The Olive Theory

Chapter 1

AMICA

Sometimes I like to think my life would be better if I was pretty.

Just picture it; If I looked like a young Adriana Lima or Madison Beer, flaunting my face card around like it's no one's business. I would already have the man of my dreams by now. I would be happy, life would be perfect.

But I don't, I don't look like them.

I've found that makeup helps. I try not to cake it all on, but sometimes I wear a lot so I can cover my imperfects and the freckles across my face. I started using it when Natlia told me I looked like a potato in the third grade. At the time I thought it was a compliment since I was nine and I loved my mama's sweet potatoes, so I simply smiled with my missing front teeth and thanked her like the naive fool I was. But she explained it was an insult and let me borrow her mascara and even applied it for me in the school bathrooms. That was the day I learned I wasn't pretty. That I wasn't good enough. And the mascara felt weird on my eyelashes, but I've never felt so pretty before. The next day I bought a tube for myself at the convenience store with my snow-shoveling money I had been saving. I'm now a sophomore in high school and I haven't gone a day without wearing makeup since.

That morning was the same as any other day. I was taking my time doing my makeup, though I was probably two minutes away from being late to school, so, the usual. I lightly dabbed a tiny amount of blush onto my cheek. I remembered the last time I had applied too much and ended up looking like a clown, so I was extra careful this time, adhering to the "One Dot Rule" of Rare Beauty Blush. I dotted it onto the tip of my nose as well before blending it out using my well-worn beauty blender, which had been my go-to for about two years now. Once I finished, I leaned in close to my bathroom mirror to inspect my face. I had used concealer to hide my dark circles and freckles, and after checking and rechecking, I was satisfied that everything was blended properly.

Despite the flawless makeup, I still had that nerving feeling about my face. That it looked wrong. I did my best to ignore the way I looked and picked up my hairbrush, running it through my long, dark waves. I hummed a tune that had been stuck in my head for weeks, but I couldn't remember the name of the song. I made sure to not stare at the stranger in the mirror too long. I wasn't in the mood for crying today.

Suddenly, Emma's voice interrupted my thoughts.

"Amica! Hurry up!" she yelled from downstairs. I rolled my eyes, ignoring the fact I really was making the two of us late.

"Coming!" I shouted back before taking one last look at myself in the mirror. I touched up my hair slightly, and then I nodded in approval of my outfit - my favorite dark blue, baggy jeans and a hoodie with the word "New York" written across it in bold letters. I look normal, I reassured myself. I look normal. I am normal. Normal. Normal. Normal normal normal normal normal normal nor-

"Amica!"

I blinked and snapped back to reality.

I rushed down the stairs, thumping down each step, I could see Emma standing by the front door, her backpack already on, looking impatient. Mama was beside her, cursing under her breath in Italian as she tried to get Matias' arms through his brown jacket that was three sizes too small, but he kept squirming and fussing. I quickly shoved on my black Converse shoes, grabbed my purple backpack off the coat hook, and hoisted it over my shoulder. "Sorry, Em," I said sheepishly as she reluctantly opened the door for me with an annoyed sigh.

"If you're going to take that long to get ready, you should wake up earlier. Next time I'm not waiting for you."

I nodded slightly, the cold breeze hitting my face as I stepped outside. The smell of the air was fresh, the dried-up autumn leaves crunched under my shoes as I walked to my sister's blue buggy. I opened the door and took off my backpack, putting it in my lap as I shut the door behind me and buckled my seat belt. Emma did the same soon after, and I watched her as she backed out of the driveway. I stared at her for a while.

I wouldn't call myself a jealous person. I find jealousy a disgusting feeling that makes me want to vomit up my guts as it wells up inside me. But lately, everytime I look in the mirror all I see is someone I don't even know. I feel outside my body because I can't comprehend that I look the way I do. And I would like to think that maybe it's body dysmorphia, that maybe I don't actually look like this, and this stranger in the mirror is not what people see when they look at me. But I've realized that's not true. This is what I look like, and all my life I've been told I wasn't good enough. Which is why lately I've had this resentment building up in my stomach. For my sister.

I hate that I'm jealous of her. But I can't help it - she's so, so perfect in a way I can't even explain in words and my thoughts don't even understand it. She doesn't need makeup like I do. Our features have many resemblances, but she was lucky enough to not have freckles like I did; her eyes an orange shade of brown, and of course she has her button nose and her plump lips that are always chapped. She somehow looked a year younger than me, even though she was two years older. I envied the effortless beauty she had that I've tried so hard to obtain. She was like the better version of me, and I knew that's all anyone thought when they looked at us. I turned away from her and stared out the window as we drove out of the neighborhood.

We were almost at the school when my phone buzzed in the back pocket of my jeans. Weezer was playing on the radio as my sister sang along. I pulled out my phone to check; someone had texted me.

"Who's that?" My sister asked, leaning sideways to peep at the lock screen of my phone.

"Eyes on the road, Em," I pointed in front of us. She mocked me in a high-pitched tone and sat up straight. I shot her a glare that said wow, very mature.

"Cute wallpaper, by the way," she said, referencing the picture of me and her, matching French braids in our hair at the beach last summer with the sunset behind us that I had set as my lock screen. I smiled a bit. I clicked on the notification and read it out loud.

"It's a text from Natalia. It says, 'O-M-G come straight to my locker once you get here. I have tea to spill,' gasp emoji, tea cup emoji." Emma scoffed at me.

"I don't know why you're still friends with her. Remember when Lily and she used to bully you, and I had to stand up to them?" she reminds me, like she always does whenever I mention her or Lily. I sighed.

"That was in grade two. When will you get over it?" I shook my head with a smile. She beamed back, glancing over at me before looking back at the road.

"Never. Whoever hurts my little sister will never be forgiven," she joked.

"I swear she's nice now," I put my hands up defensively. She gave me a look.

"Weren't you crying to me about something she said, like, last week?" she said back. I shook my head.

"That was because she canceled plans with me to hang out with her stupid boyfriend. It wasn't that big of a deal. I was just being overdramatic. And I wasn't crying."

"But you sure were tearing up," she countered.

"I tear up over everything," I sighed, "I pinky promise Natalia is nice now."

"Alright, if you say so," she shrugged, one hand on the wheel as she turned into the parking lot of the school. "But I still don't like her."

I smiled, unbuckling my seatbelt. "I can live with that."