My dad doesn't smile much. At least not in the traditional sense of the word. He grins, he smirks, he gets 'cheeky', as my grandma says. And his smirk is just a lopsided grin. My dad could pass for one of those Hollyweird bad boys. You know the kind that do every bad and illegal thing possible, yet they still end up with the girl.

Even his name sounds cool. Dean. It sounds lawless. Say it and what comes to mind? Attitude and swagger.

Say my name. Rory. What comes to mind? Tall, goofy, and bug eyed.

I got Kathleen's eyes, big and green. What works on a woman, doesn't always transfer to a guy.

People in school tease me about my eyes. That and my hair which is wavy and looks like it's highlighted. I haven't...ever. My dad isn't too keen on the whole metrosexual thing.

Guess what Rory means? Red haired man. Isn't that the most pathetic meaning for a name ever?

My mom and my dad were both pretty set in the looks department. So what happened to me? I'm six foot tall, still growing, as far as I can tell. Can't get my weight to catch up to my height yet. Have bouncy hair and eyes that look like they belong on traffic lights. Life isn't fair.

Dad tells me to relax.

"You're only fifteen. It's true, you may never look as good as your old man, but you'll get close." He winks as he says this. But suppose he's wrong? Suppose I look like this for the rest of my life?

The only positive thing about being tall is playing basketball. I love to play B-ball. I was going to try out last year but Taylor made me doubt myself so I chickened out after the first day of tryouts.

Basketball is tough. The workouts and practices are hard. But I have learned a lot. One of those things is that I'm pretty good down low.

I go into my room and stretch out on my bed. If I really push it and straighten out my fingers and extend my feet, I can almost touch the opposite walls. That should tell you how small my room is.

I never noticed how tiny it is, until one of my friends came over to spend the night. We were getting ready for bed when he looks at me and says, "How come your dad makes you sleep in the closet?"

My dad thought it was hilarious, but he doesn't understand the hierarchy of the whole high school social ranking.


Monday morning I see Cassie Willows and her flock of followers, in the hall at school. She has this green sweater and some black pants on. Her pants are tucked into these shiny black leather boots that come way up over her knees.

She looks good. I mean she looks some kind of good, and she knows this.

I look over at her and smile, hoping she'll feel a little of that connection from Saturday night.

I hate to admit this, but I'm not seeing anything even remotely resembling Saturday night. Instead, what I am seeing is her giggling and pointing over to me. She covers her mouth with her hand and says something else, then the whole group of girls burst out laughing.

I try to see her looking like her mother. I do my best to see a chubby version of Cassie, spray on tan and ill fitting stretchy clothes. But I can't. I can only see the pretty girl she is right now. I see this pretty girl and imagine her telling her friends about how stupid Rory French was hanging on her every word. She has probably added in details about my dad freaking out and rushing us out of there.

Cassie is part of the elite level in the dog eat dog world of high school. I'm not really sure what level I'm on, but I do know that today, I, Rory French, am on the menu.