Let’s get this straight: I wasn’t a loner.

You’ll see a bunch of books like this; girls struggling with self-image issues, quiet, lonely, bullied. That’s not me.

I’m Molly Mayer, Queen Bee of GreenBough High School.

Nobody knows that, underneath all my layers of makeup, there’s insecurities inside me. I’m not as flawless as everyone thinks I am.

I’m imperfect.

The worst thing is is how I have to hide it. I’ll go into the bathroom with Jessica and Lena, my friends(but do friends make you feel sick inside?), and there will be a girl staring at the mirror, scruntinizing her petite body.

I know she’s thinking about how many fat rolls she has, or that granola bar she had for lunch that was 100 calories. I know she’s thinking that.

There’s nothing I want more than to go over and give that girl a hug, telling her how skinny she is. There’s nothing I want more than to duct tape Jessica and Lena’s mouths and stop their, ‘Oh, look at you, you fat baby!’ comments. Or, ‘Even if you stopped eating as much, you’d still be ugly.’

If I did give that girl a hug, or bring out my duct tape, my life would be over. The only thing I have to hold on to and cherish is my reputation here. When I’m at home, I don’t feel welcomed or safe. It’s not my parents; they’re fine. It’s all the mirrors strung about the house. It’s all the shiny metal and gold and aluminum that reminds me of my unfortunate face. It’s all the family photos that would’ve been perfect if I wasn’t in them.

Why can’t we all just have the guts to share our problems? Every time my parents ask me what’s wrong, I feel this guilt creep up my throat. Like I’m the worst daughter for not sharing my problems. Not that I’m the only one who does that, but my problems aren’t the usual ‘Drank Beer at a Party Problem,’ or the ‘Forged My Report Card Problem.’

Why can’t my problems be less problematic?

I woke up to the sound of my alarm clock blaring ‘Despacito.’ Today was a Saturday, and I had made plans with Jessica and Lena to go shopping.

The one thing I hate the most.

You’d expect every teenager girl to love the same things: Starbucks, Forever Twentyone, and shopping. I’m okay with the first two, but shopping I dread. Liking to shop is part of the Popular Girl Contract. I swore on a blood oath, as ridiculous as it sounds.

Back to the topic. You can imagine why I hate shopping; trying on clothes that always are too tight or too revealing, being forced to judge myself and others in front of mirrors. I just DESPISE it.

Of course, Jessica and Lena don’t know that. They don’t know half of the actual me. They know ‘Molly Mayer, Confident Queen of Everything.’ Hah, not true.

So this morning, I groggily headed downstairs, careful not to step on our cat, Turd Bucket. I have a little brother, everyone; things like that happen sometimes.

“Morning, Molly,” mom said as I stumbled into the kitchen. She handed me a steaming mug of coffee, which I happily accepted. “How’d you sleep?”

I yawned and sipped the frothy drink. “fine.”

Uncomfortable silence follows me everywhere at home, and I don’t know why. Like I’ve explained before, my parents are the nice, decent, kind white parents who will bake you a cake just to ‘welcome you to the neihborhood.’ They just...don’t know the real me, either.

“We’re gonna go to the apple orchard today,” Mom finally said, sitting down on the living room couch.

my left eye twitched as I said guiltily, “I already made plans with Lena and Jessica today.”

“That’s great, invite them to the orchard with us!”

I sighed, trying to soften the blow for mom. “We’re going to the mall. And plus, Jessica hates the outdoors.”

Her face fell, and the guilt in my stomach grew stronger. “O-Oh. That’s okay, honey. Have fun!” She managed a wobbly smile, and I realized how bad of a person I actually was.

“Thanks,” I smiled back and set my empty coffee mug on the kitchen counter. “I’m gonna go get dressed.”

After I was fully clothed in a crop top and shorts, I heard beeping coming from outside. So I drew open my curtains and saw, as expected, Jessica and Lena in Lena’s convertible, parked in my driveway, beeping the car horn.

I groaned, grabbed my purse, ignored my aching heart telling me not to do this, and went out to meet Lena and Jessica.

It hurts to be popular.