Feb 04
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My Fake Soul

Gosh, being popular is hard. Especially when you're me. When you have two different lives. When you tell people at school that you are amazing at sports. When you come out seeming powerful and cruel. But then you come home to a farm, and you get up on your horse and ride for hours. And you care about everyone and everything. They all think I'm this uber pretty girl that is at the tippy top of the popularity ladder, and I play softball, basketball, run track, you name it, I play it. Except I "play" on teams a few hours away, where "my parent's grew up". So no one actually has any proof that this is true. But they all believe me anyway. They know that if they don't, they'll get it. 

I hang out with number two, three, and four on the popularity ladder. They copy my every move. Swoon over my outfits. Tell me I'm perfect. They wish they could be me. But is that really what best friends tell each other? I wouldn't know. In elementary school, I was the loner. Literally. No friends. But then I went to a private middle school. And the lies kept on coming. Now I'm here. And I'm not sure how I feel about it anymore. 

My friends like to roam the halls, pointing out innocent people's imperfections. "Oh my gosh! Look at her outfit!" They'll say, loud and clear. They''ll point, and the girl will keep walking as if she doesn't notice. But she does. And that's why it hurts me so much. I'll just reluctantly paste a smug smirk on my face and laugh. "So hideous!" My girls will nod of approval. But the real me, the secret me, would smack the stupid smiles off their faces and rush over to befriend the girl we just made fun of. But that me is hidden.

My parents don't even know about my fake status. Heck, they don't even know I wear makeup! I bought tons of it before sixth grade started, and threw it all in the bottom of my closet under old riding pants. I throw some in my backpack each morning before school and apply it in the girls bathroom before the bell rings. I take it off in there at the end of the day before going out to my bus. 

Part of me knows I shouldn't be lying like this. This isn't right! What made me do this? Why do I think this is okay? But the fake part of me disagrees. She thinks this is awesome. She does not want me to tell the truth. And so I listen. Just like everyone else. 
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About the Author: Animal_Lover
Write until it becomes as natural as breathing. Write until not writing makes you anxious.