She walked with her head high. She was the queen, and all the kids in school were simply her play things. She could manipulate people with a few words, and silence a room with a look. Her hair was perfect, her makeup was perfect, and her clothes were fitted and designer. Scents of lavender followed her wherever she went. All the boys loved her, and she was surrounded by all her pretty friends. She had an air of mysteriousness, tempting others towards her. Perfect. She was perfect.

Everywhere she went people remarked on how beautiful she was. Or how smart she was. Or funny. Or sweet. Or perfect. “She must have the perfect life,” said a girl one day, in astonishment.

People began making rumors about her.

“She’s pretty on the outside, but she’s ugly on the outside.”

“The only reason boys like her is because she’s pretty.”

“I bet she’s mean.”

“I bet she’s fake.”

“She probably has a bad home life.”

“She thinks she’s so high and mighty with her designer clothes, doesn't she?”

As she walked away from her group of friends, they all started talking about her. She didn't hear their envious gossip. She walked on the sidewalk. The leaves were changing color and falling. She turned the corner and noticed a girl, crying. She stayed with the girl and dried her tears.

“Call me if you ever need anything,” she said as she handed her a piece of paper with her cell phone on it. She then went home, wiped off her makeup, and traded her designer clothes for sweats. Afterwards she went to the store, and she passed the same group of girls.

“Look at the ugly girl over there. Her clothes are awful.” They mocked her viciously.

You will never be able to please anyone; perfection is simply an illusion, and assumptions are for fools.