I wish I could be her. But I am imperfect. As much as I want to be her, or even like her, I can't.

The face in the mirror tells me the truth that I don't want to think about. My hair is black as the coals of Hell, my features narrow and pinched with the cruelty I was born to, and my eyes... I can't even look myself in the eye; they're devil's eyes, demon's eyes, slitted and inhuman, cold and calculating. No wonder I work with computers. I can't be trusted with others' lives.

When I close my eyes, I see myself in her image, beautiful blonde hair shining like the sun, eyes blue and perfect and clear as a summer's sky, an actual figure instead of the spare and sexless body I have. I don't understand why I had to be born this way, born to parents immersed in a sick, inferior culture. I'm the only one who broke away, who saw the superiority of American culture. Even my sister, even though I still love her, doesn't get it. I've tried to talk sense into her, but she just won't see it. New York has warped her too much. Not me. I escaped New York the first chance I got. California called me, and I went as fast as I could.

When Skye calls me, she calls me some weird Chinese name. I keep telling her uh-UH, my name is Grace, but she won't listen to me. She doesn't get it. She's going crazy, I know it. That's the only reason she could stay in New York. How else could she say I'm beautiful? She must have forgotten what I looked like.

(Maybe she remembers me better than I remember myself.) Or maybe she's coming out of it. Maybe she's coming to God after all, that in her memories I have the blonde hair and blue eyes I've always dreamed of.

(Always?) What else could make me beautiful? Dark hair is imperfect, black hair the worst of all. Dark eyes are ugly, because blue eyes are perfect. If you don't have big breasts, you're not a woman, you're a thing. And I've tried so hard to be her. It's not fair that I can't. I've done everything I can. I live my life according to the Bible and the President. I go to church, I go to work, I buy everything I'm supposed to, I love my country, I pray for the lost souls in New York. Why isn't it enough?

I see her everywhere: on the television, on my computer screen, on the street, in magazine ads, in my dreams, behind my closed eyes. Everyone else can become like her, except me. Even if I dye my hair, put blue contacts in my eyes, wear a stuffed and padded bra, my features mark me as different. One look at my slanted eyes, marks of the devil himself, and everyone knows that I'm just pretending, trying to pass as an American when I can never really fit into this perfect world. They hate me, and that's all right, because I hate myself for not fitting in. No matter how American I am inside, I'll always look different, wrong.

That's all I want. I want to find the man who can love me, even though I'm nothing close to perfect. I want a son and a daughter that I can raise with God's blessing, on His righteous path as He has shown us through his messengers. I want to be just like Natalie or Lisa. They're the best role models a woman could have, except of course for her. Of course, she's every woman's ultimate dream.

(She's only a fantasy. She never existed.) Just the thought of her is enough to make me sigh for what she is and what I want to be. Only she can help me reach that higher plane. Only she can bring me closer to God, even though I can never reach Him. Only by following His words as she says them am I living a righteous life.

(What about the Path, Lian-mei called Grace?) The path to Heaven is laid out in the Bible and translated for us by the Church and the Government. That is the only way. Only those who obey can make it to Heaven. Even then, I'm cursed. I'm hideous, doomed from the moment I was born to have my sins put on full display for all the world to see. I deserve whatever they do to me.

(Listen to yourself!) I have to return to my work, the only useful thing I can do for America. She'll stare at me out of the screen and judge me unworthy. When I go home, I'll see her face again and again she'll tell me what I already know. Every figure on TV will laugh, and they'll be laughing at me.

And I envy them for being able to.