I looked in the mirror and swallowed. I watched as my hands pulled my hair up into a high ponytail and secured it with an elastic. I’d become such a robot, doing what was expected of me day in and day out. If it were up to me, I’d be in the White House where I belonged. But of course, nobody could know that.

I was startled by a knock on my door. I stopped looking at myself in the mirror and quickly grabbed my book bag off the hook by the door and opened it, making sure I had everything.

Pens, books, sketchbook, got it all. I shut the flap and opened the door.

Before me stood a medium sized boy, his hand up in the air as I opened the door, preparing to knock again. Long blonde bangs fell in his eyes and he wiped them away with a nonchalant flick of his wrist.

“Hey,” he said, putting his hand down.

“Hey,” I said, still startled. I’d never seen this boy before and I’d been at this school for nearly ten years.

Maybe he’s new. I thought.

He spoke. “You’re Aunt Nellie would like to speak to you in her office.”

I adjusted the bag strap on my shoulder and narrowed my eyes at him. Nobody in this school was supposed to know that my aunt was the headmaster.

“Excuse me?” I asked, grabbing my jacket off the door. “I think you have the wrong room or something.”

I scooted by him and down the hall.

“Wait, Red!” he yelled after me. I quickened my pace but as I rounded the corner, a group of teens, dressed in black, stepped out in front of me, stopping me.

“Look, I don’t have time for this!” I exclaimed, trying to push through them.

“Ma’am,” one boy said, his voice muffled by his mask. “Please don’t struggle.”

At this point, I had no clue what was going on for all I knew, I was being kidnapped. If these people knew Headmaster Brook was my aunt, then they definitely knew my other secrets. Secrets that could get me killed.

I didn’t respond to the young man but rather brought my knee up into his groin. He yelled and tumbled backward. A few grabbed at my arms, but I elbowed them in the stomach, sending them farther back. One girl jumped on my back, her arms around my neck in a chokehold. I rammed myself back up against the stone wall as hard as I could, feeling something in her body crack. I did it again and she screamed while a few grabbed at me from the front. I did it one last time, something inside of me snapping -- my self-control. She went limp and she dropped to the floor. I lost no time in lunging at the others.

I grabbed one’s arm and swiveled it behind his back in a police hold. I jerked up, his shoulder popping out of socket and kicked him forward into the other two that were pointing guns at me and screaming at me to hold still or they’d shoot. They fell back, their guns going off into the ceiling and I jumped onto the one to my right. I slid my hand up my thigh, waiting for the feeling of cold metal. I grabbed the handle of the knife and held it to his throat. He froze, and I pulled him up into a standing position.

“Move and you’re dead,” I growled into his ear. “And I won’t hesitate.”

His body was stiff with fear, but I could feel him shaking.

“Red Riding!” the boy yelled at me from a distance. “Just listen to us.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one that’s going to be doing any talking for a while,” I answered. “But you better talk fast before I get tired of keeping this guy alive.”

I really need to reel myself back in. I chided. I felt the strap of my bag across my shoulders.

If I can just get into it without letting go of this idiot, I can get my gun.

The boy hesitated, sensing my anger.

“Talk now!” I yelled.

“My name is Wade Green, sent by President Riding,” he started, taking one or two steps forward. “Your dad sent me, Red. He’s been shot and is currently on his deathbed, waiting to pass on the role of President to you.”

You may be confused at this point, so I will take a break from the story to explain. I know what you’re thinking. ‘That’s not how being President works. You race against other people for the position! It’s not passed down from generation to generation.’ Wrong! It is. At least in my world. If your dad or mom is a mailman, when they retire, their job will be passed down to you. Does that make sense? Good, let me continue with the story.

“My dad is not President Riding,” I yelled. “His name is John Riverton.”

“Do I need to show you his signet ring for you to believe me?” he asked.

“Look, Wade,” I said, taking the knife into my other hand. As I talked, I reached into my book bag. I knew he’d see me, but he wouldn’t be able to stop me. “I can’t believe you because what you’re proposing is total….” I searched for a word. “Crap. My dad is not the President of the United States, he is the manager at our local Wal-Mart.”

“Red,” A new voice said. It was sharp, and commanding and I knew who it was instantly.

“Aunt Nellie,” I said sweetly, turning around and tucking the knife behind my back. I had to let go of the boy I’d had at knifepoint though.

“What did you do?” she asked, rubbing her forehead.

I looked behind me at the body’s littered on the floor. None of them were severely hurt but a few were knocked out. Others just laid on the floor, chest rising and falling rapidly in panic. A group of teen CIA guards in training probably. There were most likely well-trained guards outside just in case.

They were trained for this. Did they not expect me to be prepared? I thought.

“Oh, this?” I asked innocently. “Just a little mistake, that’s all.”

“Red, I sent this young man to find you. I need to talk to you about some things in my office. Important things,” she said. “Come with me.”

I adjusted my bag, the gun still inside but the idea of brandishing it was irrelevant. She turned around and I glared at Wade once more as I tucked my knife back under my skirt.

He glanced at the holding mechanism wrapped around my thigh, eyes skimming down my leg and then back up.

“Seriously?” I snapped. “I thought you were professional.”

He raised an eyebrow and I turned to follow Aunt Nellie to her office. I heard him bark at the few conscious teens on the floor to get up and follow.

We arrived at Aunt Nellie’s office as the morning bell rang. Breakfast was dismissed and I’d missed it. I reluctantly watched as kids streamed past me to class, several still finish their croissant or fruit.

I slid into a hard leather seat and waited for the others to settle in. Wade sat down next to me, Aunt Nellie behind her desk, and the others by the door and bookcases.

“Are you going to explain any of this to me?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Yes,” Aunt Nellie nodded. “But you need to listen more and talk less.”

I rolled my eyes. Always the same thing. Shut up and look pretty.

“We don’t have to keep pretending that your dad isn’t the President, Red,” she started.

“He sent Wade and the bodyguards to transport you back to the states to ascend your throne.”

“It’s not my throne,” I argued. “If he isn’t dead yet….” I cringed at how that sounded. “Then I have no right to it.”

Wade glanced at Aunt Nellie and she nodded as he began. “Your Father told us that he

moved you to London to attend your Aunt’s school for Detached Children. He told us that you would most likely put up a fight but you’d listen to your aunt. Your dad was shot a day ago while walking from his car to the White House. He gave us the orders to come and get you and bring you back to the States for your country. The doctors are saying he won’t make it through the weekend.”

I guess I should have been more shocked than I was but what can I say? I had watched everyone else in my family be murdered right before my eyes. Why else do you think I was at Brooklyn School for Detached Children?

“I know it’s a lot to process but we need to get you back to the United States as soon as

we possibly can. Your Father wants to talk to you before he —passes,” he finished, the last word said with some hesitation.

I nodded. “If Aunt Nellie trusts you, so do I.”

Her eyes met mine and she nodded slightly. She pushed up from her chair and walked

around the desk to mine, pulling me into a hug.

“I’ll miss you, Red,” she said, letting go of me.

“I’ll miss you too,” I responded.

“I know,” she smiled. “Now go get your stuff packed. They landed the helicopters on the

football field.”

“The football field?” I asked, my eyes widening. “How does nobody see that?”

“Oh, they’ve seen it, but we’ve just told them to ignore it and go on as they would,” she said. “Now go.”

I hugged her one last time. She had been my anchor and lighthouse for close to ten years

now and all of it felt off.

“Bye,” I said, stepping back. One of the teens opened the door and I walked back to my room, several people trailing behind me. I wanted to pinch my arm to make sure this wasn’t a dream or something. It was just that it seemed wrong. Not wrong in the sense that they weren’t legit but in the sense that it had happened too fast.

HEY GUYS! I just want to say, thanks for reading. This is my first ever self-standing novel that I've started. I already have the plot down and all I have to do now is go back and outline it and write it. I really hope ya'll enjoyed it and are ready for some more! This story is going to be a journey and one you aren't expecting (or at least I think so. I'm terrible with synopsis') If you'd like to be tagged in the next chapters, let me know! And also let me know what you thought of the story. I welcome negative and positive feedback!! Thanks once more for reading. It means a lot to me. Signing off -Famewriter

I grew up aware of where my roots laid,

But the teachings I received were turpentine to multi-dimensional paint;

Attempting to strip me,

a canvas of colors I thought beautiful,

Others saw as abnormal.

Not worth embracing.

I wasn’t the one that painted the canvas that is me,

I’m simply on display for the world to see,

A product of “too many” bloodlines,

A rubix cube,

A walking melting pot.

My DNA was out of my control,

But I was held accountable for my heritage at every turn.

A little bit of tropical Nigerian heat,

A dash of Boricua pride,

A quarter cup Native Mexican Nahuátl,

A half cup Costa Rican Sweetness,

A quarter cup Nicaraguan Determination;

Somewhere in the background my Greek and Italian ancestors were shaking their fists at those that seeked refuge in what we now know as Spain.

In the end,

I’m a beautiful mutt,

But me and the citizens of my country share one thing in common,

I’m American.

Another uncontrollable aspect is my face,

“Bitch” I’ve been told,

I’m not always smiling.

Resting Bitch,

I say back through my glossed lips,

My golden brown eyes pierce thru your bull.

There’s a lot to be said for acceptance.

It’s 2019;

Yet,

Someone somewhere is telling somebody like me that they’re not beautiful.

That their textured hair & light caramel skin isn’t gorgeous.

Shouldn’t we be embracing the different aspects of beauty across the spectrum?

It’s way too late in the game to bring back prejudice,

Racism shan’t run amuck.

To my beautiful interracial babes,

No matter gender,

No matter sexuality,

We’re beautiful.

You’re beautiful.

Your soul won’t fade.

To the proud bigoted segregator,

Tut tut Cheerio,

Your words won’t matter today.

A 23 hour flight and almost 9000 miles later

When I first set foot on foreign soil

“Welcome to the United States of America” you said. “We hope you enjoy your stay!”

I was a foreigner in unknown territory,

Thinking to call this place my “home, away from home”

With hopes of turning my dreams into reality

I don’t belong here you say.

My friends are stealing your jobs, killing your people, destroying your economy, populating “your” land

You’re afraid I will bring you harm

So you want to send me back to where I belong,

Or stop my family from visiting, because they miss their daughter

America wasn’t always like this

It’s a place of acceptance

A place where dreams come true

A place anyone was welcome to call home

Or that’s what it used to be

According to old text books, that were taught to me

You think I’m a threat to you

But did you ever think,

That maybe I was just like you?

Before you claimed this nation to be your own,

When you were an immigrant quite like me

When you came to the States

With hopes and dreams

Maybe for a better life or even a better wife

So before you decide that I don’t belong here

Think a minute of what your life would be

If I invited you to my home and told you never return

Years later,

I still feel like a stranger,

Now more than ever - most certainly like I don’t belong

Which makes me wonder,

Is this what I left home for?

My situation is critical.

Immigration.

Dangling.

Foreigner.

Sponger.

Terror.

They say there's a opportunity around every corner...along with the beauty and terror that consumes our heart, and manipulates our mind.

But what exactly is this opportunity?

Is it something we mindlessly toss aside, thus taken for granted?

Or is it the golden state which guides all of us to our fate, regardless of how in control we are of our desires and decisions?

As we aim towards clarity,  we must omit the nonessential, and bring-forth further understanding of how we got here in the first place.

"The Roaring Twenties", as we called it,  marked the evolution of society on a grand scale...From immigration,  Women's voting rights; , Presidential elections, monumental achievements, and a golden roar that seduced the rich, and discriminated the poor, working class. Turing America into a festive carnivore - fed from our ideas of "The American Dream".