Josephine Midori Yuy.
Josephine M. Yuy.
Josie Midori Yuy.
J. Midori Yuy.
Josie M. Yuy.
Being thirteen isn’t easy for me. At this point the typical American girl would be sprouting into womanhood, carrying the burden of menstruation, PMS, and trying to stay within the style lines of the most catchy pop clone of the fifteen-minute period. Not me. Oh no. Not the super-freak from Gracia, California. I barely have a figure much less style. Style. Ew. Bad word only used for Mom and her modeling friends. And Uncle Aidan. He was born with style.
Maybe it’s in my blood. I am one-eighth Spanish, one-eighth French, one-fourth American, and one-half Japanese. I’m as indigenous as anyone here in the good ol’ US of A, but yet I feel like I’ve been living in a place in which I do not belong. Maybe I’ve been watching too many Smallville reruns. That Clark Kent dude has it worse off than I do. (If Felice was around she’d ardently point out that he’s all that with a bag of chips and Hawaiian Punch—and also bears a startling resemblance to Angel. But that’s another story.)
My mind wonders when this all started. I can’t quite grasp it anymore. It’s out of my reach now, like the cookies on the top shelf or the top of the cherry blossom tree. (Those, by the way, is one of the prettiest things in the world. Every place should have one.)
Most people have told me that throughout my so-called charmed life, I’ve had it lucky. No wars, no famines—nothing of any significance.
Too bad that they are sadly mistaken.
I’m going to venture a guess that this all started with my father. He was (okay, I’m terrible to speak in the past tense because he’s probably still alive) is one of the smartest guys I ever knew. He knew how to program a laptop within one minute of exploring it. He’s the type of guy that everyone wondered about—the guy all the men hated and the women wanted to jump into bed with. Or at least that’s how Mom put it one carefree day in what I’d like to call “chocolate jest.”
My mother was another thing entirely. She had been dubbed a beauty queen, a stuck-up Manhattan socialite—the type of person that could be a Southern debutante without being, well, Southern. Underneath her ambition she kept her insecurity, locked up tight in the treasure chest she called her heart. Even at my age, I could see it, bearing its ugly head whenever doubt crept up from the shadows. She, like my father, was (there goes the past tense again…) is fiercely intelligent. She also had a bad, fiery temper, and if you messed her about it’d rear its ugly head.
But I digress. Back to my father. He had been a mercenary in war, as Mom told me one night. A war, he confessed, that was pointless to begin with. But aren’t all wars pointless? Can’t all things be resolved?
I think yes but Tristian tells me this is not so. Not things are as simple as black and white. As Dad put it, it’s a horrible shade of gray. My “charmed” life has been dotted with triumphs such as being able to wake up without changing my brain waves and snapping my ankle back into place after breaking it (which isn’t pretty I assure you) and catastrophes such as growing into adolescence and watching my parents being hurt and captured over and over and over…
Now does that sound like a typical girl? Of course not. I’m the poster child for total and complete abnormality and everyone that meets me knows this.
Perhaps I am the one to save my family.