I hate perfection. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have a complicated love-hate relationship with it. I seek it out, yet I’ll never admit that out loud. I want it, I don’t want it; I try to loathe it, I pretend it offends me, but I always strive for it. But for someone like me, it’s an elusive dream. Because I’m nothing like those perfect girls at school, and if you ask outside Lori whether she wants to be like them, she’ll say no and roll her eyes, but if you ask the other Lori—inside Lori—what she wants, you’ll get a totally different answer.

Perhaps that’s why I love art. It’s the one place in the world I get to be honest, because inside-Lori makes the art and her art is perfect. Every line. Every smudge. Every soft contour and darkened purposeful shadow. Whether ink, paint, or charcoal, every time I bring my weapon of choice down to the paper, I strive for perfection. Maybe it’s how I make sense of my messy outward world. I take all the disorder—the colors and splashes and strokes and stripes—and order them all. Just like Zac does with his remote controls. He makes his little part of the world less overwhelming when he puts them all into neat lines.

I stopped at the traffic light and looked to my left, and that’s when it caught my eye. It hung in the middle of the shop window as if framed. As if it was special. Dangling from an invisible pair of hands that were presenting it to the world. The dress was long and glittery gold. It hung in a way that made it look alive and moving, like a waterfall. But not a violent crashing one; rather an elegant trickle of water slipping down a rock face. Gliding down, long and smooth, and pooling at the bottom in a frothy, thick impasto of lace and beads. A girl like me would never admit it out loud—I could hardly even admit it to myself—but I envied girls who could wear dresses like that. And in some fantasy in my mind, some made-up version of myself and my life, I am the girl in that dress. I am the girl at the dance with that boy on my arm and everyone is looking at us. Barbie and Ken. The belle of the ball. All eyes on me, and I’m smiling my huge, white, perfect smile—because in my fantasy I also go to the same dentist everyone at BWH goes to. I have defined cheekbones and no double chin. I have collarbones so deep that when I climb out of the shower, small pools of water gather in them.

I sighed. Because all of that couldn’t be further from reality.