What kind of parents produce a baby, doughy fists curled up, their precious little ball of pinkish regrets, drowned in maternal fluid, and decide, right then and there, to name her Excellence?

The kind of parents who grew up in a convent, that’s who.

Excellence’s name was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know because she sits across me in Bible studies. She identifies the ingredients on the back of luxurious shampoo bottles, and she has not three weird friends, but a halo of girls who swirl around her. They suck up their stomachs to look like her. But a naturally concave tummy always does it better.

That was the curse of being around Excellence. You can spend all night dolling yourself up, smearing mascara and righting it, over and over again, but one look at Excellence—excellent black lashes, excellent blonde hair, and excellent pink gloss—and your appearance rots on the spot. Her excellence is not just in name, but a radioactive element that stabilizes in her and no one else. An excellence that not only outshines you, but condemns you to blandness.

And here she is. In all her glory. Bible shut close in her slender, manicured hands. Messy blonde hair like a gas floating around her head. Pale blue eyes, also deemed excellent for their observation skills, always delving into the text in a way the Sisters adored her for. They hold tears. Her bible trembles, worn with truly excellent worship.

‘How could you?’

My reputation likely dies here. Rest in peace, Milly Sanders.