Meet Starr Shapiro. Who is she? You decide! This is a collaboratie ADDventure. :) come write with us!
What is the true purpose of the stars? They could not be made merely to hover, suspended in the sky as unobtainable, useless planets. So for what unfathonable reason do they?
Sitting alone in the passenger seat of a brand-spanking-new porsche, Starr Shapiro clenched the letter about stars tight in her fist. She had to be strong, she told herself. For her dad, she had to be strong.
It had been seven years since his death. Although on certain somber days-days such as this one-she could draw up the tears, she found that normally, she didn't miss him terribly. After all, he hadn't been the world's greatest dad. She'd only see him a grand total of twice a month, and even then, being twelve years old and filthy rich, she'd had better ways to occupy her time. Television, for one, was a popular commemitty. And boys, she recalled. At the age where most girls were just developing breasts, she'd been the lone late bloomer. Even now she wasn't very well-developed, she thought, glancing down at her pitifully rounded chest. But she'd known how to manipulate by then and, whew boy, did she use her talents to her advantage. Girls didn't understand, back then, why boys would choose the flat-chested rich girl to the big-bosomed niceties. But the boys had understood. And she sure did as well.
Money equals power, she thought with a trace of vindictism. And she had enough money to be aware of how to use it. Her dad, though, was another story. Millions he'd spent, wasted, on his study of the galaxy. Though to be honest, the money had really belonged to his father, Irwin Shapiro.In 1982,he'd became a professor at Harvard Universityand won some kind of medal for his work. In 1997, he became the First Timken University Professor, whatever that meant. He'd researched some load of crap about using gravitational lenses to assess the age of the universe, and he'd made buckets of money on it.So thanks to her grandfather, she and the rest of her miserable family were filthy rich.
Not that she didn't like having money. Don't get her wrong, she did. She was materialistic by nature, and having money only made it easier to buy the things she wanted. She'd grown up with the world at her feet, and she liked it like that. She did not, however, appreciate it when people tried to screw that up. So when her idiot mother had had the grand idea of "finishing out her husband's dream", Starr hadn't liked it much.
And she was just finding out that there was nothing she could do about that.
Tapping her french-tipped nails against the car door in impatience, she ran her restless eyes along the towering building on the other side of the street that had thrown her cherry-red porsche into shade. Her mother had been in there for over an hour, she noted in vague irritation when she glanced at the dashboard clock. She didn't even know why she was in there; her mother had refused to tell her. So she'd just been sitting here for the better part of sixty minutes, doing nothing. She hated not moving; it made her restless and uneasy. So it did not make her very happy when a random stranger hopped into her car and snatched the key out from her hands.
"Get out of the car," the man snapped. His hand was in his jacket pocket, and he pointed what she assumed was the barrel of a gun at her.
"No," she said, outraged.
The man frowned. She couldn't see much of his face. He wore a black jacket and the hood was up. Ridiculously large sunglasses obscured most his face, and jagged black hair concealed the rest. The only thing of him she could see, actually, was his strong, angled jawline, his full lips and a shadow that told her he needed a shave.
"Get out of the car," he repeated in a growl. "Or I'll put a hole right through you."
"If you wanted to shoot me you already would have." she said coldly. "So I will thank you to get the hell out of my car."
The man seemed at a loss for words. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from inside his jacket, and she was smug to realize that she'd been right: he'd been bluffing. "Here's the thing," the man began in a snappy but desperate voice. "My brother's a phycopath, and he's trying to kill me. I have a grand in my pocket. I'll half it with youif you take me to San Diego."
She looked down at her nails, observed them. She really needed a manicure. "I don't need your money."
The man looked immensely frustrated. "What do you want then?"
She thought about it for a moment. "A dog." she finally decided. "I've always wanted a dog."
The man gaped at her. And then he shook his head. "Fine, a dog. Whatever."
She sat back to enjoy the ride as the stranger started up her car, and wondered if she really was as insane and suicidal as everyone said she was.