Sarah Fowler was perfect.

              She had been perfect since second grade when she won the class election and accepted her ribbon with a wide, toothy grin.

              She had been perfect since sixth grade when she threw her arms around me and told me she loved me because I watched her favorite show.

              She had been perfect since eighth grade when she won a stuffed polar bear at the fair and gave it to Leah Johnson because her arm was broken, and she couldn’t play the fair games.

              She had been perfect since freshman year when she played three varsity sports and became the breakout star of all three teams.

              And she was perfect now, with her kind eyes and generous heart.

              Sarah Fowler was perfect. And I hated her.

              I hated her every time she walked down the hallway with her perfect body and her perfect golden hair and her perfect group of adoring friends.

              I hated her every time she raised her hand in class and delivered a perfect answer with a perfectly pretty smile on her face.

              I hated her every time she won another field hockey, basketball, or softball game.

              I hated her when she was mean, and even more when she was perfectly nice.

              Sarah Fowler was perfect, and I hated her so much.

              I hated her so much that I walked by her in the hallway everyday just to shake my head at the ground after she passed.

              I hated her so much that I sat next to her in every class just to roll my eyes whenever she answered a question correctly.

              I hated her so much that I attended all of her games just to scoff when she took home another victory.

              I hated her so much that I was mean, even when she was perfectly nice.

              You’re jealous, my friends said.

              You’re obsessed, my parents said.

              But I knew the truth. And the truth was that I hated Sarah Fowler with my whole heart.

              My heart hurt with the hate, so much that one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I sat on the steps and cried, and she sat next to me and held my hand, and I hated her all the while.

              I hated her because I couldn’t do anything else.

              She was too perfect.