The girl slumped against the picnic table. She was wearing her sexy top, the one she insisted her mother buy from Tempo. The effect was ruined by the blue workshirt that she wore over the little tank top. It was all because of her skin. It totally made being pretty impossible. And today was supposed to be the day they noticed her. She did her hair perfectly. But then noticed the line of acne on her right shoulder. Right where the sexy shirt stopped, and her skin began. It was so ugly. Just like everything else. So ugly. And there was nothing she could do about it. It just ruined the effect. And it was hot out. So the blue shirt had pit stains. Because she couldn't help that either.

Nothing was going to work, she realized. She was going to remain invisible. And no amount of hair preparation was going to make her pretty like Brooke Shields in the magazines. She could be tall, and she could have pretty hair, yes. But the rest didn't follow. And so she slumped against the picnic table and picked at the layer of brown paint covering words carved deeply into the wood.

She wouldn't tell her mother about the unsuccessful shirt. But she wouldn't wear it ever again, either.