Flawed (29 page)

“Sorry,” I say quietly.

She rubs her hand over her face, and suddenly she looks tired. “No, don't apologize. I'm not doing you a favor; you deserve this. I covered the Guild court and wrote about the Flawed because I believed in it. The words weren't always mine, but I believed in the stories. I believed in outing those who were ruining our society, threatening to break us down. But … then there was Angelina Tinder and Jimmy Child, one right after the other, and then there was you, and now I know about Dr. Blake.” She shakes her head. “Whatever I told myself about the others at the time, I can't tell myself that about you. Your case was flawed from the start,” she says to my utter surprise. “First, I was told to report you as a hero. Then I was told to report you as the enemy. It didn't make sense. I believe Crevan is at a breaking point. My theory is he got a taste for revenge when he succeeded in finding Annie's doctor Flawed, because she missed the early signs, and he got confident and did it again with Angelina Tinder and Jimmy Child. These cases have shown he's starting to crack, and I believe he'll get far worse. He is under extreme pressure now. With Art missing, Crevan is beside himself with worry and anger at
you
for taking his son away and for putting the Guild in the spotlight in this way. He was supposed to prove to the rest of the world that the Guild is something every country should adopt. It would give him an international stage, and he won't want anything to jeopardize that. I heard that tomorrow he will announce that any journalist who writes a favorable article about a Flawed will be seen as aiding a Flawed.”

“So much for Lisa Life.” I feel my hope wither away. “There's not much power in a Flawed journalist writing favorably about a Flawed.”

“He won't find her,” she says, her jaw firm. “There will be trouble. Especially with my friends. Freedom of speech isn't something you can mess with with journalists. You try to silence them, they'll shout even louder. He's digging his own hole, Celestine. Support for you will rise soon. You don't need Lisa Life, Celestine, you are the bravest person I've ever met, and you've inspired me to find my own voice.”

She takes my hands in hers and squeezes tightly; I'm reminded of our first meeting in this room together, the one where we shook left hands so that my branded skin wouldn't touch hers. Now she holds on tightly, my skin against hers. My wound pressed against her smooth skin. It's how it should be, but it moves me deeply. “You are what the movement needs, Celestine, but remember you don't need
them
. Don't let them use you.”

There is so much urgency in her words. I'm so surprised by her change in personality, in her tone with me, that I can barely take it all in, yet I know she is telling me that what she is saying is important, so I try to treat it as such. She removes a file from her backpack and places it down on the strewn articles on the table.

“I appreciate your telling me about Mr. Berry's video. I appreciate your trust. I know, after everything you've been through, it's a difficult thing to do, and you probably don't even trust me completely.”

I look away, feeling guilty.

“It's okay, I understand. I just need to prove it to you. Here's the information you requested.” She grabs her backpack, looking like she's off on an adventure. “I'll be in touch as soon as I can.”

“Are your kids going with you?” I ask.

Her eyes glisten, the hardness cracks. “They're safer with their dad for now. Good luck, Celestine.”

I look at all the Lisa Life articles she has left behind on the table for me and my eyes scan the quotes, exact quotes that I have said, for the first time nothing twisted or out of context. I realize as I read them all that I have only ever said these words to one person and that's to Pia.

Pia
is
Lisa Life.

“I thought that you hated me,” I say.

She smiles, sadness in her eyes. “I did.”

I respect her honesty, and I want her to know that I know the full extent of what she's doing for me. I feel a lump forming in my throat as we say good-bye, and I hope that the next time we see each other, this will all be behind us and Crevan will be gone. “If you meet Lisa Life along the way, tell her I said thank you, from my heart.”

She smiles, knowing that I know, tears in her eyes. And she leaves.

 

FIFTY-ONE

“IS PIA ILL
today?” Mom asks as I pass by her open bedroom door. “She didn't seem her usual self. She was wearing jeans and not a hint of peach to be seen.”

“Yeah,” I reply, distracted, hugging the file about Carrick close to my chest. My heart is pumping. Just by having this information, I feel so close to him already.

I lean against the doorframe as Mom lifts a sweater over her head and throws it down on the bed. Her bed is covered in what looks like the contents of her entire wardrobe, only they're not. They're clothes I don't recognize, and each one still has a tag on it.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying on clothes.”

“You went shopping?”

“Got a delivery while you were at the police station.”

I enter the room and start picking up some items. I'm intrigued because something doesn't seem right, and I'm confused because I can't figure out what it is, but then I realize what it is that's jarring with the picture. The clothes are the wrong color, they're the wrong shapes, they're not meant for her.

“What are you doing?” I ask again. “Really.”

Mom sighs and pulls a red T-shirt down over her toned stomach. “I'm trying a different look.”

My mouth falls open. Sure, Mom does this every day for a living. As a fashion model, she has to try different looks, but at home, in her personal life, Mom has a very specific look that she sticks to. A look that has been studied and honed to within an inch of its life, a look that tells the world exactly the kind of person she is. She is the leader of this type of dressing. Her looks are flawless, seamless, figure-hugging, shape-flattering, coordinated with that of her family's, safe when they want to be, daring when they need to be. Appropriate for all occasions.

She pulls on a pair of ripped denim jeans and a pair of scuffed-up boots that she has bought brand-new. They're cool, but they don't match. Not one thing goes with any other item she is wearing; she is clown-like. She looks in the mirror, studies her reflection with an intensity that concerns me.

It's not just Pia who is different today. Mom still looks perfect, flawless makeup, not a hair on her head out of place, but … I study her. There is vehemence in her eyes, a determined line to her jaw, the finest of creases in her brow. Am I seeing a crack in the surface?

“Did Mr. Berry get in contact with you lately?” I ask.

She looks up and tries to read me. When she can't, because I fix her with my best impression of her own unreadable face, she replies, “Not since Naming Day. We never got in touch with him about the sixth brand, if that's what you're wondering.”

Not what I was wondering, but good to know. “Did he give you anything? Send anything?”

“A bill,” she snorts. “But I'm sure that's not what you mean.”

“A bill?”

“Turns out if the Guild finds you Flawed, you have to pay for your representation. Bills that they rack up. Judge Crevan just so happened to hire us the most expensive representation going.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to … We'll sort it out.” She sighs, throwing an oversized purple cardigan over the red T-shirt.

“Your Beauty Box contract can cover it for now, though, can't it?” I ask. “I mean, I want to pay you back, eventually, but I can't right now.”

“Celestine”—she comes toward me and gently wraps a braid behind my ear—“you're so kind, but we're covering the cost. Beauty Box has a new ambassador for the foreseeable future.”

My heart falls. Beauty Box was Mom's cash cow, a cosmetic company whose famous tagline was “Flawless on the outside, Flawless on the inside.” Mom had been saying those words for almost a decade. She is synonymous with those words. When people think of Beauty Box, they think of Mom; she is the face and voice of it.

“I can't believe they fired you,” I say, shocked.

“Oh, they didn't fire me,” she says, lifting a loose dress out of another bag. She always said unstructured clothes were a no-no, that people must always be able to see her figure. “I just couldn't bring myself to say those words.
Flawless on the outside
…” She trails off, unable to finish. “What does that even
mean
? Why does anyone even
want
that? Whoever said that is what we
should
be?” She looks confused. Conflicted. Tortured even. Then it disappears again.

I look around at her bedroom covered in multicolored clothes—she has emptied her old, muted, pastel-colored clothes onto the floor beside the bed. I watch her for a while. She hasn't left the house in as long as I have, but while I've been to school, she hasn't been at work. I realize now the extent of our problems, of what I've caused. Her walk-in wardrobe, which is usually color-coded and immaculate but now quite the opposite, is eerie.

She undoes her hairpins, and her long hair falls down in beautiful curls around her shoulders. She starts to mess it up.

“What do you think?” she asks of her overall look.

I have never seen anything so mismatched in my life. I don't want to insult her. I'm afraid she'll crack, if that's not what she's doing already. “It's really cool.”

She frowns and looks confused. “Oh.”

“Didn't you want it to be cool?”

“No,” she says, distracted, picking up a zebra-print pair of trousers. “No, I did not.” She smiles sweetly at me. “We've been invited across the road to the housewarming of Candy Crevan.”

“Candy Crevan is moving into the Tinders'?”

“Right beside her brother, to keep an eye on him through his difficult time,” Mom says, without a note of sarcasm, though I know it's intended. “So I will go to her party, for your father's sake, because she always likes to have the presence of an international model at her parties,” she says through gritted teeth. “And I will sashay up and down for all her party guests in my beautiful outfit. Give them all something to look at,” she grumbles. “I'll tell them it's the new season's look. And then, hopefully, they'll all rush out and all be looking like clowns by next week. I'll show them what Flawless is all about.”

She pulls off the cardigan, aggressively, and fires the T-shirt to the far corner of the room and starts again, rooting through more boxes. Her toned arms and fists rid her of her tension, while her face still manages to look calm and serene. I'm still standing there looking at her, feeling shock by what she has said. Candy Crevan is Judge Crevan's sister, who owns News 24, the news station my dad works for, and the
Daily News
, the newspaper Bob Tinder was famously recently fired from and that Pia works for. To have her directly across the road would be a disaster,
is
a disaster. They're closing in on us. Them versus us.

I exit the bedroom and leave Mom to herself to figure it out, how best to continue her silent protest at the treatment of her daughter. I'm worried, but the overriding feeling is pride that she is trying to find her own way to rebel. There's a first time for everything.

*   *   *

In the home study downstairs, I search through the filing cabinet for Mr. Berry's invoice. I don't know what I'm looking for, but I need to see if there's any hint, any code that would tell me where the video is, if he's hidden it, or even better a copy of the video itself. I find the letter and take it out, my heart pumping.

The invoice is still in the envelope. I slide it out and study the pages. A cover letter explaining the breakdown of charges, a second page, which is the invoice, and a business card. I turn the business card over and find a phone number scribbled on the back. I pocket the card. No clues, no private messages, no hints as to where the video could be. It isn't even signed by him, but by his secretary on his behalf. I look inside the envelope. It's empty. I hold the pages up to the light, wondering if anything will reveal itself, but I've watched way too many mysteries. There's nothing to be found. It's just a regular bill.

I sit at the desk and open Carrick's file.

There's a photograph of him from the day he was taken into the Guild's custody, and my stomach flips at the sight of him. His entire demeanor has succeeded in being captured in the photograph, those black eyes, broad shoulders, pumped arms, and chiseled jaw. He's like a soldier. I run my finger across his face. I'm surprised by my physical reaction to seeing him. I only knew him for two days and we never really spoke, yet … I feel such a connection to him.

My ghost is about to have a name, age, and address.

But the file is as enigmatic as the man. All the file reveals to me is that my ghost is eighteen-year-old Carrick Vane and his status is F.A.B., which I've no idea what that means. I take a guess that it's similar to AWOL, because despite being found guilty of being Flawed, and branded on his chest for disloyalty to society, and being appointed a Whistleblower, he failed to appear for any of his tests and is AWOL.

I hope Crevan didn't find Carrick, but that Carrick found a crack.

 

FIFTY-TWO

NINE AM ON
Monday morning, my teacher, Ms. Dockery, arrives for our first day of homeschooling. I can't say she and I had a particularly close student-teacher relationship, but she taught me math, so there was mutual respect in that she left me alone to figure most things out for myself while she gave more attention to those struggling. She had been at the forefront of pushing the homeschooling idea at school, and I assumed she was among the group of teachers that didn't approve of my presence. She didn't ignore me in class as some did, but she didn't take me aside to offer a cuddle, either. Not that anybody did, for that matter.