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This is an extract adapted from a book about an American teenage girl.

We used to live in New

York City, in this great old building on the Upper West Side, but last year my

mother moved us to a ranch house in the quiet sleepy suburb of Dellwood, New Jersey.

I have a positive nature

and believe in making the best of any situation. So, the upside of moving to Dellwood was that it gave me a chance to re-create myself a

little. Back in the city at least half the kids I went to school with were kids

I’d gone to school with most of my life. Dellwood,

however, was an empty stage as far as I was concerned. I could choose whatever

role I wanted. A legend was about to be born.

I think it’s safe to say

that no one at Dellwood High School had ever seen

anyone quite like me. And this, of course, was to my advantage. They didn’t

know what to expect. My first few weeks were devoted to showing them what to

expect: the unexpected, the unusual, the unique. One

week I’d dress only in black: the next my colors would be vibrant and bright.

One week I’d be quiet and remote: the next I’d be gregarious and funny. It was

a demanding part, but it took my mind off other things. Like how difficult it

was to be a beacon in the subterranean wind-swept abyss that is Dellwood.

I’d pretty much thought

that all I had to do was appear on campus like an incredible sunset after a

grey, dreary day, and the starving young souls of Dellwood

would immediately abandon their videos and glossy magazines, and flock to me,

begging for shelter from the storm of meaningless trivia that made up their

lives. But I was wrong. The youth of Dellwood

probably wouldn’t have noticed a huge storm, never mind a messenger of hope

from the greater world. In my first year in the clean air and safe streets of Dellwood (two of my mother’s reasons for moving), I’ve met

only one truly kindred spirit. That’s my best friend, Ella.

There was nothing about

Ella to suggest that here was my spiritual kin the first time I saw her. She

looked like most of the other girls – expensively if dully clothed, well-fed, perfectly groomed, their teeth gleaming and their hair

bouncing because they use the right toothpaste and shampoo. The girls in Dellwood get their fashion ideas from teenage magazines and

television. They don’t wear clothes as a statement of their inner selves, as I

do: they wear labels.

If New York is a kettle

of soup, where tons of different spices and vegetables swim around together,

all part of the whole but all different at the same time, then Dellwood is more like a glass of homogenized milk. Ella was

wearing a nondescript pink A-line dress and white-and-pink sneakers. Although

Ella shops in the same stores as most of her classmates, she always goes for

what her mother calls “the classic look”, which means that everyone else

dresses like the dedicated followers of fashion that they are, and Ella dresses

like her mum.

Anyway, Ella sat near me

in my first class. The kids in Dellwood not only

dress the same and talk the same: when they think, they pretty much think the

same, too. But I sensed almost immediately that even though she looked like

them, Ella was different in that last, crucial respect.

dress

think

talk

look