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Prologue

I'm lying, on my back, in the deserted pool of a deserted house. The water stinks of chlorine and alcohol but it doesn't strike me as disgusting, it's natural, comfortable even. This was my home, smack down in the middle of Beverly Hills, California. With it's sun-kissed girls and guys with all their six-packs, but all isn't what they seem. You'll get it once I get my story straight.

So, I grew up in Beverly Hills, like every other girl, I dreamed of being the next Celine Dion or Hilary Duff and as always, we Beverly Hills girls know how dreams stay as dreams which never comes true. The thing is, our family wasn't rich, at least, my mom wasn't. She couldn't even get past Year 10 in High School in Ohio, let alone going off to college. Her beauty was what attracted men and what haunted her, after having me, she started using. I remember when I was five, I found those little pink and blue ecstasy pills that she mixed with her vitamins. I remembered crawling up to her and asking her what they were, the look in her eyes told me that I said the wrong thing. The next minute, she was on the floor, sobbing like there's no tomorrow and I thought that she was begging for forgiveness from the Lord. What, religious studies just started and I was a Christian. From that moment on, I knew that I'd lost something precious, I started to doubt myself and whether my mother even loved me. That sounds sad and pathetic but hey, it's true.

Now you're going to ask about my dad, Daddy was a rich executive at some fashion company which is why I suppose I've grown up with all the privileges of the wealthy and spoiled, but the one sacrifice was that he was never here. Sure, I'd wake up in the morning at 5:30 a.m. just to catch his shadow walking away with the personal trainer that always seemed to have big boobs, blond hair and a killer body. As a child, I never wondered why he always had trainers who were female, now I've come to realize that I was lucky not to ask because I would have not liked the answer to that question. He was always at work or on business trips, Paris, Milan, you know, all the fashion capitals. My mom desperately wanted to tag along but his excuse was always " Tracy, you have a daughter to look after." My mom would then look at me with a flash of hatred in her eyes and stalk off to her rooms.

Then comes primary school, I'm skipping the kindergarten part because hey, no-one wants to hear about me smearing paint all over my overalls and playing all day on the monkey bars was fun, though boring if I were to talk about it. You'd think that there would be better playgrounds in Beverly Hills. Now, most kids went to a private school where they learn advanced mathematics and have posters of the Ivy League schools plastered to their walls. I however, didn't get that chance because by that time, I was already caught in a bitter divorce case that of course, dad would win single-handed. I never felt that sorry for either of them, I guess in my childish thoughts I found the whole phenomenon funny and entertaining. The people with their dark suits and serious faces, stacks of documents which I liked to read and all the pizza that we ordered for everyone was enough to fulfill my dreams.

My primary school years were filled with guys who would try to be my friend only to do some stupid dare to make out with me, I never recognized my own popularity or how much other girls seemed to despise me. All my friends were guys and we would play basketball or go to the beach and surf, my mom would always tell her friends how strong and independent I was. But that was forced upon me, I didn't want to have to be so independent but having a mother who's doing cocaine and a father who's remarried to another buxom woman doesn't really help my situation much. In year 5, I finally broke down after an incident with my mother.

The day started out fine with the sunny California weather, I was sipping hot chocolate on the kitchen bench when my mom walked in, shaken and sobbing. Immediately, I ran to her and asked her what's wrong. She said that she couldn't pay the drug dealer back the money and we may have to sell the house. The words hit me like a stone in the gut, a strong wave of anger washed over me. Anger at my dad for leaving us behind, anger at my mom for doing drugs and being so addicted to cigarettes and alcohol. She was messed up, I knew, but until that moment, the veil hasn't been lifted from my eyes. Now it has and the full weight of the situation just seemed to crash down upon me like a ton of bricks.

I remember running out the door without my shoes on, the breeze catching my hair and the stares that I'm getting from the other early-risers seem to burn a hole into my skin. My lung feels as if I just poured a steaming hot pot of acid down it and small beads of sweat are forming on my forehead and rolling down my legs. But I'm past caring about small details like that, all I wanted to do at that precise point in time was to just run, with no guilt, no regrets, with the wind gently combing my hair and the smell of the ocean hitting me, clearing my mind up. I don't stop running, even as sharp flints in the ground dig into the soles of my feet, even as I hear a police car driving towards me. I'm scared, so terrified of what's going to happen if I return to that house, my hands are trembling and suddenly, I collapsed. The tears that I vowed not to spill out of my eyes are pouring down my cheeks, my body is convulsing uncontrollably. I feel hands lifting me up off the ground but I don't turn to see who helped me up. I scream and kick but it's no use as I sink deeper and deeper into a pit of my own despair.

My mom treated me like dirt after that, I thought it was because of the drugs, it was a long time before I found out that the rumors spread like wildfire about her run-away daughter who should be institutionalized. I never sought acceptance from my mother, not even love after the incident. All I wanted to do was to get high school over and done with, then go to a college far, far away to get away from all this hectic and confusing events that seem to make up my life.

What I didn't realize was that high school was going to be the best and worst years of my life.