I really hated oral presentations. The idea of getting up in front of an entire classroom of people who really had no interest whatsoever in what you were saying was not my idea of a pleasant way to spend time. However, teachers still assign them, and Mrs. Novak cheerily announced to us, her sixth grade American History class, that the dreaded oral presentation time was upon us. We would be choosing two subjects out of her hat. Of those two, we could pick the topic we liked best for our oral presentation, due right before Thanksgiving break.

"Tina," said my teacher cheerily, "go ahead and pick your topics, sweetie."

I frowned, but reached into the hat, pulling out two slips of paper that declared my fate: The Missouri Compromise or Japanese-American internment camps during World War II.

"Oh," said Mrs. Novak excitedly, "you could talk about your heritage if you chose to discuss interment camps, Tina! Wouldn't that be amazing?"

"But I'm Korean," I mumbled, ducking my head so my hair would cover my face—and the blush starting to form.

My teacher either didn't hear me, or ignored my whispered correction, because she was off to the next student, subjecting Aaron Connell (she sat us in alphabetical order in here) to the tortures of her hat. The student to my other side, Hannah Carter, giggled at me.

"What's the difference? Don't you all look the same anyway?" she whispered to me, a sneer crossing over her features.

Mrs. Novak clearly hadn't heard that remark either; she on the other side of the room by now. I sighed and bowed my head, deciding that the textbook was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. I sighed as a crumpled piece of notebook paper hit me in the back.

Soon enough, the bell rang, and still hiding behind my hair, I quickly threw my book into my backpack and ran out of the classroom.

"Tina, sweetie," said my mother, obviously worried. "Why are you stuttering?"

"I-I-I don't k-k-know," I replied back, determined to keep the ruse going. If I kept stuttering, no one would make me talk. I could hide. I wouldn't be the token Asian kid anymore.

"I suppose I should find you a speech therapist then." My mother closed her eyes, bringing two fingers up to her forehead as if she were nursing a headache.

I cast my gaze downward; my lie had gone too far. But how could I back out of it now?

"You're faking it," my speech therapist, Judy, said the minute we were alone in the room together. "Why?"

"B-b-because." I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. "I wanted people to leave me alone."

"Why?"

"So they'd stop teasing me."

"Why?"

"Because."

Judy nodded. "I won't tell. But you're going to have to work yourself out of it on your own."

"Why?" It was my turn to gape.

"Because I remember being alone and scared and eleven years old." She tucked a piece of paper into my hands. "Call me if you want to talk. I think you could use a friend more than a speech therapist."

When my mother saw the blue streaks dyed in my shining black hair, she started crying. When my father saw my hair, he shook his head and said it was my hair, and I should do what I wanted with it.

I hugged my mother and kissed her cheek, and she reluctantly admitted that the blue was a good color for me. My father laughed and joked about adding a character with blue hair to his next science fiction novella.

Despite the fact that I didn't really want to care, I leaned over and hugged both of my parents this time.

A girl in my science class tried to reach out and touch the blue streaks in my hair the next day. I screamed and ducked under my desk, refusing to come out from my hiding spot until the bell rang.

"W-w-we're moving?" I gasped. "B-b-but w-w-why?"

"Your grandmother's sick, and she's been lonely after your grandfather died. We want to take care of her." My mother tried to smile, but it was thin and forced. Her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying recently.

I tried to bite back my attitude, but shock was reeling through my system. "B-b-but isn't s-s-she in S-s-st. L-l-louis?"

"There's a great assisted living facility in Lima. We can visit her more often if we live in the town, especially since we already live near Lima." said my mother, trying her best to look positive. "I can still commute to work."

"And I'm a writer," said my father. "I can write anywhere. It'll be nice to get be somewhere new, Tina. Give it a chance, please."

"Also," said my mother, looking more cheerful. "There's a wonderful speech therapy program in the area as well. It might help your stutter."

I smiled, even though I felt guilty.

The next day, I showed up at school wearing fishnet gloves, ripped jeans, and a black tank top with matching black combat boots. People gaped at my new fashion choices, but they left me alone. It felt oddly liberating.

My mother bought me a studded belt the day after that. "If you want to dress like this, go ahead, but you've got to look on the bright side about the move, Tina. Rebel with your clothes, but not at me, please, baby."

My father just gave me a smile and gently ruffled my hair. "If it makes you happy, Tina. Only do this if it makes you happy. And please, go easy on your mom, you know she only wants the best for you."

I hugged them both, and true to my word, I stopped complaining about the move. Well, at least, I stopped complaining out loud.

I stomped into my grandmother's room at the assisted living facility, feeling angry at the world. The new town was stupid and tiny, and why on earth did we have to come here? Not like my old school was any better, but at least there, I already knew the best places to hide.

"Christina? Is that you?" My grandmother was sitting in her bed, looking dazedly out the window.

I sat next to her on the bed, smiling softly, trying to remember I wasn't angry at her. "No," I said, patting her hand gently. "T-that's my mom. I'm T-tina, remember?"

"Tina," my grandmother smiled, the memory returning to her. "Like Tina Turner?"

I nodded. "T-that's why yo-ou liked the n-name enough to g-give it to me."

"My granddaughter," she said, recognition coming into her eyes. "You're so big."

"I'll be t-twelve soon," I replied. "Want me to s-sing to y-you again today?"

"Do you remember Some Enchanted Evening?" My grandmother smiled. "South Pacific was my favorite. Your grandfather used to sing that one to me."

"Sing it with me," I said, taking her hand and gently squeezing it. "Sing it with me, Grandma."

Afterward, she reached out and gave my knee a comforting pat with the hand that wasn't still holding mine. "You don't need to stutter with me."

So I stopped. Whenever it was just her and me, at least.

The cafeteria was crowded and noisy, and I had no idea where to sit. This is why it sucks so much to be the new kid. I scanned my eyes across the tables, sighing in relief when I saw an empty table. I quickly went over to it and claimed a seat before anyone else could.

"Can I join you?"

I didn't look up. I was picking at my food, humming a favorite song under my breath to keep me calm. I waved my hand toward the empty seat next to me. "S-sure, whatever."

"What's the song?" asked my new lunch buddy.

I blinked and looked up, realizing that it was a boy in a wheelchair who'd taken the spot across from me. I blushed, letting my hair cover my eyes. "S-sorry. I-I'll be q-q-quieter."

The boy gave a small laugh. Startled, I brought my hair out of my face so I could study him more clearly.

"It wasn't too loud," he said, smiling a great big goofy smile. "What's the song?"

"O-oh." I smiled back, tentatively. "Fairytale, b-by Sara Bareilles. H-have you heard o-o-of her?"

Artie nodded, the smile never leaving his face. "Just a few songs. Do you like her?"

I nodded, my smile growing a little wider. "I l-like listening to l-l-lots of songs. I g-got some n-new McFly s-songs last week. H-h-have you heard of them?"

His eyes lit up. "You've heard of McFly? They're one of my favorite bands! But they're kind of obscure, at least here."

"I've o-only listened t-to a f-few songs. They're s-still pretty n-new to m-m-me."

"Still, it's pretty awesome you know of them."

Lunchtime passed in a haze of conversation, mostly about music. I couldn't seem to wipe the smile from my face, and neither could he. It was actually a lot of fun. As the bell rang, I reluctantly pulled myself away from the table, not at all eager to go to my next class.

The boy started wheeling away, but he paused. "Oh, I'm Artie, by the way. Nice to meet you."

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, but kept on smiling. "T-t-tina. Same."

"Want to have lunch again tomorrow? I'll bring my ipod, maybe you can listen to some of the bands I was talking about? I think you'd really like Savage Garden." Artie's smile had turned hopeful.

"That'd b-be awesome," I said, feeling really excited about my new school for the first time since my mom announced our move. "I-I'll bring mine, t-too."