"Today you'll perform a worm dissection," Mrs. Y informs us. Her thin-rimmed glasses are sliding down her nose, and her short hair is in disarray from assembling lab materials.

My stomach churns. I don't think anyone relishes the idea of touching a dead, slimy grey worm, yet I'm convinced I have a particular, personal aversion to worms that surpasses a typical high school girl's level of disgust.

My revulsion, however, is suppressed by the need to keep a low profile. I show no reaction when Mrs. Y places a thick, formaldehyde-saturated worm on the blue tray in front of Sydney, one of my lab partners. It's at least ten inches long.

"Gross!" exclaim Sydney and Britney in unison, giggling.

"That's just nasty," adds Gabriel, the only male member of our group.

I'm surprisingly comfortable with the students in my lab group. They all happen to be juniors, and their quirky, open communication styles don't intimidate me. Somehow, I signed up for all my science classes out of order, taking an advanced chemistry course as a sophomore, then physics as a junior. Now, as a senior, I'm taking what's considered to be the easiest science level, biology, so there are several younger students in the class.

"Oh my God!" exclaims Britney, pointing her finger at me. "That shirt is so bad."

"Genius," reads Sydney from my chest.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"It's just, since everyone knows how smart you are, it's sort of awkward for you to wear a shirt that says so right on the front," Britney spells it out for me.

I hadn't considered the notion that wearing my team volleyball shirt to school would translate to bragging about my intelligence. My cheeks burn deep scarlet.

Mrs. Y finishes explaining the instructions for our lab dissection, and we get to work. Britney makes a confident incision with the miniature pair of scissors and cuts all the way up the length of the worm.

"Jesus, you have a steady hand," comments Gabriel.

"I know! You could be, like, a surgeon," Sydney agrees.

I nod my head in assent, impressed by her bravery and confidence in slicing open the fat, watery worm. My hands would be trembling, and I'm quite certain I would have carved up about fifteen organs by this point. Intelligence doesn't necessarily correspond with actually being able to do things.

I guide the group through the lab procedure and write-up, quietly interpreting the more complex steps so everyone in my group can comprehend. I'm the kind of student who pays attention one-hundred percent of the time in class, so I never experience the information gaps that seem to hold my classmates back from understanding assignments.

When we leave class, the stench of formaldehyde is permanently absorbed into the interior of my nostrils, and I have no appetite for lunch. I chew my ham and cheese sandwich with difficulty, the dry bread catching in my throat, as the friends around me chat freely about church and crushes and the upcoming prom.

Towards the second half of last school year, I sort of barnacled myself onto this friend group, and they seem to have accepted the fact that I now eat lunch with them daily.

My freshman year, I hung out with my friend Lana, who is almost as painfully shy as I am, although it manifests itself differently in her. We would eat lunch, mostly in silence, then spend a few minutes painstakingly inventing questions for each other. Finally, Lana would look at me and ask, with a resigned shrug, "Wanna go to the bathroom?"

We would kill a bit more time sauntering towards the restrooms. This routine repeated itself daily, and every day was awkward; nonetheless, there was a comfort in our shared understanding that we were both too shy to chat the way normal high schoolers do. Plus, I have known Lana since elementary school, and I genuinely like her.

Sometime last year, on the way back from the bathroom, Lana began stopping at the grassy area by all the old maple trees at the front of our school to chat with her new friend Sasha, whom I knew from JV volleyball the previous year. Though I don't exactly feel comfortable socializing with anyone at school, Sasha's type of personality has the best chance of drawing me out. She's bubbly, humble, self-assured and non-judgmental.

Over time, we gradually began spending more time with Sasha and her friends, but at a certain point Lana completely disappeared from the equation. She now eats alone somewhere in one of her classrooms. I know that she isn't angry with me; she just prefers to eat alone, and I guess she's comfortable enough with herself that she can do this. That's the difference between us. I wouldn't mind eating alone, either, but the idea of being seen alone—of drawing that kind of attention to myself—is beyond mortifying.

Thus, I would rather sit awkwardly among this group of friends, smiling and nodding along with them and occasionally offering a one-word response when someone asks me a question. I pretend I didn't just show up in their group randomly one day, and I pretend they don't notice it either. They are, in fact, quite a sweet bunch of girls. If somehow, some way, I could let my personality out, I would fit right in with them.

"Nati," Crystal addresses me, snapping me out of my reverie. "Do you want to come to church with us on Sunday?"

Scratch my earlier statement about fitting in. I'm not religious, and I don't intend to be.

My stomach flutters at the fact that they are inviting me to go somewhere with them, but I have zero desire to attend church.

"Um, maybe," I say, my voice unnaturally high. Crystal is gorgeous with sparkling green eyes and perfectly mascaraed eyelashes, and I'm intimidated by her.

"My mom could pick you up, or your parents could drop you off at my house so you can ride with us," says Crystal.

"Thanks," I manage to squeak out. "I'll have to check."

I feel simultaneously proud of myself for having uttered a complete sentence as well as embarrassed because everyone is staring at me. I suppose me speaking is an unexpected event that draws attention, which is ironic since my goal is precisely the opposite.

When I speak, I can literally feel people's eyes burn into my skin, and the words never come out in the correct order or tone.

"Yeah, Nati, you should come!" Ruby encourages me, sounding as if she genuinely wants me there.

The bell rings, and I head to math class with a vague, warm sensation in my chest and a tiny spring in my step.

* * *

Volleyball practice that afternoon is grueling, and I keep shanking my digs and spiking the ball into the net. The more times it happens, the more it gets in my head, knocking my confidence.

"Natalia," Alex bellows to me across the gym. My heart races, assuming he's furious and about to yell at me. He motions with his hand for me to follow him outside.

I drink the cool evening air into my overstressed lungs and peer up at Alex sheepishly, embarrassed about my horrendous playing today.

"We want to try you as setter for a couple days in practice, just to see how you handle it. It probably won't be permanent, but I was watching you setting the other day, and you're ridiculously consistent."

My head is swimming. Is this because they think I'm good at setting, or because of how weak my hitting is?

Alex, probably seeing the blank stare on my face, slows the intense nature of his explanation and steps towards me. His proximity is unexpected, and I feel a strange physical sensation prickling all over my body.

"What's going through your mind?" he asks me, giving me a little smile. I'm taking in the features of his face for the first time, the scratchy stubble on his chin, his olive skin, a small dimple in his left cheek. His eyes are greenish. I never considered his age before—being a coach, I just assumed he was way older than us—but he must be in his early twenties.

"Um, nothing. Is it because of my hitting?" I manage to form the question with my vocal chords.

"No, it's because of your setting," he emphasizes, chuckling. "We want to train a backup setter, and you are good at setting." He gives me a little push-and-tug on the arm, as if simultaneously encouraging and making fun of me.

"But you have to move, as setter," he continues, matter-of-fact. "There are a lot of movements and formations to learn. You have to keep your head in the game. I know you can do it though. Just have confidence."

Confidence. Just have it. Simple.

"So, what do you say?" He now has his hand on my shoulder, and damn it, I realize in this very moment that I'm getting a crush on my assistant volleyball coach. His cologne is wafting incessantly into my nostrils and doing ridiculous things to my nervous system.

"Oh!" I reply, snapping out of my stupor as I realize he needs an actual answer from me. "Yes, I'll try it."

"Do, or do not! There is no try!" He's now grasping me around both shoulders and playfully pretending to shake sense into me. I vaguely register from his dramatized tone of voice that he must be quoting a movie, though I have no idea which one. It's likely something really obvious to the other ninety-nine percent of the population, but I know very little about anything in real life, including movies.

Again, academic intelligence doesn't correspond to being able to do things or knowing actual things about the world.

I enter the gym with that same warm fuzzy feeling as I experienced this afternoon at lunch. Like someone wants me. Like someone notices me.

And apparently, I'm now noticing Alex, I think to myself, smirking on the inside.

Despite all the tortured social interactions in my day-to-day life, my interior personality is actually quite light and bouncy. My insides aren't as twisted up as one might assume from my perpetually flustered, blushing exterior.