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The Prettiest

Brigit Young
Contents ( 108)
  1. 1
  2. EVE
  3. 2
  4. SOPHIE
  5. 3
  6. EVE
  7. 4
  8. SOPHIE
  9. 5
  10. EVE
  11. 6
  12. SOPHIE
  13. 7
  14. EVE
  15. 8
  16. SOPHIE
  17. 9
  18. EVE
  19. 10
  20. NESSA
  21. 11
  22. SOPHIE
  23. 12
  24. EVE
  25. 13
  26. SOPHIE
  27. 14
  28. EVE
  29. 15
  30. SOPHIE
  31. 16
  32. EVE
  33. 17
  34. NESSA
  35. 18
  36. EVE
  37. 19
  38. SOPHIE
  39. 20
  40. EVE
  41. 21
  42. THE CHOIR ROOM TRIO
  43. 22
  44. NESSA
  45. 23
  46. EVE
  47. 24
  48. SOPHIE
  49. 25
  50. THE CHOIR ROOM TRIO
  51. 26
  52. EVE
  53. 27
  54. NESSA
  55. 28
  56. EVE
  57. 29
  58. SOPHIE
  59. 30
  60. EVE
  61. 31
  62. NESSA
  63. 32
  64. EVE
  65. 33
  66. NESSA
  67. 34
  68. EVE
  69. 35
  70. NESSA
  71. 36
  72. EVE
  73. 37
  74. SOPHIE
  75. 38
  76. EVE
  77. 39
  78. NESSA
  79. 40
  80. EVE
  81. 41
  82. SOPHIE
  83. 42
  84. EVE
  85. 43
  86. SOPHIE
  87. 44
  88. EVE
  89. 45
  90. SOPHIE
  91. 46
  92. EVE
  93. 47
  94. NESSA
  95. 48
  96. EVE
  97. 49
  98. SOPHIE
  99. 50
  100. NESSA
  101. 51
  102. SOPHIE
  103. 52
  104. EVE
  105. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  106. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  107. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  108. CONTENTS
The Prettiest by Brigit Young

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Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

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For my mom, Brady.

Back when I was in middle school you told me I should write about it. You were right.

I am trying to find myself. Sometimes that’s not easy.

—Marilyn Monroe

1

EVE

Eve could feel them staring.

As the homeroom bell rang on Monday morning, the room filled with the buzz of cell phones. When Eve looked around to see what was going on, dozens of eyes pointed in her direction. It was as if a spotlight had illuminated her.

Eve focused on the notebook in front of her, ignoring the rising commotion in the room. She didn’t want to know why a few girls in the back of homeroom had begun to cry and some boys had started to snicker, or why the back of her head had suddenly become so fascinating to people. Whatever was happening, it couldn’t be good.

“Enough,” Eve heard Mr. Flynn groan. “Phones down.”

The room ignored him. Eve picked up a pen.

Over the summer, each student had to choose a person to read about for the biography project they’d be doing in eighth grade. At one of Eve’s weekly trips to the library, she’d discovered a dusty, old collection of Emily Dickinson’s poems and chosen her. And then one night, Eve scratched a pen over a blank page, and before she knew it, she had filled a notebook with poetry of her own. But she’d never shown a soul, not even her best friend, Nessa. No way.

That morning, she attempted a poetry exercise she’d read about in one of her thoroughly dog-eared creative writing manuals, in which you take a line from a famous poem and try to write your own poem following it.

The line, by Walt Whitman, read: I am large, I contain multitudes …

Eve tried to think of a line to follow.

I am large, she began writing. Well, she felt large recently, at least certain parts of her body did. This past summer had been what Nessa called Eve’s “summer of the curves.” Her clothing size had significantly altered, and she wore a lot of her big brother’s old shirts these days.