Average – typical as compared to a group
I live in an average house in an average town with my average family. I am of average height and build for a girl of thirteen. I have average brown hair to match my other average features. I wear average clothes – my average mother doesn’t believe in brand name clothing – to my average school, at which I have an average amount of friends and maintain average grades. I wear average glasses for the same reason as the clothing. There are, however, two things about me that are decidedly not average. Two things I cling to while life in this average town drones on.
For starters, in a town called Boring, Oregon, I assure you, I am the only Adélaïde Noëlle Moreaux. My father’s distant ancestors were French, but our surname is the only properly French thing about him. As for my creative given names, I’ve often speculated whether my notably American mother was going through a French romance phase, or if it was simply that she found some sort of sick joy in giving me names that couldn’t be typed on a North American keyboard. Given the average qualities of my life in general, saying that my mother’s name choice proved a little more than torturous is an understatement. Despite the continual questioning, explanations, and misunderstanding my name creates, however, I secretly love it. I revel in the uniqueness I pretend that it brings to my dull average life.
My average glasses almost perfectly shield my other non average feature: my eyes. I have begged my mom for contacts, but she maintains that I’m too young and thus too irresponsible. Every morning when I get ready for school I remove my glasses and lean in close to the mirror, close enough for my breath to fog the glass due to my extreme nearsightedness, just to look at them. Vain as this may sound, it is more out of frustration and an occasional thrill of fear and excitement that I care to gaze into my own eyes. For, you see, when my eyes turn from their usual nondescript blue-grey to sharp violet, I know danger is near. Crazy, I know, but it is true. Most days nothing but blue-grey stares back completing my average reflection. These are the frustrating days. Although I’ve lived in this average town all of my life, or perhaps because I’ve lived in this average town all of my life, I pine for adventure.
As there was nothing out of the ordinary on this particular morning, I bounded down the stairs to our average kitchen to fight my average brothers off the last of the average freezer waffles my mom had toasted. Sam, my oldest brother, passed me the syrup right as I looked up to ask. Sometimes I wondered if Sam could read my mind, but I knew nothing that exciting could happen in a town called Boring. Our town isn’t really even a town. It is a suburb of a suburb of Portland. As I pontificated over this pointless thought, Charlie, my other brother stole a bite from one of my waffles. Seriously, having two older brothers is like living with starved lions. Only some days lions would seem more tame.
