Imagine if everybody was born identical and then as your personality grows so do your looks so if you’re a bitch you’ll look be really ugly and if you’re like really nice and stuff then you’ll be like really attractive idk
I wish this was the future
I smell a young adult novel
We avoided her.
The girl who was getting uglier by the day in middle school.
She was the girl who everyone hated. We whispered about what it could possibly be that was making her nose crooked. We hissed about what had made her hair greasy. She pushed a girl last week. I heard she yelled at a teacher. She probably was rude to her parents. The Generators must be punishing her for slapping that boy yesterday.
I’d never spoken to her. I never said anything. I saw the blemishes people got when they whispered. I didn’t want to be one of them. But I saw her everyday, and the words were whispered to me and all I ever thought of was how her hair got a muddier brown and her eyes got more unsettlingly white-blue.
I never spoke to her, until one day I had the only seat free to me on the bus.
And she sat next to me.
I stared. I didn’t know how to react to her. She was so strange. Not pretty, like the rest of us. Not carefully polite. She spread her legs wide open in her spot, unthinkingly squishing me into the corner. I swore I saw her face get redder and splotchier as she did it. Not wanting to be rude, I quietly tucked myself into the uncomfortable spot and accepted my fate. She got off before me, though. I would be free from the hideous dark-wearing mean girl soon and stepped on her foot for her cramming me. I felt a pimple form on my nose for the insult.
I gasped, and whispered “Sorry,” under my breath, wishing the mark away. The brand for my absent thought.
"For what?" She hissed, her eyes narrowing as she turned to me.
"I thought you were ugly and stepped on your foot," I blurted out. I didn’t lie. I was bred not to lie. I wished I could snatch the words away. "And I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t judge."
"You think whatever the fuck you want to think about me. You’re no different from anyone else. You can pop that zit by tomorrow. Your problems are non-existent."
I sat there in stunned silence, but then whispered, “I’m still sorry.”
"Are you sorry because you mean it or are you sorry because you’re afraid of being made into a thing, like I am? Are you sorry because you want to be pretty, or are you genuinely sympathetic? Do you not see how sick this is? I am what I am because of my situation. I was made ugly because I said no when it would have been polite to say yes. This fucking system. It’s so artificial. And you know what? I’d rather speak my mind. I’d rather have a crooked nose. And you people shun me because of it. You make me uglier day by day. Because when you people push, you say "sorry" and it’s alright. I push back, and I don’t apologize for it and my hair gets stringier the next morning. It’s such bullshit." She was getting so passionate that tears were starting to form in her eyes. She was not a pretty crier.
I just stared blankly. I’d never thought of it that way. I felt so uncomfortable, I clung to my books and shoved myself further into a corner.
"And what makes a bitch? What makes someone mean? Is it when they disagree with the person who society considers nicer? Is it fair to judge me now? I’m fourteen. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t grown up. But because of the perceived sins of my childhood in the Generators’ eyes, I’m hideous. And since there’s no saving me, I’ll damn well do as I please. But why do I bother ranting? You pretty bitches don’t get it. You’ll never get it.”
We didn’t speak. She got off the bus, pushing her way through the throng and getting more skeleton-like as she went.
I just sat there and thought. I thought about what she said. Had I been sorry for the right reasons? The more I pondered on it, the more wrong I felt about the whole thing. I wished my skin would erupt completely in zits, but it didn’t. I was judged by my actions. Not by what I wanted. Not by what I thought.
I stared at myself in the mirror and wanted to be ugly, for all the hallow things I’d said. It still didn’t happen. I looked at my lovely skin, perfect. I looked at my long hair, soft and often complemented for it. My eyes wandered to my scissors, and I knew then that I could fix it.
The next morning I came downstairs, and my mother gasped. “Your hair! Darling! What did you do? You were rude. God, I thought I raised you better. What will the other parents think! Our child, with horrible, choppy hair.”
"I deserved it."
"It doesn’t matter. Just say sorry to the person you were rude to, and it will be gone by tomorrow. The Generators will fix our perfect daughter."
I nodded, and went into school. I felt the stares and whispers, and ignored it all, walking straight to the girl all in black. I took her hand, and whispered, “I’m sorry. I deserved this.” She stared blankly at me, and then smiled.
"I believe you."
There was a brief silence. “And thank you. For listening. Or something.”
I grinned, and watched her face get less red and splotchy. “No problem. Hey, you want to be friends?”
She smiled, and it was actually a really pretty smile. “Yeah. I’d actually. Kind of. Like that.”
"Good. Then let’s be allies against the system."