I never wanted this to happen.
I hated Stacey, true. But…I also loved her. She was my best friend. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I looked at Stacey’s lifeless face.

She’s still beautiful…

I thought vacantly.
“Melanie. Hand me the shovel.” Brad looked at me with a severe expression.

Despite what he had told me countless times, I knew that he loved her too. It was impossible not love Stacey. I had always hated that about her.

I picked up the shovel, and instantly threw it to him; trying to get the instrument that would soon make Stacey non-existent out of my hand. Like I said, I never wanted any of this to happen…


Three Months Earlier…


“Do I look fat?” Stacey asked, as she closely inspected her butt in the mirror. She knew she wasn’t fat. In fact, she knew she had an amazing figure, which is why I had a little burst of anger/jealousy every time she fished for a compliment.

“No. Your body is amazing. Which, by the way, you pointed out to me earlier. It’s not like your butt is going to evolve into the size of China in the duration of fifteen minutes.”

Stacey rolled her eyes. “Why do you always have to have to be a smart a**? I was just asking for your honest opinion.”

What I wanted to say was:

“My honest opinion? My honest opinion is that you’re a conceited brat who knows good and well how gorgeous you are, and it seems you like to rub it in my significantly less attractive face daily.“

What I actually said was:

“Sorry.”

And it was this one word that defined me as a human being. I was the one that Stacey walked all over. I couldn’t ever seem to tell her how I actually felt.

I couldn’t ever seem to tell her No.

She melodramatically sighed, and then said, “You’re forgiven.”
She turns around facing her mirror wall.

I always thought it was weird, how she had one whole wall that was just a giant reflective surface. I couldn’t stand to have that.

I would have to look at myself so often, and I would have to sulk about what I looked like so often.
Then again, Stacey loved looking at herself. So, my petty reasoning was irrelevant.

She walked over to her vanity, and picked up a tube of red lipstick. She applied it slowly, her eyes never straying from her reflection.

She finished, and then puckered her lips. She looked back at me, and smiled. “What do you think? It’s Candy Apple. Isn’t the name so hot?” she giggled. “I think it’s the perfect color for me.”

I smiled back, but on the inside I was groaning. It was her perfect color. Because she was hot, and daring, and flawless; everything this new lipstick seemed to convey.

If only I could be like that.

“You wanna try some on?” she asked, holding out the tube expectantly.

I declined.

“Oh, c’mon! You’re never any fun. We can go out tonight. Maybe a guy would actually hit on you if you wore this.”

Ouch.

I wish I could say the stuff that she said to me didn’t hurt. That I was impervious to all of her snide comments about my weight, clothes, and appearance in general. But they did.

I swallowed back the tears that were initiated by what she had said, and took the lipstick in my hand.

I walked over to her mirror wall, and put it on.

I stared at my reflection. I looked different. I looked more like Stacey. I looked good.

I turned to look at her.
“Ew. Take it off. That looks awful on you.”

But I wasn’t going to. Just in spite of her.