September 10, 20XX

When I was a freshman, I dated a sophomore. Not just any sophomore, however. It was the sophomore class' female representative, Mae Law.

It was near the end of the school year, when it was clear I would be the incoming sophomore class' male representative. It was right before the peak of my popularity. We met at a party. Alcohol was served, but I stayed away from it. I was too afraid I would let something embarrassing slip from my mouth and thus ruin the reputation I worked so hard to build. (Plus, I lacked the guts to give it a shot). For these reasons, I always prepared a "fake drink" mixing substance which I sneaked into every party. A little sleight of hand, some encantations, some moe magic, and boom—I was sliding free. Mae Law also avoided drinking, but she didn't require any elaborate methods. She was well known for her sobriety and, to my surprise, nobody picked on her—a rare case at these types of parties. (Plus, she was often the designated driver for friends). As non-drinkers, we hit it up. Small talk. A fun conversation. We ended up having great chemistry, the cause of which I only understand months after. After that, we kept in touch.

She was the perfect girl. She was perfectly kind, perfectly smart, perfectly accomplished. She always helped others. She was the star of girl's swimming and girl's lacrosse. She baked the best sweets and shared them with all her friends. She was the valedictorian of her class. She was always first chair in state music ensembles. She was a natural beauty who didn't try too hard with her outfits. She was funny, and occasionally clumsy, yet also steadfast and driven when it counted. She was well-liked by all groups, even the haters. That is an extremely impressive feat, because the haters don't like anybody.

When we officially hooked up, we became the talk of the school. It was a short but frenzied period. To everyone, I was a super lucky guy dating a super perfect girl. We were envied, I'm not going to lie.

To the school, to the world, we were the perfect couple. Yeah, I'm not going to lie.

It was terrible. It did not play out well.

Everything looked amazing on the outside, but on the inside, it was a tortuous joke. Mae Law was perfect on the outside, but incredibly sadistic in the inside. I was her target, her plaything. Nobody knew that while she was an angel active in charity work, at the same time, she was also a demon who enjoyed crushing the pride of others.

While I say that, I don't claim to be a victim. I realized long after why I thought we had good chemistry—we were both fakers. We had similar methods for dealing with our external worlds, expertly crafting out public image. In that sense, we were very similar.

I had my reputation to hold up, and she was the perfect girlfriend to accelerate it. She was a perfect girl lacking only a suitable partner, and I was a rising star in the school with a good face and a great social network. I was popular enough and innocent enough to meet her criteria, and so I made the perfect boyfriend. We both fueled each other's egos.Things were perfect, or we made it look that way, at least.

It wasn't clear, but some part of me sensed this side of her at the beginning. Yet, I still stuck it out. That's why I don't claim to be a victim. I knew it, yet I still sought it.

We broke up, peacefully and quietly months later. It took one conversation. There was no desperation, no conflict, no room for confusion. We moved on with our lives as if we were never a part of each others. It was an intense time that passed like a fierce but dying ember.

I don't like remembering my SoCal High days, so the story ends here. It's the first time I actively recalled her. I wouldn't have remembered that crazy girl if it weren't for Mr. Kafka.

Apparently, she was a student here at Palomar. She graduated last year. Now that I think about it, she did transfer out, not too long into the school year. That's when I finally erased her from my memory—or so I thought. So, she transferred here.

Now this is crazy. According to Mr. Kafka, she was part of the Going-Home Club, just like me. Now that really freaked me out. I legit felt shivers run through, in, around, and out my spine. It was only for a year. Mr. Kafka's been the supervisor for three years, and he was rambling fondly about his former students. That's when I picked up her name, and also when I did an internal double take coupled with a speedy succession of mental backflips.

The way Mr. Kafka spoke of her was different from how the others spoke of her back at SoCal. She was still flippantly amazing, Mr. Kafka said, but he said it with a slightly sour expression. It's just subtle enough, but I understood it completely. It's the held-back yet considerate face I made when talking about her myself in private. It seemed he knew what was up, even if only a little.

Even crazier, Claire knew her too. She told me Mae was her student mentor, and she spoke of her with reverence, as if Mae was some untouchable goddess from the heavens. Apparently, Mae's the reason she discovered and eventually joined this club. She thought it could help her reach Mae's image, she told me passionately. I smiled wryly.

What a small world.

It's a little confusing. I mean, the thing with Mr. Kafka and Mae. It's inconceivable that Mae would show her true colors in the first place, unless Mr. Kafka was somehow someone she really trusted, which I don't initially believe. It's possible though, and if that is the case, great on him (and also sorry to him). But supposing Mr. Kafka was completely aware or even partially aware of her twistedness, in the end, even he ended up singing a few of her praises. And it wasn't the typical praises normally directed at her accomplishments, or outstanding character, or beauty, but genuine remarks, of an internal growth and fond, flaw-filled reminiscence. It makes me wonder if she's somehow changed, and how so.

Claire, on the other hand, really looks up to her, in a greater fashion than anyone I've ever seen before at my old school. As the conversation progressed, I increasingly felt a feeling of longing from her. She spoke as if she could never reach her, as if she could never become as amazing or beautiful or composed as her. I confronted her on this.

I told her yeah, Mae may be perfect girl, but maybe perfectionism isn't the ideal. I told her, the "perfect" ones are hardly perfect, and they carry their own weaknesses, or vulnerabilities. This applied to Mae. Talking to Claire like this, I realized I never really looked at Mae in this way before. I never considered her problems—I just assumed she was a truly nasty person. I never really cared enough to learn. That was my fault, I concede.

I kept myself out of the picture and treated Mae as if I didn't know her. I told Claire she's more than good enough. That's my honest opinion. I think she's amazing as is. That's the problem with these over-achiever types—they don't know that good enough is good enough. I blame society for this. Like I said, it's hard enough to stay sane as is.

"You're almost perfect," I said. She winced. It was subtle. You wouldn't have noticed it.

In the end, she ended up thanking me for showing consideration. I told her square in the face—stop sweating it. Live a little freeer. Playing up to people is a dangerous game. There are honest exceptions, of course, but when you play up to people for meaningless things at the expense of your self, that's when it's time to stop and reflect. I know I did.

We had a lot of extra time to write today. Other things happened, but I've written more than enough already, and they aren't that notable. I swear, this journal will be the death of me. And maybe a new life, post-reflection.

This is what happens when Mr. Kafka leaves too early for no apparent reason. We end up with too much time to think about things we've neglected. He should stop talking about things that stir me up and then leave me hanging (like with those chairs).

I wonder...

Oh, he's back. Time's up.

And we're off.