A Recipe for Disaster

opposite

As Graham and I walked to school, he couldn't keep his mouth shut about Maya. 

I understood—he had his first girlfriend, and I was his best friend—and legally and stuff I had to listen to his shit because that's what best friends do, they listen to each other's shit. But I didn't give a shit about that rule at that moment, because I didn't like this Maya girl. Sure she was the nicest and most perfect human in the world, or well sounded like it, but I hated every second he mentioned her name or even her teddy bear. I had enough of Maya Brown. She even had a catchy name! Maya Brown! 

"...and then she fell into the mud. Wait, let me show you."

He pulled out his phone and showed me a photo of Maya covered in mud, the first photo I had ever seen of her.

The first thing I noticed was that Maya was pretty—like, really pretty—even with mud all over her. She had long blonde hair that reached her shoulders, styled in a messy bun, and she was laughing at the camera. Her blue, electric eyes made her unforgettable, even with the mud covering her. Looking at Maya made me feel a little nauseous. I didn't know why, and I couldn't explain it. But the urge to puke intensified as he swiped to show me a photo of Maya without the mud.

In that picture, she wore a purple dress that reached her knees. She was smiling, her hands under her chin as she looked at the camera. But that wasn't what bothered me the most; it was the fact that her hair was in a tight high ponytail.

That made my stomach feel like it had just eaten a frog—a live frog. I wanted to be Maya so badly at that moment. I wanted my friends to show me off, to look at me and think,

Wow, she's pretty. Why couldn't I be pretty?

I thought as I started to bite my nails, watching Graham scroll through pictures of Maya.

Was I the only one who looked good in a high ponytail?

Maybe she looked prettier than me in a ponytail.

Of course, she did. I mean, look at her.

Maybe he hadn't told her, and I was overthinking all of this.

Maybe I looked ugly in a ponytail.

Maybe my hair was thinning—maybe I was thinning.

Maybe he preferred white girls and not half-white girls.

Imagine if I were Maya. Maybe I would be happier.

Maybe he—

"Isn't she so pretty?" he said, interrupting my thoughts as he smiled at his phone, still scrolling through the photos and giving all his priceless smiles. But this time, it wasn't for me. "And her ponytail! I just love it when it's in a ponytail."

I guess I was right about the ponytail. I looked at her photo and touched my hair, which was, coincidentally, in a ponytail too.

As I looked at the photo, I felt a weird thud in my heart and another, bigger thud in my stomach. I nodded and said, "Yeah, she is pretty." And I hated that it was true. She was pretty—model pretty.

I let out a little sigh and ignored him for the rest of the walk, my thoughts feeling way more important than any conversation. I looked at her photo, then touched my hair, repeating that a few times. I decided it was better off without the ponytail. I mean, it felt like I was committing a sin by trying to look pretty around girls like her.