Riley Smith was one of those enigmatic people—those people that so resemble some sort of flourishing bug that you just want to capture her in a jar and put her on a mantle. People wanted to be around her, people wanted to be her. She was the Messianic character sacrificing her time by giving you a smile—she was the all-hailed perfection in personhood. She was always the first person invited to parties, the first person to know gossip. She was the great, shining star in our private school.
At least, she told me so.
“I think it’s funny how people think we’re so alike,” she said one day, her legs crossed and her foot bouncing idly. We always had lunch in the same place, right on the auditorium stage so she could watch everyone. She liked watching people. She liked people watching her even more.
Our school was indoors, a series of hexagonal classrooms all around the central hive of the mall. The auditorium, lunchroom, and locker halls were all centered there, creating the perfect vantage point for Riley’s rapt gaze.
“You know?” she went on, “People are always saying how similar we are.”
Without my asking what she meant, she giggled a bit, in that high-pitched, perfected way she had. Twirling a lock of blond hair round her finger, she sighed. “You’re features are so exotic,” she stressed, “While mine are just so.”
She pulled out her hand mirror for the third time and began mussing her hair. “I mean, you see the differences, right?”
I blinked a few times, unable to grasp what she was trying to do. She was always trying to do something; there was always some game afoot. Just, sometimes the way to play was a bit lost on me. True, we were both blond, both tall, both aesthetically pleasing, both a mixture of green and blue eyes depending on our clothing. Both witty. Both well-liked. Our major difference was that I didn’t really care about my status in academia hierarchy, where Riley did.
She wanted people to worship her at her feet, proclaiming her eleventh-grade glory with sonnet prose in iambic pentameter. Of course, no one in our year besides our advanced placed English class knew what iambic pentameter was, so she forged on without.
“You know, I think you should dye your hair brown.”
I raised an eyebrow. I didn’t know that.
“It’d bring out your eyes,” she said thoughtfully, emoting that she’d just had this burst of opinion, rather than having dwelled on it for the better part of last night.
Biting into my red apple, I simply waited for her to continue. She always continued. Even when she was donning the part of a blushing ingénue or innocent lass, there was always the underlying inspiration for the antagonism.
“People just always say how alike we are,” she mused. “It’s so funny. I remember when I met you, I didn’t like you at all.” She giggled again, showing affection by patting my knee. “And I like me!”
Ah. There’s the game.
Nodding, I decided my question of what she wanted to do Friday night could wait. It could always wait. Her matters were more pressing.
“I don’t mean that I don’t like you now,” she added, the Affectionate Nurse trope landing nicely with her pale pink lips sporting a warm smile. “You’re my best friend!”
Taking another bite of apple, I determined that my best move would be to continue the part of Silent Listener. I had gotten used to this—she was quite partial to the soliloquy.
“I think it’s funny. We’re not alike.” She shrugged, and then lazily followed a ninth grader with her intimidating glare. “Did you know that I’m going to be the Cotillion Queen this year?” she asked, glancing back at me.
Unfazed by her sudden turn, I smiled and nodded. She’d told me this morning. And then at break. And then fifteen minutes ago.
“Yes! My dad is thrilled. He’s going to buy me that white Lexus now because he’s so proud.” She beamed devilishly. “A white Lexus. That’ll be the nicest car in the lot.”
With an impressed air, I smirked back.
It’d be better in black.
“I suppose with that people will know the difference between us.”
Blinking, I swallowed a rude quip.
We lived in Orange County, which was basically Switzerland—the land of pale, blonde-haired, blue-eyed maidens. Behind the Orange Curtain one could find a plethora of pretty Barbie dolls to play with.
Sometimes I wonder if Riley thought I was her personal doll.
“I heard you and Gray were talking in Anatomy.”
Gray and I were lab partners. Of course we were talking.
“I thought you said you didn’t like him.”
I didn’t. The smell of formaldehyde and a daily date of dissecting felines made cause for any thoughts involving Gray to be laced with mental pictures of innards and uncomfortable small talk.
In fact, I found upon smelling my jacket, I still smelled like formaldehyde. Gross.
“Gray plays golf,” she said in her syrupy way, “He’ll only make you less popular—and we’ve worked so hard to get you to where you are.”
Frowning a bit, I could only recall how Riley had worked so very little to do anything.
Riley glanced around mall, scanning the tables for who she wanted to play with next.
“I’m so excited for your birthday,” she whispered. “I’m going to invite everyone.” She gave me a slow, blinding grin. “Everyone will probably think it’s both our birthdays.”
This time, I shrugged while biting into my apple.
“You’re so exotic.”
I failed to mention that I also didn’t talk much.
But, I supposed, that was the best part of having a doll.
TIVOLI JENSEN 