Not Flawless

September fourteenth was when Autumn Verlice first came to Crestwood Prep. Autumn, with her perfect hair and perfect smile and perfect, perfect grades. With her leadership skills, artistic expertise, and designer clothes. Autumn was made for Ivy Leagues, for awards, for changing the world.

My name is Jane Taylor. I have messy curls that I shove in a bun every morning for lack of time to do anything else. I never get enough sleep, and the dark circles under my eyes are evidence of that. I don’t have perfect grades. I rarely win awards.

Ivy League colleges have been my dream for years. I’ve tried my best in school, afraid of bad grades, of rejection.

I never saw true perfection until the day I met Autumn Verlice. That day, clouds hung low in the sky, chasing away the summer sun. I hadn’t slept all night. Autumn walked into art class, wearing braids and a smile. She was never introduced to the class, but she told me her name. She showed me a beautiful painting, depicting the ocean. Mine paled in comparison. She’d won awards, she said. At her other school. She was new at Crestwood. She didn’t know anyone very well, and could I maybe be her seat partner?

My best friend Scarlett was in my class, so I declined. But that didn’t seem to bother her at all. I soon saw her near a cluster of popular girls in our grade, laughing.

For weeks, I continued my art project for a competition I’d waited for for years. It was for juniors, offering a large scholarship to a lone winner. The directions were simple: send in any painting. If you won, you’d be emailed in the next month. If you lost, you’d receive nothing. I needed that scholarship.

Ivy Leagues were expensive, and my parents weren’t rich.

One day, I overheard Autumn on the phone. I assumed she was talking to Heather, a popular girl at Crestwood. I’d seen them the day prior, laughing at something on Heather’s phone. Heather often threw parties, inviting the most popular people of our grade. I’d heard about them through social media, and had always wanted to attend. But Heather always avoided me in the hallways. The fact that she seemed close to Autumn stung.

Autumn talked loudly, not caring about the other students walking past. She told Heather her SAT score, which was way higher than mine. That’s the minimum any Ivy League school would accept, she said. She said she had straight A’s and was taking all AP’s, but everyone did that, didn’t they? She’d entered the same art competition I’d worked so hard on. She’d won.

I looked around the hallway. No one seemed to hear or care.

I wanted to scream.

Autumn saw me looking. Smirked.

On weekends, I was always at home, gulping black coffee and completing homework.

On school nights, I barely slept.

Many evenings, I’d spent hours working on my painting.

I’d overheard Autumn saying on a different phone call that she was going out with friends every night. She’d won awards. She always got enough sleep.

She was rich; she didn’t even need the scholarship.

How could Autumn be so effortless, while I was so flawed?

How could she always have time, while I struggled?

My parents always said that people who seemed perfect were like swans. They seemed to glide across the water so easily, yet underneath, their legs were kicking relentlessly.

That was true for most people in my grade. They got perfect scores, yet always confessed to never having time on their hands. They, like me, were sleep deprived.

But Autumn Verlice was no swan.

Autumn was beautiful, perfect, extraordinary. She never had dark circles under her eyes, never came to school disheveled. Never struggled, never quit, never made mistakes.

If she was the minimum an Ivy League school would accept, what was I?

Don’t compare yourself to others, adults would always say. Focus only on your abilities. Do the best you can.

But how couldn’t I compare myself, when the world was always shoving other people’s accomplishments in my face? When my limited abilities meant limited college options? When, next to Autumn, I was unimpressive?

I wasn’t Autumn Verlice.

I was Jane Taylor. Plain. Ordinary.

That night, I dreamed I was at art class. Autumn, four seats away, jumped up and screamed, “I did it! I got into Harvard!”

Everyone in the class jumped up and screamed too, even the teacher. They congratulated her. Hugged her. Said, “Of course you made it! You’re so smart!”

After class, Autumn confronted me in the hallway.

Planting her feet in front of me, she said, “Jane. You ought not to ignore me. I just got what you’ve always wanted, and yet you aren’t happy for me. Not everything’s about you, you know.”

Her hair gleamed in the sun. Her voice rose as she said, “I bet you didn’t get into any college at all. Compared to me, you are pathetic.”

I awoke, gasping. Sweat lined the bedsheets. Soft light glowed through the curtains. Shadows danced on the walls. It was six a.m.

It didn’t matter that Autumn hadn’t actually said those things to me.

It didn’t matter that we hadn’t even started college applications.

Dreams, even unrealistic ones, can still be awful.

In the days following, I failed two tests.

Art was the only class Autumn and I shared. Every morning, she’d recount her perfect test scores. Always on a phone call.

My art teacher didn’t usually allow phones to be out. But I guess for Autumn, she made an exception.

I tried to distance myself from Autumn. My friends noticed something was wrong, but I said nothing.

At night, I became restless. I either scrawled notes, or tossed in my sheets. Papers became strewn across my desktop. Clothes littered the floor.

Autumn had planted seeds of self-doubt in my mind, which had grown into a forest of self-hatred. That forest had wrapped around my mind, had consumed my thoughts. My organs felt as though they’d been punctured by thorns.

Days ago, Scarlett stopped me in the hallway. Loud enough to be heard over the cacophony of students, she said, “Jane, I know something is wrong. You’ve barely talked to me for weeks, and you’ve been more tired than usual. Please, you can tell me what’s going on.”

I’d been trying, those past weeks, to distance myself from Autumn. Maybe, without realizing it, I’d distanced myself from Scarlett, too.

I closed my eyes. I’d known I’d have to say something to Scarlett eventually.

I began: “I just feel so inadequate. I thought I had a shot at getting into a good college. But now…now I don’t know anymore. I try hard, but compared to Autumn…”

“Autumn?”

The sun was in my eyes, making them water.

Except it wasn’t the sun.

One tear slipping free led to four, which led to a torrent.

I pressed my hands to my face, tears streaking down my cheeks, running through my fingers. Dropping on the concrete between my boots.

Scarlett said, “Jane…”

We threw our arms around each other. I sobbed into her shoulder.

It’s true what people say: most of the time, when you make a mistake or do something embarrassing, people will be too absorbed in their own lives to notice. Everyone has their own problems, their own stress. I know this now. Because when I looked over Scarlett’s shoulder, expecting stares, I was greeted instead with a view of a few students milling about, finding their way to class. Oblivious. Most of them were on their phones. Their quickening footfalls matched the pace of my heart.

Not everything’s about you, you know.

I felt relieved and small at the same time. For some reason, this made me cry even harder. I clung to Scarlett’s shirt, my breaths quickening.

Maybe my dream was right, and I won’t get into college.

Maybe it’s not worth trying anymore.

Maybe I’m not enough.

Maybe I will never be.

My breath quickened, my pulse raced. I fainted.

I woke up in a hospital bed. White sheets, white pillows, doctors rushing by in white coats.

My parents were there, faces ashen. A doctor was there, too. I don’t remember her name. Panic attack, she said. Hit her head. Concussion. Needs medication.

My parents nodded along. I was listening, and I wasn’t.

I had to skip school.

Hospital food. Pills. Sleep. More pills.

This morning, Scarlett visits.

She looks tired as she says, “Jane, I told your doctor, and I…I need to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Scarlett rubs her eyes. “You’ve not been getting a lot of sleep this semester, and it’s led to consequences... I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

She continues, and I understand, finally.

The world turns on its axis.

I am upside down, dizzy, disoriented.

My lungs are too big, my skin too tight.

I hear sound, but it’s as if I’m underwater.

I wake up once again, a pounding in my chest.

The doctor has given me my diagnosis.

Maybe if I repeat it in my head enough, I’ll believe it.

Autumn Verlice does not exist.

Too much stress, the doctor said. Lack of sleep. That caused hallucinations.

I hear my doctor and my parents ruminating over possible solutions. I should take medication. Drop a class. Maybe see a psychiatrist.

I have to stay at the hospital a while longer.

My mind is reeling, my thoughts scattered.

Autumn isn’t real.

I receive cards. Flowers.

My friends visit. They arrange themselves in a circle around my bed, telling me that I don’t have to get into an Ivy League school to be happy. My parents join them. They tell me that I am already smart, already extraordinary. That, to them, I am already perfect. They tell me they support me. They tell me they love me.

They tell me I should love and support myself, too.

And for the first time in months, I feel a warmth in my chest. It doesn’t fix everything, but it’s something.

Eventually, I go back to school.

I no longer deprive myself of sleep. On the weekends, my friends and I research other colleges. Some of them I love, making me wonder why I’d ever limited my choices to Ivy Leagues.

My name is Jane Taylor. I am not perfect, and I’m gradually learning to accept this about myself. I don’t get straight A’s. I rely on the support of my friends and family. I have flaws.

But the truth is, everyone does.

There’s no such thing as Autumn Verlice.

The idea of perfection leads to problems worldwide: eating disorders, depression, too much pressure on students.

For me, the idea of perfection led to Autumn Verlice.

Perhaps everyone has their own Autumn Verlice. Their own imaginary voice, constantly whispering, you’re not good enough.

I know now, when I looked at Autumn, I saw my own twisted reflection. Autumn conveyed my insecurities in the way she looked, the way she conquered every obstacle, the way she smirked as she told me her test results. Autumn is what I’ve always wanted to be, what I know I can never achieve. But maybe that’s okay.

Maybe, someday, with the help of my friends and family, I will learn to fully accept my flaws.

Someday, I will stop feeling ordinary.

Someday, I will feel powerful.

Someday, I will love myself.

My name is Jane Taylor. It’s now the second semester of junior year, and I get a lot more sleep. I have time to go out with my friends. I style my hair every morning, admiring my reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under my eyes are still there, but they’re fading. Instead of recognizing only my flaws, I try to focus on what I like about myself. I am a good friend. A talented artist. Hardworking. Caring. Kind.

My name is Jane Taylor. I am imperfect. I am extraordinary.