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Danielle drops the teaspoon clattering to the buffet. "Aah! Don't say that! I'm switching to honey, as of right now."

Another girl with "Amanda" on her nametag says darkly, "You must have found out by now that we're allergic to honey. And cilantro tastes soapy. They're both genetically linked traits."

Danielle quickly sets her mug down. She surveys the drinks table, where cans of soda are nestled in a plastic tub of ice. The crowd of girls has cut into the supply of orange sodas and colas, but a dozen cans of lemon-lime are untouched. Danielle snatches up a lemon-lime. She takes too big a gulp and almost chokes. It tastes dreadful. She glowers at the 49 girls milling sullenly around the hall. Every one of them is also 15 1/2 years old, brown-eyed and lean and well-muscled, five-foot-five or -six, brimming with good health and sporting a stick-on name tag. But at least none of them is drinking a lemon-lime. Danielle takes another defiant swig.

And at least none of them has her hair. All of them are dark and curly, but their hairstyles are in the best teenage spirit of continual experimentation. Danielle can pretend she is looking at a hairstyling Webzine, or one of those customized beauty programs at the mall. She sees her own hair short and velvety, or in a huge cloud of ringlets, or tied back in a sheaf of sleek braids. The neat topknot over there on Lora looks the best—she'll have to try that when she gets home. But every nose around her is narrow and aquiline. Every mouth under the different lip glosses or glazes is firm and dimpled. Mortification creeps down her spine.

"I hate you all," she announces.

Nods of agreement. "You'd feel better if you drank cola instead of that disgusting lemon-lime," Olga remarks. This girl looks around, nerving herself to mention the taboo subject. "Do any of you do—sports?"

"Soccer."

"Soccer."

"Soccer."

"Softball!" Danielle announces. The other girls glare at her with undisguised envy, each scowl an exact replica of the other.

"But you're good," Tia predicts in flat tones.

Danielle's well-toned shoulders slump. "I'm a sophomore, and I'm already on the varsity team. It wasn't like Mom and Dad pushed me into it or anything. It just happened."

"Does any one of us do anything of our own?" Bev almost wails. "Drama, or cooking, or building miniature railroads?"

Danielle can't bear to drink any more lemon-lime. Meeting for the first time like this sickens her stomach, the eerie revulsion in the unnatural act of meeting yourself 49 times over. Mom has tried to help, talking about Sleeping Beauty. Danielle is Princess Aurora in the movie, the beloved daughter, treasured for her natural gifts, farmed out to nice folks who would raise her as their own until she was old enough to meet her destiny. Until, Danielle says to herself, the wicked witch comes knocking at the door. That day is here—times 50.

No one replies to Bev's question because the hall's double oak doors swing open. One man holds the door while another pushes the woman in the wheelchair through, and a third man—tall and wide in his brown suit—follows behind. They push her up the ramp leading to a little stage so everyone can see.

Danielle has been told that Tanya Haynes is only 45. How many other girls get to see what they'll look like in 30 years? A frizz of gray on the temples, those deep curving lines around the mouth—the wicked witch, Danielle thinks. She studies the wrinkles around the older woman's eyes and resolves to start moisturizing and using sunblock.

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October 1 2001, Vol. 45, No. 12