At the age of eleven, Christy Stapleton was a perky little firecracker. Already in seventh grade from being double-promoted, she was very short and skinny as a rail, so she looked even more out of place with the twelve- and thirteen-year-old kids. Her short blonde hair framed a face with deep blue eyes and a spattering of freckles on her bony cheeks. She had been in gymnastics since she could walk and her entire tiny room was covered with various gymnast posters, except for one: Albert Einstein. Christy was also a math and physics whiz-kid, capable of understanding mathematical theories and computations most college students flee from.
At 7:15, Christy pushed down her covers and turned off the alarm clock. She got up early each morning to perform her stretching ritual, which she performed in her bed since there wasn’t room in the floor to spread out. She stretched out into a full split, with her feet hanging slightly over each side of her small bed, and watched herself in the mirror on the wall to make sure she was perfectly symmetrical as she proceeded to bend down, left, right, middle — checking each muscle in her legs, stomach, side, arms, and even her neck. Every stretch had to be perfect as she slowly and methodically went through back-bends, splits, and all other sorts of pretzel twists.
At 7:30 she was done and got up to inspect herself more thoroughly in the mirror. She checked every inch of her body as if she were afraid some fat monster had come in the middle of the night and deposited fifty pounds of lard on her legs, arms, chest, stomach or butt. Nope, still skinny, just the way she liked it. She was not dangerously anorexic or underweight, but she teetered on the edge of it. She smiled, satisfied, and proceeded to change into her school clothes, which she had laid over the back of her chair the night before. She grabbed her shoes, socks, and book bag, and headed downstairs for breakfast, which would be cereal, Pop-tarts or some other form of cold food. This precise routine was followed every day, to the second.
Her parents were never home in the morning. Her parents were never home in the evening either. She often wondered if they even existed. She mused that she hadn’t really seen them since she was eight and had always gotten herself to school, practice, and fixed all of her own meals as well since then. She headed out the door for school after breakfast.
Kaylie Monroe was an average-looking girl of medium height, medium weight, and medium appearance — just a plain ordinary thirteen-year-old girl. She had straight thick black hair that hung just past her shoulders, which she kept tucked behind each ear. She wore a constant mischievous smirk on her face that somehow managed to appear cute instead of sneaky. She loved soccer more than anything, and dreamt of playing for the Duke Blue Devils someday. She played in spring and fall leagues and year-round anywhere else she could.
She turned back her covers at 7:45. Wearing a pink tank-top, she stood in front of the mirror and stared at her chest as she pulled the shirt tight, making sure the boob fairy didn’t visit her the night before; she worried constantly that she would not be able to play soccer if that happened. She turned sideways and inspected herself for several minutes before smiling happily, content that she had escaped another day.
She went to the bathroom with her clothes and came out a couple minutes later with knee-length white pants and a blue ‘Duke’ sweatshirt on. Her lips were full and bright red now and her brown eyes were deeper and darker from careful application of make-up. She loved to make the much older Anna jealous with the fact that she was allowed to use make-up.
Kaylie never ate breakfast at home before school; she simply drank a glass of milk while putting on her shoes. She finished her glass and put it in the sink, then grabbed the marker on the dry-erase board and wrote, “Going to Alex’s, cya Monday.” She grabbed her book bag and headed for school at 8:20; she lived just two blocks away.