I Am Lily
kask

“You’re amazing. Do you know that? You’re perfect, you really are. I’m almost afraid to touch you, like I'll mess something up,� he whispers to me softly, running a hand through my hair.

“And you’re perfect for me,� I answer, kissing him.

People love me. I am that girl. I am the girl that everyone wants to be, that everyone thinks the world of. I am the girl that has it all. I am perfect from my unique features to my top grades. Perfect. Or that’s what everyone thinks.

The worst part is that I thought it too, for a long time. I had no reason not to believe that I had conquered the world, that the words “nobody is perfect� didn’t apply to me, or that I was the closest the human race had ever gotten to flawlessness. Nobody dislikes me; not really, at least. Nobody ever calls me out on anything.

I can’t remember a day when my mum didn’t fawn over me, which leads me to believe that it all began before I was even born. But I guess I already know that, since she often said that she knew I would be “special� when I was just an idea. She would tell everyone who was willing to listen about the people that would stop her in the streets to comment about me when I was a child. “Your daughter is lovely. Her hair is simply beautiful,� they would exclaim.

My hair. It’s always been my hair. My mum loves it, other girls envy it, everyone comments on it. My mother would spend hours at night brushing it when I was little, until I was able to myself. When I was, she would make sure that I brushed it until my arm felt like it would fall off. Thinking about it, I’m not sure why she loves my red hair so much. It’s nothing special, but if she ever heard me say that, she would fall out of her chair.

“You guys are together now?� Ophelia asks eagerly.

I nod happily, a wide grin on my face. The other girls sigh. “You’re so lucky. I would do anything for him.�

“Or James Potter. And you have a choice!� interjects another girl.

“Lily, are you okay?� someone asks softly. I cannot see her face, for the curtain is pulled around my bed, but I know it’s Tana.

“I’m fine,� I say softly. “I’m just tired.� I can’t tell her that I’m not fine. I have to put on a façade; she won’t understand if I tell her the truth.

My friends aren’t themselves around me. They never question me or argue with me. And sometimes I hate them. I hate them for forcing conversation and laughs, for never acting the way they do around others.

But maybe I can’t complain. Maybe I can’t dislike them for it, not when I’m not myself around them either, whoever that person may be.

Until today, I had two guys wrapped around my finger – the flawless boyfriend and the ideal crush. Well, those were the most significant of the bunch. A lot of boys like me. But how can they? They don’t even know me.

I want to cry. I want to let sobs rack my soul. I want to let everything I feel out. But I can’t. I can’t because they’re all out there. All of my roommates are there, and I can’t let them know. So my eyes hold the tears in, stinging painfully. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it.

This morning, I woke up the luckiest girl in the world. I always felt like that. But for the last year, there was an extra bounce in my step; there was an extra glint in my eye. Because for the last year, I had the love of Mark Tracy and I knew Mark felt like the luckiest boy for having me.

Mark is the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team; he’s even going professional next year. But he isn’t all Quidditch. He’s very intelligent, at the top of his class. He’s handsome and funny. I know I shouldn’t say this anymore, but I’m in love with him. Everything about him makes my heart skip.

I went to meet him this afternoon, like I do every Saturday. But he was different. He didn’t reach out and hug me, he didn’t kiss me affectionately, and when I tried, he turned his head.

“We need to talk, Lily,� was all he said.

I looked at him, worry etched in my features. I had never personally experienced it, but I had heard that ‘we need to talk’ is never good.

“What is it?� I asked, moving closer to him. “Is everything okay?�

Mark shook his head. “Lily,� he started. I looked into his eyes, hanging onto his every word. His eyes are the perfect shade of blue. They aren't too bright or striking, but lovely nonetheless.

“Oh damn, Lily, don’t look at me like that, please.�

“Like what?� I didn’t understand. I was looking at him the way I always did.

“Like you’d do anything for me,� Mark mumbled. His hair is brown and curly, and a few freckles are sprinkled on his nose.

“I would, Mark. I love you.�

“Don’t say that.�

“Why not?� I asked, getting angry. Why wouldn’t he tell me what he was getting at? Why was he acting this way?

“Because I want to break up with you,� he said in one breath, as if he meant to break it to me easier, but accidentally let it out.

“What?� I asked disbelievingly. The world was falling in on me…

“I’m sorry,� he said softly. “I’m going to play Quidditch next year and you have one more year here. I don’t want you to have to wait for me and wonder where I am. It’ll be too hard.�

“I don’t mind,� I said quickly, almost pleadingly. Thinking back, I sounded pathetic.

“I do,� Mark replied. That’s when in hit me. It was all so clear.

“You want to see other girls, don’t you? You don’t want to be tied down next year, is that right?� My heart was breaking, sinking to my feet.

“Er, well, yeah, kind of, I guess. I’m sorry.�

I nodded, not letting myself cry.

“Thanks for telling me,� I said bitterly, hoping he could see the hurt in my eyes, hoping that he felt terrible for breaking my heart.

“Do you feel bad about what you did, Potter?� I ask him one day in fifth year after he put super-gum in my mid-back length hair. I don’t know what he did, but no spell can get it out, so I am forced to cut it to my shoulder.

“I can’t feel sorry for you, Evans,� he replies simply. He always acts as if nothing ever bothers him. “You’ve never been anything less than faultless. You’ve never had a bad hair day or a pimple. Nothing bad has ever happened to you, so how can I offer sympathy? A little gum in your hair is probably the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. You’re flawless, or you think, and that’s going to catch up with you. So, no, to answer your question, I do not feel bad and I’m not sorry.�

The door opens and closes; I hear them all leave for dinner. I am alone in the room. Relief washes over me and I take a breath, awaiting the sobs. But none come. Instead, I have the strangest desire to laugh and, at the same time, cry.

The laughter comes first. It’s real laughter, not the giggle I put on around my friends. It’s true, obnoxious laughter with snorts and gasps for breath.

I laugh because I am a fool. I laugh because I was stupid enough to believe that nothing bad could ever happen to me. I laugh because I thought Mark and I would be together forever. I laugh because I am an idiot, because I was stupid enough to allow people to make me believe that I am better than them.

Tears of mirth slide down my face and I wipe them away. But they keep falling and falling. That’s when I realize that they aren’t from the laughter. They are real tears. They are tears of sorrow. They are tears for Mark.

I can’t remember the last time I cried. I can’t remember the last time I felt sad. Maybe it was never, for I never had a reason to. I’m the girl who never loses, remember?

I cover my face with my hands and breathe heavily, trying to regain control. But I cannot. I can’t suppress everything anymore; I can’t be the person everyone expects me to be. I can’t go back to the life of perfection.

“Lily, since you were born, you’ve been the light in my life. You’re everything a mother could ever want her daughter to be. You have never let me down and never could. You’re beautiful and smart, confident and funny; you’re perfect in every way. So, Happy Birthday, my dear.�

I feel something come over me. It’s almost as if I am struck with blind insanity. I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t stand walking down the halls and feeling every eye on me, expecting me to do something great. I can’t stand my classmates feigning smiles and waving at me. I can’t stand listening to my roommates say, “No one is that perfect,� or, “Look who got another O,� when they think I can’t hear them. I can’t stand everyone thinking that I am a fake. A fake for being so nice, for always complementing others. I can’t stand knowing that they are right.

The tears are beginning to dry on my cheeks and tickle uncomfortably. I wipe them away with my palms. I’m not going to cry anymore. I’m not going to sit back and continue the life I lead. So I rise, pulling my red hair from its ponytail.

It’s been almost a year since I had to cut it off because of James Potter and it cascades halfway down my back. As I walk to my trunk and begin to rummage through it, I run a hand through my hair, enjoying the silkiness of it on my fingertips. I know it will be the last time I can for a long time.

Finding what I want, I take it to the mirror and stand in front of it. I look into the mirror and my reflection looks back. I try to see what everyone else sees. I try to understand what they all want, what they would all give anything for. The perfect features? Maybe. Long red hair and bright, almond-shaped green eyes; porcelain skin; average height; thin, but not too thin. I have perfect teeth, white and straight, and lovely hands. They aren’t too dainty or too manly.

This is perfection, I think, hating what I see in the mirror, hating the two eyes staring at me. I hate who I am. I hate who I have always been.

So I take the piece of the hair hanging next to my face in my hand. I straighten the waves out and place it between the sharp edges of the scissors. The silver blades glint in the light and I hold them near my ear for a moment, digging for the courage to do it. Abhorrence for myself runs through my veins and I close the blades. The hair falls to the ground with celerity.

A grin spreads across my face, a strange satisfaction in my chest. And I do it again. I chop the hair in different places – where my head and neck meet, where my ears are, even as far up as my eyes. I can’t stop. All I can do is cut. All I can do is watch the hair spill all over the floor.

After ten minutes of relentless cutting, of showing no mercy, I stop, breathing heavily. I have never felt so free. For the first time in my life, I am not perfect. The visible hair on one side of my head is at my ears and the other at my shoulder. The rest of it is somewhere between. And it looks terrible. It looks as though a lawn mower attacked me, and I love it.

I collect the hair off of the ground, feeling no regret, and tie it together with a rubber band. It’s strange to carry my lovely hair in my hand, but it’s freeing at the same time. It’s not as though I hate my hair. I just I hate what it stands for – it’s what makes me ideal.

I walk down to the common room, excited for everyone’s reaction. I want them to ask what I did, so I can answer with cool indifference. I want to show them that I am a real person.

I enter the common room and hear a collective gasp. The room is quiet for a moment, like it usually is when I enter, but it’s different. I can hear a scandal about to occur and I await it eagerly.

It happens all at once – the questions. “What did you do to your hair?� “What happened?� “I can’t believe it!�

Ophelia is in front of me. “Lily,� she gasps, examining my hair with round eyes. “What’s going on?�

I look at her. There is no coating on my eyes; they say exactly what I feel. “This is who I am,� I say to her. I have never been prouder of anything else that has come off of my tongue.

Ophelia gapes at me, unable to comprehend why I would chop of my gorgeous hair.

“This is who I am!� I cry, throwing my hands up to everyone who is staring at me. “This is me!�

I walk over to the fireplace, and the chatter begins to revive somewhat. Girls in my grade are still watching me like a ticking time bomb. I don’t care. I simply walk toward the dancing flames and throw my hair in.

I watch the blaze lick up the hair, swallowing who I was with it. I am free of constraints. I don’t have to lie or pretend anymore. I can be myself. I just have to remember who that is.

“Lucky these fires don’t smell,� says a voice behind me. I manage to pull my eyes away from the flames to see James Potter standing next to me.

“Why?� I ask me, unsure what to expect.

He smiles. “Burning hair is one of the worst odors my nose has ever encountered.�

I roll my eyes a little bit, smiling the same. “I don’t want to know how you know that,� I say, shaking my head, humor in my voice.

James turns his head away from the fire and looks at me. I know his eyes are on me; I can feel them scrutinizing my hair.

“So, this is who you are from now on?� I let his words wash over me. I think about them. This is who I am. This is who I have always been. I am the girl who rolls her eyes and makes sarcastic, witty remarks. I am the girl who calls James Potter out and he is the one who does the same. I am the girl who never settles for less, but can’t stand perfection. I am who I have always been around James. For the first time in my life, I am Lily. Not Mark’s girlfriend, not top student, not most beautiful girl. Just Lily.

“Yeah,� I say, turning my head to look at him. “This is who I am from now on.�

James nods, turning back to the fire. I continue to look at him though. He has been the only person who has ever seen me for who I am, who has never believed that I am flawless, who has ever told me exactly what he thinks of me. And he’s been the only person that I have ever said what I felt to, even if it was bad.

“Hey, Lily?� he says, turning his head toward me again.

“Yeah.�

“I like your hair.�

“Thank you.� I grin, knowing he will be the only person to say that. “Really. Thank you, James.�