To steal or not to steal, that is the question.
The Girl who stole the Moon
CHAPTER
1
I am the Night, Color Me Black
By now, you probably think I’m such a horrible person. Like, how in the world can a girl steal the moon?
Crazy, right? However, I’m getting way ahead of myself. Let’s just jump right into the proper introduction.
Hi, my name is Alina Brillar Estrella- it’s a mouthful, huh?- and I’m 15 years old.
Undoubtedly, you’re probably wondering about my bizarre name. To be honest, I have no idea why my parents would name me in such a preposterous manner! Anyhoo, Alina means night in the Malagasy language; Brillar (my middle name, obviously) means sparkle in Spanish. Oh, and my last name Estrella?
That’s just plain lucky. Cause my family’s stock name for generations has been Estrella: which is Spanish for star. Full name: Night sparkle star.
Go ahead...laugh! Millions have already (I’m being dramatic. It’s a habit of mine). Wanna hear something even more bizarre?
I’m neither Malaysian or Latino. Hahahaha.
I’m kidding. Indeed, I am Latino - not Malaysian though, sorry!- from my parents who were born in the beautiful land of Mexico, but I was born in Austin, Texas, to my awesome parents: Joli Grace Estrella and Malachi Andro Estrella (a.k.a MOM AND DAD). As can be PLAINLY seen, my parents have normal names. Ordinary names. COMMON names. Me? I’m stuck with a name that basically brands me as a big ball of hot air that glows in the night sky. What can I say? I am the Night, color me Black.
Let’s see...how do I start this?
Hmm, I, uh, don’t what to say. Anyway, I’ll just start blabbing and hopefully, you’ll keep listening. When I was about 4 years old, my parents moved us from our big ole’ ranch in Texas to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. You see, my dad is a traveling missionary and is often moving us from place to place.
In fact, my Mom often jokes that if there was life beyond planet earth, my dad would be the first one to run over to an alien, and ask if they were saved or not.
Yup, that’s my dad.
OK...moving on. Consequently, we lived in Malaysia until I was about 10 years old. We lived in old rustic beach/cabin-style house that was settled right next to a glorious beach. Basically, it was a five-minute walk to the swim of your life, ya’ll. See? Told ya I was from Texas.
Anyhow, to be honest, I spent more years in Malay (my short version of Malaysia, lol) than in my beloved abode called Texas. And believe me, it was hard to adapt to moving ALL the time.
I was only four when we moved to Malay, but I remember almost everything that happened when we arrived. To be completely truthful, as soon as we got to our hotel (Shangri-La five-star Hotel) I became violently sick.
Fever, chest pains, body aches, uncontrollable coughing, chills, vomiting, etc. And Mom literally freaked...out. She spent the next couple hours taking care of me and trying to convince Dad about moving back to Texas...to no avail.
He was purely persuaded that I would be okay in a couple of days.
Bahahahahaha...If he only knew.
Unfortunately, I was ill for about 4 weeks and had to spend another 2 weeks in the hospital for observation. Shortly after that we left our hotel and moved into our vivid, spacious beach house. Up until that time, my parents were hopping between our hotel and the hospital I was staying at.
Eventually, I got better and was able to run about like a normal four-year-old. In the meantime, my mom usually kept house and dad bustled around in the city finding new recruits for his ministry.
By the way, did I mention how beautiful Kuala Lumpur was?
Moreover, Dad had the privilege to work super close to the Petronas Towers which is located in Kuala Lumpur.
In essence, the Petronas Towers are twin skyscrapers that are 88 floors tall. Besides that, the city of Kuala Lumpur is very hip and cool. Kind of like New York (I have a cousin there).
Tall buildings, skyscrapers, swanky hotels, etc. Yup, very New York-like.
In spite of all this, I spent most of my days and nights running around on the beach, swimming in the shallow water with my Mom, counting stars and naming them, writing poems about the big ole’ moon, and going to church on Sundays.
A typical kiddy life. Kinda. Well, until the horror of all horrors struck...

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