Frizzy haired and overweight, sixteen year old Elizabeth Summers hears ghosts. She also reads people's auras often seeing when something bad is headed their way. Unfortunately, she can't choose which ghosts visit her psychic hotline or when her para...
The next night, Julia lets me borrow her car to drive to the Main Street club. I told Dylan it would be easier if I met him at the club instead of being picked up. With my new clothes and haircut I feel like Adele all dolled up and ready to hit the town. As I pull into the non alcoholic teen hangout, I'm nervous about him seeing me with my new look. Will he think I'm trying too hard?
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Once inside I order a soda, then go wait at a table for the show to start. It's a pretty big crowd for a Saturday night, but I don't recognize anyone from our school. Soon people start pouring in and it becomes standing room only. Nervously, I sit at the table trying to blend in, hoping I'll be invisible.
Suddenly, I hear a familiar voice as Donna and her posse file in. Inwardly, I cringe at the sound of her raucous laugh. Of course she would be here to see Dylan's performance. Quickly, I turn my back to her, hoping she won't notice me.
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"Well, look who it is. The Freak!" I feel myself turn red with embarrassment as my tormenter sidles up besides me. Noting my new clothes and hairstyle, her face scrunches up with disgust. "Didn't anyone ever tell you, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, Elizabeth?" Her throaty voice carries over the crowded, noisy club. Patrons at nearby tables turn and stare. When she starts making snorting, piggy noises next to my face, my temper flares. That's when I realize my makeover's given me the added benefit of a higher self esteem. For the first time in my life, I want to go to war with her. I'm ready to cross that red battle line.
"Go ahead, Donna. Attack me for what I'm wearing, but you know what? I feel sorry for you." She looks stunned as I stare her down. Angry words fly out of my mouth like an exploding fountain pen. Inside of me years of pain are flooding out. I try, but I can't stop the next thought that formulates in my mind then spews out unfiltered. "Not because you're white trash, but because of how your face is going to look next week after you die." Shocked by my outburst, everyone in her surrounding clique becomes deathly quiet. Donna freezes, terrified. As if her nerves have completely failed her, she turns and runs to the club's bathroom. Her simpering gang follows suit, fleeing after her as if they're tied together by an invisible umbilical cord.
Alone, I curse my stupidity and lack of self control. How could I have forgotten my mother's cardinal rule? Whether good or bad, never tell someone their future. A moment later, I don't have time to worry about Donna. The foot lights come up and Dylan walks out on stage. The show's starting.
