The Wrath of a Mediocre Hero

I’d always felt like a secondary character in my life, never a main character—like I’ve always been missing out on something. Someone could be saving the world or going on a great adventure to save us all, and I would have no idea. Because I wasn’t a part of it. I wasn’t particularly interesting-looking; my mousy-colored hair was long enough to be in the way, yet too short to put into a ponytail (I still don’t know why I keep cutting it like that). Strange, foggy-looking gray eyes were planted on my face, probably the only interesting thing in a sea of pale. I also have a cool last name—my entire name is catchy, like the name of a superhero, or at least a protagonist (Kimberly Fox—too bad I don’t exactly fit it). I was almost always pushed off to the side to make room for my twin sister Tarri’s growing list of achievements, when all I had was a little certificate from first grade, signifying how I’d won a chess game against the class paste-eater. I felt like a bothersome shadow, like one of the minor, minor characters on a show that shows up for half a second, running away and screaming as the hero saves the day. I didn’t have any heroic qualities; I would probably chicken out of a fight if I had to. I really wasn’t someone worth remembering.