Every school has an ugly girl. In my primary school, it was me. From first grade through fourth, I had to wear heavy orthopedic shoes because of my weak ankles. I sounded like overweight elephant wearing bricks whenever I took a single step. "Hey, Bigfoot!" "Geez, you're going to start an earthquake!" Then in sixth grade I had to start wear glasses. Mom asked for the least expensive ones and that made me look like a fool. "Four eyes!" "Couldn't you cover up more of your faces? Why stop at the eyes?" In Seventh, I started competing on the city swim team, thinking that if I got a killer body, nobody would notice my face. Wrong again. I loved being fast and winning ribbons now and then, but now I had red, wet eyes from the chlorine  in the pool. I also did not develop a killer body. I changed my strategy at Eighth grade, the last year of middle school. I offered my help to anyone who needs. I worked for other girls, so they could hang out with their friends. My new program began to work. People who would never have acknowledged my existence before were suddenly seeking me out. I'd been feeling pretty good until one day I went to Christine's house to help her fill envelopes. Going into each envelope was invitation to Christine's birthday party; it was a big event at a fancy hotel. Complete with dinner. She asked me to help her address these envelopes. There was no envelope for me. My heart was broken. I tried to escape from all the eyes. High school had to be better, right? Yes and no. Now that I'm here, I know there are still lots of shallow people judging you on what you're wearing or how cool your hair is , but there are also kids who talk to you because they liked your answers or just as you're kind, honest, and a good friend. I still do kind things because I like the feeling I get when I am helping people. I, with my friends, went to Children's hospital, playing games and reading to the sick kids. I still had wet red and not a smart look, but you cannot tell me I am not beautiful. Every time I visit hospital, five-year-old Terry grasps my hand, "Morri, you are so nice. I want to grow up to be just like you." Which of the following is the real reason for Morri competing on the city swim team?
To win more ribbons. To shift others' attention from her face. To develop a killer body. To have red wet eyes.