Me, myself and eggplant eyes: when Meg gets a makeover, her hot crush gets interested. But what will he think of everyday, no-makeup Meg?

Be yourself, right? But check this out: The instant I transform into someone new is the instant I become visible to my crush Jason Zeller. Explain that, be-yourselfers.

My eyes are closed, so I almost miss it. I'm perched on a stool in the middle of Draper's department store in hideous lime-green track bloomers and Lycra tights, while my makeup-artist mother draws purple fines across my lids.

As part of her "audition" to work here, which pays way more than Foley's where she works now, Mom has to demonstrate the "Brand New You" makeover. That's where I come in. It's impossible not to transform someone who never, ever wears makeup.

"Meg, You-Know-Who over in Watches!" my BFF Natalie whispers.

"I hope you don't mean You-Know-Who You-Know-Who," I whisper back.

Natalie thumps my knee twice (our Jason Zeller code). Message received: Jason's in the store, on this floor.

"Relax," Nat says.

"Is he gone?"

"He's walking toward us ri--"

To prevent Jason from overhearing, Nat clams up, which I appreciate. And she's not one to hold back. Since high school started a few months ago, she's been more outgoing than ever.

High school's confusing. I see new faces all day long. And, from what I can tell so far, people remember you best if you're fun to talk to--if you, like, know exactly who you are and broadcast it. In middle school, everyone knew me as the girl who ran fast. Here it's not enough to land in the school paper for a five-minute 10-mile.

When Morn says, "Blink break," I make blurry eye contact with Jason, who smiles at me, I think, before walking into the bustling galleria.

"He totally checked you out," Nat says. "That rocks."

I should be happy. Instead, I feel this shrinking, overthinking-it thing happen and pray we don't run into him.

Jason is the hottest guy in 10th grade, while I'm probably the most anonymous girl in ninth. Even my guidance counselor forgets my name. I switch into shy mode when I meet new people. I think too much about what I'm going to say. I give up. I shut up. It's got to stop.

The makeup pros are looking me over--two women with purple-red lips and a pudgy guy with a pen in his lapel. "I've enlarged the eyes by brushing the outer edges with eggplant shadow." Morn says, pointing me toward a mirror.

I try to look delighted and pleasantly surprised. Morn and I spent an hour at home rehearsing my satisfied reaction.

"Continue, please," the man says.

We've practiced this demo endlessly at home, but I can feel Mom's hands spring to life now. Based on the number of strokes she's brushed across my eyes, cheeks and lips, I'd say Mom's not sticking to her plan. I'm going to be brandnew, for sure. That and late for track.

When I clear my throat, Nat steps in and says, "Ya know, Mrs. Sparrow, we have practice at 4 p.m. sharp. If we're late, Coach will make us take laps."

"All done," Mom says, drawing her wrist through the air like a painter.

The pros applaud.

"Meg, don't you want to see?" she asks as I slide off the stool.

"We've gotta run," Nat tells her, and she and I are off, sprinting through the mall, our shoes squeaking.

As we scurry past Forever 21, I catch my face in a mirrored wall and come to a screeching halt.

"Who will be America's Next Top Model?" Natalie jokes.

"I can't go to track like this, Nat."

I look like Jessica Simpson when she gets eye-liner happy. I want to hide in my gym bag. OK, the purple shadow, peach tip gloss, bronze foundation and 50 coats of mascara are a tittle glam, but I don't look right. My billions of freckles have been erased, for one. And my smallish brown eyes look like they take up haft my face.

"Meg, chill," Nat says, gripping my shoulders. "You look great. Just trust your best friend on this one."

Suddenly, I trust not only Natalie on this one--I trust myself. I waste two whole minutes admiring my face, when Nat says, "Earth to Super Star Barbie!"

I only hear his voice. "Hey, aren't you in bio with me?" How lame--I'm still ogling myself like that drippy Narcissus who fell into the pool and drowned.

"I'm Jason... Zeller," the voice says.

Yep, here's Jason, right over my shoulder. Natalie smacks her gum, and taps her watch. I expect to feel shy but, instead, I turn and smile. "I'm Megan," I say confidently, like a CNN anchor.

Natalie's eyes bulge in surprise.

"Megan who?" he asks.

"Meg Sparrow!" Natalie shouts. "She's a track star and a very late one."

"I'm playing a marathoner in my brother's student film," he says. "But check this out--I can't even run a mile."

"That's funny," I say, a tittle loudly.

"Where do you sit in bio again?"

"I sit behind you, silly."

The new me gets to the point fast, I notice, but she also calls people "silly."

"I love your shoes," I continue ....

Jason's decked out in a baby-blue tee and red Diesel sneakers. His smile is totally Chad, his hair Orlando, and he stars in every play at school.

"844-3435," Natalie announces, yanking my arm toward the exit. "Call her if you want. We gotta go."

"I'll be home around 7," I boldly add.

As Natalie drags me through the exit, I watch Jason program his cell. And I vow to be the new me forever.

"This is unacceptable, ladies," Coach Kim lectures me and Nat as we begin stretches 15 minutes late. "You're varsity, Meg, which means 'never late' in Latin. You're JV, Natalie, which means 'don't screw up.' Do four extra laps. And what's with the makeup?"

"I'm trying something different," I say, raising my arms above my head.

Natalie shakes her head and bends down, hiding her face in her shoelaces.

"This isn't a slumber party!" Coach Kim shouts. "Hit the track now!"

It's standard for Nat and me to jog our warm-up mile together. While our shoes slap the Astroturf, she usually rants about geometry and describes life with her adorable jock BF Taylor. But today, Nat sets off alone. It hurts my feelings, but whatever. Maybe I don't need her as much as I thought.

In eighth grade, Nat confessed during a game of Truth or Dare that it sometimes bothered her I was the top runner in the state. All of a sudden, I feel competitive with Nat for the first time.

And I hate it.

By the time Coach Kim's gun signals the 800 meter, my current claim-to-fame event, my foundation-y face feels like it's melting.

I have so much racing through my mind--running into Jason, Nat's weird mood, Mom's audition--that I forget to pace myself on the final lap. The toe of my sneaker clips my calf, and I'm moving too fast to maintain speed. I'm also seriously out of breath, which never happens. Natalie zooms past, wearing a fierce expression. I can't believe it.

Coach Kim calls, "Go, Natalie, very nice!" though he's looking at me.

I stop and walk, letting two JV girls pad past. When I rub my eyes, my fingers come away Lush Lash-black.

Natalie finishes first. Which is a first.

After a shower and two plates of spaghetti, I watch Morn paint the floor tiles in the kitchen. Because she's trying not to obsess over whether she got the job at Draper's, we're going to have a kitchen floor covered in cherries. But it looks kind of amazing.

"How was track?" she asks.

"I lost the 800," I say, "to Natalie."

Mom looks up, surprised, and drops her brush into a cup of water.

"Well," she says. "We've got rocky road ice cream."

"No, thanks," I say even though rocky road's my favorite.

Mom mixes two shades of green to make a deep turquoise.

"You looked nice with the makeup."

"Yeah," I say. "I guess."

I don't feel like talking. I collapse on my bed with the lights out. The phone rings, and I hear Mom say, "Thanks, I'm thrilled!" I'm really happy she got the job, but too drained to congratulate her.

It seems like Natalie isn't going to call me tonight, another first. Jason's call comes next. Mom taps my door and shakes the cordless. But I know he wants to talk to some girl who's not me, someone who talks dumb like Britney Spears and looks similar to Jessica Simpson, at least around the eyes.

I whisper to Mom, "Say I can't talk," and bury my head under my pillow.

The next day in bio, Mrs. Thurman passes out pigs preserved in formaldehyde. I'm wearing waterproof mascara, tinted moisturizer and tip gloss. I had considered piling on the new me, but I was running late for the bus.

Mrs. Thurman pairs everyone into dissection teams, and I get partnered with Jason, probably because I've prayed to the gods of pig-dissection not to. My confidence goes right out the window.

Jason scoots his desk beside mine. With the tip of his pencil, he slides our pig toward my elbow.

"Hey," I whisper, without even thinking about what I'll say next.

"Give me a second, would you?" he says, his eyes scrunched shut.

"Does this bother you?" I ask.

"Yes, it does. I like pigs. I'm vegan."

I slip on my plastic gloves, pull open the bag and withdraw the little oinker.

"Why don't you make the notes," I tell Jason, confident and clear, more like a friend. Like the girl I know best. He looks into my shadow-free eyes.

"Would that be all right?" he asks. His straight snow-white teeth are now showing through in a little bit of a smile. "Someone has to do it."

"By the way..."

I'm ready for him to reveal that he has no idea who I am without the layers of cosmetics.

"What is it?" I ask.

Mrs. Thurman is showing the class how to make the first incision.

"You look different without all that makeup, no offense," Jason says.

"I know," I say, disappointed.

"No, I mean, you look way better without it," he says.

"Problem?" Mrs. Thurman asks.

Recovering, Jason tousles his hair and asks if he can come to regionals Friday.

I look incredulous.

"I mean, I want to research this part I'm playing, a pro runner," he adds.

"Yeah, sure," I say, without freaking out the least bit.

The key to the 800: You can't rush the second lap, until the last 100 meters.

As rain tickles the roof of the dome, Natalie wishes me luck. I tell her I'm glad she's getting faster... and sorry I made us late and acted like a diva.

"No sweat," she says, winking, "Hey, did you know Taylor and Jason played T-ball together in first grade? How cute is that?! Could you die?"

She keeps talking and cocks her head to the stands. I spot Mom holding this green "Go, Meg, Go!" sign she hand-painted in our school colors. Then, I notice Jason and Taylor sitting side by side in the front row. Jason's wearing a shiny black zip-up soccer jacket--I catch his eye, and he raises his soda cup in serious salute.

The old me would have been nervous by his mere presence. The new me would have waved big and smiled fake. But the me I know best doesn't want to think so much. She just wants to run.