I know I'm not an ordinary (普通的) ten-year-old kid. I mean, sure, I do ordinary things. I eat ice cream. I ride my bike. I play ball. I play video games. Things like that make me ordinary, I guess. Also, I feel ordinary inside. But I know ordinary kids don't make other ordinary kids run away screaming in playgrounds. I know ordinary kids don't get stared at (盯着) wherever they go.
If I found a magic lamp and I could have one wish, I would wish that I had a common face that no one ever noticed at all. I would wish that I could walk down the street without people seeing me and then doing that look-away thing.
But I'm kind of used to how I look by now. I know how to pretend (假装) I don't see the faces people make when they see me. We've all gotten pretty good at that kind of thing: Mom and Dad, my elder sister Via, and me. Actually, I should take that back: Via is not so good at it. She can get really angry when people do something rude to me. Like, for example, one time in the playground, some older kids saw me and made some noises. I don't even know what the noises were exactly because I didn't hear them myself, but Via heard them and she just started shouting at those kids. That's the way she is. I'm not that way.
Via doesn't see me as ordinary. She says she does, but I know that if I were ordinary, she wouldn't feel like she needs to protect me that much. Mom and Dad don't see me as ordinary, either. They see me as special. I think the only person in the world who realizes how ordinary I am is me.
My name is August, by the way. I won't describe what I look like to you. Whatever you're thinking, it's probably worse.
