She looks me in the eye, it's not strange though. We're friends. Good friends. I raise an eyebrow, playfully, making a sarcastic motion to beckon her speech.

"You're pretty."

It takes me by surprise. I've never looked in a mirror and thought "pretty." I've thought everything but "pretty." Because I'm not.

Not even a little bit.

I laugh it off, making a joke about her being a filthy liar. And it's okay for a moment, a very brief moment. Because I know which one of us is a filthy liar.

"I'm serious," she insists, nudging me.

She's frowning now, like a little kid. It's almost cute. But she's too pretty for cute and part of me hates her just a little for that.

"Seriously a liar," I tease, free to giggle because no one else is around.

She shakes her head, sighing a little. I roll my eyes because I'm not pretty. Not even a little bit.

"Why don't you believe me?" It's a genuine question. And it does nothing to help the bile rising in my throat or the nails digging into my palms.

I'm not pretty.

I know I'm not and I just wish she would drop it. Besides, she's only saying it because we're friends and I told her about what Grundy said on Valentine's Day. It's not that I like him, I don't, it's just that he's a guy and I've never thought I'm pretty. Then he said it. Flat out said it. It hurt, it stung, but I already knew it so I kept my mouth shut and called her a stupid b**** for rejecting him after he did that sweet, clichéd, adorable thing for her because he's my friend too.

And now she's telling me I'm pretty.

"Because I'm not," I tell her. It's blunt, almost cruel sounding out in the open. But it's true and the truth hurts, right?

I realize much too late that my voice is too dry and dangerously low. My voice isn't supposed to get that low. I'm a damn soprano for crap's sake. And it makes me sound like one of those overly insecure, pretty bullied girls. But I'm not pretty. I'm not.

"Yes, you are, Alison," she's frustrated now, I can hear it in her voice, "why can't you take a compliment? Or the truth?"

A small voice in the back of my head whispers something about me being a liar. I tell it to shut up.

"Whatever you say, Sofie," I shrug, just wanting her to leave it alone.

She sighs and finally lets it go. I almost slump against the tree in relief. But I swear I hear her whisper, "you are."

No, Sofie, I'm not.