I was born on the thirteenth of March, in the year 1970, in the town of Arver, North Dakota. 

You've probably read the novel description.

I am fourteen years old today. 

I hate my birthday. 

I hate the fact that I don't have any friends. Well, besides Clairvy, but he doesn't count. He's kinda like a mom, except he's funnier, probably taller, dumber, and he's a male.

And he's a douchebag.

I'm ugly in my opinion, but then again, I think everything's ugly. I'm short, a little chubby, I have dark curly hair that is so long and bushy that I'm going to start needing two mirrors to fit my whole face and hair in the frame.

A person will approach me on the street and say, "Oh my! You have such beautiful hair! And your eyes are such a marvelous shade of green." How did you notice that from like eight feet away? 

Then I would say, "Oh, thank you. You're too kind." In a cheerful way. But why do I have to be cheerful? It's just some random stranger that needs a weight loss program and is probably smoking crack behind the library. It's not like I'm going to see them every single day.

I see them every single day.

Their name is Emma Spear. They are a female. They live down the street from me and my "brother" (according to them). They love my hair (they never neglect to say that every. single. day.). They seem pretty nice. But then again. You can't actually trust anyone in the town.

It's odd. I see at least half of the town every time I go outside. They all the same thing: "Hello, Adelaide! I live down the street for you guys. Nice to see you!" 

That's not completely normal.

There can't be one hundred people who know my name and live down the street from me, and there can't be one hundred people who are nice enough to say nice to see you every single day. And those smiles they all have on their faces are so fake that they could contest with Kim Kardashian.