Dragon Girl by Melissa Nichols (best interesting books to read TXT) 📖

The wind blows over my scaled nose as it supports my reptilian body and fills my membraned wings. I soar thousands of feet above the ground, free of all responsibilities. Flying beside me are my flock, hundreds of fellow dragons. I'm overjoyed and unafraid, knowing - no matter what happens - I can always depend on my flock. They are my family, and I am theirs; we will always support each other. The feeling is wonderous and magical. Yet, I know this will end as soon as my alarm wakes me.

The alarm blares loudly, ripping me from a dream I've already separated myself from. A sigh leaves my lungs as I prepare myself for another day.

I live with my adoptive parents and their twin children, enduring an unfair life. I have to maintain my parents high standards, and I suffer with little food - even for someone without a fast metabolism like myself. I have a barely furnished bedroom, and a summer job is the only way I can earn money, and I have to maintain grades of at least 95%. All of my academic classes are Advanced Placement, and so are much harder than normal classes. On the other hand, the twins did not have chores, or a curfew or even schoolwork requirements. They can do as they wish and receive whatever they want.

I'm sick of the injustice but I have nowhere else to go. I would just have to endure it for now; I would only be here for another year and a half, anyway. Soon I will graduate, go to university and live a normal life. I need to stop whining and get on with this day; get one day closer to graduation and freedom. Every morning this two-faced dream sets me straight. I dream of being in a flock and accepted, but I'm all alone, abandoned by my kind and unloved by those who raised me. The only person I can rely on is myself.

I lean up and a sequence of sharp cracks reverberates down the length of my spine, the rushing blood leaves me feeling relieved and loose just before my muscles seize up again. Grunting with effort, I pick myself off the floor. I open my eyes and come face to face with myself painted before me on my largest wall. Only it isn't myself, as in my reflection, I see painted there. It is my alter ego - the dragon - reminding me of my greatest secret, and the life I'm doomed to live.

The mural shows the dragon as the focal point, in mid-flight, surrounded by bright blue skies, white puffy clouds and dazzling yellow sunlight. Behind her fly other dragons, varying in shades from the darkest blacks to the brightest of whites, with the full colors of the rainbow mixed in. The flock is beautifully diverse, and they are my solace.

I wish this dream will one day become my reality, but I can't see how it's possible. If that happens, I will no longer be a freak of nature; I can have absolute trust in people. I can learn to accept the dragon that rests within me, and finally be comfortable in my own skin. But I can't let my hopes rise - I know that future is not in the cards for me.

My 'mother' screams my name at the top of her lungs, yanking me out of my reverie.

"JOSEPHINE," I flinch as my sensitive ears ring, my heart pounding as my entire world goes from total silence to ear-splitting shrieks. There is a pause in her shout, and I can hear her take a long drag on her cigarette. "Get your worthless ass down here right this second!"

Sighing once again, this time in anger, I glance back at the dragon, wishing that something could go my way for once in my life. I grab my bathrobe and walk down the freshly-scrubbed stairs - Thank you, Josie, don't those stairs look beautiful? I think to myself, and then the dragon responds. Don't push your luck; No one says 'thank you' to the slave.

I finally stand in front of the she-devil herself. She is closer to six feet than she likes - making her that extra inch taller than her husband - and she wears a disgusting beige pant suit that blends into her skin tone too well, making her look heavier and dirtier than she is. I nearly snicker to myself at the image but keep a straight face.

"Why did you not do the kitchen last night?" Her voice is louder than it needs to be.

Must you shout? It's six in the morning for goodness sake!

"I did?" The response I give is more of a question than an answer, but she takes it the wrong way.

"Don't you dare lie to my face!" She screeches, stepping to my toes, looming over me to intimidate me into backing down.

Oh, well, then I guess I should I lie behind your back?

"I'm not lying. I'm just telling you I did all of my chores last night, and the kitchen was spotless when I went to bed. Someone must have just -"

"How ungrateful! My great-grandparents found you as an egg in a secondhand store, and we took care of it - took care of YOU - for four generations. And when you hatched, we could have kicked you out, but we didn't. We raised you as if you were our own child and even let you paint that.... thing in your room! And yet you lie and don't finish your few chores."

Few chores? Has she forgotten how to count?

On any day, I have no less than five chores, usually more during the summer. On top of chores, I also have either homework or my summer job. And the only reason she let me paint that mural is because I bought the paints myself, and asked for no help. I even provided the white paint for them to paint over my mural, and enough cash to replace the carpet if I got a drop of paint on it. It was basically free money to her!

"What a child I've raised! What did your father and I do to deserve you?"

She is so angry, I could almost see the smoke leaving her ears and hear the whistle of a teapot. I raise a single eyebrow at the woman, brimming with tightly restrained anger. I want to yell at her, remind her of the injustice she's forced on me, and then storm out. But I can't. If I do that, I'll be giving up what I have here - two meals and a bed - because she'll surely kick me out. I'd be choosing to risk my life on the outside world over a few chores and homework assignments. It isn't worth it.

"I'll clean them now, Mother." I say in a small voice as I move around her, head bowed. She smiles with satisfaction; smug in her victory.

I cough and stop as I see the kitchen, dismayed at the disaster that has taken hold of the place.

Bloody brats!

Sweet wrappers are strewn across the floor, chip bags somehow float in the sink! Who misses the bin like that? Coffee, hot chocolate and sugar are plastered all over the sides of the sinks. Must have been Kane. The pig is never full and seems to make another meal out of only midnight snacks, and he always leaves his mess for me to clean up. Sighing for a third time, in defeat, I roll up my sleeves and get to work.

After I finish with the kitchen, I shower and change into my outfit. I didn't usually like wearing green because I didn't like the reminder of my scale color, but today is different. It's the first day of a new year, and green is the school color. Is there a better day for it?

I leave the house and begin the short trek to my high school for the first day of the eleventh grade. I'm so excited; I love the new year because I'm one step closer to finally being out on my own. It also means seeing my friends again, new classes and teachers to adapt to. And this year is more important than the last; universities will look at our grades and activities, which is crucial to my master plan.

The biggest difference is seeing my friends and boyfriend again after almost three months of no contact. I couldn't wait to give out hugs, and to kiss Ryan and have him hold me again.

It isn't much longer before I turn the corner and pass through the open gate that marks the entrance to the school grounds. My friends and I like to hang out under a stairwell just inside the gate, because no one goes over there.

There are six of us in our group, and we have a few things in common. We each love to wear black clothes but for various reasons. Another thing we have in common is performing arts; most of us love drama, but a couple of us adore choir. I love theater, and getting to shift myself into another person, living their life instead of mine. It's a relief to act as if I have 'normal' issues, like any ordinary teenager.

A third thing we have in common is we have abusive and neglectful parents, though each in their own way. Since we face the same challenges, when the chips are down and they have crushed our spirits into dust, we use that bond to support each other and keep us going.

The stairwell itself has concrete stairs, forest-green metal panels, a deck overhead and some concrete pillars that altogether form a circle. And on the underside of each step, a group of friends that have claimed this space write their names and the year in permanent marker on the first blank step they could reach. It is a tradition that started the first year of the school's operation, and this year might be the last. After twenty years, the steps are getting too high to reach. We also decorate the stone pillars, but in a less-obvious form of vandalism. We use colored sidewalk chalk to draw or write our names or leave notes. It's harmless, but fun. The security guards don't like it, but the principal thinks it's cute and lets us get away with it.

"Hey, guys!" I chirp as I approach them, seeing only two of my friends; Beckie - who insists on her name being Lavender because of her love for the color purple - and Jazz.

Lavender has straight, long midnight-and-purple hair and alabaster skin, with purple corrective eye contacts. As good as she looks with purple eyes, I miss her natural baby blues. She's the average height, but loves to wear heels so she appears taller. Her parents are white-collar workers, and they're filthy rich because their families come from 'old money' and also because of their business success. Because of this, they've raised Lavendar to be the same. They let her go to common public schools - but only the best in the country - and then she goes to a boarding school for the social elite during the summers. She hates every minute of it, but she can't do anything against her parents because she has no marketable job skills and her parents control all of her money, and they have very short tempers. If she rebels, she'll be penniless and homeless. So, like me, she's biding her time until she graduates from college with her degree, then she'll get out from under her parents.

Jazz is the tallest in the group, tanned, and prefers to wear black and bright blue. His hair is a gorgeous, rich shade of red that is short, spiked, and dyed cyan at the tips. He and