It's the first day of fifth grade. I can feel my heart in my chest, and the noises it's making aren't pretty. I've been waiting for this day for- for forever, I guess. One chance to start over, to be something new. I want to be new. I picked out my clothes last night, and right now I think they're cute, but I know once I get to my new school they will be ugly again. My butterfly blouse and jeans with the beads on the bottom won't fit in here. I look like I'm in second grade, not even comparative with the Abercrombie and Ugg boots I'm about to see. In fifth grade, girls wear bras and make up. They play volleyball and giggle about boys. I scowl down at my cereal. Making friends isn't an issue; there will always be kids like me. But they don't understand that I want something more. I want to wear make up and bras. I want to straighten my hair, play volleyball, and talk about boys. This is my chance to start over. I can become one of them.

I'm at school now. The teacher is introducing me. I'm at the front of the classroom, and I'm trying to be cool. No weird expressions, no smiling at the kids who look like me. I can only see the cool kids. My future friends. I get my seat and feel the cold chair underneath me. I'm so nervous. So, so nervous. “Hi,” a girl in front of me says. “I'm Courtney.”

She sticks out a hand and I hesitate to shake it. She's wearing a butterfly blouse, too. Her sticky hand hangs in the air limply, and mine is glued to my lap. No Abercrombie. No make up. Not a friend.


She blinks and puts her hand back down. “You don't have to be rude,” she says. She smirks. “You should straighten your hair.”


I look up again and she's different. No butterfly blouse, no dirty hand. She has long, blond hair and eyeshadow. She's wearing Abercrombie.


“You better watch out,” says the boy next to me. “That's Courtney Jordan, the most popular girl here.”


“But, but she was different a moment ago,” I stuttered. “She looked.. with the butterfly shirt and the bad jeans and the hair, I thought she was like us, not like that.”


“There is no like us.” the boy says.
It's not my clothes that don't fit in here, it's me.