I’m kind of scared.

I don’t really know why—maybe I don’t need to be, but I am.

It’s like hard to swallow. And I keep getting nervous and looking at my watch, and I don’t know what the time has to do with it, but like *Fuddruckers!* I just have this feeling that something is wrong and someone is going to come get me for ratting.

Even though I didn’t say much. And I kind of didn’t tell the whole truth.

Maybe that’s why I’m worried. I’ve never lied to a police officer before. I mean, I’ve never really had to talk to a police officer for anything official, so I wouldn’t have had a chance to lie until today.

And it wasn’t a big lie either, and the only reason I did lie is because I think they would think I was lying if I told them what I really thought.

I just gave a description of what ‘the suspect’ was wearing, and his hair, and the forehead bumps–and even the swooping in of the boy in white. But I didn’t mention the fangs, and I didn’t say vampire.

Maybe I would have if I hadn’t been so startled. But how else was I supposed to react to finding out that I was called out of class to talk to the cops?

At first I didn’t even connect it! I knew that Jill didn’t show up today—which totally makes sense; what kind of crazy person goes to class the day after she gets assaulted?—but Jill never told me she was actually going to report it. As in police report. As in corroborating witness.

*By the way, I didn’t even know what corroborating meant before this afternoon, but I heard it like five times while I was being questioned.

And, yeah, it felt like an interrogation, like maybe I’d done something wrong! (Had I?) But at least he told me what Jill said in her report before asking for my story. I was really worried that I’d have to like the separated prisoner thing where they try to catch one of us in a lie. Big takeaway from today: reporting something traumatizing to the police only adds more trauma, and they should really work on that. I mean, one of the guys seemed like he would have been really nice, but he was always stepping out of the room to talk on his pager or whatever you call them; the one who was doing the talking—Officer Kemp—he was robotic! Like he could’ve showed up on an episode of Star Trek and Data would have been shocked by his lack of emotion.

I wanted to tell him that too, but I didn’t.

It was all pretty quick—like ten minutes—and they just asked their questions in one of the counselors’ office. And of course the school counselor came in after they left, and she asked even more questions, and I really just wanted her to SHUT UP! I hardly told her anything. And I couldn’t cry—if I had cried, she would’ve stopped asking questions. They don’t badger you when you cry. (Besides, I have a home shrink and she doesn’t badger me at all.)

So I took the lifeline; I asked to go home early. They wrote me a pass and had me call my parents, and I just left a message on the home machine—because Dad and Lisa were at work anyway, and I didn’t know what to tell them. (I’ll have to talk to them when they get home though—see Dread.)

As a mini cherry on this sundae, the cops themselves gave me a ride home. School’s not far, but still, they wanted to help, which made it look like—the to the people who saw it—like I was being escorted out by the police. I mean, I was. Just not in that way.

When they dropped me off, the nice one (he had a Mexican name) told me to call the station if I see either of the suspects again. It wasn’t until half a bowl of cereal later that I realized he called the boy in white—my white knight, as it were—a suspect.

That kind of ticks me off. I think being POed is better than being scared though.



Oh my God! (is the name of this post)

I think—Okay, bad start… Trying again.


I fought a vampire! Or maybe I didn’t… I don’t know.

Here, I’ll start over…

*Also, weird diary, please forgive me, I promise that I will probably never be this scattered when I write in you (maybe) ever again.

I was We were at Tracy’s—Xena night—and when it was over, Jill and I left to walk home. Jill turned off to go to her house, and said goodnight, and I only got like five more steps before I heard her scream—so I turned around, and ran around the corner—(really glad I was wearing sneakers)—and there was someone attacking her and like looked like he was trying to lick her neck. (That sounds really naïve now, but it’s what it looked like—okay?!)

So I must have been feeling something epic and possibly stupid, given the whole superpowers plus Xena watching, because I didn’t just like yell for him to get off or call the cops or try to get her away—

No, I punched him in the face and split my knuckle open on his tooth! But it must have been hard because he not only released Jill, he staggered back and fell against a fence. And then he growled and stepped toward me, and there was enough light from a streetlight that I could actually see his forehead, and he was totally deformed. Oh, and he had sharp teeth, but I don’t remember finding that surprising at the time…

So I expected him to attack me, and I put up my fists—Even though, holy schnitzel, I don’t know what I’m doing! Jeez, I mean, I’ve seen some Jackie Chan movies, but I don’t really know how to fight. But he didn’t charge me: instead he licked his tooth, and asked me the weirdest half-growled question I’ve ever heard: “What are you?”

I didn’t really have time to feel offended. I had a mental flash of “What would Jesus do?” and for some reason the answer that wafted into my head was “Kick ‘im in the stones, girl!” So while freakazoid was staring at me, I channeled all of my soccer Saturdays and aimed for the groin. His reaction told me I’d succeeded.

He didn’t seem like he knew how to get up, but he was trying, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Jill was grabbing my arm, I think, telling me to run, but I felt like I had unfinished business. I had the weirdest feeling that I needed to kill him—but that may have just been the adrenaline. Oh, and some very justified anger. I don’t know; a lot of things were happening, and I didn’t know what to do.

And then something weird happened—I mean, this whole thing was weird, but like out of nowhere, another boy jumped in between me and the freak on the ground. But he was just a teenager—like actual teenager, not some TV twenty-something who can pass for a teenager—and he didn’t look particularly buff, but he said to “Get the firetruck out of here!”

I don’t know why I listened to him!

I mean, he looked younger than me. I remember combed hair, white dress shirt—no glasses, I think—but he could’ve been a geek or something, and he was telling us to leave while standing over my vampire like he was gonna take him out. And we left and left him behind.

Okay, so I don’t know if he was a vampire—but I didn’t know where boy in white came from, or who he was, or if he was okay, but I ran Jill to her house—I mean, I got her most of the way there—and then I told her I had to go back to help him. (She protested; I didn’t listen.)

I remember running through dozens or scenarios in my head—many of which ended with me getting hurt, maimed, or killed in some horrible way—but I also wondered what it would be like to totally kick ass. Not once did I question why I felt a need to go back. At the time, it didn’t seem strictly relevant. Like it was my duty to go back. Hmm.

But when I got there, adrenaline surging—I swear my face was hot to the touch—he was gone. Scratch that: they both were gone. (Or they were both gone. Which one’s grammatically correct? Screw it—moving on.)

And like no evidence of what had happened, other than a couple of footsteps in the dirt where it had gotten kicked up and a bunch of dust on the sidewalk. I bet the wind’s blown it away by now.

I noticed that I’d missed two calls from Jill. I picked up on the third one. She was freaked. She said that she thought he had tried to bite her before I got there and that his eyes were yellow and his hands were cold. She seemed to find that most chilling—no pun intended. I didn’t know what to think about that; I guess it was weird. And maybe it would make sense for someone assaulting people to be warm, but I don’t know.

I asked her if she wanted to call the police. When she didn’t say anything, I asked if I should do it for her. And then I wondered about what I’d have to report. Would it make sense? Would I just sound crazy? Did my superhuman strength save the day, or did the boy in white, whoever the hellephant he was…

I wasn’t the victim, so I didn’t feel it was my call, but I didn’t feel right not saying anything. I guess I still don’t feel right about it, but I don’t know if that’s actually because of my silence or because of something else. I saw my friend get attacked tonight. I also wanted to kill someone.

I came in quiet and late enough that Lisa was asleep, and Dad didn’t notice anything was wrong, and I didn’t tell him.

There’s a part of me that wants him to find this entry so I can talk to him about it without having to tell him firsthand what happened.

I need to sleep; I’ll deal with it in the morning.


New discovery: I can lift a car! Not like over my head, but I can pick up dad’s pickup enough to get the back tires off the ground—like barely, and only for a few seconds at a time, but still, that’s kind of insane progress.

I’ve been testing things like this all day, and it’s really cool. I still haven’t figured out if I’m supposed to not tell or show anyone though. That’s the confusing part.

I’m tempted to talk to Lisa—I mean, I know I probably should talk to Dad first, but he gets worried. Anytime I try to tell him stuff like this he looks like he’s being paged by Planet Guilt because he just assumes something else is wrong. And I think I’d run into the same issue with Jill and Tracy.

And I definitely can’t tell Derek. I don’t think any guy wants to know the girl he took to prom could— [I ran out of ideas; something strong, okay?] Well, maybe if we were a ‘more official couple,’ he’d want me to tell him…

See, now I want to call Tracy to ask her if I can’t tell Derek or if I’m just being weird, but then I’d have to tell her what I wouldn’t be telling him, and if I told her I couldn’t tell her, she’d just ask me if I’m pregnant.

Damnesty International!

Maybe I will talk to Lisa. I just don’t want her to get all shrink-y on me. But at least I can invoke the doctor-stepdaughter confidentiality thing and have her not tell Dad.

There are still a couple of big questions here, other than (obviously) ‘can I talk about it’

  • Why am I getting super-strong?
  • Is anyone else doing it to?
  • Is this permanent, or will it go away?
  • If it doesn’t go away, does it mean I’m sick?
  • Am I gonna have to start fighting crime?
  • Is it possible that one of my parents is much much more interesting than I thought they were and they’re actually some kind of low-level superheroes and that I’m like being activated because I’m a ‘certain age’ now—but my birthday was back in January…

*audible groan* Weird journal, I want to keep writing in you, but I have homework to do.


Okay, I am going to say something here—specifically only here because I’d rather not have people think I’m loony and possibly decide to send me away. But I know—okay, fine, I really think I’m right about this one.

Ready? Here goes:

I have superhuman strength. (Pausing for a moment to make sure that I have both written and read that correctly.)

…And I got through the sentence, and I don’t think I’m nuts. Yay for personal validation!

Okay, so here’s why—Yes, this is my evidence, just in case I come back and read this in about a week, wondering if I really wrote what I thought I wrote.

First: the broken brake pedal incident. The car wasn’t rickety; I was just super strong.

Second: yesterday, got hit by a football—no, that’s not the evidence—because some guys were throwing it and not looking who was eating lunch nearby. So I picked it up and punted it, and it was like GONE gone. I think I could’ve made a hundred-yard field goal—if I could aim for the posts, that is.

Third: today, I tripped; I caught myself on the ground with my fingertips, and with my legs and back straight actually pushed myself back up to my feet. I won’t try to say I’m graceful, but what the health club!? I’m strong.

I decided to ask Tracy—coyly—if she’d ever suddenly gotten really strong. I mean, it was a comparison. Maybe my body really is going through normal changes, and I just missed that chapter of my human growth and development textbooks. But Tracy got all worried and started asking me what was wrong, if I’d been hurt, if someone had tried to hurt me, if the strength was caused by fear or adrenaline or something, or if I just wished I was strong because [something else bad], and so I spent the rest of the conversation trying to reassure her, and I just had to let it go.

I’m not giving up on my new-found super power though. I’ll find some good ways to test it. Y’know, ways that won’t accidentally kill me.

PS – Oh yeah, I can’t climb walls with my bare fingers or bare toes. Maybe I just haven’t figured out how to activate it, but to the best of my knowledge, I’m not Spiderman.


I woke up to Bear scratching at the window last night. I assumed there was probably a butterfly or squirrel taunting him through the glass. I got up to close the shades, and when I looked out the window, I could have sworn there was someone standing on the lawn looking back at me.

But it was so brief I hardly had time to—anything! I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or woman, adult or kid, human or vicious alien from outer space—Or, probably the more likely candidate, if it was just in my head. Because when I looked back out there, I saw nothing! Well, not nothing. I saw the tree and the tire swing and the fence and all that jazz, but I saw no more person. It was like the spectre just vanished before I had a chance to rub the sleep out of my eyes.

I want to say that it was chilling, but weirdly, I felt more frustrated than scared. (What’s the deal with that?) Maybe it’s because Bear didn’t seem spooked. I mean, he didn’t even mew. When I shut the shades, he just yawned and climbed back up on my bed. It was like he cared more about greeting the strange intruder than scaring him away.

It’s just like a cat too—It’s why people get guard dogs. Cats are more likely to rub up against the legs of ne’erdowells than bite them. In fact, the worst they’ll usually do is give you the cold shoulder.

Also, is that how you spell ne’erdowell? I could take out the ‘ but that would just make it look like NERDowell. As in a well full of nerdos. Drat.

But I have to go to school, where I will be extra careful to keep an eye out for disappearing people—who, if I remember right, wear white. At least it’s before labor day.

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This might not be related to the dream thing, but after last night’s vampire thoughts, I can’t shake this— I don’t think I have a word to describe it. A calling? A pulling? A gnawing? No. Vampires wouldn’t gnaw; they’d bite.

But as I was walking home yesterday, I suddenly had like—this will sound really weird if I ever come back and reread it—cramps. Like menstrual cramps—(ugly looking word, by the way: puts a u where a u doesn’t belong.) And then they stopped, just as suddenly.

And I checked where I was, and it was like the cramps had started while I was passing the neighborhood graveyard, and went away once I’d like passed the threshold. (Threshold isn’t the right word. I’ll change it later.)

So I scientific-methoded it and walked back, and sure enough! Cramps again. Walked away: they’re gone! So I’m having a mental what the Fuddruckers, because either it’s an extreme coincidence, or my body is trying to tell me something. If it’s that I’m supposed to give birth to a demon baby or something like that, I don’t accept.

But weirdly, it felt like a warning—y’know aside from the angry uncomfortable. Now I’ve heard of stress headaches, and even stress triggering labor—(because now I can’t get the baby thing out of my mind)—but I’ve never heard of anxiety-induced periods.

For some reason, I felt compelled to take a pencil out of my backpack—a very sharp one—and hold it at the ready. Perhaps to test if the pencil is mightier than the sword. Well, lucky for the danger signs out there, I never had to employ my No2 Dixon Ticonderoga.