To everyone who’s ever needed to hear that you’re already worth it. You’re already enough.
Truth is a funny thing.
It’s fluid, relative. A self-fulfilling prophecy. What you want, what you need, what you believe, what people believed before you: welcome to your truths.
Truths like, say, the sky is blue. Easy, right? The sky is blue.
Except, it isn’t. The sky appears blue because of the way specifically coded cells in our eyes collect data that is then interpreted by the specifically coded cells in our brains which are programmed from birth to “know” that when we’re speaking English, that specific hue of scattered light is “blue.”
Outside of your brain, the sky isn’t blue. The sky is a mess of molecules and light waves that are only “blue” when seen by a creature with the correct ocular structure and conscious context needed to interpret the sky as “blue.” So what the hell color is the sky, anyway?
Think about it. “Truth” is subjective. It’s perception. Repetition.
Tell yourself a lie enough times and poof! it becomes your truth.
Like me. My brand. Who I Am™. Case in point:
“Lucille Harper, always the overachiever,” my social studies teacher says, dropping my graded final paper facedown on my desk, grin tinged with resentment. Well, maybe it’s resentment. Maybe it’s end-of-the-school-year ennui. Or heartburn.
I flip my paper over—knot in my chest going tight—read the “95” he’s written atop it in his trademark green pen, and flip it back like I don’t care. Except, I do. Care. About this specific paper? No, though the grade makes my knot loosen. About jumping through this hoop, the couple thousand that came before it, and however many will come next? Yes. Hoops, hurdles, a yawning expanse of boxes to tick. I care about them all because they’re what sits between me and my goals, me and college, me and proof that all of this “overachieving” is worth it.
Take my classmates. Really, conduct a poll:
What do you think of Lucille Harper? Is she:
(A) Super awesome. Everyone loves her, wants to date her or be her or somehow both.
(B) An uptight, overachieving kiss-ass.
(C) Who?
My bet would be on a sixty-forty split between B and C.
To them, to everyone, I’m either No One or who Mr. Fitch says I am: Lucille Harper, Overachiever.
And I own it, even if I hate that term. Overachiever. How exactly does one “over” achieve? Is there some line I’m not supposed to cross? Like, whoa, hold on there, little lady, you’re awfully close to appearing ambitious. You’re one quick skip shy of trying too hard. And we all know what a horror show trying hard is, right?
“Lucille,” they say, “stop trying so fucking hard.”
I open my messenger bag, pull out my binder, and tuck my paper neatly into the front pocket. Why? I don’t know. Class is over, the year’s over. It’s literally Friday of the second-to-last week, with only one useless week left to waste time, turn in final assignments and books, and clean out lockers that are already clean since no one uses them anyway. There is a zero percent chance I’ll need this thing again. But I slide it in there anyway—all neat and crisp—then put my binder back in my bag and turn to talk to Cass.
She’s twisted around in her seat talking to Aran. Because of course she is. How do I keep forgetting he’s in this class? Legit all semester. I’d say it’s because he never talks and does little more than slouch back in whichever of his revolving skate-brand hoodies he’s wearing that day, but really it’s willful ignorance. I choose to forget he’s in this class like how I choose to forget he’s Cass’s boyfriend.
They look through his paper together, probably because he’s worried about his grade. Cass’s sits on her desk, a “94” written in the top left-hand corner. How Mr. Fitch decides percentages on analytical research papers is beyond me. I get one tiny extra point, yet my paper’s twice as long.
Cass doesn’t look like she’s turning back around anytime soon, so I pull out my phone to wait out the last five minutes like the rest of the class. I tap in my passcode, and feel the knot cinch tight.
There’s a text from Dad saying he’s already waiting out front and four new emails: one from some company called Life2 that keeps dodging my spam filters, an updated syllabus and e-classroom group assignments for my summer college business course, a “hello” from my SAT prep tutor, and an update from Reach the Sky, the day camp for low-income and at-risk kids where I’m volunteering later this summer.
I trash the first, move the next two to their folders to deal with later, then open the one from Reach the Sky. Is this masochism? Knowing it’ll hurt me but doing it anyway because I kind of want the hurt. Or, I don’t want it. I earned it. Because of course the message is for the first-session interns. Which is really all of the interns except for me. I only got selected for the second session. Off the wait list.
The message is bland—prep suggestions and reminders about meeting times and final requests for paperwork—but it feels like a hand reaching out to tug at the tangled mess in my chest. I flip over to my Instagram app and pull up Bode’s page.
Call me pathetic, because obviously there’re no new posts since I last checked at lunch, but I don’t care. I do care. Like, really. Please don’t call me pathetic. I browse his website next, scrolling through his store of hand-screen-printed products, knowing I’ll never buy any because he’d see it was me from the order form and who cares that half the school wears his stuff, I know he’d read my name and sense my near-debilitating crush through the screen and wouldn’t that just be the worst?
I mean, it’s one thing to pine in private. Private means he only says no inside my head. Private means the unflappable Lucille Harper brand remains unflapped.
Still, I see the warning “only three left in stock” under my favorite one—a purple ombré octopus printed on a white V-neck tee—and hesitate, my finger above the buy button.
The bell rings. I close the page and sling my bag’s strap over my shoulder as my classmates shift and stand around me. Mr. Fitch raises a hand in farewell as we file out. “Have a good weekend,” he calls over the din of footsteps and chatter. “Make good choices!”
In the hall, Cass catches up with me and loops her arm through mine. “So, how’d you do? No, wait. Let me guess.” She pretends to consider. I grin and think, Is this condescending? Am I this predictable? “Ninety-seven.”
“Close. Ninety-five.”