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I was- no, am- a child. A child of anonymity. A child who was incredibly obbsessed with using large and complex words to get her thoughts across, simply because she thought it'd make her seem important and superior. No, scratch the was. That habit wasn't easy to break. It was...ah, 1968. The September I turned 13, before the eighth grade. The Vietnam war was still blowing strong, as were my opinions against it, fueled by my flower child brother. Now, what was "it"? It was when I was just Annie Morskowitz, the adolescent, agnostic Jew. The ANONYMOUS, adolescent, agnostic Jew.
It was a hard time for me, of course, because I wasn't sure if I should give up my Barbie for those groovy platforms like Franki has and Peter fauns over. We were just outcasts who flocked together, and our problems were all prominent. Though, I do believe mine were tame compared to my friends'. One, the girl who made me Annie Morskowitz, the child of un-anonymity, could go so far as to be called insane. We just wrote our own chapters into our own story, and this is how it went.

It's the Wednesday before Labor Day, and I'm sprawled across my bedroom flipping through a Sears catalogue. The only thing I'm letting myself worry about is if I can convince Mama to buy me a wonderbra before school starts. Some people say this is the worst year of Junior High; you're no longer young and defenseless like you were in the 7th grade, thus the teachers don't care as much, and you aren't big and intimidating like the 9th graders. Some of them really scare the jeepers out of me, and I absolutely COULD NOT bear it if I wasn't completely self-confident, and could I achieve that without a large bust? NO!
"Merry Christmas, Annie!" I jerked with a start, hitting my head on my bedframe. I really wanted to swear, but Mama says if you swear before you're fifteen your tounge rots out.
"Vincent!" I tumbled across my pig stye of a room to greet my older brother, who shipped himself off with his band the year previous, the day he turned eighteen. His stupid grin was exactly the same, and his hair was even longer, tied at the base of his neck. He scooped me up into his famous bear hug, obviously with the intent of asphyxiating me.
"Happy Easter!" I said with a giggle. He ruffled my hair, then sat on my mini couch (Loveseats, I think they're called?).
"'Tch out, that thing is kaput." He got up at the crackling of springs, then continued to rummage around my room.
"Honestly, do you mind? I don't like you messing in all my things." Vincent chuckled, then playfully flicked my nose.
"...Mom and Dad don't know I'm here." I turned my head to face him, confused. Well, maybe I shouldn't be. He and my parents don't get along, ever since he got interested in that "Flower child" stuff when he was fifteen.
"Why?" I inquired, as he stretched his back along my ugly piece of furniture.
"Ah, see...well, I'll tell you later. Now, can't we just celebrate my homecoming?" I may have been young and naive (whatever that meant), but it's not hard to see that he was avoiding the subject. I stood to face him, giving my brother the most evil death glare I could conjure. His gaze broke under mine, and he stood up, too.
"Well, y'know...I'm avoiding the draft." As I opened my mouth in protest, he raised his hand to silence me.
"Don't give me that. Listen, it isn't my fault our parents just can't see what's good in life. Don't tell 'em, or else I'll be completely down the tube with this whole country." I cocked my head to the side, something I often did when I was confused.
"Because! You can't avoid the draft, it's illegal." Oh. Well, that's kinda bad.
"So why are you here?" He grinned at me. Jeez, he's such a dork.
"I wanted to tell my little sister bye, because I probably won't be seeing her until the war is over." I couldn't believe it. He couldn't do this to me! My parents were complete flakes, they just didn't see my dilemmas I had in life.
"Annie? Is someone in there with you?" I gasped. How did he get in here unnoticed, anyway?
"Oh, yeah. I climbed through the window at the end of the hall. Forgot. Ah...I'm out of here, Annie, I'll be sure to write you n' stuff." He flicked my nose, then hurried to my window. As he opened it, he turned to me.
"...Don't be a fink."
"I haven't heard anyone use that word since the 3rd grade." I smiled, and he waved and climbed down.
"Annie? Seriously, who're you talking to?"
"No one, Mom." I shouted back.
"Well, good, delusional people are extremely hard to get along with." Delusional? What does that mean? I shut my door, then did a dive onto my bed. It squeaked on impact, which was really irksome. I took a glance at my barbies, shoved in a box above my wardrobe. I promised myself not to play with them anymore, since my 13th birthday is nearing. Franki would have a fit. Of laughter, but still, a fit. This whole thing was really confusing. Forget the Romans, why can't school teach you how to grow up?

That was quite a while back, if one and three-quarters of a year counts as a while. I know, I'm much more grown-up than I should be right now, but I certainly do have my reasons.

"Oy." I buried my face in my hands, overwhelmed by the camaraderie (I learned that word from my Yente) of kids in the school yard. Franki, still towering over me, slapped me on the back.
"Just keep on truckin', kid." She tossed her stupidly straight, rapunzel-colored hair over her shoulder.
"As much as you say that, I swear it'll become world-known one day." I said, shaking my head.
"Yeah right, the same day we'll have to pay over three bucks for gas." We giggled, even though it wasn't funny. She took me by the hand, and led me across the perfectly manicured lawn. It was greener than my face sometimes got when I ate broccoli, which was pretty green.
"We both have English first, right?" I nodded, pulling my schedule out of my pant pocket. I took this chance to enviously stare at Franki's mini-dress and platforms. My dirt-colored hair was still curly and pulled into pigtails, hers was blonde and straight. Anyway, all girls had a friend like this, so I shouldn't feel too bad. The girl even wore a B cup. And it was real. Like this incrredibly awful cliche. She once again grabbed my arm, and we stepped into the school, which was unneccisarily stuffy. There were less of my peers in here, but that didn't make it any more comfortable.
"Annie? Annie!" I turned swiftly, on my heel, to smack almost directly into Peter.
"Peter!" I squealed, immensely happy to discover my (we'll have to figure out his ethnicity later, Jeanna :p) effeminate friend who also had nicer hair than me.
"You know Mrs. Walker? The 8th grade History teacher? I have her for homeroom!" One of Peter's idiosyncracies was that he always had to define things while twirling his hair.
"Um, yeah. The one that will kill you if you don't get to class?" Franki snorted, simultaneoulsy pointing at the clock in the school lobby.
"Damn it. Well, I'll see you guys later, okay? Don't make any new friends." We both giggled at his irrational fears, then continued to the left.
"Oh, Annie, did I tell you?"
"What?"
"They've added an extra chair to one of the tables in Mr. Wiley's class since I saw it at orientation. Which, I assume, means we're receiving a new student."
"Really? Woah. Swe- I mean, far out." Franki again laughed at my poor use of slang.
"Yeah. They want to keep it a secret, I guess, because the school is crowded enough as it is." I stared at her. She shrugged.
"I'm an observant girl."
"I know."

I must have written this quite a while back, which is why it's so... bleh.