No Place in Perfection
When the teacher asked a question, her smooth, milky complexioned hand was always up first.
She always gave the answer without hesitating. It was always right.
To be brief: she was the teacher’s pet. You know, the girl that brings the teacher an apple.
But she was also beautiful, friendly, popular, perfect. Who deserved all of that perfection?
I hated her.
I wanted her.
God, looking at her lips (tomato red) I felt the urge to kiss them. Looking at her shiny, golden-grain hair I wanted to run my hands through it.
I wondered how she deserved that perfection every day. In between wondering if she would ever notice me, if she could possibly feel the same way I did.
The answer, of course, would be a no. She was happy with ‘amazingly hot’ beefy jock of a boyfriend.The perfect couple.
But still, I (sitting in the back corner of the classroom chewing gum, not ugly, not overly attractive, single, basically unnoticeable)couldn’t help but wonder.
Every single day.