Her? The one with the long golden hair and the sapphire eyes? The one with the pink lips and the little white teeth standing in seamless rows? No, it can’t be her. Yes her, the one with the Juicy Couture clothes and the Gucci book bag. Her notebooks, the Vera Bradley ones filled with her tiny, curly q writing, and that paper she wrote about meteors falling to earth and got an A+ on are still lying on her desk; the desk covered in picture frames of her with her friends at the beach, smiling and holding jumbo waffle cones filled with chocolate ice cream, pictures of her and her boyfriend sailing, or that one of her kissing her dog, or the one of her and her little sister and brother and mother and father all smiling for the camera on a beach in the Caribbean. Yes her, the one who was going to be captain of the softball team next year, the one who was going to be prom queen next spring. Yeah, she’s gone. Gone? Dead. Starved herself. Starved herself until that beautiful golden hair fell out, and those sapphire eyes lost their glitter and those soft pink lips stretched tight against her teeth. Starved herself until her body attacked itself, until her heart gave up and fluttered to a halt. A stupid teenager thing, they said. She wanted attention they said. Attention? Her? But the boys followed her around since fourth grade and all the girls stared at her perfect curls and tried to copy her outfits. And the teachers, they all gave her good grades, and the parents all thought she was such doll. She had attention. She was perfect. Maybe that’s it. Maybe she hated it. Maybe she hated being perfect, having to be the example for everyone. Maybe she got tired of waking up every morning and being forced to draw a smile on her face and rub the glitter into her sapphire eyes. Maybe she hated not being allowed to make a mistake. Ever. Maybe that’s why she did it. So she would never ever make a mistake, so she would be perfect forever. Or maybe she was never even perfect. Maybe everyone just thought she was. And she was tired of them making her perfect when she wasn’t. Maybe that’s what killed her.