“Fine, I’ll stop calling Kale a weirdo on one condition.” I swallow a gulp of milk then wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “If you let me go to the concert on Friday with Dad.”

Her cheeriness diminishes. “Did he tell you that you could go with him?”

I shrug. “He didn’t not tell me I couldn’t.”

She shakes her head, restraining a grin. “You are way too good of a bargainer for your own good.”

I perk up. “So does that mean I can go?”

“Hmm … That all depends on if you’ll go on a drive with me later and warmly welcome the new Gregory.” She raises her glass to her mouth, but only to hide a smirk.

“Touché, Mother. I see where I get my bargaining skills from.”

I consider her offer. Going on a drive with my mother may not seem like the most fun thing in the world, but it kind of is. Her and my dad used to drag race, and they still have some of their badass cars we take out when we go for trips. Both of them drive fast, although I think they play it safe when I’m in the car. It’s still fun, though.

What makes me hesitate on the offer is the getting to know the new Gregory part. Like puppies, I never know what the new addition’s personality is going to be. He could be nice, or he could be a little weirdo who bites. The youngest, Fiona, actually bit me the first day they brought her home.

But I want to go to the concert badly enough that the pros outweigh the cons.

I chug the rest of my milk then agree. “Fine, I’ll go with you as long as you let me go with Dad.”

“Go where with me?” my dad asks as he strolls into the kitchen carrying his guitar case.

I scoot back from the table and stand up. “To the concert.”

My dad drops his guitar case to the floor and lifts his hand for a high five. “See, I told you it’d be better if you asked her.”

My mother’s head whips in his direction, and she scowls at him. “Did you put her up to that?”

He shrugs as I slam my palm against his. “You have a hard time telling her no.”

“So do you.” She narrows her eyes. “You spoil her too much.”

“And vice versa.” He leans down and whispers something in her ear, causing her to giggle and blush.

That is my cue to leave, because in just a few moments, they’ll start making out like they always do. So gross.

I hurry out of the kitchen and up to my bedroom to change out of my pajamas. I select a black tank top and a pair of cut offs then braid my long, blonde hair before applying a dab of eyeliner around my eyes. I then blast some Rise Against and rock out on my drums for a bit. Uncle Ethan actually taught me how to play, but he says I’m a natural since I caught on really quick.

After the drums comes the guitar. I turn on “Buried Myself Alive” by The Used and strum the strings to the tempo until my fingers are numb. Then I crank up some “Lithium” by Evanescence and go mad crazy with the violin while belting out the lyrics. I stop when I’m hoarse and flop down on my bed to draw covers for the albums I have yet to create.

Once my hands ache, I move on to lyrics. Although it’s one of my favorite things to do, I sometimes feel like I lack in the lyrical department. Most of the music I love is angsty, emotional, semi-twisted, and moves the soul. Mine always seem to come out on the exuberant side. I’m hoping with time it will change. I know my dad wrote some of his best lyrics in his late teen years, when he was pining over my mom. He even told me once that the more I experience life, the more emotional my songs will get. Now, if I could just get those experiences like he said, life would be fantastic.

I’m still figuring out how to attain that life, though. For the most part, my life is pretty boring. I have decent, pretty cool parents who support every dream I throw at them, whether it’s proclaiming that I’m going to create my own genre in music, or win a Grammy. I get to do a lot of things I want to do, like go to concerts, art shows, meet semi-famous musicians. I’ve spent a lot of time in my dad’s studio, watching artists record. I have a lot of friends, granted none of them I would consider a best friend, but there are still occasions where I feel lonely.

Bored. Ordinary. That’s what my life is. And ordinary doesn’t make awesome music.

Plus, even if I miraculously became the most killer songwriter ever, I could never sing in front of anyone. Just playing the guitar for my family makes me want to vomit. Singing is much more raw than playing an instrument. Much more real. Exposes the soul so much more. And as blunt as I am, exposing my soul freaks the living shit out of me, because I fear people won’t like what’s in me.

By the time I look up from the notepad again, the sun is setting over the city of San Diego, and the sky is shades of florescent pink and orange.

“Lyric, it’s time!” my mother calls up the stairs as I’m tucking my notepad under my pillow.

Sighing, I slip on my black boots and trot down the stairs.

“How long of a drive does it have to be?” I ask her as I wander into the living room where she’s stacking our entire DVD collection onto the coffee table.

Movie watching is an adoption day tradition. We start off with dinner at the Gregory’s, where everyone gets reacquainted with each other. Then we come over here to watch a movie since we have a massive television in our living room.

“I’m not sure yet.” She stands up straight and gathers lose strands of her red hair out of her face while she scans the room. She has spots of grey and blue paint in her hair and on her cheek, which means she’s been in her studio for most of the day. “I feel like I’m forgetting something.”