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minute he turned back. “So it’s Molly, right?” I nodded. “Cool. Well, bump into you later, Molly. Though hopefully”—he grinned—“not literally.” With a wave, he took off down the hall, leaving me standing there completely and totally dumbfounded. This morning could not get any stranger.
    Shaking my head, I hurried to my locker, grabbing the books I needed for first period. It was Monday—the day Miracle High forewent homeroom because of budget cuts—so I was heading straight to Mr. G’s history class. I slammed my locker shut, trying to decide if I had enough time to stop by the bathroom and attempt to do something with the Brillo Pad I was sure was my hair after that bike ride. I’d risk it, I decided, even though last week Mr. G had given Kemper detention for coming in twenty-nine seconds late. Better to suffer detention than sit in class for forty minutes with Brillo-head.
    The bathroom was unusually empty as I headed inside: no one at the sink, and just one stall door shut. It was usually a zoo right before first period, which meant I was definitely running late. Hurrying to the sink, I dropped my bag on the ground and faced the mirror to assess the damage. But as I looked into the mirror, I felt a gasp escape my throat.
    The image staring back at me was me … yet it wasn’t. It was still my face, my hair, my body, but they were different somehow. I was just as tall, but I seemed graceful now, elegant even. Like my body suddenly made sense, all its pieces fitting together. My pimple from yesterday was gone, my skin so clear it looked almost dewy. My hair was silky and shiny, not a single strand kinking with frizz. My eyes were bluer than ever, my cheekbones glowed pink, and even the tilt of my head seemed different. Mysterious, almost.
    And it wasn’t just my features. It was something else too—a certain je ne sais quoi as my dad would say—something that drew my eyes to the mirror and made them never want to look away. Something that seemed to emanate out of me, warm and alluring, like a fire on a freezing night. Something that made me want to step closer, look closer, like there was this magnetic pull to me. I was captivating. I was enchanting. I was … beautiful.
    This was not possible.
    I pulled my phone out of my backpack and held it in front of me, snapping a photo. I gave another little gasp as my image appeared on the screen. It was just as beautiful as the one in the mirror. Airbrush beautiful. But no. It had to be a fluke. I made the ugliest face I could think of—eyes crossed, tongue sticking out, nose squished up—and snapped another picture. But still, I somehow looked beautiful. It was like I could do no wrong.
    I didn’t care about being late to class anymore. I turned back to the mirror, my eyes running slowly over my face. My features were all the same—same straight nose, same wide eyes, same button-shaped lips—but they suddenly just worked . It was like my face was a canvas, and someone had painted the final stroke, making the painting come alive on the page.
    A toilet flushed behind me, and a girl I recognized from the freshman class, one of Ashley’s little clones, walked up to the sink. She looked over at me as she washed her hands, and I could feel her eyes trailing admiringly from my hair to my skin to the way my shirt clung just-so to my body. I’d never been so blatantly checked-out before, and I blushed, looking away as I pretended to wash my own hands.
    “I love your hair,” she said, her voice dripping with jealousy. “How do you get it so shiny like that?”
    I ran a hand through my newly silky-smooth hair. The freshman was staring at me with utter anticipation, like she thought my answer could change her life. But all I could do was offer up the truth: “I have absolutely no idea.”

Welcome to the Twilight Zone
     
    TWENTY PAIRS OF eyes landed on me as I walked into history class. At the front of the classroom, Mr. G fell silent, his jaw unhinging