So, what was the problem? I was the problem. Even though Lewis had seen my picture, and even though he seemed to enjoy my letters, I was afraid he wouldn't like me. I know this sounds like I'm totally insecure, but I'm not. People are always saying what an individual I am. You have to be at least somewhat secure to be an individual.

It was just that no boy had ever liked me. Not the wayLogan liked Mary Anne. (This one time, I thought a guy named Travis was interested in me. But he wasn't. He was just leading me on, probably because he could tell I had a major crush on him.)

Other girls are always saying I should be a model or an actress. They say, "Oh, I wish I had your silky hair." Or, "I'd die to have your skin." (They might have good hair and skin if they didn't eat so much junk food.) Enough people have told me I'm pretty, so I should

believe it. Personally, though, I can't see it. To me, I just look like me. Not pretty, not ugly — just me.

Obviously, boys couldn't see it, either. They liked me well enough to borrow my notebook or to goof around with. But when it came to really liking me, forget it.

"Dawn! You're not writing!" said Mary Anne, interrupting my thoughts. "You weren't listening to me, either. What are you thinking about?"

"Lewis," I admitted. "Mary Anne, what if he hates me?"

"Hates you!" gasped Mary Anne. "That's crazy. I don't know anybody who hates you."

"You know what I mean, though. What if he's really disappointed when he meets me? He seems so nice. I want him to think I'm, you know, attractive."

"Don't worry," Mary Anne said, putting her hand on my arm. "He's already seen your picture."

"I suppose," I admitted.

"Look, you guys must have exchanged at least a zillion letters so far," continued Mary Anne. "He knows plenty about you. It hasn't stopped him from writing."