There she is, Little Miss Perfect. Surrounded by her group of friends and admirers, all of whom seem to hang off her every word while she babbles about something that’s probably meaningless. One of her lackeys says something that funny, and she throws her head back and laughs prettily, which makes her auburn hair move like something from a shampoo comercial.

I remember when she was ugly, when she wasn’t to good to hang out with me yet. Her teeth were all crooked back then, and she still wore the dated, baggy clothes that her mom picked out for her. None of her worshippers would’ve wanted her back then. But I did. When I saw her sitting by herself at lunch, I was the one to sit with her. When the other kids picked on her weird clothes or dental gear, I was the one that stood up for her. We shared secrets, had sleepovers, cried in each others arms, and did everything else that best friends do.

But none of that seemed to matter now, not to her. What did a best friend matter when you had straight teeth, a curated wardrobe, percect curves, and a horde of minions that worshipped the ground you walked on?

I only realized that I’d been staring at her when she suddenly met my eyes. For a moment, time stood still, and I sat paralyzed in her gaze. And then the moment passed, and she looked away as if she’d never seen me in the first place.