Lyric

She floated into the high school cafeteria every day like a queen entering her court. Her name was Brittany, and I described her, along with everyone else, as funny, rich, sexy, and the undisputed queen of Northwood High. Her laughter, a high, melodic chime, would cut through the din of trays and adolescent chatter, drawing all eyes to her table, always strategically placed in the center, bathed in the anemic glow of the fluorescent lights.Her hair, a cascade of sun-kissed waves, seemed to shimmer even in that dreary room. Her clothes were always a week ahead of the fashion magazines, impossibly tailored jeans and cashmere sweaters that cost more than my family’s monthly groceries. She had this way of tilting her head, a practiced, alluring gesture, that made even her sarcastic wit seem charming. And when she smiled, all teeth and high cheekbones, you almost forgot the occasional, calculated cruelty in her eyes.Today, she was holding court with her inner circle – a trio of perfectly coiffed, designer-clad girls whose names I barely knew, but whose social standing was as unassailable as Brittany’s own. They were giggling, their voices like a flock of well-fed birds, over some story Brittany was animatedly telling, probably about a party I wasn't invited to, a new car I couldn't afford, or a boy who wouldn't look twice at me.I was hunched over my own tray, a grey-green mystery item masquerading as food, trying to make myself as invisible as possible. Then, the laughter at Brittany’s table abruptly stopped. A sudden, uncomfortable hush fell. My stomach lurched. I could feel it before I saw it – the pinpointing gaze, the sudden shift in the atmospheric pressure of the room. I knew. I always knew.Her eyes, the colour of polished jade, were fixed on me. There was no warmth in them, no hint of the "funny" or the "sexy" that everyone so readily attributed to her. Only a cold, appraising glint that made me feel like an insect under a microscope.