When I went there, I prayed that no one would see me. No one could find me there. No one would think to look there. At least I pray not. Surely not. I hide in Monticello. If you’re not from New York, let me fill you in. I am Isabella Bee, Izyy for short, and I am the Upper East Side's biggest “it-girl”. That may sound cool to someone whose life you can’t read about on any website or magazine in New York. As this ‘it-girl’ I have to be perfect all the time, but I know that I can’t be. When I need to be not perfect I go to Monticello. Monticello is basically the junk drawer of New York. In every house there is a drawer that makes no sense, well New York has one too. You are probably wondering why I come here out of all places. The answer is simple, there is nowhere else. Everywhere else has people who can pay for magazines and television. The people who live in Monticello can’t even pay their rent. It’s safe there, no one cares there.

After school, I have cheer practice, then I go to the tutoring center. I am not the one who needs help, volunteer hours at the tutoring center look really good on college applications. After all that it is usually about five. Which means I have about two hours until I have to be home, so I walk around town and let the paparazzi snap a picture of me. I have to give them what they want if I want to continue to be relevant. Then I sneak off and go to Monticello. My hiding spot.

Today was different though. Today was an anniversary and not a good one. Today was the one year anniversary of my best friend’s death. She killed herself. Everyone thought that life was perfect in the spotlight because they couldn’t see the darkness. No one knows that she killed herself though. Everyone thinks that she died of health issues. Now there is a foundation named after her and it is all built on a lie. That is basically our whole life. Lie after lie. Welcome.

I went to Monticello, not only to see my boyfriend, well my ex boyfriend, sitting in my spot. Before I tell you what happened, you should know why he is an ex. Boyfriends who stay, don’t hit their girlfriend’s whenever she doesn’t call while she’s at the hospital after her best friend just killed herself. The cherry on top, though, is that my best friend was my boyfriend's sister. Not only did he not care about his girlfriend's best friend being dead from stabbing herself, but he didn’t even care that his sister did it. They were twins too, aren't they supposed to be closer or something. They definitely weren't.

I have learned over the years that you can never be perfect, but you must act like it. I am the valedictorian if nothing goes wrong at the end of the year. I am also cheer captain, and outside of school I am in pageants. I have won every one I have ever been in. It’s not that impressive if you see the other girls in my grade, they are not that pretty. No one around here is pretty. I mean they are, everyone in New York is pretty. They just don’t have the ‘it-girl glow’. The ‘it-girl glow’ was something made by a writer however many years ago. The first time it was ever used was when I was ten and they told me I had to have the ‘it-girl glow’ because of my family. If you aren't understanding my story, understand this, I have had to be perfect with all cameras on me and microphones listening to my every word since I was the ripe age of ten years old.

The only reason I do it is because of my family and friends. Mainly because my best friend's last words were ‘prove them wrong’ what does that even mean you ask. I don’t know, but the doctors told me she had depression. Straight depression. Which is normal for any it-girl in this area, but the therapist that was on her case said that the reason was because of the stereotypes. She told me that my best friend, that one person I had ever truly learned to love, had told me that her dying wish and she killed herself was for me to change and disturb the whole balance of the universe, so there's that.

I could never react to the change of her not being here anymore. I started going to do our traditions as a way to honor her. Some critics called it noble and honored me for it, others however said I was doing it for attention and that I should not be in the papers anymore. I agreed, I didn’t want to be in the papers anymore. The thing was I was either in the paper either way, my choice was whether it was for good or bad reasons. I chose good.

A bunch of pictures were by myself after my best friend died, but the media didn’t like that. They said I was entering depression and I was going to end up like my friend, even though they think she died from natural causes. At this point, it was too late to not be the ‘it-girl’ my next step was to get a boyfriend. The perfect boyfriend. I knew who it had to be and I got him. I never knew who I would really end up with, the real him. Not fun. Very very scary.

The good thing about more publicity was that everyone was in love with me. If I died, everyone would be at my funeral. That was a big plus. People would come up to me and give me hugs. They would ask for pictures and ask for my autograph on magazine covers. As a little girl I never thought I would have to practice my autograph. Now I can’t see my life without fame. Not fame and beauty. Just fame. Fame is not beautiful, at all.

The only thing that I actually cared about was the necklace my best friend gave me before she died. I have a memory box of course, but no one knows about that. It is in a secret compartment in the bottom of my closet. When I made it I felt very strong. Like maybe one day I could escape there. I never did though, because I had Monticello. That was my secret space. It was my safe space.

The only person I could trust was my maid. She was the best. She was my mom, when my mom wasn’t there. Which was often, for both of my parents. My dad worked everywhere, and only came home once a year. He came home for Christmas and stayed through my birthday. My birthday was January 7th, so his stay usually was December 20th through January 10th and after that I wouldn’t see him again until next Christmas. My mom was usually only home for the first and last weekend of every month. Other than that it was just me and the maid, so I learned to love the help.

I never loved my story. Her best friend killed herself and no one knows about it. Her boyfriend abuses her in every way with every chance and no one knows about it. Her mom only sees her about 10 times a year and her dad only once a year a year and no one knows about it. No one knows that the only person I trust is the help. No one knows the truth. No one ever will.