I want to be beautiful. When you look at me, I want you to see slim, smooth legs, glittering eyes, satin hair. I want my lips to be full and soft, my hands graceful and clean. My feet small and pale and odorless. I want to be tiny and adorable. I want to run to you and throw my arms around your neck, wrap my legs around your waist and let you hold me. I want to cuddle up against you and hide my face in your chest when we watch scary movies.
    I want to be her.
    It started out small really, this infatuation with you. I’d notice your smile, your straight teeth, your perfect lips. I’d notice the way your nose wrinkled when you laughed. Then something changed, and that itch turned to a bruise, that bruise turned to an ache, and before long, that ache was agony. I could not have you. My perception of you as perfect turned you into a diamond. Without my idolization, you were just another stone. But I made you priceless.
    So how did it happen that day, in the rain behind the school? Although it was June, the air was chilled, and you gave me your coat. We were supposed to be searching for some plant to bring back to photography class, but before long, we were running down that path in the woods until we found ourselves lost on the spongy ground, leaves pattering overhead, breathless. The rain had turned me into goosebumps and mascara; it made your teeth chatter. We stared at each other until we were afraid.
    The next day was cloudy, and we were the only ones left after school. We walked to Dowse’s Beach, barefoot on pavement, and we laughed the whole time. You were nervous- I was hopeful. We didn’t mention her once, but I thought about her the whole way. This would never work. I knew it wouldn’t. She was prettier.
    When we reached the water, it was gray and wave-crumpled, and you stripped and ran in without hesitation, as if it were inevitable. Once in the water, you laughed and told me to come in.
    This would never happen again.
    I removed my clothes, and I was all imperfections, thighs and breasts and stomach. I wasn’t her. But you didn’t say anything, so I walked in slowly, goosebumps rising all over my body, until I reached you.
    We stood facing one another, feet planted in the shifting sand, swaying with each wave, only a few inches apart. We never touched. Once, you almost kissed me, but then you turned away. We floundered in the swelling ocean until we both were shaking with cold and indecision.
    I haven't spoken to you since. Those two days of weakness stand alone, set apart from time as if for just 48 hours, June had intersected another dimension. We didn’t see each other over the summer, and in the fall, she was still your girlfriend. Still beautiful in a way I would never be. You didn’t look at me. Your summer had been bonfires and sex, fireworks and the backseats of cars. The way summers are supposed to be. My summer was the cash register at the bookstore, the hum of the drink machine, time settling on my shoulders like dust, wondering what could have been.