creative writing 1

The moment I open my eyes, I see one thing. Blue flits of color skimming about a foot from my face. Then I hear the Beethoven. It makes sense. I have synesthesia, which is varied in lots of different ways. Mine means I have colored hearing, and colored taste. I am totally not a morning person, but Mom insisted before I wake up at six every day. Oh, well. Schools starts at eight thirty, but I want to be able to practice my viola. I rub my eyes and sit up in bed. My quilt is pretty thin, because here in Florida we definitely don’t need extra warmth. We live by the coast and only get an occasional drafty day. I shake off the blanket and get up. I stretch my skinny, small frame and pull the hair back from my face. I’m not Christian, but I say a prayer.”Dear God, please make me ugly. Amen.”Now, this is a wish many girls gawk on, like,”Why would you do that? I’d wanna look like you!”After I finish muttering, I run to the fancy mirror I really didn’t want. I close my eyes, hold my breath, and then spew hot air out. I open my eyes and groan, loud. Very loud. My choppy cinnamon hair is still shiny, my fringe of lashes hasn’t gotten any thinner, and my eyes are still marble green. That part, I don’t mind that much. I like my eyes. I sigh and turn away. My backpack is sitting in my desk chair, so I grab that, toss it onto my bed, and run to the window and peek out at the ocean of green grass. We live in one of the “rich kid” houses-Burrow Street. The other snotty kids tease me-my name, my scar. Thinking about it, I trace the three-inch mark on the side of my face. Sadly, it doesn’t make me any less pretty. Also my fault for burning myself with a blob of burning marshmallow. It’s also bad enough that my name is Ashlyn.Everyone calls me Ash, though. I hate Ashlyn. Just Ash. I peel away from the window and stuff my binder in my backpack. At my school, Fox Ridge, grades 5-9 have a homeroom and lots of other classes. The homerooms stick together for the whole year, so I’m stuck with my class. And Amie Lancaster. God, she’s a horror. I’ve known her for five years, and she’s never stopped being a jerk. School has just started this year and she’s already started. I shiver just thinking about her. I distinctly remember not liking her right away because of her cold gray name. I blink. I’m getting distracted a lot today. I zip the bag up and set it against the chair. I run to the bathroom and start to brush my teeth, thinking about the track club Mom made me join. I joined, but she finally ended up giving me the ice-cream maker and cookie tool set I wanted. The head coach had said the last practice,”We’re starting track and field events.”I wonder how good they’ll be.