Saturday.

I woke up to the smells of freshly baked muffins, and my stomach growled with all the force of Chewbaca. I stand up and sift through my closet and drawers, pulling out a white v-neck and some dark skinnies. Padding through the hallway down to the stairs, I pull out my cell phone and see:

Nothing.

No texts, no calls, nothing. It was almost noon on a Saturday, and my friends still hadn't contacted me. This was unusual. Naturally, I compose a new message and send it to all of my 3 best friends. If they won't text me, I'll text them.

The Banister comes into view as I continue my walk to the stairs. The Banister is a plain, dark, cherry-wood colored banister extending and bending all the way down to the floor downstairs. Literally- it went straight to the floor. Made out of cheap plywood and painted to resemble the more pricey cherry wood the used to be here, my parents installed this when I was 8.

Obviously, it prompted me to develop an "..annoying habit of rushing down the banister, no feet obtaining ground, no traction.." and becoming "..a flying death trap!" So say the all mighty parents. Normally I obey them and stop doing things they tell me to not do, but when it comes to The Banister, all hell could break loose and I still wouldn't stop. It's just way too much fun.

I settle myself on the top and turn to look down at the incoming. My feet go up, my hands loosen, and gravity takes charge.

Less than 10 seconds later, I'm screaming at the top of my lungs for the daily paper Dad is buried in to move out of my way.

Less than 2 seconds after that, I'm apologizing profusely to Dad as I help him off the floor.

"I'm really sorry, Dad! I tried to warn you, I couldn't stop, I-"

He holds up his hand to silence my apology, and I stop.

"It's.. ok. Really, it's fine. You're a kid, these things happen, I'm still in one piece. Now go talk to your mom. She said she needed to see you."

I nod my head and hug Dad before turning to the kitchen, sliding in and sitting on a stool by the Island. The Island is a large, flat, black marble counter situated in the center of the kitchen, and not on just one occasion has it seen it's share of spills, drills, and kills. Mom is currently cleaning up the former- a cherry colored liquid searching its way to the edge. I grab a Bounty and seal its end, meeting Mom halfway through the mess.

"Thanks, Tina. I suppose Dad told you to come talk to me?"

"Yep. Although I would have come in here anyway. Breakfast smells delicious."

I grab a fresh blueberry muffin from the pile in the napkin covered bowl to my right. As I bite in, and as blueberries fill my mouth with a sweet and simple taste, Mom clears her throat. I look up.

She looks away. This is not good.

"We're leaving, your father and I. We're going on a cruise for about two weeks, and since you can't seem to listen to me- your walls, the railing- we've asked your older brother to come back and watch you. He and his girlfriend will be here tomorrow."

I nearly choked on my muffin.

"Woah, woah, woah. Back up a minute- Jake has a girlfriend?! No way! That's hilarious! Wait, have they met yet?"

Mom does not seem amused by my complete lack of respect for my brother's life. I'll tell you why in a minute.

"You will listen to them, and do what they say, understand? Tina, do you understand?"

I snap out of my thoughts and tell her I do, and that I have to call Tiffy. I jump from the stool and walk up the stairs back to my room.

My older brother Jake, who is 22, left for college three years ago. Moving to Seattle, which was only a short two hours away, he packed up his life and barely spoke a word of goodbye to me. Mom, Dad, Nancy (my younger sister), Benje (the dog from hell), they all recieved hugs, kisses, tears. Me? Nothing.

I hadn't really gotten over that. And after he called Mom from jail one morning near 4 AM to tell her that he needed bail after he got caught buying pot and didn't have any money with him because the dealer ran off, I never really thought I would. He used to be my best friend, and now he was ruining his life and leaving me behind. Goodriddance, Jake.

The next two weeks were a blur of vocal, physical, and mental abuse.

And none of it was from Jake.

It all started on a Friday in August.

8:06 AM- I am unceremoniously woken by my younger sister banging on my door. I throw a pillow at it, hoping without conviction that the bag-o-bird will somehow silence her fists. I am wrong, as per usual.

8:15- My pink plaster walls shake with the sounds of the washer and dryer, and I am up. Fully and completely up. I stare at the mockingly bright color of my walls, and it dawns on me that I never liked pink, thus making me wonder why my room was full of it.

8:16- I resolve to ask my mom if I can re-paint my room.

8:20- My request is shot down as Mom sets a plate of smiley face breakfast food in front of me. Way to go, Captain Guilt.

8:30- I depart for my cave, thinking that maybe it magically changed its walls by itself.

8:31- I am disappointed. Pepto Bismol it is.

11:17- After hours of deliberating with myself and tossing a raquetball up and down on my bed, I decide something, and instantly am distracted by a song on my iPod.

11:18- I dance.

11:20- I remember what I decided, and what Mom said this morning.

11:33- I paint my room anyway.

Thus, the infamous Junior Year of Tina Rex begins.

Ok, so it's not as infamous as many in my school might believe, myself included, but I figured it should be documented. You know, for "future generations" and what have you.

After a general vocal beat-down from Mom, I was banished to my room for the night (this was also after the paint fumes had gone away). Being the second to last Friday of the summer, I was sincerely bummed, but concluded that I probably deserved it. I also concluded that it wasn't as bad as you might think- all thanks to my newly blue canvases. I took out my paint set and brushes and set to work on a mural. I picked my biggest wall for the main picture, and started drawing. Right in the center, I drew a large octopus with two comical eyes, closed in concentration. His tentacles spanned out from his central shape all the way to the wall opposite, where they met each other holding on to a boat. I drew a small, flame-haired person standing on this boat, waving a sign that had my favorite lyrics on it: "This boat may be small, and I may be big, but it's still man overboard, and I think I need your help." This took me all the way into the single digits of early morning, and I had only accomplished the penciled outline. Tomorrow I would paint it.

Tomorrow would be a productive day.

Tomorrow would be the last day of the life I used to know.