If Mr.Webster decides to put the word freak in his dictionary, Anne will be the best definition he could give. It's more than just the way I look: curvy with ridiculous bulges all around the wrong places, wiry and scanty hair, a flat nose which can never be erected by any amount of pinching, and which, my black-rimmed, all-nerdy glasses slides down gleefully all the time. No, I must have been a loser at cherry-picking, because aside from these fabulous physical combinations, I have obviously chosen a personality to match them as well.
To the maths geek: if mean is the sum of all the numbers (Delta N) divided by the total numbers given (N), I must fall within the range below 0.5, who struggle to be converted but failed miserably. To the popular crowd, I'm the plain Jane who would die to be in their place but can't even act properly to save herself. To the rest of the school community, I'm just someone who is seen and isn't heard. In other words, I'm not all that different from being dead, am I?
The word special is really a relative term. For as much as people are telling you that everyone's special, it is simply another saying that nobody's special at all. I know this because I'm the living evidence of mediocrity. I'm not beautiful enough to be accepted into the right crowd; not talented enough to perform in the school plays; neither am I good enough to fit into the world. I'm the straight-A student who isn't the top scorer; the swimmer who can't master butterfly strokes; the pianist who narrowly pass her Grade 8 theory examination.
How can I be special, if I'm not even close to being perfect?
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