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She wanted to take me to a party, and I didn’t want to go because I didn’t know what I would say to complete strangers and because I was sure no one would like me.
    She looked at me and said, “You’re my cousin, Neely. But I have to tell you this. I used to think you always acted kind of superior, like you thought you were better than everyone else.”
    â€œMe?” You could have knocked me over with a feather, as my grandpa would have said.
    â€œYou never joined in. You always said you had something else to do. You’d just sit there and watch. People thought you were stuck up. If you hang back all the time, what are they supposed to think? You should start worrying more about how the other person feels and less about yourself.”
    Was she kidding? All I ever thought about was the other person. Does she like me? Does he think I’m a dweeb? Why doesn’t she talk to me?
    â€œYou can’t wait for the other person all the time,” my cousin said. “You have to include them if you want them to include you. You can’t make everyone else do the heavy lifting.”
    The way she said it, it was like she was accusing me of something, like being self-centered. So I did what I usually did when I thought someone was criticizing me—I started to cry.
    Which led to a massive heart-to-heart with my cousin.
    Which led to her giving me some tips.
    Which led to me vowing to change.
    Which meant making a huge effort to forget my own nervousness and concentrate instead on trying to put other people at ease.
    Which led to my taking some initiative at the party, even though I was sure I was going to throw up.
    Which led to my meeting a nice guy.
    And his friends.
    And having fun.
    All of which led to my promising myself that when I got home, I would be a brand-new Neely.

Chapter Eight
    I tried to bring Addie along with me. Really, I did.
    But she was too scared to even try most of the time. So I had to go it alone.
    It hasn’t been easy, despite what Addie thinks. She’s made it a lot harder by the way she acts.
    In grade nine, we were in most of the same classes. But this year is different. This year we aren’t in the same homeroom. We aren’t in the same French, history or civics classes either. But Addie is in my English and math classes, where on the first day she made sure to grab the seat next to mine. She’s also in my gym class, where she sticks to me like glue.
    Here’s what I discovered last year. In the classes where it was just me and not Addie too, I could be anyone I wanted. Most of the kids didn’t know me, because most of them came from other schools. In fact, most of them didn’t know most of the other kids either. That meant I could put into practice what I’d learned in Boston. I made plenty of friends in those classes. I’m doing even better this year.
    But in the classes where Addie clings to me, it’s harder. She sucks up my time and energy. She never wants to talk to anyone else—she’s convinced they won’t like her. When we have to break into groups, she stays silent. She hides behind her hair. Now I see how shy she really is. It’s like a disease with her. She can’t seem to shake it off. I’ve been trying to help her. Her answer every time? “I can’t. I’ll just die if I have to.” It doesn’t do any good to tell her that it’s medically impossible for anyone to die of shyness. Or embarrassment. Or being laughed at, for that matter.
    At the urging of my English teacher—and to my surprise—I decided to try out for the school play this year. I tried to get Addie to audition too, but she wouldn’t. So then I tried to get her into doing costumes or sets or something. But she wouldn’t do that either. And, if you ask me, she tried to undermine my confidence by telling me all the time how the popular kids would get the parts, not kids like “us.”