Here’s the thing I know about your little poetry and music career: If you are a hundred and eighty pound, five-foot two girl with crooked teeth, you might be the president of the Latin Club, or your daddy might own the town’s Chevrolet dealership, or you might be the best conversationalist since Putnam’s mama, but you’re not going to the prom with the quarterback of the football team. That’s just a fact. You don’t have to actually confront this or accept it. Or even deal with it. Not if you don’t want to. But you’re not going to deal your way out of it, either.