Excerpt
My name is Rosetta, a name I don’t like at all, but most people call me Rose, another name I don’t like, but one that is a lot better than Rosetta.

I’ve never done anything great in my life. In fact, if you looked up the word average, you would see me.

I make C’s, except in history. I’m not very tall but also not the shortest in my class. Boys don’t throw dog biscuits at me when I walk by--they don’t even notice me--and I don’t have big boobs yet. I’m not totally flat, but I’m also not like Ashley, who is, well, let’s just say, not flat at all.

She’s also not very bright. To illustrate my point, let me mention that in middle school, she raised her shirt more than once to show the boys she didn’t stuff. Yet, she also still believed it when they told her they didn't believe her--if that makes any sense. Ashley got confused. It was a vicious cycle. The boys said they didn’t believe her and then the shirt went up. Boys will be boys. Ashley is still not very bright, as I said.

I might be just a little bit above average--a C+ or a B--if I didn’t wear glasses. Average and half blind--a deadly combination.

I’ve sworn to myself that this fall, I’m going to change my life. My goals are to win the gold medal in history, make the volleyball team, and find a boyfriend. I mean a real boyfriend, not just a boy who is a friend. I already have that. In fact, he’s trying to look over my shoulder and read my diary right now.

“Rosie, what are you doing?”

“Ow! Quit yanking my hair.”

Glen is my best friend when he’s not being such a boy. We’ve known each other for five years and have been pretty solid ever since we met.

“Glennon, Rosetta, do we need to put you in separate parts of the room?”

Mrs. Rickus looked at us.

She uses WE, and US all the time. Believe me; it’s not for any feeling of group togetherness. I think she has split personalities. Well, not really, but you never know which Mrs. Rickus will show up on any given day. School tradition says she had a nervous breakdown six years ago and has been close to snapping again the last two years. I’ve always heard that seven years is the most any one teacher can take teaching without going a little whacko. They ought to make a horror film: The Teacher from the Black Lagoon.

~ * ~

Mrs. Rickus’ eyeballs glaze over. Suddenly they roll back into her head, and you can’t see the whites--they’re green as snot.

A low growl escapes her throat. She opens her mouth to reveal fangs--yellow, sharp fangs like sharks’ teeth.

Her hands come up. Now twisted claws stretch out. Her green, slimy skin wet with mucous and covered with seaweed...

“Rosetta,” she growls in an inhuman snarl. She reaches for me.

~ * ~

“Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rickus. Loud and clear. We apologize for disrupting your class. It won’t happen again.”

Glen’s voice drags me out of my horror film. I just sometimes wish he could drag me out of the horror of my life.

Glen smiled his dazzling smile and Mrs. Rickus stopped whacking her palm with the ruler like an aggravated nun.

“I certainly hope it doesn’t. Now, let’s talk about geo-thermal reactions.”

Immediately, her lecture diminished to a somewhat irritating buzz as I fogged over and continued to write in my diary.

Hours later, the bell rang.

Second Hour: Gym. Need I say more? Volleyball is all right, but everything else... I can’t even use my period as an excuse to miss gym because Ms. Lowe keeps track. When my friend Jazz first told me this, I didn’t believe her, but one day I noticed Ms. Lowe left her grade book out, and little p’s were all over it. Sure enough, she had mine down to the exact day. Still, I tried to press the issue.

“Ms. Lowe,” I said one day, “I have cramps.”

“Do you have the flu?”

I leaned in close. “No, I think it’s my period,” I whispered.

She flipped open her grade book.

“I don’t think so, Rose. Dress out or take a grade cut.”

I was picked seventh out of ten as usual. Six players went on the court at one time. Usually it didn’t bother me to sit until they had all had their fill of volleyball time and put me in. However, since one of my goals was to make the team, I itched to get in and show them my value as a player.

“Substitutes,” Coach Lowe yelled.

Knowing that I--that very year--would become a volleyball star, I dashed onto the court, or tried to anyway, before tripping on my shoelaces and stumbling against the coach.

“Get out there and serve,” she said, her glare melting my confidence.

Sarah Lonedell fired the volleyball at me. The ball bounced off my hands and ricocheted off--guess who?

Coach growled like some animal and fired the ball at me.

Sarah laughed, as did her clique: the Bod Squad. Their laughs communicated clearly: You dweeb. Forget volleyball.

Of course I was infuriated, determined to smack an overhead, hyper-speed serve down the other team’s throat. The Bod Squad would gasp in amazement.

Sarah did gasp when I served the ball--but not in amazement.

Pain is a better word.

I do admit the ball made a lovely smacking noise as it bounced off the back of her head.

Fortunately, my hyper-speed serve was not as hard as I expected because the only thing I hurt was her pride.

She whirled at me but paused when she saw the coach, so I knew my life would be safe. I don’t think Coach ever allowed murder in her classroom, although once I did puke my guts out when we ran two miles, and I wished I were dead. Several of the girls standing around giggled.

I knew I was on the verge of scoring a victory. I smiled as I imagined what other girls might say to me. “You really showed Sarah Lonedell. Did you see the look on her face?”

Then Sarah smiled a crooked little smile. “I can’t believe I heard someone say you were trying out for volleyball.” She laughed right in my face and tossed the ball to one of her friends. My cheeks burned and my eyes watered as the Bod Squad directed all of their laughter toward me. I walked toward the locker room.

Third hour: Algebra. I napped. It’s surprising, I know, but most students--from geek to prep to jock--have mastered the art of napping while sitting straight up with eyes open. It’s an inborn survival technique, I hypothesize.

Besides, who could concentrate in algebra after suffering a major humiliation? As I stared sightlessly at Mr. Bonk, my mind rushed with waking dreams. I thought of all kinds of things I could have said to Sarah.

“So you heard I was going to try out for volleyball. I’m surprised you could understand the words with all that echoing in your empty head...

“The only reason you start is your butt’s so big it looks like we’ve got an extra face on the team...

“I can tell you’re a good athlete because of the beard on your chin--” Well, that one wouldn’t have worked for Sarah. Unfortunately, she’s very glamorous and gorgeous, and much to my chagrin, very nicely packaged.

I returned to my thoughts. “You’re such a good athlete because you understand the rules so well. Hit the ball over the net, Sarah. Good, Sarah. Ram it down the other girl’s throat. Good, Sarah, good. Now, roll over and play dead--PLEASE.”

My last image of Sarah as the bell rang was of her lying on her back, legs and arms sticking straight in the air, and holding a Frisbee in her teeth.