Everytime there was a masquarade of curly, dark hair over a boy's eyes, she got excited. Maybe, she thought, maybe, my time has come. Maybe, her fingers that had been over-cracked and neglected, will become nimble and will exude of the smell of varnish. Maybe, her eyes would align with another's and she'd stop feeling self-concious.

She saw those other girls in over-sized Michigan sweatshirts. But how come they always looked cute, never sloppy, like she did? There was always drool on the front of hers, there was always some mysterious stain, which she could never trace back. She wondered if her ears could smell her once, then she realised that she was afraid. Afraid of what, she didn't know.

Maybe the desolate rejects would be left with the desolate rejects. Maybe that's how they got picked. Maybe she wasn't even good enough for the desolate rejects. But who was she to say?

She perservered in some ways, for the things she thought she wanted. The boy with the black tattooed wrist and a cool hair cut. The boy who smelled of smoke and who adorned that all white uniform for about 6 years. She knew she wasn't cool enough for that boy. Her hair wouldn't go straight and pit black and her eyes wouldn't align with thick, black, eyeliner. She didn't smell of lavender and her mouth wasn't the painted ones on dolls. But the boy with the black tattooed wrist leaned towards the porcelain china doll and whispered,

"Hey, honey, come with me."

The porcelain china doll looked over to the zahara doll in all her brown, splendour and laughed just a little. It was a diverse world, after all.

"Of course, this is my game after all."

Black wrist smiled, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

"Your game, which I'm winning."