我的自画像

I was born on a rainy April morning, which my mom says explains why I love listening to raindrops on my bedroom window while reading. At 14, I stand 165 centimeters tall with a constellation of freckles across my nose—five, to be exact, arranged like a tiny Orion’s Belt. My hair is the color of dark chestnuts, usually pulled back in a messy ponytail that unravels by lunchtime no matter how tightly I tie it.

I’m the kind of person who laughs too loudly at math jokes, even when no one else gets them. Once, during a geometry test, I accidentally snorted while stifling a laugh at the phrase “acute angle,” and the whole class turned to stare. My desk is covered in sticky notes with reminders like “Bring gym shoes” and “Feed the class hamster,” but I still forget things daily—last week, I showed up to school wearing mismatched socks (one with dinosaurs, one with pizza).

Books are my best friends. I’ve read To Kill a Mockingbird three times, and Atticus Finch’s “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view” is taped to my locker. I write poetry in a tattered notebook with a coffee stain on the cover, mostly about the way sunlight filters through classroom windows or how my little sister’s laugh sounds like wind chimes. Last month, I won third prize in the school literary contest for a poem about my grandmother’s hands—wrinkled but strong, always smelling of lemon dish soap.

I’m terrible at sports but try anyway. In PE, I’m the one who trips over jump ropes and accidentally kicks soccer balls into the wrong goal. But I love cheering louder than anyone for my friends, especially when my best friend Mia scores a basket—even if she’s on the opposing team. My favorite after-school activity is volunteering at the local library, where Mrs. Gomez lets me organize the graphic novel section and sneak extra bookmarks.

My biggest fear is public speaking. Last year, I had to give a presentation on climate change and practiced so much I memorized every word. But when I stood up, my voice shook so hard the projector rattled. Then I noticed Mia giving me a thumbs-up from the back, and suddenly it got easier. I still stuttered, but I finished, and afterward, a sixth-grader told me she wanted to “save the turtles” because of my speech.

I want to be a marine biologist when I grow up, or maybe a librarian who writes books about sea creatures. I collect seashells from every beach I visit, and my nightstand has a jar filled with sand from Cape Cod, where I saw my first dolphin leap at dawn. My mom says I’m “too curious for my own good,” but that’s okay—I’d rather wonder why the sky is blue than ever stop asking questions.

Life feels like a half-written story right now, with blank pages ahead. Some days I worry I’ll never be brave enough or smart enough, but then I remember the way my little sister copies my poems into her notebook, or how Mrs. Gomez leaves new novels on my volunteer desk with notes like “Thought you’d like this.” Those small moments are the footnotes that make the story worth telling.

Who am I? I’m the girl with dinosaur socks and a poem in her pocket, the one who laughs at math jokes and trips over jump ropes. I’m still figuring it out, but isn’t that the best part?

What story are you writing with your own small, ordinary, wonderful moments?