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“Why can’t I be like everyone else?” Cleo Oliver moaned as she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her room. Full-length for Cleo was a whopping five feet nine inches and at thirteen years old she was, to her great dismay, still growing.

Taking a few steps back, she practiced some of her “look shorter” poses. Cleo had become an expert on those since her growth spurt had started two years ago, but nothing seemed to help today. The spindly beanstalk that was her reflection still stared back at her from the mirror.

“I must be an alien,” she muttered. “I look like something that just stepped out of a UFO.” Besides towering over the other girls in her class by a good half a foot, Cleo was also quite a bit thinner. Together with her unruly black hair, huge green eyes that changed color from day to day, and rather sculpted face, she didn’t look like anyone else her age.

“Cleo?” Her mother’s voice came from down the hall. “Could I see you when you have a minute?”

“Sure, Mom, be right there,” called Cleo. “Just let me change my clothes.” It was Sunday morning and Cleo was still in her pajamas. She grabbed her favorite jeans off her “cuddy” chair—the place where, when she was little, she used to sit and cuddle with her mom or dad as they read her stories.

The Early American wing-backed chair with maroon flower-patterned cushions and a ruffle around the bottom, matched nothing else in the room, but there was no question that it belonged. Cleo preferred antiques to the coordinated bedroom sets of her friends. Everything in her room, from the Chinese wedding bed to the early 1800s sewing table that served as her nightstand, was special in some way. She liked to imagine the history of each of her pieces—to wonder who had sat in her chair, who had slept in her bed, who had read by the light of her lamp.

Cleo plopped herself onto the cuddy chair, prompting an appearance from Phoebe, her pet mini-lop rabbit, who spent part of each morning napping under the skirt of the chair.

“Hey, Phoebe,” Cleo crooned as she picked up the animal. “I guess you’re a giant just like me, huh?” The tan, floppy-eared beast, who had free run of the apartment and used a litter box just like a cat, had surpassed expectations and grown from a cute little bunny that fit in Cleo’s hand into an enormous, though still quite huggable, ten-pound rabbit.

Cleo kissed her pet, then set the animal back on the floor. She pulled on the jeans and an old T-shirt of her father’s, then sighed as she noticed her jeans were getting too short. What a way to start off the eighth grade.

The teenager found her mother in the master bedroom at the end of the hall. Mrs. Oliver, or Alexa as she was known professionally, was an internationally famous model, with the long legs and slim figure of a ballet dancer, but her trademark was her hair. There were a hundred different shades of red and brown blended together in Alexa’s famous chestnut tresses, and when combined with her bright green eyes and perfect creamy complexion, the result was a startling beauty unlike anyone else’s.

Right now Mrs. Oliver was packing the last of three suitcases for her trip to Paris later that day. In addition to a magazine photo shoot, Mrs. Oliver would be taking part in a fashion show where many of the top designers would be showing a special collection as a benefit for a children’s hospital.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Cleo.

“Hi, honey,” said her mother without looking up. “Listen, my plane doesn’t leave until six-thirty so I thought we could do something together this afternoon. Maybe go shopping? Or I could take you to lunch.”

“Well,” Cleo hesitated, “Robbi’s coming over.” Robbi Richards was Cleo’s best friend and the two girls were inseparable during off-school hours.

“She can come, too. We’ll make it ‘girl’s day out’ since your father is busy finishing up his report on the campaign,” said Mrs. Oliver as she adjusted an earring.

“Thanks, Mom, but we sorta have plans. Could we do it when you get back?” Cleo felt bad about turning down the offer, but the girls had been looking forward to meeting ColeRoy that afternoon. The singer was going to be at Gutenberg Books on Fifth Avenue signing his autobiography and with Robbi’s latest passion being eighties music, there was no way she was going to miss this event.

“Of course, honey.” Mrs. Oliver stood up and looked at her daughter. “And Cleo ... ?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t slouch.”

Cleo rolled her eyes at the familiar phrase. She shuffled to her parents’ bed and flopped herself down.

“Cleo, what’s the matter?” Mrs. Oliver inquired as she sat next to her daughter.

“Nothing. It’s just that I’m so tall and goony.” Cleo’s eyes filled with tears. “Mom, am I ever going to stop growing?”

“Oh, Cleo, is that what’s bothering you? Of course you’ll stop growing someday, but I wouldn’t worry about being too tall yet. Girls just mature faster than boys, but I promise you, they’ll catch up in a few years.”

“Mom, I don’t care about boys. I just want to fit in with my friends. You know what the kids at school call me?”

“What?”

“‘The Giraffe’!”

Mrs. Oliver chuckled a little sadly. “Yes, I remember being called something like that myself.” She was five feet eleven inches, a fact that didn’t give Cleo much comfort. “Cleo, look at me.”

Cleo sat up and looked at her mother.

“When I was your age, I was a head taller than everyone else in my class, too,” continued Mrs. Oliver. “I know what it’s like, but believe me, things will get better.”

“Mo-o-mmm.” Cleo clapped her hand over her eyes in frustration. Her mother was always saying that she understood, but how could she? Alexa was so perfect and beautiful, and besides, everyone adored her. Cleo found it hard to believe her mom had ever been a teenager, let alone one who got teased at school.

“I know, I know. That doesn’t help you now. You just want to be like everyone else, right? But honey, if you’re already different, why not make the most of it? Here, let me show you how to use what you have to your advantage.” Mrs. Oliver took Cleo’s hand and led her to the vanity table.

Cleo’s mother started to get so excited that Cleo couldn’t help cracking a smile as well. “Believe it or not, I hate wearing makeup, but unfortunately, it’s part of my job description. The real trick is to make it look like you’re not wearing any. Now, close your eyes.”

Mrs. Oliver carefully applied eye shadow and liner. “Okay, open them and look down ... look up,” she said as mascara went on. Subtle blush, lip liner, and lipstick completed the job.

“What do you think?” Cleo’s mom asked.

Cleo gasped. It had been just fifteen minutes, but now she looked like one of the women in the magazines—like her mother. “Wow!”

“Do you see what we did?” Mrs. Oliver asked. “With a little contouring to highlight your cheekbones, and darker shades of eye shadow and lipstick, we’ve brought out your best features, and added a few years to your face.

“Now ... your hair. I think just a simple twist.” And in two minutes, Cleo was looking at a remarkably older and more sophisticated reflection of herself in her mother’s vanity mirror.

“I look so ... pretty,” Cleo said.

“You are pretty, Cleo, with or without makeup. But I wanted to give you a glimpse of how you might look in the not-so-distant future, and maybe get you thinking about all your possibilities.”

“Mom, this is definitely better than I looked a few minutes ago.”

Mrs. Oliver placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “That’s because you’re not seeing the whole picture, Cleo. You have genuine beauty, the kind that can only come from the inside and that will always shine through, no matter what you look like outside. Cultivate that and you’ll be comfortable with yourself. That’s really the best way to fit in at school, or anywhere for that matter. Remember, all the makeup in the world can’t cover a nasty personality.”

Cleo gave her mother a disbelieving look.

“I know, I do earn a living as a model,” said her mom, “but I’m not going to be able to do that forever and the people who really love me, like you and Dad, aren’t the ones who pay me to show off their clothes.”

While Cleo was staring at her now rather glamorous face, the doorbell rang. “It must be Robbi,” said Cleo. I’ll be right back, Mom,” and she ran to answer the door.

As she got to the foyer, she had an idea. Pulling one of her mother’s coats off a hanger in the coat closet, Cleo wrapped it around herself and dramatically swung open the door.

Robbi stood there, eyes closed, singing much too loudly to the music pumping through her earbuds. Decked out in an old tuxedo shirt of her brother’s, cut-offs with a wide seventies tie as a belt, striped knee socks and green sneakers, Cleo’s best friend was one of those kids who was completely self-assured even at age thirteen. Robbi never worried or cared about fitting in, but did everything with such confidence that she always seemed to be on the cutting edge. Being half Japanese, she had a wonderfully exotic face, and Cleo thought that at four feet ten inches, Robbi was the perfect size.

“Hi, Mrs. Oliv ...” Robbi stopped and looked again. “Cleo? Cleo! What did you do? You look totally great!”

Cleo laughed. “Did you really think I was my mother?”

“No! Well, maybe at first, but um, I’d know those shoes anywhere.”

Cleo glanced at her feet and saw that her red hi-top Keds didn’t exactly match her mother’s chic coat.

“But you look amazing,” Robbi continued, “like you’re about twenty years old.”

“I know. I feel completely weird. Not like myself at all.”

“Well, it’s fabulous,” declared Robbi. “Everything except the shoes.”

The girls laughed and walked back to see Mrs. Oliver. Cleo’s mother agreed with Robbi that the Keds didn’t quite complete the makeover so she put together a stylish outfit using some of Cleo’s dressier clothes and pieces from her own wardrobe, including a blouse Cleo especially liked with large hand-carved wooden buttons. As a final touch, Mrs. Oliver brought out a pair of low-heeled suede pumps for Cleo to wear.

Robbi let out a loud wolf whistle. “Boy, wouldn’t you like Jason to see you like this!”

“Shut up, Robbi!” Cleo whispered quickly. She’d told Robbi about her crush on Jason Garrett, a boy at school, but she certainly didn’t want her mother to know.

Mrs. Oliver tactfully ignored the remarks. “Not bad,” she declared as she stood back to admire her daughter. “I don’t suppose this is what the average thirteen-year-old is wearing to school, but you know what, Miss Cleopatra Elyse Oliver—you’re a knockout!”

“Oh, Mom, you’re just saying that.” Cleo looked at herself in the mirror once more. “But I’ve got to admit, I do look great!”

She and Robbi giggled, then listened as Mrs. Oliver turned serious for a minute, “Now don’t start thinking that makeup and fancy clothes are going to solve your troubles, though I’ll admit it might boost your mood. You just remember, if you work at it, there’s usually a way to turn what you think are your problems into assets.”

Cleo hugged her mother, “Thanks, Mom.”

“Anytime. But, Cleo ... “

“Don’t slouch!” Cleo chimed in. The trio broke into laughter (though Robbi wasn’t quite sure what she was laughing at) and the two girls left to discuss their plans for the afternoon.

Cleo and Robbi had become friends three years ago when the Richards family had moved to New York City from Los Angeles. Both Cleo and Robbi were students at The Walton School, a private, coed institution on the Upper West Side of Manhattan that went from first grade through twelfth. As eighth-graders, Cleo and Robbi were now the upperclassmen of Walton’s middle school.

“You should definitely go out like that,” proclaimed Robbi.

“Right,” Cleo snorted. “And what if someone from school sees me?”

“What about it? You look really beautiful.” Robbi had always thought her friend was stunning even if Cleo herself didn’t. “Think of it as an adventure!” she continued.

It only took a little prodding before Cleo found herself eager to play “adult.” She grabbed her wallet from her backpack and dropped it into a rarely used purse that she swung over her shoulder.

“Bye, Mom! Robbi and I will be back later this afternoon,” called Cleo.

“I’m leaving here about five o’clock,” said Cleo’s mom, “so if I don’t see you, be good while I’m gone. I’ll see you Friday morning.” Since her mother would be away for two weeks, Cleo would be joining her for a long weekend in Paris.

Mrs. Oliver came out to give her daughter a kiss good-bye. “You look all grown up.”

Cleo smiled at the compliment and stood up a little straighter.

“Well, you two have a good time,” said her mother. “And take care of Dad for me, okay?”

“I always do,” laughed Cleo as she and Robbi stepped into the elevator.

Cleo and Robbi nodded to the doorman as they stepped into the lobby of the apartment building on Central Park West where the Olivers lived. It was a pre-war co-op with only three large apartments on each floor.

Max, the day doorman, tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Robbi.” Then said, “Ma’am,” as he gave Cleo a curious look.

Cleo started to giggle, but Robbi quickly poked her in the ribs. As soon as they got outside, both of them burst into hysterical laughter. “You see, Max didn’t even recognize you!” Robbi exclaimed gleefully.

“And he’s known me since I was a baby,” said Cleo. “If I can fool him, I can fool anyone.”

“What do you mean?” asked Robbi.

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Cleo. “Come on, let’s get going.”

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