The Secret Ramblings of Harriet Hughes

The months of Monday nights in front of the television watching Dancing with the Stars has driven my mother CRAZY! She has decided to enrol Abigail and me in a dance class. A DANCE CLASS! My mother has lost her marbles. She is officially one stamp short of postal.


My name is Harriet Hughes and I am not a dancer!

For one thing, I am the clumsiest 12-year-old girl on the planet. My short, stubby legs are not made for dancing. I have orange, curly hair, blue eyes, braces and a freckled nose. My orange hair and freckles are thanks to my British heritage (we moved to America when I was five). I do not look good in pink. There are many types of girls in the world. Most of them love shopping, painted nails, Yorkshire terriers and the color pink.

I am NOT one of those girls.

I am the kind of girl people call sweet; no one has ever called me breathtakingly beautiful. My eight-year-old sister Abigail, on the other hand, is taller than me, with long, blond hair and a smile that belongs in a toothpaste advert. She looks good in pink; in fact, she looks good in anything and she is good at everything. I find this more than a little annoying. Usually you get one average-looking (or ugly) sibling who is smart, and a prettier, slightly less intelligent (or dumb) sibling. This is not the case in our family.....