“McKayla, hand me the scissors, will you?” Brittany, my best friend of seven on-going years was managing a garage sale while her parents were out of the house, visiting friends in Vermont.

            I handed her the scissors and stared at her. It was unbelievable how much we were alike. We both had mousey brown hair, we both had long cheek bones, we both were klutzes, and we both were sixteen. And yet we were so different.

            Brittany was popular and had many friends. I did not. Brittany was invited to places constantly. I was not. Brittany was funny and outgoing. I was not. Brittany was “in” with the popular crowd. I am, as you guessed, not.

            We worked in silence, pricing random things we had found in the attic. I wondered if it was a good idea to be selling things without asking Brittany’s parents first, but I kept quiet.

            As the silence continued, I watched Brittany bite her lip. I knew what was bothering her. “It’s okay.” I said finally, rolling my eyes. “I don’t want you to combust.” I had asked her not to talk about her popular friends earlier. She smiled at me gratefully and started talking at high rate.

            “Oh my gosh, okay, so like Tammy went up to Johnny yesterday and asked him about how his cousin was, and he was totally like…” I let her steam-roll on, added the occasional “Hm.” and “Oh!” at the right places. I had other thing to worry about, like what I was going to say to Toby when I got to work.

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