Sarah sat up on her poorly made bed and caught a glimpse of herself in a shattered old mirror by the window. No, she was not a celebrity. And she didn’t look cool, either. She looked like … well, like a kid. There was nothing there that could possibly be called popular or talented. The willowy, curly-haired girl that stared back had blue eyes and hand-me-down clothes that were far too large for her frame. Her tangle-some blonde hair was drawn back in a long ponytail, and her pretty, round face was bordered by short frizzes. She’d always hoped that someone would find her to be as beautiful as she saw herself. If someone had guessed her age by looking at her, she would have been placed around 12 or 13. Sarah often looked at her scrawny figure and wondered why she couldn’t be like all the other 16 year old girls, wearing tight jeans and lip gloss and drooling over boy bands. Then she remembered her guardian’s totalitarian overkill.