Kelsey Byrd; the inner workings.

“Seriously. What’s it like?”
“Being perfect? I wouldn’t know.”
“Not being perfect. Being…gorgeous.”
“Again,” he said, as the parking lot girls passed by, eyeing both of us. “I wouldn’t know. You tell me”
“Don’t even. We’re not talking about me.”
“We could be.”
“I’m not gorgeous.”
“Sure you are.”
“You,” I said, “have this whole tall, dark, stranger thing going on. Not to mention the tortured artist bit.”
“And you,” he said, “have that whole blonde, cool and collected, perfect smart girl thing going on.
“You’re the boy all the girls want to rebel with.”
“You are the unattainable girl in homeroom who never gives a guy the time of day.”