White lies.

Part 1

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Warnings: swearing, bad words, sexuality issues (which will come in later) and lies (applies to all later chapters)

Chapter 1. Kim.

All is not what they seem.

I know that all too well.

I know I look dumb.

I know I look like a stereotypical bitchy head cheerleader's sidekick.

I know I look like a bitch.

I know I look like a slut.

But if they stopped whispering it into the hallways when I pass, if they stop their taunting smirks and laughs and talk of "that easy girl", if they stop putting those hate letters in my locker, maybe they'll look closer.

Then they'll realise I'm not what I seem.

But no one sees that.

Except you.

"No one ever thinks of us as humans," you say as you dump your tray on the empty table.

I look up at you. You are the only reason I hold on.

"That's because we aren't supposed to be," I say, sipping my drink. "We are the queen bees. We are not supposed to be humans."

"It's not fair," you whine, slinging your long legs over the bench.

I look at you. You're right. It's not. "Who said life was fair?"

You mumble something into your lunch and slouch in your seat.

I sigh.

"Honey," I say, sickly sweet in that tone I hate, "Are you going to that party on Sunday?" I wink. "Hotties' are gonna be there."

You sit up, and your face transforms. It turns proud and arrogant as you flip your hair over your shoulder. "Of course, darlin'. I never miss a party."

Some cheerleader I can't remember the name of pops into my personal space. "You're going? Great! Let's go together!"

"Okay," you laugh, linking arms with her. "Get to my house by six."

"Of course!" She squeals, and she leaves.

You sink back onto the table, prodding at a lump of something with your fork.

"How long more must we pretend?" You ask me, and at once your earlier snobby attitude drains away. You sound tired and defeated, and I suppose I do too.

"Until end of this year. Then we can leave, and we'll never need to look back."

You don't reply for a while, and when you do, it sounds like you're on the verge of tears.

"I don't remember how to be me anymore, Kim." You look at me in the eyes, and you are deadly serious.

"I don't remember how to be myself. I don't remember what a day is like without pretending. I don't remember what it's like without many fake smiles. I don't remember, Kim."

You say this calmly, and I know from the other side of the room, it will look like you complaining again. You toss your hand around in a meaningless gesture just to fool them.

They laugh, and point fingers at my back. I ignore them.

My heart breaks for you.

"I can't help you remember," I say, and my voice sounds oddly detached when I do.

"I know." Your voice edges on hysteria. "I know, I know, Kim, but it hurts, it hurts so bad."

I know, I want to say. I understand.

I don't remember how it feels like to be me either.

But a gaggle of cheerleaders come bouncing in trough the door, swarming around us, and we fall into our same old pattern.

Snobby smirks, hair tossing, rudeness and talking about hotties.

As we talk, my thoughts wander from who's the hottest and the best perfume to attract boys to something else. Something new.

I wonder what it feels like to be me.