Chapter Four: Dreamer
102 Voalim Avenue
Dela, Victoria, Australia
Earth, 1997
Alanda dropped her bag on the floor of her room, and walked
outside, listening as her footsteps thumped on the carpeted floor.
*Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.* she thought. *There are two sorts of
people. Those who fly when they walk and those who TRY to fly but end
up thumping.* she glared at her reflection in the sliding door as she
made for the kitchen, *Any guess which one I am.*
She avoided looking at the awards sitting on top of the black
entertainment system as she walked past the living room, *You'd think
with so many geniuses in the family, SOMETHING would rub off on me.*
she thought wistfully as she leaned against the kitchen counter and
helped herself to a piece of celery left over from somebody's lunch.
*Probably Edward - Cathy and Chelsea wouldn't touch green stuff like
this with a ten foot pole.* Alanda thought vaguely, munching steadily
through the stick.
She didn't look up as the side door slid open.
"Hey kid - what's up?" Edward asked ruffling her hair.
"Edward, do you have to sound like an american sitcom all the time?"
Alanda demanded.
"You in a bad mood for some reason?" her older brother frowned as he
took out some dip and biscuits.
"I'm depressed."
"AGAIN?" Edward shook his head, "You're ALWAYS depressed, Alanda."
He said through a bite of biscuit and salmon dip.
Alanda shrugged, "YOU try going to school and being the class square.
Getting teased all the time and being fat, ugly and stupid."
"That's an oxymoron of some sort I think." Edward said thoughtfully,
"You can't be a square AND stupid, Alanda. You're smart - it's in our
genes." He said.
"Maybe in YOUR's, but not mine." Alanda shook her head, "Argh! Why
do I bother talking to you? You wouldn't know how it feels! You're Mum
and Dad's smart, perfect son who-is-a-doctor, Chelsea is their perfect-
executive-daughter and Cathy is their black sheep art daughter making-
her-own-way-and-who-they're-proud-secretly."
"You're writing and talking in clichés again, Alanda." Edward
pointed out, then looked at her, "What does that make you in your
books?" he asked curiously.
"The nobody." Alanda said darkly, "Not smart enough to go into
science, not good enough to go into arts and don't have the sense for
business."
Edward sighed, "Come on, 'landa - you're good at writing, and typing.
You're always tapping away on your computer and stuff."
"Yeah stuff." Alanda muttered, "I'll go be a secretary."
"If that's what you want." Edward offered as she stomped off to her
room.
"Stuff." Alanda muttered, "Just for ONCE, I'd like to be good at
something - better - different than them." She bit her lip.
It wasn't even as if her parents supported sibling rivalry or ignored it
if it was going on like some other parents she knew about. Or even that
she was so much younger than Chelsea, Edward and Cathy. But everything
she did, everything she was. . .
*It feels as if I'm either doing what they did worse or I'm going to end
up where they are, only lesser.* she sighed, *THEY aren't going to lord
it over me that they've all known what they wanted to be since they were
kids - and now they've got what they've dreamed of. They're a great
bunch of sibs, but it's like I'm just one of the lackeys. The butt-
kisser.* she sighed, *All those books I read about great people who
become heroes. All those fantasy novels, all those movies. I SWORE I'd
never become a butt-kisser, that I'd be different even if I was alone.*
she bit her lip, *I'm becoming somebody I hate. Maybe it's no use
trying to become as good as all those heroes and heroines, maybe they
don't exist. Maybe everything I've read about and write about doesn't
exist. Maybe that's what makes the difference between a good writer and
a bad writer. A good writer knows that everything she writes about
doesn't exist so she injects that fantastic wistful part into her work,
while me - the bad writer - doesn't and people get bored.* she thought
sadly.
Alanda threw herself into the chair, and flipped the computer on waiting
as it booted up. *All I've ever wanted to be was a writer.* she
thought opening Word, *But even I know that I don't have the talent for
it.* she'd read enough books to know that, *I don't have the talent -
the something special to write GOOD. No matter how much I try, no
matter how much I wish or hope or practice.*
She stared at the white screen, the glow from it illuminating the
darkening room.
*I wish I was someone. Someone special.*
Alanda leaned against her hand, closing her eyes for a second, willing
the tears back, *It's probably hormonal. I'm probably just feeling
depressed because it's 'that time' again.*
*But what if I'm truly seeing things in reality now, and later I just
see it through rose-colored goggles like they say. Maybe THIS is what
reality is about. No use trying for perfection or happiness. It's
usual for life to be shitty.*
*Maybe it's time I faced the facts and give up dreams.*
