Author's note: Critique welcome!
Drop-Dead BeautifulThe rest of my special evening was a blur. I could barely hold back tears as I danced with Anthony. Eventually he gave up on trying to have a good time and led me outside to the school courtyard.
"What's wrong?" he prompted, despite the fact that I poured out everything to him as soon as we escaped the Plastics.
I stared at him in disbelief.
"What do you mean 'What's wrong?' I got kicked out of the Plastics?" How could he not understand my despair of being the outsider of yet another
"Yeah, I heard you the first time. So?"
"What do you mean ‘so’?” They rejected me!
"They don’t even know you!”
“Yes they do!” I lied.
He took a deep breath, exasperated, and tried again. “Peyton. You are amazing. You are one in a million. No, you are one of a kind. You know that! Why do you need Regina George?"
I sighed. How many teenage girls got to hear those words and know they were really, honestly true? He meant it. Still, I pondered his question.
I considered this. I wanted to be like Regina George because, well... because she had long pretty blonde hair and weighed at least thirty pounds less than me. She had more than enough money to buy every designer outfit she pointed at. Her friends practically worshipped the ground she walked on, and everyone in school told her she was beautiful every single day. I wanted to be like her because she had everything I had always dreamed of, and I was naïve enough to think she would give some of that fantasy to me.
"I want to be like her!"
"You want to be like Regina George?" He sounded taken aback.
How could he not understand?
I wish I could explain it better. "I want to be popular. Pretty."
He looked as if he was in excruciating pain at this point, but he simply nodded. "I see. And what would you do to be pretty?"
"Anything," I answered passionately.
"Anything," his voice was now a low, irritated snarl. I could tell he was frustrated, but I honestly could not care any less at this point. Why should I let him judge my fantasies?
"To be pretty," I had to prove my point. "To be pretty, I would die."
This was not a lie or an extension of the truth. If I am not pretty, why should I live?
“Okay,” he agreed as if I were consenting to some type of arrangement, though I could not imagine what he had in mind.
Then, he grazed his ice cold fingers against my neck, and stroked. Swift as the wind, he swept my dark locks out of his way. My head tilted to the left, and he lowered his face against my own. For a split second, our lips gently brushed together.
The last thing I felt was his jaw clenching together, my throat in between.