Dream was onstage. They were beautiful and their voices were amazing and I wanted to be one of them. They were famous. And it was almost like I was famous, because we'd won the lottery; the public had voted for the best school, and North Andover Middle School won, and Dream was ours.

They're a four-person one-album-hit wonder. You might remember their song, "He Loves U Not." Or you might not. They sang pop, and just announced earlier this year that they're getting back together. Although they created two albums, only one resulted in success--the other seems to have flopped. Maybe the issue was its title: Reality. Reality sucks.

What caught my attention most about them, though, wasn't the music or the fame: it was their pants. Glittery, pretty, all different colors. They shimmered onstage, impossible to look away from. I wanted those pants.

I never felt like I belonged at N.A.M.S. It was a place where the wealthy went. All of my friends dressed well, and it seemed that most didn't wear hand-me-downs like I did, and they all acted so much older. Gabby and her twin sister had smooth dark skin and crimped hair. They were gorgeous and they knew it. They sneered whenever I dared to ask them a question, like, "What's for homework?"

Then there was popular, hott hott hott Radys (like "Radish" I joked with my friends) who was hispanic and maybe the only crush I've had on someone I've gone to school with.

At the time, I think I knew that I was at the bottom of the food chain, but that didn't hamper my self-confidence much--I just told myself that everyone who hated me was an idiot.

One year, there were tryouts for a band or singer or dancers to perform at the school dance. I knew I could sing, and I wanted to try. My mom has been singing all my life, and she has a wonderful voice. It's genetic. Tryouts happened in the cafeteria. It was empty except for a few kids, sitting at a lunch table, watching each group or person try out one at a time. I was terrified. But I reminded myself, I can sing, I'm good. I can do this. If they don't choose me, it's okay.

I sang my cute version of Merril Bainbridge's "Mouth," in my sweet, singsongy voice that was made for pop music (and later, country and blues) combined with my stand-there-and-don't-move dance routine. I didn't win. But I don't remember that knowledge bothering me much. I was too electrified by the anticipation and terror of performing acapella to be letdown. And I knew without doubt that I was brave to have tried.

At the dance where I did not win to perform, I asked Radys to dance. I thought he denied me, and I ran to the bathroom in tears. When I came out, my mom was at the door, waiting to pick me up, but Radys came right up to me and we started dancing. I found out that another girl had asked him to dance just before me. Dancing together meant moving your body while standing in close proximity to your partner. At least that's what we did. Mom waved me on at the door, but I ignored her as I danced the one dance I'd wanted all night long.

Watching Dream made me hope for things I never expected to have or even to want to have. That's how it's always been when I watch a famous band or hear a truly remarkable voice. I don't know how my mom can stand to watch American Idol. When a voice sends chills down my arms, I sense great power and happiness, and then this disolves into desolute need, like being near a hot guy with kissable lips, and I want it, and I know I'll never have it. And then I remind myself that I want the voice, not the lifestyle, so why should I carry so much envy? But do I tell myself that just because I know I can't have it?

It's an interesting conundrum. And maybe one without answer. But one thing I do know? I'm not a famous singer. I'm not even a great singer. But I'm not terrible, and I make my own money, and I have many other passions. And? I can buy those damn sparkly pants if I want to.

Some books straddle the border between Children’s and Young Adult. The Girl Who Owned a City is one such book. I was 11 or 12 when I found it. This was my first taste of dystopian fiction, although I didn’t know the name at the time. While it was a rather slim book, it was dense: a fatal disease kills off everyone who is 13 and older. The younger kids form gangs and prowl the streets for food, and there’s a lot of gore and violence in this story. While the other stories I’d enjoyed had mostly featured a person abandoning society, or abandoned by society, this one was rife with death and the need to move on from that death, to escape and survive.

A lot of outcasts feel like they need to escape their own troubled lives, and take hold of the runaway stories completely, thinking that, in a world like that, they might survive, because gathering food and finding shelter seems like an easier life than trying to explain how your brain works to other kids. Those of us longing to escape read books like Julie of the Wolves, (where a girl chooses to run with wolves instead of people), Number the Stars, (A popular children’s book about the Holocaust), and other runaway stories.

Loners tend to linger in shadows, sometimes with a book or headphones. I imagine this happens more and more with younger kids now, but when I was in elementary school, no one had an IPOD. We carried either a CD Walkman or some bulky MP3 player. But I didn’t have one; so books became my escape, and later writing would take me out of dire situations and into imagined ones instead.

I began writing my own runaway story, “The High School from Hell”:

Most of the lockers were opened with bags and stuff squeezed in so tightly the lockers couldn’t stay shut. I started to walk down the gum-chewed hallway, with sweat pouring down my face.
I finally found the office. All of the desks were painted green, and the paint was pealing on most of them. “Excuse me, could I help you with something? Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now.” Asked the lady behind the front desk.
It sounded more like a threat than a question; I turned to go but came back. “Excuse me” she said this time even ruder, “what do you want?”
-The High School from Hell

It is about a girl who runs away from her home with a guy she falls in love with, until he starts beating her, and she eventually leaves him to live by herself in an abandoned shack for weeks or months. Finally, I became bored with leaving her to her own devices, and brought some characters along to move in with her and cause havoc. Even the person I invented couldn’t live in complete solitude.

I began writing that story on my mother’s computer at home; I worked on it every day for the first two weeks of summer, before I was enrolled at the YWCA summer camp for girls, and by the time summer camp started, I had typed 50 or so pages of a story that I wished was real. The other girls at the Y all wanted to read it—they were drawn because I seemed to be so into the story, focus unwavering. So I read parts of it to them. I joined them in dancing and karaoke and playing house, and for once I didn’t feel the need to escape. Maybe it was because there were no boys around to compete with.

The YWCA was situated downtown, right next to Lawrence High, infamous for gang violence and the required use of metal detectors. We were living in a city where parents had to worry that their girls might not make it through high school (or junior high) without getting pregnant or otherwise maimed. The prevalence of male violence was clear everywhere we looked. And when the girls were violent, we blamed that on the guys too—cheating or daddy issues. We were victims. But here, surrounded by other girls, we could be who we were without needing to weigh gender on a constant basis.