She struts down the hall like she owns it, acting as if showing her long, tan legs will help her gain attention. It does. But for me and all semi-normal onlookers, not in a good way.

I look down at my own skinny destroyed flare jeans and my beaten up, hand-me-down Converse from my brother. Her mini skirt, revealing her curvacious legs, was a clear contrast to mine that I'm sure everyone notices. She fluffs her shiny brunette hair that looks like gobs of volumizer were poured into it. Actually, there probably were.

Her clique of four or five follows her, trying to catch up or slow down. It seems that she walks at the perfect pace nobody can match. Enough for others to stare in awe or puke and run away. Respectively.

Her boyfriend, probably her seventh this year, walks up and flings his lanky but strong arm around her broad shoulders. She smiles her pristine white teeth his way. His green Quiksilver shirt goes well with her tight, stiff Hollister getup. I let out a small sigh. I'd hate to wear a denim miniskirt or a shirt I couldn't breath in, but to be in her place--the popularity, the guys, the friends--I'd give anything.

I look over, though, into the eyes of my friends. They're the same as I am. But they're way better than Jess' friends could ever be. They walked the same pace. If I ever went too girly on them, they'd smack me and turn me towards reality. And I love them for it.

Poor Jess though. She doesn't have anyone like that. When she goes too material, she keeps going. Nobody's there to tell her to toss the gloss or wear something a tad more modest. Last time I tried on some stilletos and a short skirt at the mall, my best friend kicked the back of my legs, making me fall over and laugh at how stupid I probably looked--and felt--in the skanky clothes.

My blue eyes well up with tears. Jess will never have friends like mine. But as she turns to her boyfriend and frowns, (I suspect he said something rude) I also frown. If she had friends like mine, she'd never get involved with an idiot like James McRiles. That kid in the Quiksilver shirt.

I turn to my locker and pull out my Algebra book. When I look back, her eyes look like they're about to spill over a flood. From the looks of it, they're probably over. And no admiring follower could ever help her through it.

But I could.

And I'll talk to her.

Today.