by Amber B McN

Question by : Is this a good book beginning?
Is this a good beginning for a book?

1
“Ballet?!”
This is the word that comes out of my mouth at 20 second intervals.
“Mom, ballet?!”
“Yes, dear, it will be good for you.”
My mom has signed me up for a ballet camp, where I will learn to have “complete control” over the movements of my body. Or so the pamphlet says.
You would think a ballet camp wouldn’t be all that bad. I mean, yeah, I’m all for getting exercise and whatever. But then, you don’t know me. I don’t think anyone knows the real me, except for maybe my cat, Thorn. You’d think people would be able to guess what kind of person I am just from the way I dress, and the type of music I listen to. Ballet is definitely not my thing.
But apparently my mom hasn’t caught on.
My name is Rox. Well, technically, my birth name is “Roxanne”. But, seriously, I would never let anyone call me that. So I just tell people my name is Rox so they don’t have to know the embarrassing truth.
“Ballet?!” I ask for the third time.
Mom sighs. “Yes, Roxanne, you will be going to ballet camp for a month this summer.”
I stiffen at her use of my full name. “That’s not my name, Mom.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course it is.”
“No, it’s not. My name’s Rox. No one calls me Roxanne.”
She gives up. She hates to fight with me. “Fine, ‘Rox’, go pack for camp.”
“Pack? Already? When does camp start?”
She picks her catalog up off the table from where she had set it when I came storming in. “I’ll be dropping you off at the train station at 11 o’clock tomorrow morning.”
My jaw drops. “Train?! I’m taking a train?! Where is this stupid camp, anyway?!”
“In Michigan,” she says, without even looking up.
I storm up the stairs, go into my room, and slam the door behind me. I can not believe this is happening. I throw myself down on my black bedspread. It’s so not fair. Just because Mom was a ballet dancer doesn’t mean I have to be one too.
If you’re reading this now, most of this probably doesn’t make much sense. Good. That’s the way it should be. It doesn’t make any sense to me either. I suppose it will make more sense as time goes on.
I guess I should tell you some little facts about my screwed-up family.
There’s me. Rox Lee. I’m 17. I like heavy metal, knives, and black. Lots and lots of black. I’m 5’9″, and I have blond hair — Not that you’d be able to tell. I dye my hair black. My last name used to be “Gellar”, but that was when my dad was still around. Then he left my mom for his secretary — classic, I know. Mom didn’t want anything to do with him, and she changed our last names to her maiden name — Lee.
Then there’s my dad. His name is Mikael. Last time I checked — which was probably, like, never — he was a big corporate business guy. Again, I know. Classic. I’m so glad I didn’t inherit is ugly big nose or his mousy brown hair. Not that I have anything against brunettes. Just male brunettes named Mikael Gellar.
There’s my younger brother, Gavin. I like to call him my younger brother, but technically, he’s my twin. I was just born a few minutes before him. He also has blond hair like me, but he doesn’t dye his black. Which, honestly, is good, because I don’t want him copying my style. Not that he would anyway. Him and his friends are always in the basement playing stupid video games all day when they could be spending time in the real world. The one that matters.
And finally there’s my mom. Her name is Heather, and she’s got the blond hair. Truthfully, I think everyone on her side of the family looks like her. Or, they all look the same. I inherited most of my physical assets from her. Like being athletic.
I march to my closet and pull out the assorted wires of my 5 pairs of earbuds. Untangling them takes forever. My small amount of OCD causes me to arrange them in as straight of a line as I can manage. Then I grab my blood-red earbuds from the end of the line. They’re special to me. They’re the only gift I’ve ever gotten from my dad that I actually like, and use.
I sit on my bed and connect the earbuds to my iPod and jam them into my ears. I blast the music to block out the world. This is what I always do. The world gives me grief, I ignore the hell out of it.
I stare at my Jensen Ackles poster. “Don’t mock me,” I hiss at him, as if he can actually reply. He just stares back at me, looking smug. Ugh. Now I’m talking to my posters. I sigh and fall back on my pillow, staring up at the ceiling. The littly glittery stars sparkle at me. They remind me that I really need to take them down. I put them up there, when I was 6. It was with my dad’s help. That’s why I need to take them down. Not bec
(It cut off the end of that -__-)

Not because I’ve outgrown them, which I have, but because they symbolize what my dad used to be like. I’m trying hard to forget him.
The earbuds he gave me are the only symbol of him that I want to allow.

Best answer:

Answer by YellowRoses ☼
Yes very very nice♥

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