She tiptoes into her brother's room as he snores. The bureau drawer squeals, and he shifts, but she's already scurrying across the hall.

Claudia holds his brown corduroys up to her nightgown, nods, and opens her closet. There are four new blouses and three new skirts, like a uniform. She shoves her mother's purchases aside and chooses a pale blue leotard.

In the bathroom she dresses, washes up and fluffs her obstinate hair, wishing she had a perm. After twenty minutes John starts knocking, and she gives up and goes downstairs. It occurs to her, lacing her sneakers, that eight grades' worth of approving teachers and good marks mean nothing. This, she's been led to believe, is where that matters. She stands, frowning at her huge feet and gangly legs and narrow hips.

In the kitchen, her mother pushes a glass of milk into her hand. Then, immediately, she says, "You're not wearing that."

"Everyone wears this," she insists, making a face.

"Everyone who? I wouldn't walk around in boys' clothes." Her mother looks her over. "Not to mention, Claudia Jean, that you should wear a bra with that."

She blushes and hugs herself. "This isn't the fifties, girls wear jeans all the time, and I don't even need a bra."

"And what must boys think about girls that dress like that?"

She almost says: They like it, if they're pretty. Which I'm not. Instead he sips her milk. "Who cares?"

"Oh, you don't care today. But you're fifteen--"

"Fourteen."

"Fifteen in November, smart mouth." Her mother flips the dishtowel at her. "Pretty soon, they'll be all you think about."

She sets her glass down hard. "Boys will not be all I think about."

"Claudia--"

"Let her be." Her father strolls into the kitchen, knotting his tie, and kisses them each on the cheek. He pats her hair, and she ruffles it back into place. "She's smart enough. God willing she won't discover boys until she's thirty. Coffee ready?"

Her mother nods. "Go get your brother, would you?"

She does, and he's not awake enough to notice she's borrowed his clothes. Their mother makes sure they eat breakfast, as if they were still children, and John gives her a ride to school.

Nobody she knows is in her homeroom. She twists a freshly-sharpened pencil in her fingers, hunches over her desk as other kids milling around. Her clothes aren't out of place, but she is: a head above the girls, several inches on the tallest boy.

The balding teacher comes in and struggles to hush them. "If you want a nickname, I need that now," he says, "otherwise, you're stuck with what the roll says."

Two of the girls near her giggle, tight T-shirts and flouncy feathered hair. She'll never be one of them.

Suddenly, it occurs to her: Why bother trying?

"--Cregg. Claudia Cregg. Is Claudia here?"

She hesitates. Speaks up. "It's C.J."

In the too-small desk chair, she sits up as straight as she can.