www.whyville.net Jun 1, 2008 Weekly Issue

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Miss Perfect

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I stared at myself in the mirror, not knowing what to feel. I, Katie Annette Mizoula, was a Meagan-ette!!! My face was the same, heart shape, but my hair was bleach-blonde, long, and wavy. My eyebrows were perfectly waxed, and framed my now sky-blue eyes. My nose wasn't aquiline anymore, it was snub and up-turned just slightly; a perfect nose. My mouth was full and supple, and not a blemish was seen anywhere on my face.

My heart pounded as I grabbed my toothbrush. My pearly white teeth had no coffee stains on them, and my mouth wasn't full of tin anymore! My mint toothpaste had never tasted so . . . so, minty. Weird, I know, but it is true! I rinsed out my mouth with some orange-flavored mouthwash, and I set for downstairs.

I noticed something different about the stairs, well, the house, for that matter. It was the same house, all right, but it was . . . clean. A mural that was a photograph of a butterfly graced the walls of the stairway. A jet black rug added rigid lines to the fuzzy, pure white, carpet. Modern, angular furniture was carefully placed around the room as if we had some kind of home-makeover show come to our house. There was a 24-inch flatscreen mounted on our living room wall, and under that was a DVR, a DVD player, and a remote, all neatly placed in a chestnut cabinet. On the opposite wall, the whole wall was glass, so we could see the beautiful sunrise, and smack-dab in the middle of that huge wall was a fireplace.

I walked over to the kitchen, and I saw my mother cooking. Now, there are three things wrong with that sentence. 1. My. 2. Mother. 3. Cooking. Last night, we had take-out because the kitchen was such a mess. My father was at the office, working his butt off so we could even have take-out. My mother couldn't even cook water! Yet, here she was, making fried eggs.

"Oh, hello, honey. Nice day, isn't it?" She asked calmly.

She dished up my fried egg onto a plate and served it to me on the counter. I took my seat and examined the egg for any flaws. It wasn't over-hard, and wasn't over-easy. So far, so good. It was light and fluffy, but there was a crisp, brown edge all around it. Perfect. I took a small bite, and I almost fell backwards. My mom had just cooked something edible.

I headed to the front door when my mom interrupted my commute.

"Where are you going?"

"Um, to the bus, as always."

"But, you haven't taken the bus since you were ten! You're sister has driven you, or you took the car!"

Oh, yeah, did I mention I was 16? I always have been 16, I just looked like I was a freshman. But I had never driven a car . . . I had my license and all, but our family had never owned a car. Anyway, I stepped into the garage, and found a silver audi convertible.

"Oh. My. God." I screamed.

I jumped into the car, and stuck the key into the ignition. So this is what it's like to drive a real car without a stuffy teacher, I thought. I drove out of the garage, and my mom yelled after me,

"Don't forget to pick up Meagan!"

Wait a second. MEAGAN???? As in MEAN MEAGAN??? No way. NO POSSIBLE WAY. Once a jerk, always a jerk. I decided to drive up to her house, anyway, so I could rub my new prettiness in her face. I blasted the radio at full volume on my favorite station, and sang the lyrics to the songs.

I was in the middle of singing "Hollaback Girl" by Gwen Stefani, when I pulled up at Meagan's mansion. I put the map down, and saw . . . a trailer park. I walked up to the house that had the same numbers as the address on the little piece of notepaper labeled "Meagan's address" in the glove compartment.

I rapped my fists on the door, and saw an overweight man with a scraggly beard. In his hand was a bag of cheeto's. He was sucking the orange cheese of his left hand.

"What do you want?" He said in between finger-licks.

"Is this where Meagan Carmichael lives?" I asked.

"Mhm," he answered. Then he screamed her name at the top of his tar-flecked lungs.

There she was, Meagan. It was Meagan alright, but she had dark circles underneath her eyes, teased hair, and one stray stain of bright pink lip liner up her cheek. She was dressed in a white, food-stained shirt and gray sweats.

"Let's go," She said thankfully.

5th period, gym. Basketball. My team was down 2 points. We had to make this free throw to win the game. I had the basketball. Every single person was cheering me on, and, with suddenly quick reflexes, I gave the ball a quick flick. The ball bounced, broke the top light, skidded across the walls, and hit the backboard. It was on the rim, and it dipped, right into the basket.

"Ladies, time for a water break," the coach yelled.

I quickly dashed into the locker room, and made sure that my mascara hadn't streaked. As I was putting on some lip gloss, I noticed something wrong with my face. And I'm still not old enough for plastic surgery I thought.


Author's Note: If you try to guess what happens next in this story, I'll probably change it, so please keep the ideas to yourself because it ruins the surprises. Thank you.


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