30 Great Words from Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson

The engine clanks, which makes the guys in the back holler something obscene.

The school board has decided that "Merryweather High—Home of the Trojans" didn't send a strong abstinence message, so they have transformed us into the Blue Devils.

The school board has decided that "Merryweather High—Home of the Trojans" didn't send a strong abstinence message, so they have transformed us into the Blue Devils.

Older students are allowed to roam until the bell, but ninth-graders are herded into the auditorium.

We fall into clans: Jocks, Country Clubbers, Idiot Savants, Cheerleaders, Human Waste, Eurotrash, Future Fascists of America, Big Hair Chix, the Marthas, Suffering Artists, Thespians, Goths, Shredders.

I have entered high school with the wrong hair, the wrong clothes, the wrong attitude.

Our clan, the Plain Janes, has splintered and the pieces are being absorbed by rival factions.

Our clan, the Plain Janes, has splintered and the pieces are being absorbed by rival factions.

Our clan, the Plain Janes, has splintered and the pieces are being absorbed by rival factions.

Nicole lounges with the Jocks, comparing scars from summer league sports.

A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut, whistle around a neck thicker than his head.

A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut, whistle around a neck thicker than his head.

Another review of map skills, one week of Native Americans, Christopher Columbus in time for Columbus Day, the Pilgrims in time for Thanksgiving.

I bet he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder.

Brown bags—humble testament to suburbia, or terminal geek gear?

Brown bags—humble testament to suburbia, or terminal geek gear?

Brown bags—humble testament to suburbia, or terminal geek gear?

Insulated lunch bags—hip way to save the planet, or sign of an overinvolved mother?

And it gives me time to scan the cafeteria for a friendly face or an inconspicuous corner.

They all swear at him—a bizarre greeting practiced by athletic boys with zits.

All conversation stops as the entire lunchroom gawks, my face burning into their retinas.

I ditch my tray and bolt for the door.

The floor is layered with dry splotches of paint, the walls plastered with sketches of tormented teenagers and fat puppies, the shelves crowded with clay pots.

He is hunched over a spinning pot, his hands muddy red.

"A globe?" ventures a voice in the back.

This broken ball could be used to express such powerful visions—you could paint a picture of it with people fleeing from the hole, with a wet-muzzled dog chewing Alaska—the opportunities are endless.

My stomach flutters.

I plunge my hand into the bottom of the globe and fish out my paper.

"You just chose your destiny, you can't change that."