Song of my life

I don't really know when it started. All my life I had loved music. It just seemed to attract me, and I was told I was good at it. I would hum to myself in the shower and wrote my first song when I was 5. Music practically ran in my mom's side of the family. They had all been professional musicians for four generations. And that's why I had spent my precious time I had with my grandma (when she was visiting from Mexico) learning to play piano- from age 4 to age 14.

Now I know what you're thinking: wow, she started playing piano at age four so she must be a child prodigy!! Actually, I probably could have been. I was just too preoccupied with anything that didn't involve girly or cultured things to practise piano. I mean, why would you stay inside a stuffy house sitting on a bench all day when you could be outside fighting off pirates trying to steal your treasure? But I had a trick- I would sit at the piano and practise for a half hour before my grandma came so that as she was walking in the door she heard me playing it perfectly. Looking back, it was pretty obvious that she knew how I was playing the game. She was always softest on me because I was her first grandchild.

My best friend in the world is my sister Helena. We grew up inseparable, even though she is two and a half years younger.

Another thing about the way we were raised: my dad raised me and my sister like we were boys. And in the long run, that was good for us. We loved being outside and could never get enough of it. And it wasn't just for sports and stuff like that. We were hardcore tomboys. Pink was a universally hated color. We played tackle football with the boys at family Thanksgivings, and I taught myself to pin a larger person to the ground by the time I was 5. I could take a punch and wrestled with my dad inside, though I didn't beat him until I was in fifth grade- the fights were more fair when my sister and I teamed up (especially if we were sword fighting). In sixth grade I beat the strongest boy in my class 49 times before he beat me for the first time.

All this physical stuff came in handy the first and last time I got into a playground fight- third grade against a big bully named Logan. He insulted my best friend Katie, calling her a b****. Granted, I was in third grade and didn't know what it meant, but I could tell it was bad from the way he said it. And just so you don't get the wrong idea, we don't live in a bad neighbourhood. We live in Darien, the Beverly Hills of Connecticut. But it was expected for a jerk like Logan to know this vocab- he was considered the school bad boy. And not the cute kind.

So I pushed him and he pushed me back. Before I knew it, I was on the ground with blood in my mouth because I had bit my lip as I fell. He stood over me and I just wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. So I stood up and used my leg to sweep his legs and make him fall. I sat on his chest, pinning his arms with my legs. He looked at me in surprise and then winked dirtily. I got angry and the next thing I knew I had slapped him. I told him that Katie was a great person and that no one have him a dime about his opinion. Then I told him he better not tell anyone because then I would tell everyone he got beat by a girl. Normally, I wouldn't approve of the girls are weak implication, but sometimes it's dead useful. I stood back glaring at him and let him stand up, rubbing his cheek. Then I sucker punched him in the gut and walked away, hoping it left a mark.

So when it boils down, I am a pretty good at kicking people's butts.

The one thing I'm not very good at is guys. I mean, every girl has guy issues- it's natural. But mine are... well, keep reading and you'll see.