Disclaimer: I don't own the world of PJO.
Girl. Brown-haired. Blue-eyed. 5'8. SPED. If ever you hear these words to describe a person, then they're most likely talking about me, Raina Wilde. I'm about fourteen years old now. I'm from New York, but there have been some arrangements, so now I'm in Long Island. Here's what's happened recently, all written in this log book. After you read this, you're not going to tell anyone about anything you've read here.
Great waves of adrenaline and anxiety rushes over me like a tidal wave. I can hear the announcer call my name.
"And now, Raina Wilde of the Upper East Side, New York!"
I step towards the mark. Grabbing an arrow from my quiver, I stretch my fingers and squint at my target. A stupid cardboard falcon, perched at the other side of the cliff. Is that the best they can do? A falcon?
Rolling my eyes, I hold up my bow and place my arrow near it, linking it to the string with two fingers. I take a deep breath and close my left eye.
My hands are shaking. I pull back the arrow, and let it go. I drop my bow and quickly grab my binoculars, which were safely inside my fanny pack (well, all contestants must have one). I place them in front of my eyes, staring at the target.
My heart skips a beat. I put down my binoculars and sigh.
Right where the heart should be. I did it.
I, Raina Wilde, am now the youngest archery champion in the whole country.
Consider this a dream come true.
"Shoot for the moon, Rae. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars--your father."
I was convinced my father was dead. Killed by a plane crash. Well, that's what my mother always said. But I have learned she lies. A lot.
Like when my cat, Stubbles, went missing. She said he got hit by a tourist bus. Which would never be true. All Stubbles does is eat, sleep, go to the litter box occasionally when he has to go, breathe. I tracked him all the way to Montauk, inside a strawberry truck. There weren't any strawberries inside, though.
When I was going back, I thought I saw this flying birdwoman thing and got out my bow, but I forgot that I left it. So, I just decided to return back home and tell her that I was at that crippled girl Bess McGoodwin's house for a Science project.
She actually fell for it (ha!) and sent me to bed with Pop Tarts and cream soda, which is very rare. She praised me for "making an attempt to heighten up my grades". But I never will excel. It's because I have ADD. To be honest, I never get higher than a C-. And that's bad for my school, which is heck on earth. Trinity Academy "only accepts the most promising young ladies of the new generation". Maybe that's why they kicked me out.
And now I'm here. On the coast of Montauk, aiming at squirrels for my target practice. Thank God there's such a thing as summer.
The night is clear and bright. It feels energizing to me, although I have zilch idea why.
I grabbed a bow from my quiver and positioned it in place. It's a high-tech one, my bow, although I prefer the old style. Fingerless gloves are so annoying.
I spotted no squirrel, but there's a weak branch I wanted to snap off. I aimed for it, right through the center, and let go.
I smiled. I've never missed a single of my targets ever since I was eleven. Except for Meg Red, though. Her stupid head keeps bouncing.
I rolled my eyes. Oh, Stubbles, you fat ginger.
I scooped up my cat and grabbed my bike, riding all the way back to the Upper East Side.
By the time I returned, I was surprised to find my mother, of all people, watching a movie apparently called The Silence of the Lambs. Interesting. Not.
I crept up to my room and sighed, looking at my bow, posted atop my bed, along with the quiver of arrows.
I dropped Stubbles and grabbed a glass of juice from my mini refrigerator.
Why was my mom so clueless? It's like she's letting me get away with anything. Strange of her.
Instead of doing some more "pondering", I decided to watch television, flipping to whatever seemed interesting. None whatsoever, so now I'm writing here.
Do you think she'll r--