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was what I was meant to do. Sing. There was no one in the room who doubted it. Especially not me. Then the music was trapped inside the pounds, and I stopped singing. Now I can only remember what it felt like to want people to watch me.
    I see Jackson in the front row of the trombones. He has on his football jersey. Number 82. Not many boys play football and are in the band. That’s part of his charm. He’s a geeky jock. Perfect. I watch him laughing and talking with two flute players in front of him. He is so relaxed. So easy. His smile flashes often, and the flute players respond with giggles. One girl, the one with the little red rectangle glasses, hugs him, still laughing. I wonder what it feels like to reach out unselfconsciously and< touch — randomly, casually, and frequently.
    “You’ll never know,” Skinny says softly. “Never, Ever.”
    Kristen steps in front of me and sits down in an empty seat. I squeeze down into the space beside her, breathing in and out shallowly. It hurts to watch, but I can’t stop. I focus on Jackson’s face and try to feel smaller in the wooden folding chair. I cross my arms tightly over my chest and press my thighs together. The less room I take up the better. Hundreds and hundreds of eyes stare down at me from rows and rows of bleachers. Take a breath. Another. Concentrate on being invisible. And smaller.
    “God, she takes up so much space. Just look at those thighs. I can’t believe her fat is touching me.”
    Kristen scoots to the far side of her chair away from me, nervously twisting a strand of hair around and around her finger. I cross my arms even tighter over my chest and pinch my arm between my thumb and finger. Harder. The pain helps me focus on something besides the eyes.
    The gym is as quiet as it’s going to get. The principal, a middle-aged man with a forehead that stretches well over the top of his head, walks to the podium and taps the microphone a couple times. After a few attempts at getting the top rows of students to stop talking, he introduces the junior class president.
    She is a black-haired girl wearing silver hooped earrings that swing back and forth as she marches up to the mic. Her name is Tracey Bolton, and she’s never said a word to me. Skinny’s filled me in on what she thinks about me, which isn’t much. Tracey places a couple of typed pages on the podium, and I see her hands shaking. She’s practiced long and hard for this moment in the spotlight. When she starts to speak, I have to admit I’m surprised. Her voice, unlike her hands, doesn’t quiver.
    “Principal Brown, members of the School Board, teachers, parents, friends, and fellow classmates, it is an honor to speak to all of you today. Go Hornets!”
    I slowly stretch my feet out in front of me, trying to make myself longer. Leaner. It isn’t working. Kristen makes a big huffy noise.
    “God. You are a cow!” Skinny fills in her thoughts.
    I tune out a couple of sentences into Tracey’s speech. I watch Jackson.
    Back when we were ten we’d never seen snow before. So when the weatherman announced the possibility, it was like Christmas came early. There was a buzz every where. Grocery stores, sidewalks, libraries, and, most of all, school. Everyone wanted to talk about the weather and the possibility of snow. When it actually happened, I was stunned. I opened my upstairs bedroom curtain to see every thing coated in white. I hardly slept the night before, wishing for the possibility. My mom came in and told me the even better news: School had been canceled. I did a snow dance in my bedroom. It was perfect. I thought it couldn’t be a more perfect day. I was wrong.
    Jackson knocked on the door around ten that morning. I dug up every piece of winter clothes I could find and met him at the door with rubber rain boots and two gloves that didn’t match. I had on two sweaters, a coat a size too small, and three pairs of socks. I walked like a mummy rising from the dead. Jackson had a