I run to the parking garage and to my silver Mini-Cooper parked on the second level. My fingers shake as I unlock the doors, and when I drop into the warmth of the leather seat, I let the tears fall, knowing there won’t be anybody coming after me. Not Clarissa, not Decker, not even the other two boys who gawked at me like I was a naked lady on a billboard. They’d seen me before, but I don’t know them. Just as I don’t know any of the faces who stare at me when I walk by and whisper when I pass. I’m a beautiful face to them, a perfect body, the chick in the magazine or the television. And they think because I look this way I have everything. I’m a spoiled little rich girl with a pretty smile.
I look at my eyes in the rearview mirror. They’re Mom’s eyes—that same deep green like polished circles of Jade. But I’m nothing like Mom, and even though I’m glad I’m not like her, I sometimes wish I was as strong as her. If I was, maybe I would’ve told her years ago that I didn’t like this life, that I hated Clarissa and Kurt and the other people who I have to be around everyday, all of them superficial like they’re living in a comic book.
(from Beautiful Girl)