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Everything itches and my temples throb. And I think I smell a little.
    Am I sick? Sick? My hair is frizzing out like Istuck my finger in an electrical outlet, pimples dot my pasty forehead like a gravel road full of potholes and piles of dirt. I lean over so I can see my legs. I still have on those unicorn ankle socks! They are rolling down to my thickish calves, my black skirt hikes up a nondescript waist—backward! My glasses slip down my nose. When I breathe, my glasses fog up.
    â€œNo, I’m not sick!”
    I am realizing something unimaginable has happened.
    I Am a Geek
    Clenching every muscle in my body, I hold my breath. Make this go away. I glance back at the mirror. I’m still a geek. Not working. I jump up and down, shake my head from side to side, splash cold water on my face, and then dump it down my neck.
    Okay, now I’m just a wet geek.
    I’ve got to get out of this school. There’s only one way that I know.
    The School Nurse
    Mrs. Johnson briefly glances at me. She’s filling up a glass full of miniature candy canes and bopping toan elevator-music version of “Jingle Bell Rock” on her radio. “What’s the matter, hon?”
    â€œEverything.” I pat my cheeks, chin fat, pimples, and my head. “My hair’s having a party, and I’ve got spillage!” I show her where a rim of fat hangs over my belt. “See!”
    Mrs. Johnson cocks her head and peers at me like I’d look better if I were only sideways. “Hon, body issues are common at your age.” She leafs through a bunch of brochures on a shelf, and hands one to me. “You might want to take a look at this.”
    The brochure features two girl linking arms, standing on the beach in tank dresses. The cover reads, Body Issues: What you need to know about maintaining a healthy diet and lifestyle . This poor woman thinks I am in need of counseling. “You don’t understand. It’s not like that. It just happened. Right after fourth period. People are calling me Ernestine.”
    â€œThey would. That’s your name.”
    I throw up my hands so I don’t use them to strangle this woman. “Yes, it’s my name, but it’s not the name I use, okay? Nobody at this school has ever, ever called me Ernestine. Not until today, that is.”
    Sitting down, Mrs. Johnson stuffs herself into her chair and pulls my file up on her computer.“Honey, I’ve got your name as Ernestine.”
    â€œOkay, fine. It’s my, whatever, official name, but I changed it to Taffeta on my registration form in sixth grade when I came to La Cambia. That’s the name you should have.”
    Mrs. Johnson hums to “Jingle Bell Rock” and pulls out a thermometer.
    â€œOkaaaaay, I get it. This is some kind of joke or something. Ha. Ha. Very funny. You’re all in on it.”
    Mrs. Johnson jams the digital thermometer into my ear. “In on what? I’m not in on anything. Hon, it sounds as if you’re having some self-doubts about body image and identity. It happens eventually with most girls, sooner in your case. Maybe you want to make some changes. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about when your mom picks you up.” Then she smiles at me. “It’ll all be okay, Ernestine.”
    â€œMy name is Taffeta. Taffeta Smith. I’m pretty and popular. I’m loved. Ernestine doesn’t exist. Ernestine is nothing. I am NOT nothing! I am Taffeta!”
    She smiles at me so that her hooded eyelids creep up. “You know, I did that when I was your age. I pretended I was Jane Fonda. Taffeta. That’s a nice name. When you become eighteen, you can call yourself whatever you want.”
    Mom, the Rescue Hero
    Okay, my mother is once again outdoing herself, and setting world records for how to embarrass her daughter. Right now she’s sporting mismatched socks, a floppy crushed velvet hat with a giant poppy on the top, and a