, causing the utensils to dance, and her face inches from the old man's. He shook like no grown man should when faced with a teenage girl. Somewhere, within all the drama, the rest of the restaurant had gone completely silent. Even the infants had stopped squalling.

"Now," she growled, voice dripping with fury, "you're gonna leave this restaurant knowin' full well how capable women and girls are. In fact, you're gonna go home, on the internet, if you have any, you narrow-minded Yankee, and search for women in the 1900's. WOMEN WITH JOBS." She added, face closer with every word, "The next time we meet, I hope you'll have somethin' in-nerestin' to talk about." Her accent, though more understandable, shook with anger and cold contempt. The old man nodded and backed his chair up from the suddenly very intimidating child. He fell, knocking over a waiter, causing water to spill everywhere. He stood up, fully intent on running away as quickly as possible. Maybe buy a computer.

"Say you're sorry," she called after him, voice in danger of rising. Trevor stuttered out several apologies to the young man on the floor before scurrying from the restaurant as quickly as he could. Katrina sat down. The entire establishment watched the movement. Katrina glanced around, eyes as dark as green velvet.

"I'm done," she said loudly, accent nearly gone. Activity once again exploded. Babies cried, children whined, parents cursed themselves for going out to eat, and servers twisted through the tables, all wanting to resume normality, so as not to anger the red-haired girl sitting at the largest table. Over it all, Katrina could just barely make out a little laugh, a chuckle, someone who was trying desperately not to laugh and failing miserably. Katrina looked up to see the boy, Dexter, with his head ducked, trying to keep a straight face. But Miss Silver did not look at her aunt and uncle. She would catch hell for this, she was sure.

"Damned Southern pride," she said. It really was her injured pride that had gotten the best of her. And that's when Dexter really laughed. He was alone in this, as no one else even smiled, save Katrina, though it was small and well hidden. She could feel the awkwardness surrounding the group, and she began to wonder if she should have scrambled from the restaurant when the thoroughly spooked old-timer did.