I look back now and wonder how I never saw it there at the time. I was beautiful. And the smile I constantly bore conveyed nothing but pure innocence. At first look, you really would think I was the person I pretended to be. I was the perfect high school student. Student council, honor roll, and teachers and parents loved me. When my friends would go to parties, they would tell their parents they were with me; I was the safe bet. If Ashley’s was going, surely everyone else was allowed to go also. The thing is, my mother wasn’t that strict because she trusted me. Or maybe she didn’t care; I’m not all that sure. I just behaved so even if I did go to that party that sported red solo cups in the basement and joints on the back porch, I never got into trouble. Even on those rare occurrences where the police did show up, I was never concerned with the consequences. My blood stream was clean; I literally said hello to the officers as we were forced to leave the premises. Their strategy for teaching us a lesson was faulty I say; let’s make all these underage kids who have been drinking all night get back in their cars and drive home; or more likely, to someone else’s house where the parents are already sleeping, so they can finish their bottle of raspberry Smirnoff in the basement with a tighter knit group of friends. Fortunately for whoever I decided was my close-knit group of friends that month, they could pile into my stone sober `92 Camry with the assurance of a safe ride home and a good alibi as they told their parents they were “with Ashley Davies,” so they could not possibly be misbehaving.

            I wasn’t that person though. I appeared confident in my body and jeans with a fitted tee, but I was not. I was constantly wondering what other people were thinking of me. I wondered if they could see through my façade to the scared little girl on the inside who still secretly wished she was in the second grade and it was okay to wear baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. Or maybe I wanted to be more grown up instead. In high school, I always pictured myself as the college athlete who was confident and happy and just loved life. I would know exactly who I was and who I wanted to be and my grades would be great. My boyfriend and I would be the perfect couple on campus and I would finally be truly happy. Later on, when I actually got to college, I’d find out that the only differences between high school and college would be 25 pounds, I wasn’t the jock anymore, and a steady drinking problem. My college years would be nothing what I pictured them to be; I’d have no sense of direction and my picture perfect boyfriend would end up being a dependent girlfriend who used me for my insatiable need to keep a smile on her face. When she was bored, I’d replace her with endless and unsatisfying one-night stands with strings of men I cared nothing about, if only to delay the inevitability that I was a lesbian.