My name is Sara Jane rIspoli.
Several short weeks ago, I turned sixteen.
So far there has been nothing sweet about it.
I have braces, the thick, transparent type-they make my teeth appear too large for my mouth and my lips too small to contain them.
I have good hair and acceptable skin but my nose is Roman, as in it’s roamin’ all over my face, and I plan to do something about it someday.
I have a learner’s permit but no license, but I’ve been driving my dad’s old Lincoln Continental since I was thirteen, so big freaking deal.
I have a boyfriend-well, a boy who treats me like a friend instead of how I want to be treated, so BFD again.
I also have a steel briefcase, and inside that briefcase is ninety-six thousand dollars in cash, an AmEx Black Card in my name, a Sig Sauer.45 conceal-and-carry, and an old leather notebook stuffed full of so many unusual facts, indecipherable notes, and unlisted phone numbers that it’s held together with masking tape and rubber bands.
The notebook is why I have the gun.
What I don’t have anymore are my parents or little brother.
They’re either dead and gone, or just dead, or just gone.
I don’t have a Friendbook page.
I don’t have space on ISpace.
I threw my cell phone into Lake Michigan weeks ago.
I’m being watched, stalked, tapped, and spied on, and if the opportunity arises, the watchers and stalkers will try to snatch me, and the tappers and spies will try to kill me.
As long as I keep moving, I should be okay.
As long as I keep the notebook with me, I should stay alive.
This is not what I thought life would be like when I turned sweet sixteen.