The Brightsiders

"You and I have the same problem, you know that?" they ask.
I chuckle. "Yeah, we`re surrounded by assholes."
They laugh, nodding. "Okay, so maybe we have two problems." They count on their fingers. "Surrounded by assholes, and people pleasing. You know what happens when you combine the two? You get taken advantage of. You try to save people. You become a helpaholic."
I don`t try to deny it. It`s not the first time someone has called me out for being a people pleaser. Kass would always try to get me out of the people-pleasing habit in school. I was that kid who was so desperate to be liked that I lent people money, gave them the answers to all the tests, let them copy my homework. Once, in ninth grade, a girl stole one of my photo prints for photography class and handed it in to the teacher as her own, and I did nothing because I wanted to be her friends.
Kas wanted to kill me when she found out I gave my parents money last year. She always sad I let them walk all over me.
And now that I`m famous, people are falling over themselves to be friends with me, and yet all I do is exhaust myself trying to please them. I don`t know hwy, maybe I`m just super insecure, but I have this intense need to be liked. If someone doesn`t like me — or even expresses a different opinion than me — it makes me judge myself. I know it`s unhealthy and screwed up and destined to be a massive failure, but my self-esteem is entirely dependent on what other people think of me.
"We have to stop," I say. "Like, right now."
"The dating assholes or the people pleasing?"
"Both."
Chloe fake cries. "But assholes are always so hot!"
I laugh. "Hey, hotness fades. Assholery is forever."

"They don`t give a shit," I say, my voice filled with more emotion than I expected. "That`s the problem. They never gave a shit about me. they didn`t even want me around."
I lost cound of all the times they forgot to pick me up from school or couldn`t help me with my homework because they were too drunk or busy entertaining their friends. And all the nights they stayed up fighting or crying or singing until the sun came up. It`s scary when you don`t know which version of your mom you`re going to get when you leave the room. Or if you`ll have to step over your dad in the morning because he`s passed out on the kitchen floor again.
Jessie rolls her eyes. "Aren`t you being a little dramatic? It`s not like they beat you." I gasp and she laughs, as if it`s a joke. I feel like I`m shrinking to the size of a pea.
"It`s not funny," I say, my voice as small as I feel. "I think they really messed me up."
She shrugs like it`s no big deal. "Everyone`s parents messed them up. And let me ask you this: If you`re so traumatized by them, what are you doing here? It can`t be that bad if you chose to move back in with them."
So many answers run through my mind.
They`re all I have.
I don`t have anywhere else to go.
Even though it`s messed up, this is the only home I`ve ever known.
I wanted this to be my one last shot at having a good relationship with my parents.
But Jessie has already moved on. She sits on the bed, scrolling through Tumblr and smirking at memes.
I put on my headphones and roll over so she doesn`t see me cry.

Everyone in the band handles the lead-up to performances differently. Ryan becomes even more restless than usual, jumping around, doing flips, riding his skateboard through the halls. Alfie gets intensely quiet and disappears. I can never seem to find him until ten minutes before we go out.
Me? I turn into a child who`s downed ten Red Bulls. I talk a mile a minute. I giggle even when nothing particularly funny is happening. I`m a nervous pee-er, so I run back and forth to the bathroom every few minutes. I check the time a lot, because the clock seems to tick irritatingly slow when we`re about to do a gig.

Some people call me shallow and superficial for being so obsessed with makeup and fashion, like it somehow cheapens my value to the world, but I call bullshit on all that crap. My hair is blond right now, but I`ve been known to change it when the mood strikes. And I don`t dye my hair every color of the rainbow for anyone else`s enjoyment but my own. It`s not about covering my imperfections or attracting others; it`s about expressing myself. It`s a fun way to show the world how I`m feeling.
If I`m feeling creative, you`ll see me painting my eyelids with multicolored eyeshadows and giving myself ombre lips. If I want to tell people to fuck off without saying a word, I`ll wear black matte lipsticks and a dark smoky eye. If I can`t be bothered, I won`t wear any makeup. See the pattern here? Whether I wear makeup or not depends solely on how I want to feel, never mind what anyone else says.
Besides, who`s really the shallow one? The person who wears make up because it makes them feel good or the person who judges them for wearing it?