A young girl found in the middle of a road, with no memory of her past, grows up tough in a small suburb of NYC. Soon she will discover who she really is and what she was always meant to do.
I got in my first fight when I was eight years old. Becky Franklin pulled my hair and called me strange, so I gave her an uppercut to the jaw and called her fat. She wasn't, but it felt good to say and it was exactly the right thing to undermine her self-esteem. I was all about breaking bones with sticks and stones, but I also knew that words stung worse than any cuts or bruises I could deliver. I knew because that was what they used to hurt me. I'd been called strange or weird or freak for as long as I could remember, even though at that point the furthest back I could remember was only about a year prior. I was found naked in the middle of the road at midnight. That's my earliest visceral memory, the way the asphalt was warm but wet, and seemed to almost pulsate with the heartbeat of the earth, how my whole left side was scraped and scratched and raw, but not bloody, and the smell, sweet dewdrops and lilacs and tar. And then there were these bright orbs hovering in the distance, glowing brighter and getting larger and closer. At the time I didn't know what they were. I didn’t know they would be my salvation. I was lucky to be found by that particular car and by those people, because they became my family. The only family I've ever known. The stories of my strange arrival spread around town quickly, and I ended up being the weird girl with no history. It didn't help that I was roughly seven years old, but already had a tattoo of the moon on the back of my neck, and could barely speak English. Not that I could speak any other language either, but English was kind of what they focused on.