"In conclusion, the media in general provides unrealistic ideals for people to live up to. Female adolescents, in particular, are vulnerable to feelings of inadequacy as a result of these images, which may lead to eating disorders and low self-confidence. The media needs to show realistic images that represent the majority of the population, not a small fraction. The average woman is closer to a size twelve than a size four, and it would be beneficial for television, movies, and magazines to reflect that."

The girl bowed her head shyly, then glanced timidly over at Ms. Gibson, who nodded and mouthed, "Impressive." The adolescent smiled and took her seat, amidst weak applause.

"I'll give you your grades next class," Ms. Gibson called out, as the bell rang. She glanced over at Charise, who was gathering her belongings together.

"You might want to take this into consideration," Charise whispered to Ms. Gibson, handing her a piece of paper. The young woman walked out of the classroom.

Ms. Gibson unfolded the paper, read it, and nodded. "I certainly will," she murmured to herself. "An excellent choice indeed. I couldn‘t have made a better decision myself."



"Oh gawwwd, Emily, that was so stupid," the blonde girl groaned, cornering the intellectual teenager.

"Seriously. 'The average woman is closer to a size twelve than a size four,'" her brunette companion repeated mockingly. She indicated herself and her companions and sneered, "Well, what about us?"

"I wasn't targeting anyone, I swear. I was stating a fact," the girl, Emily, said softly. She glanced about nervously, searching for an exit.



A beautiful golden haired girl sauntered by and, taking in the situation, sighed impatiently, "Will you four please stop wasting your time bothering her? There's more important things to worry about than a silly speech. Don’t gawk at me like I‘m freakin‘ Houdini. I don’t have powers, psychic or otherwise; Bruno told me you might be mad. Now get to class, or you'll get kicked off the team. Tiffani, you're needed in the coach's office. She sent me to get you."

"I wonder what this could be about," Tiffani, the instigator, murmured to herself. She gave Emily a last glare. “You were lucky this time,” she hissed as she sauntered away from the bespectacled girl.




"That Emily kid really gets on my nerves," the leather-clad teen remarked. He eyed the painting and dabbed more paint in the corner.

"Why does she bother you?" the black-clad girl asked.

"I wasn't talking to you."

"Well, you were talking loud enough for me to hear you. I only assumed you were talking to me."

"Well, if you must know, Miss 'I need to know everyone's business,' she annoys the heck out of me because she's so... nerdy. She's like a chick version of my little brother. She thinks she's so brilliant and perfect. Someone needs to knock her off her pedestal."


"LB, you're really being a jerk. Emily never did anything to you, and you know she's nothing like that."

"She's done enough just by living and making people like me and my friends look like idiots."

"It sounds like you wish she was dead or had never been born. How cruel."

"Sure would make things easier," the boy said, nodding.

"Why would you wish such a thing on her? That‘s terrible!" she gasped.

"Oh, quit fooling around, Ophelia. You're a goth. You're miserable and want everyone else to be miserable too. That's just how goths are."

"First of all, LB, Mr. Leon Rivers, Attitude King, you don't know what I'm like. You know absolutely nothing about me, other than I’m female and wear a lot of black, and you make your assumptions based on that. Second, I'm not going to stand here and let you badmouth someone who isn't even present to defend herself. You're being childish. Grow up, for everyone‘s sake, if not your own."

"Yeah? What are you gonna do to make me, goth?"


Ophelia did the only thing she could think of: she grabbed up the cup of water that she was using to rinse her brush out in, and threw it at him in frustration. LB slapped her across the face in response.

"You ruined my jacket," LB yelled.

"That's what you get for being a jerk!" she screamed, as Mr. Rivers the art teacher and Charise dragged them apart.

"At least I want to live," LB snarled in response, indicating the scars on her arms.



"You've gotta be kidding me," Tiffani wailed.

"I do not kid around. Tiffani, you've put on weight. At least eight pounds," Ms. Bellereve, the female coach, as well as head of the cheerleading and dance teams, responded.

"But... but... eight pounds is nothing. I'm retaining water. Give me a week or so, and I'll be back to normal," Tiffani pleaded.

"‘Retaining water’ indeed. I saw you gobbling down three slices of cake the other day. Such disgusting lack of self-control. I'm sorry,” the coach said, not sounding sorry at all, “but rules are rules. You'll have to leave the cheerleading squad and the dance team until you lose enough weight. But I'm sure there's plenty of other groups you can join in the meantime.” She gave the girl a condescending smile.

"But..." Tiffani struggled not to cry. Cheerleading and dancing were her life. Every female in her family had been popular, a cheerleader, involved in dance... and now this! Eight measly pounds! She'd show Ms. Bellereve! She'd join a club and rise to the top, and that woman would beg for her to return.

Tiffani flashed the coach a dazzling smile. "As you wish."