The price of popularity:

By Cohdee Dimarco, 14

My breath shuddered as the icy wind lashed against my skin, its cruel touch biting into my thick curls now glazed with ice. I stood uncomfortably at the towering gates, their dark shadows looming over me. In the distance, children’s laughter and shrill screams echoed—grating on my ears like nails on a chalkboard. Desperately, I clasped my hands over them, trying to drown it all out. “Mika, are you alright, darling?” A warm, firm hand pressed against my back. I turned to see my soft-hearted aunt Susan, her gaze filled with misplaced sympathy. I nodded silently, pulling at the hem of my grey skirt until it covered the bruises marring my thighs. She pulled me into a tight embrace, her knitted sweater surely smudged with my hastily applied makeup. Behind her stood my cousin Colette, taller, blonder, and effortlessly beautiful, idly twirling her golden hair. Our eyes met—hers bright and kind, mine cold and guarded. “Mika!” she squealed after a long, awkward pause, her enthusiasm dripping with insincerity. A strained, pitiful smile crept across my face as she flung her arms around me. “I’m so pleased your mother decided to send you here! You’re going to love it,” she chirped, her voice sugary sweet. Susan, ever the optimist, chimed in. “It’s a fresh start, sweetheart. New friends, new beginnings.” But her words, meant as comfort, carried an undercurrent of warning. “After last year’s… incident, there will be no more repeats.” Growing up, Colette and I were always compared. She was the angel—graceful, beautiful, and adored. My mother often reminded me that Colette had everything I would ever want. Boys didn’t look at me. Girls didn’t either. Everyone loved Colette. Teased and ostracized, I grew up a lonely outcast, begging for love and belonging. At eleven, my drunk of a mother uprooted us to the other side of the country for a “fresh start.” Instead, I was left with an unresolved court case, a tarnished reputation, and an even more absent parent. Four years later, I was sent back to Indiana—to Colette’s dazzling shadow once again. Shuffling from class to class, I drifted through the crowded halls like a ghost, desperate to blend in yet sticking out like a sore thumb. Whispers followed me, their sharp words pricking at my ears. Look at her— is that the girl from…? By the last period, I sank into the cold, hard plastic chair, my thighs spilling over the sides, purple bruises and scratches exposed. I covered them with trembling hands, knowing it made no difference. As if to punish myself for existing, I dug my nails into my flesh, wishing for release. My stomach growled in protest, empty as always. Clinging to my water bottle, I tried to ignore the gnawing ache. Despite Susan’s reassurances that Colette would guide me, I spent every second of that torturous day alone. The bell rang, grasping the attention of sleepy school children, I tore through the door, shoving my way through the crowded halls. The scent of cinnamon filled the crisp air as my black sneakers crunched against fallen leaves. I had no idea where Susan’s house was, but I refused to wait for Colette and her friends. My fingers gripped the straps of my bag as I trudged through desolate streets. My footsteps echoed unnervingly in the quiet until a familiar voice broke the silence. “Mika! Wait up.” Colette emerged from the fog, walking gracefully beside me. Her golden bracelet sparkled under the dim streetlights, catching my envious eye. “Andy gave it to me,” she said with pride, lifting her wrist to admire the diamond. I knew of her boyfriend—Susan had mentioned him—but hearing about him firsthand sparked jealousy deep in my chest. Why should Colette have everything I want? A boyfriend, friends, beauty, Everything That night, after dinner, I sat cross-legged on my bed in the room Colette and I shared. She scrolled through her phone, her perfect fingers tapping the screen as though the world revolved around her every swipe. Meanwhile, I rummaged through my duffle bag, searching for the one place where I could be honest—my diary. Once the worn leather cover met my hands, my pen began its frantic dance, pouring bitter, desperate words onto the page. “Girls! Get ready for bed, please,” Susan’s voice rang from the hallway, sharp but distant, like she had already given up on controlling us. In the bathroom, I stared into the mirror, inspecting the version of myself that everyone else seemed to see—plain, dull, invisible. My brown hair clung lifelessly to my face, framing eyes that no one would call captivating. Then there was Colette. Her reflection caught mine in the cracked bathroom mirror. Her golden hair cascaded down her back like it had a life of its own, and those piercing blue eyes narrowed at me. “Can you not?!” she snapped, spitting toothpaste into the sink without missing a beat. Her irritation hung in the air long after she left, clinging to me as I lay in bed. The house had settled into an uneasy quiet, but my thoughts wouldn’t. Colette’s soft, steady breathing only made my restlessness worse. I reached for the comb on my nightstand, running it through my tangled, limp hair. Clumps fell into my lap, confirming what I already knew: nothing about me worked. Across the room, Colette slept peacefully, her perfect hair spread over her silk pillow. The jealousy boiled over. Quietly, I reached for the scissors I’d seen in the bathroom earlier. My heart hammered as I approached her bed, the dim moonlight guiding my shaky hand. A quick snip, and her golden strands fell into my palm like a trophy. Rushing to the bathroom, I locked the door and stared at my prize. That night, I clumsily knotted her stolen hair into mine, weaving it with desperation. When I stepped back and examined my reflection, I barely recognized myself. “I’m… beautiful,” I whispered. But the illusion was fragile, and deep down, I knew I still wasn’t enough. Morning came too soon. I stayed in bed, feigning illness to avoid Colette’s inevitable fury. Susan, busy, naive and distracted, kissed my forehead before leaving. The house was mine. Alone, I couldn’t resist the pull of Colette’s wardrobe. Her clothes were a shrine to the life I wanted—a life I deserved. I slipped into one of her delicate blouses, the soft fabric clinging to me like a second skin. For a moment, I felt untouchable. But when her denim shorts refused to slide over my thighs, the illusion shattered. I ripped them off in frustration, collapsing into a heap on the floor. Tears mixed with the cakey streaks of makeup on my face as I glared at the mirror. The Sharpie was in my hand before I even realized it. I began marking the parts of my thighs that I hated the most. Each black line felt like a surgeon’s guide to perfection. I picked up the knife next, my hands trembling. The first cut was shallow, the pain sharp and immediate, but I kept going. Each slice was a step closer to becoming someone else—someone better. When I was done, I stitched the gaping wounds with Susan’s sewing kit, the needle biting into my flesh as I pulled the thread tight. My legs looked grotesque, patched together like some twisted doll, but at least they were mine. By the time I cleaned up the blood and bleach-scrubbed the floors, Colette and Susan were already pulling into the driveway. Panic gripped me. I bolted to my room, leaving a trail of chaos behind. When Colette found her torn clothes and destroyed room, her scream echoed through the house. Susan stormed in, her eyes darting between Colette and me, anger and suspicion clouding her face. “What did you do?” Susan demanded, her voice trembling. I fidgeted, my fingers playing nervously with the crude stitches on my legs. Colette turned on her, seething. “This is why she shouldn’t be here! She’s insane! Do you know what she’s capable of?!” Susan tried to hush her, but her own voice wavered. “They’re just allegations…” “Allegations? She killed someone, Mom! And you brought her here!” My stomach twisted as Colette’s words clawed at my mind. It wasn’t true—not exactly—but the memories haunted me. The whispers, the accusations, the stares that followed me everywhere. I hadn’t meant for any of it to happen, but that didn’t matter now. From the kitchen, Susan’s voice softened as she spoke into the phone. “Yes, I understand. I’ll bring her back. She needs help.” My heart stopped. My mother. She was coming to take me back. She would lock me away for good this time. I couldn’t let that happen. I moved to the kitchen in a daze, my hand closing around the knife in the drawer. My knuckles turned white as Colette’s voice broke through my haze. “Please,” she whimpered, stepping back. Her hands trembled as she slid the diamond bracelet from her wrist and held it out. “You can have this. Just don’t hurt me.” Her words made my stomach churn. Did she think I was that pathetic? As she glanced toward her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen, something in me snapped. I lunged forward, and the knife sank into her stomach. The sound—the wet squelch of the blade meeting flesh—made me sick, but I couldn’t stop. She crumpled to the floor, blood pooling around her. Susan’s scream tore through the house. “What have you done?!” I dropped the knife, staring at my hands, trembling and slick with blood. It was over. Sirens wailed in the distance, and I knew they were coming for me. As Susan cradled Colette in her arms, I stumbled back. My eyes locked onto the knife once more, but before I could reach it, Susan’s grief turned to rage. She lunged, plunging the blade into my stomach. I collapsed beside Colette, the cold floor biting into my skin as my vision blurred and life slipped away. In that fading moment, the cruel truth unveiled itself: I’d never win. Even in death, Colette would remain the golden girl, the cherished victim, while I would be branded the psychotic pretender. Yet here we were, both lifeless on the same cold, unyielding floor—equal at last, yet only in death.