"What in the world?"

I review the instructions for my history assignment once again, then scan a few paragraphs of the textbook, tapping my pencil eraser impatiently against the kitchen table. The bright yellow tablecloth decorated with elegant, flowing designs of red roosters is covered in eraser dust from my multiple attempts to sketch a map of Europe.

"Seriously, what the heck?" My voice bellows through the dining room as my agitation grows. In the kitchen, Mom is preparing chilaquiles, one of my favorite dishes. My mom's side of the family is Mexican, but she grew up in the United States.

I see my mom containing her smile as she swiftly slices open an avocado on a wooden cutting board. She says nothing of my outburst.

I'm seriously about to crumple up the map and chuck it across the room (something I'm not proud to admit, I've done many times over the years while struggling through frustrating assignments at the dining room table). I can be somewhat of a perfectionist when it comes to schoolwork, and I have a secret hot temper only my parents know about.

Instead, I take a breath and glare once more at the instructions sheet. All at once, I realize I'm looking at the wrong textbook page for the current step. I flip ahead in the chapter, find the pertinent information and heave a sigh of relief. Soon, I'm humming one of my piano songs in a purposely ugly, scratchy voice as I color in my map.

My mom stirs her sauce on the stove, suppressing a smile in her lips. I know she's laughing at me.

"Another light bulb moment?" she teases with loving sarcasm. This is my nightly routine. First, I get worked up over pointless, unclear assignments. Then, I eventually figure it out and hum jollily for the next hour as I complete my work. I like school, and for the most part I don't mind doing homework either. The workload is sometimes challenging to balance with sports and piano lessons, but for the most part I have it managed.

The front door opens gently at exactly 6:30pm, and my eyes light up as I throw my pencil down and hop up to greet my dad.

"Hey, pops!" I call out, running to hug him. He envelops me in a strong, warm embrace and kisses me on the forehead. I've always been close with both my parents, and to be honest, I prefer spending time at home with them rather than out with friends.

My parents greet each other; then Dad heads down the hall to wash up for dinner as I clear my school supplies off the dining room table. I'm forcefully blowing eraser dust off the tablecloth when Dad returns, as Mom sets out the yellow plates and silverware.

"Nati and her erasing," chuckles my mom. Over the years, my teachers have sometimes expressed concern over my levels of erasing. I think they assume I'm super stressed out, but in reality, I'm just trying to get it right; erasing means something has clicked and I've figured out a a better way, so I'm making the necessary improvements. Is there something wrong with that?

The three of us sit down for dinner. The chilaquiles are fresh, crispy and flavorful, with just the right amount of spice. I can handle insane levels of spiciness, but Dad (who's white, by the way) is more sensitive, so Mom attempts to strike a compromising balance in her cooking.

"How was practice today?" asks Mom. Without my permission, my brain flashes immediately to Alex grasping my shoulders, his face close to mine as he attempted to pump me up with confidence.

"I played like a Kindergartner," I say matter-of-factly, basically cracking up.

Although I tend to feel embarrassment intensely in the moment, I think the reason it doesn't fester and eat away at me is because I generally talk through whatever happens in my day with my parents over dinner. Speaking my shame out loud allows it to dissipate.

Dad chuckles along with me.

"I missed, like, every ball that came my direction. My coach was like, 'Natalia,'"—I imitate his deep, booming voice—"and I thought he was about to scream at me, but instead he told me they want me to learn the setter position." I shrug.

"Wow, that's something new you for you!" Mom responds in a low-key, encouraging tone.

"I think it's because my hitting is so horrendous," I giggle.

"Your hitting has gotten so much stronger since last year, don't you think?" Dad asks.

"I don't know. I guess a little," I admit.

Throughout dinner, I don't shut up, boring my parents with all the details about our worm dissection, the short story I'm writing for English in the style of Hemmingway and tomorrow's math test. I'm wound up, and I think I have an idea as to why.

That evening in the bathroom, I examine myself in the mirror for a very brief moment after washing my face. To be frank, I find myself unattractive, and I spend very little time staring in the mirror or worrying about my appearance. But tonight, as I relive the moment Alex's face was a foot from mine, I want to imagine what he saw.

My hair is long, thick and silky—my favorite feature. It's dark brown but a shade lighter than my mom's. My skin is a balanced mix of my parents' tones—coffee and milk perfectly blended. The traits that make me unattractive are my lopsided smile and my thick eyebrows, which I have no idea how to pluck or shape properly (and I'm too embarrassed to ask anyone). It's not that any one part of my face is ugly; I just don't think the combination of physical attributes meld into an overall appearance of beauty.

Also, quite frankly, I don't care that much. I'd rather be smart and kind and have a loving family than be beautiful.

I drift off to sleep that night laughing on the inside at the notion that I have a crush on my volleyball coach, who is an adult, and about the fact that no one on planet earth will ever know I like him.

* * *

My stomach is a bundle of nerves the next morning as Mom drops me off in front of the enormous 'Wilderness High' sign at the school entrance. Today we are to turn in our cultural exploration assignment in Spanish class. I decided to learn two Spanish-style songs on the piano and video-record them, which my teacher will require me to share with the class.

When I slip into my chair at the start of third period, someone taps me on the back. I turn around, knowing already who it is.

"Hey, Nati. What did you do for your culture assignment?" James asks me. He has strawberry blond hair that holds a bit of curl, which he styles in the exact same way as all the other popular boys at my school—gelled and flipped upwards slightly at the front. His face is dusted with light freckles, and his smile reveals pronounced dimples on both sides of his cheeks.

I know I said I don't care about my appearance, but I would enjoy having dimples. Even just one. They are so dang adorable.

I've never had a crush on James, although I probably should by this point. We have had classes together all throughout high school, and he is the only boy who engages me in conversation. He is good-looking and incredibly kind, but I think the mere fact that he hangs with the "popular crowd" automatically shuts down my capacity to crush on him.

In fact, I have had very few serious crushes throughout high school. My last major, long-term crush was in eighth grade. Maybe I'm just picky. Which is hilarious, considering literally no one gives me the time of day.

"I learned a Spanish song on the piano," I reply to James' question.

"What!" he exclaims, looking genuinely surprised. "I had no idea you played the piano."

"Yeah," I confirm. "I've played since fifth grade."

"Wait, so you're going to share a video with the class of you playing?" James seems incredulous, as he knows from taking three years of Spanish with me how flustered I become anytime I have to present or act out a skit for class.

"Yes, unfortunately," I reply solemnly.

"Oh my God, I can't wait," he remarks in a soft tone, a smile bursting over his whole face as his cheeks grow pinkish. Due to his redhead complexion, he blushes all the time just as I do. Except he looks normal when he blushes, whereas my entire face becomes a stop sign on fire.

Señora Brita announces that the lesson will commence, and I turn back around in my seat. My palms are dripping sweat from the conversation with James.

Our teacher is a micro-manager, and she has prepared a list that indicates the order in which students will share their cultural projects. I'm third.

"Natalia," Señora Brita calls my name when it's my turn, pronouncing the syllables as a flowing song the way my mom does. "¿El tuyo es un video?"

"Sí," I respond. I've grown up attending family gatherings with my grandparents, uncles and aunts, so I understand Spanish quite well, even though we don't speak it much in my home due to my dad not being fluent. My prior language experience is a definite advantage, especially since when I'm anxious, my nerves serve as a filter between my eardrums and brain cells, causing normal speech to sound like rushing water.

"¿Y has tocado el piano?"

"Sí, toqué el piano," I respond, overjoyed for one nanosecond at the fact that I nailed the preterite tense. Then I resume trembling in fear. Señora Brita clicks into my video from the online student assignment platform where I've submitted the link.

The only reason I've yet to melt into the earth by this point is because I insisted my mom film me from the back, so all you can see is my inky hair cascading down my perfectly-postured back. My face is nowhere in the shot. I almost look good from the back, I think to myself in good humor.

My long, nimble fingers dance across the keyboard effortlessly, and inside the bubble of my embarrassment, I secretly feel proud. My classmates are hearing my piano talent for the first time. Both songs I selected are quite simple arrangements and easy to play, but they sound intricate to the unsuspecting ear. I notice several classmates perking up in their chairs, and a few raise their eyebrows with surprised smiles.

After both songs, the class applauds loudly.

"Que lindo tocas, Nati," compliments my teacher with affection.

James leans in close to me from behind, tapping me on the shoulder again so that I halfway turn around to hear him.

"That was..." He actually stops mid-sentence and shakes his head, smiling, as if he genuinely found my playing to be something exceptional. "You're so good," he finishes simply.

"Thank you," I whisper.

Later on, after everyone has shared and there is a break in the lesson, James engages me once again to offer additional compliments.

"I can't believe how good you are at piano," he tells me. "Is there anything you can't do?"

I blush furiously at the attention.

"You're the best student in every class, you play basketball and volleyball, and now I find out you're a baller on piano!" His dimples glow, and I feel vaguely confused by the amount of compliments he's giving me. He really is a sweet guy.