autumn oakley | ten | cb; fin

I'm pretty. I don't mean to be vain; if anything, it's an insult. That's the word people use to describe me: pretty. Not smart, not talented, not funny, not motivated. Only pretty. And no matter what I do, I'll always be pretty. It doesn't matter how hard I work, Momma still fusses over my posture more than my grades in school; Dad still only expects me to be someone's wife.

They stuck me in every beauty pageant they could, even gutted Dad's office so they could put my crowns on display. It's meant to be some kind of proof that I'm good at something. At being pretty.

"You earned this, Sugar," Momma would say, brushing my hair, and I always did what I was conditioned to do: I faked it. A smile, happiness, I just took what I wanted for myself and I put it into a box and hid it away where no one would find it. And I never opened that box until I was sure no one was there to see me. The report card with perfect grades and a spotless attendance record, the application for Peacekeeper Training, the letter to a boy I was told I didn't have time for. It all just sat on the top shelf of my closet and waited. Soon, I would tell it, anxiously marking another day on the calendar that hung on my wall. Less than a hundred days until graduation.

Soon, I would tell myself.