I think I'd better explain myself a bit better, hadn't I? My name is Lisa Hughes, and I am 16 years old and three months. I have plain brown hair, waist length, and dull green eyes dark as emeralds, only not as pretty. I live in Wrexham North with my Mum and Nan and brother John. Charlotte doesn't live with us anymore - she's recently turned 25 and is married with two children, Christopher and Jacob. Christopher is the eldest, aged 9, and Jacob is 6. Her husband is called Clive and he's an accountant in the town. Charlotte is a nurse.
Alan is Mum's latest boyfriend. He's Ok, I suppose. He watches out for me, he cares. Not like most stepfathers, he's younger than my Mum by about four or five years (that makes him around 42 or 43, I'm not sure which), and works part-time in some office block on the outskirts of the city. He only works there to pay for his college courses. Alan is a mature student, doing Graphic Design and Information Technology. It doesn't bother me that much, really. He is definitely NOT my Dad, and that's fine with me. The less said about my Dad the better.
I am not really the studious type. I don't have many friends. I just like to be by myself. Just on my own. Doing nothing. It's what I prefer. John is always on at me to mix in with people and talk to them, though I don't know why. John is really popular with the residents at Wrexham North College, where he studies, and he has lots of friends. Many of the girls like him too. I think he's actually dating one of them, Samantha or something her name is. I'm not sure. I don't want to mix in, though, not like him. I'd rather be my own friend, if you know what I mean.
The reason I don't mix in is because I'm afraid of reactions. Other people's reactions. I'm frightenned of what people will say and do when they see me, meet me. I know I'm not nice to look at. I know I look bad. But people will say it to my face, they will snigger and point and make comments behind my back. That hurts.
My Mum is 47 years old, with lovely long blonde hair and bright hazel eyes. She has a lovely figure. I do not look like her one bit. My hips are too wide, my thighs too large, my shoulders too broad, to be able to look like her. Her lips are pink and petite. Mine are big, pale as chalk in winter and salmon red in summer, when I forget to put on lipbalm and burn them. At least I have a reasonably small waist. Some people do say I have the same skin complexion as her, but not very often. Especially not now. I look like my Dad. I wish I didn't. I don't want anything to do with him. It's not really fair; I got all of Dad's genes and John got all of Mum's. Charlotte is a kind of mix of the two - same brown hair as me, but as long and thick as Mum's, and she's got her beautiful hazel eyes, and her figure to match, only Charlotte is a bit more plump after having Christopher and Jacob. She is very, very lucky. So is John. I'm the odd one out, all over again. I have been since primary school. I've never understood why, exactly, but I have a vague idea, but only a vague one.
Mum enjoys baking and watching nature programmes on the telly. I am the polar opposite. I hate baking. I was always trying to cheat my way out of Home Economics at school. I used to cheat my way out of a lot of lessons. It's not that I don't ike learning, it's the teachers that make my blood boil.
I also hate nature programmes. All those twittering birds and capering animals drive me mad. I can't stand it. There is another similarity between my and my Dad.
I would much rather watch CSI or Crimewatch or the News channels, like Breaking News. It's on 24 hours a day, seven days a week. That's my kind of thing. Knowledge. Information. Not geography and wildlife, trees and mountains and all that.
Knowledge. It's funny how knowledge can sometimes be misleading. Especially knowledge of a person, or people. You can be very wrong about someone when you least expect it.
I was very wrong about my Dad, but I did expect it. He was just that sort of person. You could detect any emotion or feeling from him in a nanosecond. He had a way of epxressing himself, let's say, outrageously.
Let me tell you about it.