Perfectly Flawed (43 page)

I beam up at him, my smile wider than it’s
ever been. “It is.” I smile as we enter the crowded cafeteria,
heading for the back table.

He presses a kiss to the top of my head.

We walk up to the table, prying ourselves
apart before we take our usual seats. At some point, the number at
this table grew. In addition to the usual Harley, Kennie, and me,
we’ve attained Avery, permanently attached to Harley’s side, and
Jackson and his girlfriend, Ksenia. I don’t mind the people, not
like I would have before. These people are nice and don’t treat me
weird.

Not like some other people that have been
staring at me
worse
than before. I love how they think I
can’t see that their eyes train on me the moment I step into the
building, but they make it obvious.

“I still can’t believe you’re graduating
early,” says Kennie when I set the senior project packet down on
the smooth, unstained surface of the table. She’s pouting, jutting
out her bottom lip to accentuate her sadness. I’m not sure if it’s
because I’m leaving at the end of the year or because she’s
jealous. Maybe a little bit of both—she’d give anything to be with
Duke at college but she knows that she needs to work to get there.
Quickly, I stuff the thick packet into my backpack, ready to calm
Kennie down if needed.

Harley smacks her on the shoulder, as if
she’s been doing it all day, before she rolls me an apple from her
lunch. “Why can’t you believe it? She’s a genius, Ken.” Harley
smile to me apologetically. “I’m surprised she isn’t graduating at
the start of next semester.”

“I still need to take senior experience,
whatever that is,” I chime in. “And do the senior project, but
other than that, I’m all set to go.” I smile happily, proud of
myself. I bet I’m beaming again, maybe glowing a little.

“Know what you’re going to do?” Kennie asks
about my project. She brushes something from her hands before
resting her arms on the table in front of her lunch.

I shake my head.

I really need to think long and hard until I
can come up with a project that I’ll love.

Someone standing near the back door catches
my attention as they’re eyes widen with stare.
Ugh, not
again
. They’re wearing one of those hyper yellow sweatshirts,
so I can’t miss them even if I tried. I’m tempted to tell them that
if they want to stare at me, it’s best to wear neutral colors so
you can blend into the walls rather than stick out like a sore
thumb, blinding me with bright, neon colors. All I’m saying is this
kid would suck as a spy. Harley follows my gaze as I stare back at
the person—
how do
you
like it, huh?

Zephyr catches sight of the gawker, ready to
defend me; he stands up from the table, yelling, “Hey.” I grab his
arm, hoping the pull him back down. He’s punched enough people for
me to last a lifetime. Yellow Boy snaps to attention, as expected.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

That’s so old and outdated but I want to hug
him.

The kid, I think a frosh judging by the
pizza-face, jumps from the sound, attempting to push open the door.
Everyone knows that door is always locked. He finally understands
that and moves to the other door, pushing against the glass to
shove it open. When it doesn’t move—because it can’t—he finally
remembers it’s a PULL ONLY door, yanking it open, and running full
speed into the courtyard behind the school. It’s the easiest place
to hide.

“Sorry about that,” Zephyr says as he sits
back down. He drags a hand through his hair before he drops it over
my shoulder, pressing his lips to my cheek. I’m not sure why, but I
blush.

“I wish I could do something to make these
people stop looking at you like you’re the town freak,” Harley
grumbles, glaring at someone slowly passing the table. I can feel
their eyes on me, like a silent challenge. I shrink a bit,
shielding myself behind Zephyr, strongly wishing I’d have listened
to him at the beginning of the term when he said not to spend any
time with Ryder. If I knew then what I know now, things would be
different. “It pisses me off as your best friend when people look
at you like you’re crazy when you’re not.”

Define crazy
.

“That’d be awesome and… strangely
appropriate,” I tell her. There has to be some way to let people
know I’m a person just like them. They all have these beliefs about
me, inflated ideas, and I can’t change them, not all at once and
not easily. So what? I had a different childhood than all of them.
My father killed my mother, my brother, and my sister; he tried to
kill me, too. Everyone knows and everyone expects me to snap and go
on some murderous rampage through school. What my father did does
not define
me
. I’m my own person; I make my own decisions,
my own choices. Nothing about my past
is
who
I
am.
Why no one understands this, I’ll never know. “Wait a minute, why
can’t I?” I ask no one in particular.

“Not following, Jo,” Zephyr says,
transitioning from his conversation with Avery, Ksenia, and Jackson
about what makes football better than basket. I stopped listening
once I heard the word
football
.

“My project.” Blank faces stare back at me.
“I can do a project on anything, right? Well, I can volunteer
somewhere,” I start, still trying to make sense of it in my own
mind. There’re a few places I remember, some in Lynnwood. “What if
I were to volunteer at a women’s center and tell my own personal
story with my presentation?” People might not approve, they may
hate it, but no one can say I wasn’t original.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Harley
praises while Kennie
ooh
s next to her.

“But you don’t know your story,” Zephyr
reminds me.

I don’t know
a lot
about my past—the
main flaw in my plan—but a few of the puzzle pieces are fitting
together, starting to make a full picture I can identify, I should
be able to figure it out as I go.

How hard can it be, really?

“I can learn, though.” I tap my index finger
on the end of my nose, trying to think of a way to figure some
things out. I’d have to ask my aunt.
Yeah, like that would ever
work
. I have to think of a way to convince my aunt to explain
what happened to me that night. It’s a hell of a lot easier to say
than to do.

“I don’t like that face,” Harley says, eyes
wide as she stares at me with concern, her fingers playing with the
end of her hair. “That’s not a good face for her to have,” she
points out to Zephyr.

He looks at me, then Harley, then back to me,
ready to agree. “What’re you thinking, Jo?”

Did I ever mention how much I love it when he
calls me Jo?
Swoon!

“Nothing scary,” I admit, feigning
innocence.

I’m not thinking anything yet… well, nothing
big. I just know who to ask for answers to the
big
questions. The only problem is, while I know who to ask, there’s
just no way of knowing if she’ll tell me anything. Hilary is
protective after all.

At home, after I sit through copious amounts
homework—mostly calculus and chemistry—and watch some random
cooking show on the Food Network where the secret ingredient is
cotton candy, I decide that there’s no better time like the present
to discover a few new things about myself
and
piss off my
aunt in the same breath.
I’m such a great niece, huh?
So, I
walk up the stairs, take a deep breath to give myself courage, and
knock on the first door after the bathroom—Hilary’s door. She tells
me it’s open and I walk in, instantly taking in the floral scent
wafting through the air.

Hmmm… I wonder what that means?

“Hey, Aunt Hil,” I start, slowly walking
toward the queen sized bed in the center of the room. On the top of
her bed is a pale blue comforter with hand-sewn flowers dotted
throughout, something she made with her mother, my grandmother,
when she was around my age. On top of the comforter is a
dress—
she owns a dress?
—it’s short and black with thin
straps—
oh my goodness, she has a little black
dress!
—something you might wear on a special occasion. What’s
the occasion? “This is nice.” I touch the smooth fabric; it feels
like water against my hand, sliding as I move my hand down.

“Thanks.” I turn, watching her fancy herself
up at her vanity. “I have a date tonight,” Hilary tells me as she
lines her eyes in dark liner.

Hold up.

Since when does my aunt date?

“A date?” I ask, a little shocked, a little
excited. It’s about time my aunt got back on the horse. “Like a
real date with an actual person that takes you out to dinner?” I’m
sure she wants to smack me, I can tell from the look she gives me.
This is when I insert my foot into my mouth with enough force to
kick a soccer ball five hundred feet.

“Yes,” Hilary answers, turning to shoot me
another pointed look, she’s only lined one eye so it makes me
giggle. “Is that so surprising, Joey?”

I should say,
Oh, hell no, Aunt Hil,
you’ve still got game, go out and get ‘em,
maybe with a sassy
head roll and a Z-snap. Instead, because I’m so awesome, I say,
“Kind of.” No one can say I’m not honest. “It’s just that you don’t
date,” I explain to her, as if she hasn’t been around to witness
this herself. Never in my eight years living with her have I seen
her so much as look at a man, or woman, in any amount of interest.
I’ve never even heard her talk about dating. To be honest, I don’t
even know if she’s straight or lesbian.

“I’m trying to change that,” she tells me
with a nervous laugh. I guess she’s scared. “Or I think I am.” She
sets her eyeliner on the table in front of her and stands up,
heading toward the bed. “Is this too much?” she asks as her hand
flicks at the fabric of the dress.

“You’re asking me?” I blurt.

“You’re the only one of us in a
relationship.”

“I had to call Jamie!”

Hilary grabs the dress from the bed and
quickly changes into it while I avert my gaze, a polite habit I’ve
gained. I do the same thing in the locker room before gym class,
because it would be creepy for a girl to stare at anyone while they
undressed, just saying. I zip it up for her in the back when she
asks. Hilary steps in front of the mirror, smoothing down the
fabric as she looks at the reflection. The dress hugs her in
all
the right places. Her date has no idea how lucky they
are because my aunt is one hot momma. I can’t believe that phrase
just ran through my mind, but it did and I regret nothing.

“Do I at least look nice to you?” she asks me
as she stares into the mirror, trying to fix random issues she
finds—excuse me, random
invisible
issues she finds.

“Of course you look
hot
, Aunt Hil,” I
tell her. “All the kids want to play with you on the playground,
right?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Stop being a smart ass,
Joey,” she tells me, trying her best to hide her giggle. At least I
can still make her laugh. That’s going to be important.

“You look beautiful to me.” I watch the blush
creep up her exposed neck, blooming across her cheeks, and she
tries—but fails—to hide it. She’s such a cute person sometimes. I
take a seat on her bed, pulling her blue robe onto the bed from the
trunk at pushed against the end, unconsciously smoothing it out.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Just another doctor at the hospital,” she
tosses over her shoulder—I don’t get a name to use in case you go
missing?
—as she digs through her closet for a pair of shoes.
She tosses a red pair of heels behind her before she stands up,
smoothing out her dress for the fifth time. It definitely won’t be
the last time.

“Is he your McDreamy or McSteamy?” I ask with
a wide, wicked grin on my face.

Hilary snorts. “That’s enough
Grey’s
Anatomy
for you, kid,” she tells me with a laugh and a finger
point.

“Uhn uh,” I protest. “Don’t deny me my
Christina fix,” I jokingly bark threateningly. “When it’s back on,
my ass will be planted on that couch screaming at anyone that dare
disturbs my precious time.”

Hilary slips on the red heels she dug from
the back of her closet, which sticks a Kellie Pickler song in my
head, as she says, “I’ll keep that in mind, hon.”

A moment of silence fills the air between us,
enveloping us in the momentary quiet, as I contemplate how to word
my question. From what I know—and by that, I mean from what I’ve
learned from eavesdropping like a creep on her conversations with
Dr. Jett after a few sessions a couple years back—she’s happy I
can’t remember anything. She prefers I forget everything about that
night and anything to do with my father and just start over.

Well, that little tidbit alone makes me
curious to know everything. And I do mean
every little last
detail
. I don’t care how I go about to procure this knowledge,
I just know I will.

“So…” I start, trailing off as I play with
the frayed hem of my shirt, making the frayed edge worse.

“What do you want?” Hilary asks without
looking at me. She’s fixing her hair, curling the orange locks
around a curling iron to get a nice wave.

“What makes you think that I want something?”
I ask as innocently as I can muster, even smiling sweetly.

“It’s the way you said
so
,” she
answers, attempting to change her voice by making it two octaves
higher when mocking me. I can’t help but think to myself,
I
don’t even sound like that, woman
. “Now, what do you want?” she
asks again.

“It’s nothing big, really,” I begin. “I just
want you to, uh, talk to me about my past and what happened to me.
Ya know—the usual.”

I know. I know that I don’t really want to
know all the gory details—who in the world really would?—but I need
to know some things like what happened that night and the things
that led up to it. I don’t think that’s so much to ask.