Mom said as I left for school on Monday. She’d promised to e-mail my teachers to make sure, so I reluctantly put them on. When I walked into the building, I was amazed by the details I’d overlooked before — smudges on the trophy case, faded letters on the bulletin boards, a missing F on the OFFICE sign above the counselor’s door. Our lockers were gray, but where the paint flaked off, I saw maroon. Some were dented; others, rusted. Mine had a purple squiggle. When did it get there? I saw the coach patrolling the hall. He wasn’t as muscular as I thought — just big and soft, like the grand prize of a carnival game. “Hey, Windy!” Liz beckoned me, so I followed her to the courtyard where we found the other in-crowd girls at a picnic table. Everyone talked excitedly about the weekend, but I couldn’t pay attention. I was too busy noticing that some of the girls had pimples beneath their makeup. One even wore braces, and another had on glasses, just like me. So why did everyone think they were prettier than the rest of us?
