My mama named me Ruby, but I think she made a mistake.
"Ruby" sounds like a soiled dove who followed the old West mining camps, or like a woman whose man begs her not to take her love to town, or like a white-haired waitress in a small town Texas cafe, pouring coffee and joking with her regulars.
They all love her, that Ruby.
And I am nothing like the sedate red jewel with hidden fire within its darkness.
I am plain and boring and uncreative and simple, one of those girls whose English essays are correct and neat, academically pleasing, but totally uninspired, whose grades are ok and whose pits smell by fifth period, whose favorite food is french fries, who will go to college 90 miles from her hometown, and who will name her daughter Katelin.
My name hangs on me, a jarring note in an otherwise monotone life.