WARNING: THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK IS MENTALLY INSANE

Act.

I act like it doesn't bother me.

Because that would be petty, wouldn't it?

God forbid I be daydreaming about this day for months and then be shoved to the side because I'm not good enough, because there's not enough people here and some girl with a voice of a mouse takes precedence over me.

No, if I admitted that, it'd be conceited.

If I admitted that I was jealous of a red-haired girl wth brains dumb as a tree branch was dancing with a boy so radiant it hurts to look at him, I would seem pretentious.

If I admitted that the thought of not being in the scene at all--even though I stomached the disappointment of only two lines in the whole show--made me want to cry, I would be lying.

I don't know.

Maybe I'm just broken. A broken mirror whose shards are razor sharp enough to kill.