Chapter One, Part Five.

Back in my own territory, I sat at a table by myself. Staring out at the courtyard, I doodled absentmindedly on a notebook. When I think about it, I realize how different my sister and I are. She's so calm, and sweet to everyone. She never has a hidden agenda, and is usually so happy, no one around her can stand to be anything else. Not exactly a poster child for the average orphan.

Yeah, we're orphans. My mother died of graft-host disease after receiving a marrow transplant to treat her leukemia.
Graft-host disease is a condition in which the body of a recipient of some sort of graft (In this case, bone marrow cells) rejects the transplant. It attacks the cells, effectively tearing apart the part of the body where it occurs.
Sounds vicious, doesn't it?

I'm glad my sister was as young as she was. She didn't understand what was going on at all. Actually, I was pretty young too, only twelve. But still, I was old enough to recognize that my mother was suffering, and she wasn't going to get better. The last thing she did was make me swear I'd take care of my sister no matter what. She knew I loved my sister more than anything, but I think she wanted to make sure our family would stay together, even after she was gone. Four-year-old Carmen would ask me every day when Mommy would be home, and would tape pictures she drew for her to the wall of my mother's hospital room.

I cried a lot during that time, but never once did I allow my sister to see my tears. Knowing that my mother wouldn't want me to cry when I could do nothing, I would lock myself in my room. I had to be strong for my sister. Someone had to.

Shortly after my mother died, my father abandoned his duty as one and shot himself one day while we were out at school. Luckily, my sister and I didn't walk in to find the body; one of the neighbors had heard the gunshot and called the police.

For a long time, I hated him. I hated him for leaving my sister and me, for not being stronger and not holding on for us.
But I don't. Not anymore. I'm just sad.
He was so broken by my mother's death that n nothing mattered to him. In the end, I pity that he made my mother's legacy into nothing. Maybe she knew. Maybe that's why she made me swear I'd take care of little Carmen; she knew he wouldn't. Joche Cavailier, the woman who always knew what was best for everyone. A mother to her last breath, always taking care of those around her.
Living with my grandparents wasn't horrible, they tended to our needs as necessary, but it was like they were pet-sitting their neighbor's cat. They didn't love us.
So, once I had a steady job and paid off my car, I packed my sister and me up, and we moved in with a friend of mine.
Abigail was like a sister to me, and my biggest supporter. She saw me at my most vulnerable, and would hold me until I could stand by myself again. When I cried, she cried; when I was angry, she was angry. And when I got too angry, she'd bring me ice for my bruised knuckles, and help me patch up the wall. The most important thing, though, was that she cared about Carmen almost as much as I did. She treated her like her baby sister, always caring for her. And me. The girl had the patience of a saint, especially considering she was only two years older than me. When I think about it, I realize that she was a lot like my mother. Caring, patient, loving, intelligent, and beautiful, inside and out.
We didn't live with her for very long, though. Soon after we moved in, my sister and I were accepted into Falton Academy on scholarships. We moved into the dormitory there.
End of history.

I had yet to understand our stroke of luck: our scholarships. My sister was a bit young for private schools to be looking into her brilliance (She's an intelligent girl, but not a prodigy.), and, being kind of a slacker, I wasn't a stand-out student academically. Why would they want us? Well, if they did any sort of research, they'd see that I'm not going anywhere without my sister, so that would make her more of a bargaining tool to them. So now, the question remains: Why would they want me? There is no logical reason.
The pencil clutched in my hand suddenly snapped. Opening my hand, I sighed in irritation at the splinters embedded in my palm, and plucked them out with my long nails, pressing the punctures on the hem of my skirt.
Another one broken. Dammit. I stuffed both halves into my bag as the bell rang.