There is no denying that my mother is beautiful. Despite the excess weight, I have always been jealous. Smooth, sleek blonde curls and incredibly clear skin. She gets hit on all the time. It's kind of sad when your own mother gets more attention than you do. Really, I mean it's ridiculous. I feel just the slightest bit inadequate. God. Life is seriously just shit. I was thinking about this on the way home, while I was taking the long route that my mother hated, wondering if there was actually anyone as pathetic as me. Does anyone sit in science, which, incidentally, is one of the four classes that they are failing, simply raking their fingers through their hair, making it into a complete mess? Also, would they happen to have a stomach? I think not. My mother is certainly nothing like that. Other than the stomach, I guess. But, honestly!

"Priscilla, you are fifteen minutes late!" I heard as I pulled the front door open. She never calls me Pinky. And, I'm always fifteen minutes late.

"Wow, thanks for telling me Mom, I didn't realize that," I muttered sarcastically, heading to my room. I could almost see my mother shaking her head with disappointment behind me.

I walked up the stairs towards my bedroom. I spent most of my time there, writing, reading, and listening to music. It was sort of like the one place where I could be myself, and not worry about what everyone else in the world thought. I moved faster up the carpeted stairs, and turned left, slamming the bedroom door behind me. I slipped off my sweater and dropped my purse to the floor. I lay down on my bed, pulling out my ponytail, letting my long black hair bounce around my shoulders. I was on my stomach, just thinking.

Always around this time, I thought of him, and how they were treating him. I would never really know. Of course, there were the occasional visits, one of them being last Thursday, his second birthday. He was two without a mother. The woman who had a plastered smile on her face ands stood at an oven baking cookies didn't count. The man who gave his wife a quick kiss before heading off to work didn't count as a father either. I counted as a mother. But he didn't count as a father.

I had taken that long way home on that day, it was close to midnight, and I should have been inside already. I was just barely thirteen, as of a couple weeks ago. The party had been small, just a few friends, but fun. I didn't know why he did it. I mean I had on that baggy sweatshirt that was in the back of my closet and those sweats that were crumpled at the bottom of my drawer. I remember feeling so ugly, needing to feel beautiful, to feel wanted. The trees still burned green that night, through the black sky as I pulled my sweatshirt tighter around myself, freezing cold. That was when I saw him. Blake Berkenson, the most popular guy in town. He was three years older than me, a junior, and there was no reason for him to be interested in me. With his athletic looks and witty personality, he got all of the girls. His girlfriend then was named Miranda. I remembered seeing here whenever I walked past his house, on the long way home. But this time, we locked eyes.

"Hey!" I heard him call, "Isn't your name Pilly?" I turned back towards him. I had never thought that Blake Berkenson would actually know my name. Well, it wasn't quite my name, but close enough, I thought.

"Well," I began slowly, "It's Pinky-"

He moved closer to me. "You're really pretty." And that was all he said, I swear. It was innocent as anything. I grinned, incredibly flattered, not quite knowing what to say. I mumbled a meek, "thanks," and started to leave.

Blake took me by the arm. "Why don't you come inside?"

"Priscilla!" My mother's voice startled me, waking me from my thoughts.

"What?" I called back, not really in the mood.

"Come down for dinner!" I sighed.

"Mom, I really don't-" Her voice cut me off.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't come down. Probably good for you to skip a meal," I heard her start to walk back downstairs, "or two."