The new girl was smart. She was pretty. Her name was Ayaana. It had four a's. I remember seeing her on the first day of high school, wearing a plaid skirt and buttoned jacket – too formal for a public school. I liked it. I saw her step out of her mom's dusty red Toyota Corolla, holding three composition notebooks and a Number 2 pencil peeking from her pocket. Her straight black hair was tied up in a ponytail and she waved bye to her mom as she walked onto the campus. "This was it," she must've thought. "The journey of my life begins here." I remember thinking that too. 

I found it amusing how she could walk onto campus so confidently, oblivious to the envious glances she was getting from the other girls, the girls who were standing with their large group of friends, holding Sephora lip glosses in their hands. Ayaana didn't care. She marched onto campus like it was her own, and she wouldn't let anyone else let her believe otherwise. 

We met again in our classes. English, math, spanish. I wanted to talk to her, but I couldn't. "Imagine if Jasmine saw," I had thought, even though her opinion shouldn't have mattered. Her approval shouldn't drive me. But I let it. And maybe there's something wrong with me for wanting people to like me. Because Ayaana didn't mind, no, she sat there with her sharp yellow pencils, scribbling off on her paper, and the teacher smiling down at her. Others would have called her the teacher's pet. Overachiever. I called her hard-working. 

A week later, I was up late at night, scrolling through Pinterest. Recommendations of hairstyles, outfits, "how to glow-up." I found myself thinking of what Ayaana's Pinterest feed looked like. It was probably study tips, how to get into Ivy Leagues, good grades. I closed my eyes, praying, praying that one day I found the courage to let go of my insecurities. To not care. Thoughts were filling my head, like a swarm of bees, relentless, uncontrollable, wild. I thought about my past. Pictures of me in 6th grade, when laughter came easy with my friends and galaxy leggings didn't seem out of place. I thought about the castle of lies I had started to build in high school. The fortress of rumors just so I could fit in, so people could like me. I wished to restart, to live truthfully, to keep in touch with my old friends, no matter how uncool they seemed. I wished I could just close my eyes and be that girl that I wish to see in the mirror every day. That's when I decided that I will.

The next day, I arrived at school, prepared to be my best self, but everything changed when I saw someone who I thought was Ayaana. Her long hair was let down for the first time, and she wore a pink crop top with flare leggings. She stood next to Jasmine, where I used to stand. I tried to ignore it, so I turned around and went to my classes. This time, however, instead of scribbling on her paper, Ayaana sat there, on her phone. When the teacher called her name for attendance, she corrected her. "You can call me Annie," she said. The Ayaana with 4 a's was gone. 

Weeks turned to months. I had straight A's, Annie had meetings with the principal. I made good friends, Annie had too much makeup. I sometimes think back to the first day, when I saw her wave her mom goodbye. She was so brave, so passionate. They say high school is a dream, but sometimes dreams turn out to be curses.

Maybe this story was about me. How I could have been better. Cared less. Studied harder. Maybe it was about Ayaana. Who was now Annie. She had so much potential but she threw it away. And for what? Popularity, acceptance. Maybe, this is a story of change – sometimes good, sometimes bad. Or maybe, in the end, perhaps it all really is about our Pinterest feeds.