What do you wear to an awards ceremony?Cute.
I throw open my closet doors and listen as the white plastic hangers clap for me.
I bow. “Why, thank you. I’m so happy to have won this award.”Are you sure this is middle grade? It's sounding like 2nd-4th grade to me.
Movie stars wear long dresses and sparkly jewelry to the Academy Awards. I reach for the only fancy dress I own—the blue satin one I wore to my Aunt Lucy’s wedding. It even has some sparkly jewelry attached. A rhinestone belt buckle. But I’m not sure blue satin is right for the last day of school.
I stand on my tippy-toes and cram the blue dress back into the closet between the mad scientist costume I wore for Halloween last year and the pink fuzzy robe my grandmother gave me for my birthday that I’ve never worn.Tippy-toes? Possibly a little too cute. It's sounding like Fancy Nancy when I think you're really going for something more Clementine.
“Stripes,” I decide. “I’ll wear stripes.”
The voice here sounds uneven to my ear. If you're going for a very unique first person voice, you've got to nail it.
I know some people like to match their clothes by color. My best friend, Ainslee Moore for one. But I prefer to match by pattern—stripes with stripes, plaid with plaid, floral with floral. It’s more interesting.I swear I saw this very outfit on a kid.
I grab my American flag shirt, my jean skirtall and my rainbow-striped toe-socks. Nice. But nice enough for an award ceremony? I spot the purple and white striped scarf Mr. Orr, our next door neighbor, knitted me for Christmas. Bingo! I don’t usually wear a scarf in June, but it will look cool dragging behind me as I walk up to the stage to accept my award. Very movie star-ish.
I throw on my green-glitter flip flops—to add a little sparkle—and run downstairs to grab some breakfast.
“Wow!” my mom says when I walk into the kitchen. “You look…”Not bad. This is clearly a character with a lot of character, and that's great for the age group. However, we're getting most of her character from the things she does, and little from her voice. The quality and consistency of that voice will need some work before this starts to shine.
“Don’t say it, Mom,” I warn, picking up a cinnamon roll and pointing it towards her. “Don’t you dare say it.”
“What?” My mom throws her hands up in mock surrender as I pop the cinnamon roll into my mouth. “I was just going to say that you look…terrible. The ugliest daughter a mom could hope to have.”
I smile and lick the icing from my fingertips. “Thanks, Mom!”
I hate for anyone to call me pretty. You can either be a pretty girl or a smart girl. And I have my sights set on smart.