Not Exactly What it Seems

ONE
Anger caused me to lash out, my words harsh and hurtful. I could hear her crying behind her closed bedroom door, but the feeling of apathy remained strongly embedded in my mind. Why would she think that it would make any difference? It never made a difference before so why would it matter now? Did she really believe that it would cause that much optimism in either of us? All it was causing me was stress and anger. She knew how much I resented it but she didn’t care about my feelings, only her need to get away. Whatever that meant. I never tried to understand her.

Nothing would ever mean something to me. I was a moody and apathetic little princess of society. Not that any of society knew me as anything more than a perfect little angel. Sure, some gossiped that I was really something else, but that was never really taken seriously. But those rumors had more truth in them than anyone knew or cared to know. My life was ironically full of lies, completely and utterly pathetic.

Then again, it could be much worse, as far as my image is concerned. Most of the people around me are always the center of rumor central and scandals that leave a person blushing at the audacity of the comments. So in retrospect, being loved by everyone is better in a sense, though I wish that I could have just been ignored by everyone and got on with my life. Unfortunately, that would never be the case; well, in one sense anyway.

So my story is pretty weird if I’m being honest. My father is a super prominent Wall Street man worth about a trillion dollars and way high up on the New York celebrity list (although my mother being a famous actress helps with that too). So I’m basically the daughter of the perfect couple ever to come out of a shady marriage of a stiff man and a beautifully wild actress. Because of who they were, my life was basically a movie for all to watch on the news and read about in the tabloids. But I was a good little heiress.

Unwilling to subject myself to the mocking ridicule of the public eye, I conducted myself as a perfect little goody-goody. My time was spent at homeless shelters and hospitals interacting with the patients and the homeless people, giving anything I could give. But that was totally cool, I loved doing that. Why would I spend all the money in the world on myself when there were so many other people in the world that were in desperate need? I mean, yeah I had about a million stupid designer dresses and all that stuff for the functions I had to attend, but that was not my choice or my decision.

No one knew that when I was out of the public eye, my whole persona changed. Yeah, I still was a good kid, but I was not something the public would have liked as their daughter. Because that’s what I was, the great American daughter. But I listened to rock and emo and screamo, alternative and punk music and became a person no one knew because no one cared that much. So whenever I could, the real me came out and I was able to walk around without anyone telling me I was such a great role model. Truthfully, if someone did recognize me as my real self, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be told that because people are stereotypical. If someone looks different, automatically, that person is a freak, especially the way I looked. Everywhere I went as just me and not America’s daughter, I was looked down upon.

My skinny jeans and band shirts, thick eyeliner and dark eye shadow, the fringe of my hair in my face and the ring on my lip all played a role in the disapproving faces of everyone I passed. But really, if they liked me as America’s daughter, why couldn’t they like me if I looked different? Not that it really made much of a difference either way; they would still judge me like everyone else.

Most of the time when I was out of the public eye, my time was spent by myself. The only friends I had were the rich kids I met throughout my life and I only hung out with them if it was really necessary. I went to school as the girl no one cared about, not as the girl everyone wanted to be or befriend (that took a lot of convincing to my parents on my part). So at school, no one knew me and no one cared to know me and for that I was grateful.

School was easy; I was smart by nature and rarely had to try, though my parents urged me to try harder. Without friends, it was just something that took up time, not enjoyable or painful- just there. My teachers knew who I was, mainly because they had met my parents, but they knew better than to spread that around. And I realize that this whole thing seems like Hannah Montana, but trust me when I say my life was like that way before the show started. Besides, I couldn’t stand her- either sides of her.

During my time as the daughter of America, my friends were those who thrived on what the tabloids were saying about them, who lived for those juicy rumors spread about them. They were the hypocrites who would stab you in the back before they would help you in a situation, but I was one of them. I was exactly like them except that my intentions were not bad, merely misguided. The main difference, though? If one of them called me up with a problem, I would probably help in some way, if not the way he or she had intended. Though they were my ‘friends,’ they did not like me. Not really. The only reason they tolerated me was because of my status. They befriended me because I was in the same social class as they were.

When I went to galas or functions with my family, I wore big gowns or pretty dresses, none of which I ever wanted to wear. Though I never complained, my parents knew I was not happy. How could I be happy, really? Living under a microscope was not my idea of a healthy lifestyle or environment. There was nothing I could do though, to change the way I was. I never thought there could be anything that would save me from myself as cliché as that sounds.

But then school started again. I was a junior in high school and could finally drive myself, despite the pleading of my parents that I have someone else drive me. They bought me a nice bug truck upon my urging, never to be seen when I was America’s daughter, but perfectly acceptable when I was just me. So that first day, I walked into school ready to be an upperclassman, ready to face whatever came to me, unable to hold back the groan that fought its way through my lips at the approaching cheerleaders. Though I had been a cheerleader freshman year, I quit after that, refusing to subject myself to the humiliation of the squad. They were still trying to convince me to take it up again because I was good and made them look more skilled, not because they liked me.

After probably ten minutes of ruthless convincing, they left in a huff, unable to sway my decision. Truth was, I missed cheering because being able to show my strength by lifting girls everyday was so great. Plus, dancing was a passion. I still danced, but that was a strictly America’s daughter pastime so I had to be careful what I did. But I would never subject myself to cheering for my school ever again.