Perfectly Flawed (3 page)

Again.

I watch Jamie’s body stiffen, her eyes
briefly glancing to me before they dart away. Zephyr turns his
attention to the window on the other side of the room, pretending
something, anything, outside the window is more interesting than
what is about to happen in here. They do anything to avoid
me
on this subject. It’s a bit touchy for me.

I have a standing monthly appointment with a
psychiatrist. It started back in Texas, so I was told—another thing
I can’t remember. I started seeing them twice a week to make sure
that I was okay after everything that happened. According to Dr.
Jett, my shrink now, I didn’t speak in Texas. She says that my
records stated that I was practically mute—
Practically? What the
hell does that mean, exactly?
—she says that I had
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, that’s why I couldn’t talk. When I
turned ten, I saw Dr. Jett once a week, that changed to twice a
month a few years later. Now I see her once a month. I barely speak
now
but it’s required—court ordered and mandatory—until I
turn eighteen. Even then, they need an assessment from Dr. Jett
before they can release me from my appointments.

I let out a long, exaggerated sigh and close
my eyes, leaning my head back. I try mentally counting to ten as
Dr. Jett suggested I do when I get upset, or extremely pissed off.
“Have I ever forgotten?” I ask her, the annoyance slithering into
my tone like a snake.

“No,” Hilary replies shyly. As her cheeks
flush, her eyes cast down to look at the kitchen floor as if she’s
studying the linoleum squares patterned around our feet. “I’m just
being nice, Joey.”
Like family
. Damn, I should know this
crap.
She’s just caring about me!
I have to remind myself of
this every time.
Just as she’s been doing for most of your life,
moron.

I am such an idiot sometimes.

Shame slips through me, coursing through my
veins. Shame that I sounded like an immature little brat, shame
that I embarrassed my aunt, shame that I did this all in front of
an audience. I know based on her expression and flushed cheeks that
she didn’t mean any harm by it. She’s just being nice. I want to
apologize. I want to set down my glass, place my hand on her
shoulder, and, while looking into her emerald green eyes as vibrant
as the gem they resemble, smile sweetly and comfort her. Or as
sweetly as I can.

But I’m not like that.

I will
never
be like that.

Instead, I set my empty glass in the sink,
run water into it—one of us has yet to run the full dishwasher—and
look to Zephyr, raising my eyebrows in a signal that we should head
out for school. He takes it with relief.

“See you later, Auntie.” I plaster a large
smile on my face—well, I try, but it looks more like a forced
sarcastic smirk—it’s fake, but she can’t tell. Can she?

“Absolutely, Joey.” No, she can’t. She
reaches out her thin arms to give me a hug. It’s a simple act of
love and kindness. By my reaction, you’d think she was about to
inject me with lethal drugs. I back up quickly to avoid her
embrace, bumping the back of my head on the low cupboard. I hate
hugging. I hate being hugged—scratch that, I hate being touched. I
mean any form of touching whether innocent of something else. God
forbid it’s ever something else, I may just run screaming from the
room. I search the surrounding area for something to save me from
this innocent interaction and debate shoving the broom into her
arms. Jamie is already walking through the living room, her long
dark hair swishing and swaying from side to side as she steps, as
if it were
Goodbye, you’re on your own, dude
, so pushing her
into this is out. But Zephyr suddenly sweeps into Hilary’s arms,
taking the hug she meant for me and saving the awkward
situation.

After all these years, damn, this boy knows
me too well. I’ll have to remember to thank him for that.

“Later, Aunt Hil,” he murmurs to the top of
her head. He’s over a foot taller than she is.

Hilary nods, forcing a small smile as I back
out of the kitchen. She’s scared for me. Hilary has been scared for
me since the day she discovered she was the legal guardian of an
eight-year-old. Since then, she has changed her life to accommodate
my needs. That’s a hard thing to do when you are twenty-three years
old, living in a college town, and your usual weekend includes
fraternity parties, sorority formals, and track meets.

Looking at the former sorority girl, the
former party girl and former track star, I want to thank her for
everything that she’s done for me, everything that she’s sacrificed
for me. She transferred schools for me, she left her sorority, she
stopped dating, stopped running—all for me. Yet, I
still
treat her like a stranger when she’s pretty much all I have left in
the world.

I just want her to know how thankful I am,
sometimes.

Maybe I
do
have something to talk
about with Dr. Jett later.

“Thanks, Zephyr,” I whisper before we leave
my house, leaving Hilary to her coffee and much needed sleep.
Jamie’s already outside walking toward her car, her keys jangling
as she walks across the combined yards to her driveway.

Zephyr smiles at me, cockily, before he says,
“Not a problem, Joey.” If I
was
a hugger and this
was
a sappy movie, this would be a good moment for a hug and cheesy
slow music, maybe an
Aww
or two.

Sweet baby Jesus!
Thank God, it’s the
real world.

***

We arrive at school—surprisingly early by
Jamie’s standards—and part ways. Jamie finds her flock of matching
mindless followers, Zephyr is welcomed by the jocks, and I am left
to walk alone to my locker. I notice a few stares and one mumbled
freak
, but it’s easy to ignore. As long as it isn’t written
on my locker in hideous coral lipstick, I’m good.

I unload all my post-lunch class books and
notebooks into my locker, watching the book tower grow. It knocks
serious weight from my back. Only a week, not even a full week,
into school and I’m seriously regretting my decision of four
advanced placement classes.

I know, right?
I’m a bit of an
overachiever.

The bell rings right as I slide into my seat
in my AP European History class. I’m in the seat next to Zephyr. We
took the table in the back of the room in front of the windows. I
tug the red notebook from my backpack, the composition notebook
reserved for this class. Already, the first five pages are filled
with notes in a rainbow of color, the pages crinkly and curling
from my neat handwriting. I choose a purple pen today; I choose a
different color every day for note taking. It keeps things
interesting.

What’s like without whimsy?

“I’m not going to be able to keep up in this
class,” Zephyr mutters bitterly as he prepares his side of the
desk, his eyes stealing glances at my notebook. I shoot my eyes in
his direction, knitting my brows together. Albeit, I was
surprised—more shocked than anything—when he walked into the
classroom with me. My mouth dropped open when he took the open seat
next to mine. I was completely flabbergasted when Mr. Cheney called
Zephyr’s name during roll call.

I did a double take.

“Then why take it?” I ask, still seriously
confused by his choice. Zephyr isn’t the AP type. He’s smart, don’t
take what I’m saying as
Zephyr’s an idiot
, but he isn’t
devoted to academics like I am. He would rather be average,
scraping by with Cs. As long as that means he can play on the
varsity football team during the fall semester and soccer during
the spring.

“You said that you were taking it.” That
catches me off guard and I smile slightly. I’ve always taken
advanced classes. I took honor classes in middle school, joined
after school academic groups in elementary school; I even take
online college courses during the summer. It was all I could do to
keep me occupied when the other girls made fun of me. I found that
when I studied I could block them out. I could block everything
out. All the mean words they said to me, all the stories they’d
spread about me. None of that existed within the pages of
textbooks. “I’ve never had a class with you before,” he continues,
as if it makes perfect sense to me—when it doesn’t. Not to me. His
pencil sits poised above his blank notebook page, ready to start
writing. Or doodling. He’s a doodler.

“We have PE together,” I reply
matter-of-factly, my hand drawing a small three-dimensional cube in
the top right corner of the page, right above the date for today.
“You could drop this and take the junior history class. You know,
if that’d be easier.” I shrug my shoulders.

“Maybe,” he drawls out as if he’s actually
considering the option. Zephyr’s brown eyes stare at the page in
front of him, sadly.

I hate to admit it, but I wouldn’t like to
see him go.

“Dude,” I begin, getting his attention,
before continuing with, “You know I’d never let you fail,” I tell
him. I drag my hand through my hair, moving wisps and curls away
from my eyes. “We can study for tests, partner together for group
assignments. I’ll even help you with the essays.” He’ll definitely
need help with those with the way Cheney grades.

“Thanks, Joey.” He smiles at me, looking
genuinely pleased and relieved. “I really appreciate it, you
know?”

“I know,” I reply with a wide smile as Mr.
Cheney walks through the door, his bald head glinting in the bright
fluorescent light. It only gets worse throughout class, somewhat
blinding us as he exaggerates points with is entire body. With
every move he makes, it’s as if he’s trying to tell us something in
Morse code.

Fifty-five minutes and three full purple
pages of notes later, I’m on my way to AP Calculus. Zephyr’s class
is in the opposite direction, on the other side of the school. He
turns away from me, giving me one last cocky smile as he pulls his
hand through his wavy locks, heading to his English class before we
have gym together.

I tug my black tank top over my head, leaving
the white camisole on to hide my torso. I notice a few girls glance
to me as I grab my shorts and t-shirt from my locker. The last
thing these people need to see—need to know about—are my scars, the
infamous scars the entire school knows I have but have never seen
for themselves. The worn heather gray t-shirt I wear for this class
falls down my stomach as someone struggles with the combination on
the locker next to mine.

Harley aggressively twists and spins the lock
at least five times before grunting and hitting her palm against
the hard, cold metal once, twice, three, four times until I fear
she’s about to sprain her wrist. She gives up, looking to me with
her pleading puppy dog eyes no one close to her can resist, mostly
me. I’m a sucker, really. I memorized her combination, for her gym
locker and her regular locker, for this reason alone. I giggle as I
pull her locker open on the first try, something she can’t do—it’s
usually the fifteenth, sixteenth try by the time her locker opens
for her and by then, she’s late for class.

“I hate these damned lockers,” she grumbles
angrily to herself. The innocent puppy dog eyes quickly drop from
her face, an expression of pure malice covers her face as she grabs
her clothes from the metal box. She throws them down on the bench
I’m sitting on in a huff. “I hate this stupid class.”

“You could have been a cheerleader with
Kennie,” I reason, almost hiding my giggle, but failing as the
image of Harley bouncing around the football field in a short skirt
and tight top drifts through my mind. The rule at this school is
that students
must
take a gym class; be it weight lifting,
global games—whatever the hell that is—yoga, aerobics, dance, and
so on. There is even a walking class for those that don’t want to
try or hate exercise all together. The only exception is if you
play a sport for the school. They reason that you’re already
exercising, there’s no need to tire you out with an hour-long class
before practice. Though, if you still want to take gym, like Zephyr
and other various athletes because it’s an easy A, you can.

“So I can spend my days kissing Alexia
Cavanaugh’s obviously lipo’d ass, no thank you, ma’am.” Harley
scoffs loudly. A few girls nearby turn to glare at her as she
badmouths the most popular girl in the junior class. But, my best
friend, she’s against organized sports. And Alexia Cavanaugh—who’s
not, right? Oh, and cheerleaders in general… minus Kennie. “I’d
rather die before I strut my pom poms in front of the entire
school.”

“Kennie does it,” I counter, thinking of our
other friend. She decided on a whim at the end of freshman year to
try out for the squad. Like a trooper, she endured spirit days
dressed in neon leopard print short shorts that defied the school’s
clothing policy and animal printed sports bras that she should have
been sent home for, parent meetings with the coaches and current
and future squad captains, and dancing around the school while the
band stalked behind while blaring the school’s fight song.
That
was an interesting day in math class. Luckily, she was
a trained gymnast before she moved here; that was the only reason
she made the squad.

The biggest thing against her was her
friendship with me. All the upperclassmen on the squad couldn’t
understand it.
You’re friends with the crazy chick. Why?

They just couldn’t reject someone that could
out-flip any of them blindfolded, four feet off the ground, on ten
centimeters of space to stand on.

“Kennie has bigger balls than I ever
will.”

I never understood that. Since when did
strength for all equate to masculinity?

As that thought runs through my mind, Harley
slams her locker shut, twisting the lock to ensure she won’t lose
anything valuable—a lot of people in this school have sticky
fingers, just ask my old iPod. I’ve been sitting on the bench tying
my laces while she changed her clothes.