Today, Margo sat in the back of the classroom. A huge mistake. The back of the class equals farther away from the teacher and being surrounded by all the riff raff who would rather be smoking cigarettes or picking their nose than be in school. Her seat is usually one towards the front, if not in the front row, but her tardiness forced her to the back. It would be a long class period. She prayed it would go fast.
Her mind began to wander from the confusing algebra being taught. Numbers could never hold her attention. Daydreaming had become easy for her. She enjoyed her alternate realities far more than her present one so writing had become her way to cope with her gloomy life. Diaries sat stacked in her room, filled with the outpourings of a hurting young girl. Needless to say, her pre-teens were not a bed of roses. As a high school senior, the diary writing had given way to story writing. The diaries held her fears, hurts, and anger, the stories held her hopes. She preferred her stories.
The bell rang. Class was over and Margo realized she had been doodling on notebook paper the entire period. Her name, written in a loopy font, was scrawled all over her paper. Margo Manley. Manley as in manly. Could life be more cruel? As if her boorish face wasn't enough, her parents had to have the last name of Manley.
She was the complete package. Every jock, jerk, and even the nerds in school realized she was prime fodder for jokes and cruelty; as if heaven had opened and sent them a sacrificial lamb. The nerds were most thankful for her; with Margo around, they received far fewer wedgies and abrupt close encounters with their lockers.
Shuffling through the hallway towards her next class, Margo kept her head lowered and eyes downcast. A successful class change was one that included getting from point A to point B without being made fun, pushed, or even spoken to. It was not to be.
Hearing her name called out, she timidly peaked up hoping beyond hope it was one of the very few people who treated her with kindness. She didn't necessarily have any friends, but there were a few students and teachers who were at least kind to her. It was her English teacher, Mrs. Thurmond, calling her name. She sighed the sigh of ten thousand warriors who had just defeated an army of one million. She made her way to Mrs. Thurmond and was automatically curious of the excited look on her teacher's face.
"Yes, ma'am? You called me?"
"Margo, I wanted to show you something. I received a letter in the mail today about a contest. A writing contest. I think you should enter it. The prize is a scholarship to one of the world's best literary colleges.
"Uhm," Margo stuttered.
"Please say you'll do it. You have two months to write a short story about anything you want. I know you write at home and the work you turn in to me is wonderful. I think this would be a great opportunity for you."
Margo struggled to connect her brain with her mouth. "Sure. I'll do it."
"Great! Here's all the information. See you later."
Margo turned and headed to her next class, reading the sheet of paper she held in her hand. Write about anything you want. Two months. Scholarship. A small spark ignited in Margo during that long walk to her next class. So focused was she on the potential in her hand, she never even heard the cruel remark said by someone as they passed her. If she could win this contest, she could change her life. She knew she could. For once, she wouldn't be judged on what she looked like, she would be judged for who she was and what she could do: like a book appreciated for what it contained instead of the fancy cover slip surrounding it.
She had to win.
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