The bell rings. First period begins. Girls rush into the gym, sneakers squeaking on the rubbery floor, chatting excitedly about their plans for the weekend or asking if anyone has extra hair ties. My best friend Katy is sick, and apart from her, I have no one to talk to, so I stand around alone, waiting for my teacher.

She walks in five minutes late and tells us to do laps before we play basketball. I like basketball. I'm a pretty good shot, and I'm quite tall, which gives me an advantage. But then she says that Ansley and Grace will pick teams. I feel my heart drop into my stomach. The two of them take a simple PE class as seriously as the Olympics, so this is going to go terribly—I just know it.

As I expected, the two girls start picking people to be on their teams, but it's more of a fight over who not to get. I'm on that list. I'm disappointed in myself for thinking I actually had a chance today; of course, I didn't. Suddenly, I feel very ill.

It's not that people don't want me on their teams because I'm bad; it's because they only want me around if Katy is here—because she's really popular, so sweet and pretty and fun. People always ask themselves why she's friends with me, and honestly, I'm not even sure myself.

I ask my teacher if I can use the bathroom, locking myself in a stall and sliding down the wall onto the cold tile floor. It's as cold as I feel right now. I fight back the urge to cry or vomit, or both—I’m not even sure anymore. I just want it to be over. I hate PE class.