idea what Glen Lake's standards were for hot, cute, sexy, or cool. At Wellington, everyone pretty much just wore jeans and T-shirts all the time. Even if there was a dance or something, people

dressed as casually as possible, like they would never in a million years do something as lame as

get dressed up for a school dance. I think the idea was to show up looking like you hadn't even

known there was a dance; you'd just gone out to walk the dog or buy cigarettes or something, and

the next thing you knew you were rockin' out with your classmates.

But people at Glen Lake dress up even for school. They wear outfits, color-coordinated shirts and pants and socks. I myself do not own any outfits. Unless you count jeans and a black T-shirt.

Which is my totally five-minutes-ago uniform.

No way was I going to wear jeans and a black T-shirt to the game after wearing it basically every

day of the year.

I finally decided to pair a tight, green scoop-neck

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T-shirt with a little black skirt, black tights, and black boots with a low, chunky heel. Over the T-

shirt, I put on an old Stanford sweatshirt of my dad's. I looked at myself in the mirror. It wasn't

bad. The sweatshirt said, "I'm super caz," while the skirt said, "I'm super sexy."

Unless I was wrong and the whole ensemble simply said, "I'm super freaky." I stared at my

reflection.

"Hey, Connor," I said nervously. My voice sounded high and tiny, Tropical Barbie pumped-up

on estrogen.

I cleared my throat. "Hey, Connor," I said again, dropping my voice down an octave.

Now I sounded like Harvey Fierstein.

A car honked outside. My heart started pounding and I got a feeling in the pit of my stomach like

I was about to throw up.

Another honk. I took a deep breath and exhaled, slowly.

"Hey, Connor," I said to the mirror. It sounded okay. Not perfect, but okay. I studied my

reflection. Something still wasn't quite right. I took off the sweatshirt.

The car honked again.

I reached up and pulled out the ponytail holder. My hair fell around my face and shoulders, a

wash of bright red.

I stared at myself, hard. With my hair down, I definitely didn't look like a female impersonator.

And the

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green T-shirt looked good against the red. Not bad. Not bad at all.

I flipped off the light and raced upstairs.

"Sorry we're late," said Jessica, as she and Madison slid over to give me room next to them in the backseat. "This one here"--she pointed at Madison--"took about ten years deciding what to

wear."

Madison shrugged and pointed at me. "I like your skirt," she said.

"Oh, thanks," I said, relieved.

"Hey, your little sisters are in my sister's class," said Jessica. "They're totally sweet."

The Princesses? Sweet?

"Uh, yeah," I said. "I guess Jennifer's their good friend." I managed not to add for now to the end of my sentence.

"Yeah, but she's a total brat," said Jessica. "She drives me crazy."

I knew there was a bonding opportunity presenting itself here, but I wasn't sure how to proceed.

Did I say the Princesses were total brats, too, or would that make me look like a bitch? Maybe I

was supposed to defend Jennifer, say she was sweet, like Jessica had said the Princesses were.

As I analyzed and rejected half a dozen platitudes, I realized six months in social Siberia had

taken their toll. I was no longer able to carry on even the most mundane conversation.

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While I was busy trying to come up with a banal yet deeply significant observation about my

monstrous stepsisters, the conversation moved on.

"Are you totally psyched about Connor?" asked Jessica.

"Well, I--"

"God, this color is way too dark," said Madison, who had taken a mirror out of Jessica's purse to check her lipstick.

It was true; her mouth was stained a disturbing shade of purple. She rubbed at her lips with a

tissue.

Jessica took her hair out of its ponytail, turning toward me as she fluffed it around her face.

"Wow," she said, "your hair is really red."

Was she making an observation or an accusation?

"Um, yeah," I said. My hand flew up to my head as if touching my hair would make it less red.

"I'm using your lip gloss," said Madison, reaching into Jessica's bag.

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead," said Jessica. She was still looking at me. "Is it natural?"

"Um, yeah," I said for the second time as Jessica took her bag back from Madison and dug

around in it.

I should never have left my hair down. What had I been thinking? I felt utterly exposed, like I

was living out the dream where you're walking down the hall in school and you suddenly realize

you're not wearing any clothes. "My stepsisters keep telling me to dye it," I said, trying

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to control my tone so it fell somewhere between statement and question. Was there a ponytail

holder in my bag?

"Why would you dye it?" asked Jessica, running her brush through her hair. The look she gave

me was one of honest confusion. "It's totally hot."

"Oh, thanks," I said, forcing a laugh. "I mean, I wasn't seriously thinking of dyeing it."

But, of course, for a second there, I had been.

I'd never been to a high-school basketball game before. Officially, Wellington has a basketball

team, but they're not exactly state champion material, and no one I knew ever followed their

record too closely. Glen Lake's team, on the other hand, is a juggernaut, something the bards are

expected to be singing of for the next hundred years.

As soon as we arrived I checked the score: 5-0, Glen Lake. The visiting team was taking a free

throw. I've always loved watching players set up at the foul line. The way they dribble slowly,

stop, dribble again. They're like religious figures working themselves into a mystical trance. The

guy making this shot was nervous, and he held the ball for a long time before tossing it toward

the basket. Even before it left his hands you could tell it wouldn't go in, but I watched it fall short

of the net any-way, feeling the combination of sympathy and relief I always feel when an

opposing team misses a shot.

The gym, which could easily have held several

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thousand people, was about two-thirds full, and the crowd was enthusiastic enough for twice as

many people as were actually there. We climbed halfway up the crowded bleachers and sat down

with a group of sophomores I didn't know. While Madison and Jessica talked to their friends, I

looked down at the court and found Connor, who was yelling something to the guy who had the

ball. Even from this distance he was beautiful. Unlike a lot of tall guys, he wasn't gangly and

awkward, and his thick, dark hair fell just over his eyebrows. While I was watching, he shook it

out of his face and then ran his hand through it. I felt a little jolt of electricity tingle in my own

hand.

The score quickly got crazy close. In the fourth quarter Glen Lake had a short run of making one

basket after another, but then the other team caught up and we were tied for a long time. I was on

the edge of my seat, especially at this one really tense moment when Connor and the team's

shooting guard headed toward the basket like there was nothing that would stop them from