Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  “Not really a date from hell, Harley,” I start before taking another bite from the banana. “More like a date with an annoying football player that threatened to serenade me if I turned him down.”

  “Well—” Kennie starts before suddenly being cut off by a loud whistle-like sound, something similar to a panflute but more faint, accompanied by a clap sound. No, not a clap, an engineered drum sound. It’s music. More music.

  “Please tell me that I’ve developed a brain tumor and am imagining the music I’m hearing.” I look to Harley, really hoping that she says that she doesn’t hear anything. Please be a brain tumor, please be a brain tumor, please be a brain tumor.

  “Then I should head to neurology with you,” she tells me with a grim, apologetic smile.

  Damn! Not what I wanted her to say.

  “It’s Justin Bieber!” Kennie exclaims with happiness and excitement, her manicured hands clapping together like a seal learning a new trick.

  I tug my glasses from my face and my hands collide with my forehead, the edge of my palms pressing into my eyes. I can feel a headache beginning to pound. “Not this again,” I mutter under my breath.

  Silently, I pray that someone else is the focus of this, not me. I mean, come on, I have to be extremely conceited—a self-centered ego-maniac—to think this music is strictly for my benefit. Like the song says, ‘You’re so vain; I bet you think this song is about you.’

  “He has back up dancers,” Kennie says loudly. She starts laughing. My head jerks up and I replace my glasses to my eyes, the entire world coming back into focus, searching for the offending person.

  I swear, he’s about to join my nightmares.

  I turn around in my seat, and sure enough, Ryder is surrounded by four of his friends, all wearing bedazzled harem pants that sparkle vibrantly in the fluorescent lighting and, I kid you not, a Member’s Only jacket. They styled their hair to resemble Justin Bieber as best as they could—that stupid swept back look, except for the dude rocking the old Bieber-flip. Well, those with hair long enough.

  “I am so out of here,” I whisper, hoping to escape before it gets worse. I grab my backpack and banana peel, launching it into the nearest garbage can; before I’m surrounded by gyrating wanna-Biebers who make the art of dance seem like a disease. They encircle me before I can make an escape. Damn, I’m trapped.

  That’s when the words start, and lucky for my ears, and the rest of humanity, Ryder is lip-syncing. But that doesn’t lighten the embarrassment coursing through me in a blaze of flushed cheeks and sweaty palms. I hate that I can feel my cheeks heat as I flush bright cherry-red, my eyes widen as he makes his way through the song, throwing a handful of colorful monopoly money in the air when the lyrics call for him ‘having money in his hands that he really wants to blow.’

  In my head, I’m hoping that lightning strikes and takes him out in the most gruesome, painful way it can. Or me. I really have no preference who gets maimed, here. Maybe someone will tackle him, like Chad Michael Murray’s character in the remake of Freaky Friday, but I don’t know anyone who would do that for me. He’s surrounded by horrible dancers, Harley and Kennie are laughing hysterically like this is the funniest thing they’ve ever seen—it probably is—and Zephyr’s trying to hold in his laughter on the other side of the room while still looking pissed off.

  The song ends, Ryder’s hand punching into the air as his big finish, and applause erupts throughout the cafeteria. I know that I’m bright red. I can feel the heat in my cheeks shift down my body as I stand in front of him. While his backup dancers surrounding us. I’m certain they’re insurance so I don’t run and hide in the girl’s locker room or something.

  Seething, I tug him up by the collar of his sparkly gold t-shirt. I have amazing strength when livid. “What is wrong with you?” I ask so quietly, it’s a notch above a whisper, seething My grip on his shirt tightens, it hurts but I ignore the pain.

  “You didn’t like it?” he asks modestly, his signature smile threatening to blossom along his about-to-be-fat lips.

  I need to take a deep, deep, breath. I need to calm down before I do something stupid. That’s what my little voice, that stupid little voice, is telling me.

  I should really listen to it sometimes.

  “Are you KIDDING ME?” I yell. I hear the audience he’s created Oooh! and Ahhhh! as I continue to yell at him. “You said that you would stop this singing thing if I went on a date with you,” I tell him while fighting the overwhelming urge to knee him in the groin, reminding him of our conversation from last Friday. “I guess you’ve been tackled too many times or taken one too many baseballs to that head of yours because I remember the date we went on.” Even thought I’d love to forget it.

  “Technically, you said that if you never had to hear me sing, you’d go out with me.” He points out, trying to pathetically clarify. “I didn’t sing this time, I lip-synced,” he tells me, smiling widely. Oh, what a great target his perfect teeth would make for my fist. “And this is all for a different purpose.”

  “This is all really creepy and I don’t like it,” I yell at him, loud enough to catch the attention of a nearby cafeteria attendant. I’m too worked up to censor myself, not that I ever would in a situation like this. He deserves my wrath.

  “Then you should just be my girlfriend,” he offers, placing his hands on my shoulders. His thumbs rub up and down the front of my shoulders. “You could make me stop in many delicious ways.” A cocky smile splits his face. “Next time I might sing and dance.” The smile grows wider.

  “What? Are we in the first grade or something?” I ask loudly, shrugging off his hands. “‘I like you, do you like me? Check yes, no, or maybe.’ What the hell, Ryder?” I take a deep breath and release his shirt. I try to collect my enraged thoughts and cool the blood beginning to boil within my veins. But that fails when I replay what he just said in my mind. You could make me stop in many delicious ways… “And am I mistaken or were you just trying to blackmail me into a relationship?” I ask, taking a step forward, poking him hard in the chest.

  If he had any friends whose main purpose in this friendship is to protect him from fists, he might want them to step up now. My hands are clenched into fists and the urge to swing is so overwhelming that I can’t even begin to think of any ways to calm myself down. Blind fury is about to erupt, here.

  “I was pretty obvious?” My instinct tells me to slap that smile from his face. My instinct also tells me to shove him into the wall and run far, far away. I’m not sure which option I like more.

  A laugh escapes my mouth. “Not going to happen, Ryder,” I tell him loudly, catching the waiting attention of the nearest tables. Like they weren’t already listening to us. “I don’t even like you enough as a person to tolerate the date we went on. Yeah,” I add quickly. “I suffered through that. So move out of my way and stop the music act because you really suck at it.”

  “Only if you and me,” he starts smiling, continuing with, “become a ‘we.’” His smile sickens me. He hasn’t heard a single word I’ve just said—no, screamed—to him. “An ‘us,’ an item, a couple, boyfriend/girlfriend—”

  I cut him off before he gives any more examples. “You really like to ignore the no in this conversation, don’t you?” I turn to leave. “Don’t follow me,” I bite out before he can react.

  Practically running, I make it to the stairs before anyone can laugh at me for the show we just put on. I’ve never been so angry; I’ve never been given a reason to be this angry before. I take the steps two at a time, quicker to escape, until I’m on the second floor, safely away from the cafeteria.

  I hear steps behind me, gaining on me. Thinking that Ryder completely ignored my last words to him, I turn with my arms raised, hands tightly clenched, and ready to take aim and punch him in the nose.

  I don’t care that we’ll be standing directly in front of the main office, I don’t care that the principal or any teacher can walk by at this moment, I just want this to end, I wan
t it to end now!

  The sight of his long brown hair and familiar brown eyes causes me to release a sigh and relax. The calm feeling I get around him takes over and I welcome it.

  It’s only Zephyr.

  “What the hell’s his deal?” he asks, trying to portray anger, but I can clearly see his fight not to laugh.

  Thanks, best friend.

  Old buddy, old pal.

  “I don’t know, don’t care,” I bark bitterly, rolling my eyes. I seem to do that a lot lately. “I’ll see you later,” I tell him before escaping into an open practice room to wait out the rest of lunch. I’m afraid if I hide in the library, Ryder might try another music number to sway me.

  There is something peaceful about the music wing during lunch. There aren’t many classes going on, all the practice rooms are empty, and the people that eat lunch in this hall—mostly the band students—are at the end of the hall talking about things that I wouldn’t care about. They don’t even see me slip into a room. No one notices me at all. I really want to keep it that way.

  ***

  The bell signaling the end of lunch rings, the sound muffled in the nearly soundproof pencil graffiti’d walls of the room. I force myself up and head through the door, leaving the safety and invisibility of the the silent practice room. I follow the trail of band students as they migrate to their various classes. I follow one to the AP English class we share, through the door, and to our assigned seats, mine just happens to be the one behind his. I tug out my notebook—a green one for this class—and a pink pen, ready to take notes.

  Facing forward, I look to the whiteboard at the front of the room. My mouth drops wide open when I notice two things: (1) A Shakespearean sonnet written on the board, taking up both sides, and (2) Beneath the sonnet, in the same crappy chicken scratch handwritten, which can only belong to one person, FOR JOEY, FROM RYDER.

  That son of a bitch!

  It wouldn’t be so bad had he chosen a different sonnet, a different poem, hell he could’ve written one himself (because girls find that so romantic). Even better, he could’ve ignored the idea, forgotten the stupid plan, all together and just left me alone like I wanted, like I told him to do, damn it!

  But he didn’t. He had to do this. In one of my classes.

  I read the sonnet in my head before class starts because I’m still too dumbstruck to do anything else. I can’t even make myself move to remove the evidence.

  “My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

  Coral is far more red than her lips' red'

  If snow be white, when then her breasts are dun;

  If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

  I have seen roses damask's, red and white,

  But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

  And in some perfumes in there more delight

  Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

  I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

  That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

  I grant I never saw a goddess go;

  My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

  And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

  As any she belied with false compare.”

  I go through class pretending as if I didn’t see the offending sonnet written on the board specifically for me. I try successfully to pretend Ryder didn’t compare my hair to black wire. I even try to think that Ryder’s too stupid to know that he said my breath was horrid. Luckily, Miss Thorne erased the evidence before most of the class entered the room; it was just me and Simon Peterson, the jazz band kid I sit behind, that saw it. I half suspected her, the teacher, to read it and decide to analyze it as a class, then deciding to compare it to me because my name is attached at the bottom, but we’ve all read Shakespeare in previous classes, we’ve all studied that same sonnet, and we all know how insulting it is to be compared to it.

  At the end of class, after I hand in my assignment, I leave the room in an angry daze. I’m in my own little world, plotting metaphorical murder, and I walk right into Ryder as he waits outside the classroom door for me. He’s still wearing his Bieber outfit—complete with the horribly styled hair, though it’s slightly deflated and losing its pizzazz.

  His smile is big and toothy, overly cocky, mischievous, and proud, as he steadies me, his hands gripping my arms tightly to prevent my escape. “Did you like your surprise?” he asks too eagerly.

  Some surprise, jackass.

  I stop myself before I stomp on his foot, thought, the urge is terrifyingly strong, I look up to him—he’s taller than I originally thought, I have never really looked up to him before. I never wanted to. My hand clutches tightly in a fist, my way of preventing myself from slapping him across the face, only it doesn’t quell the urge to punch him square in the nose. Hard.

  Future notes: If all you want to do to someone when you see them is inflict bodily harm, there is a problem. Distance yourself.

  “If that was your brilliant plan to make me like you,” I start, pointing my finger in his face. “You failed. Big time.”

  Turning on my heels, I let him watching me leave. Again.

  In orchestra, we have a substitute teacher while Mrs. Pearl is at home with her sick newborn daughter. The daycare, we learned from the aforementioned sub, does not allow for infants, or anyone, with colds to be there for two days to minimize the chance of spreading the bacteria/infection/virus/whatever to the other children. Therefore, this substitute, who doesn’t know a thing about music, lets us do our own thing. That includes, but is not limited to, the laziest of the group talking and gossiping in a corner of the room, the studious of the group doing homework on the risers against the back wall. Those that really want to practice—which is a surprisingly small group, though it makes you understand the who’s the most dedicated—gaining access to a few of the practice rooms. I choose the practice room but I don’t take my violin with me. Instead, I’m sitting with my back to the door, playing the piano, just messing around to begin with, but a song comes to mind and my fingers begin to play the familiar notes unconsciously. Soon, I’m singing along, as loud as I can when I know no one’s listening. Gin Wigmore’s words are flowing from my mouth, I’m in my own little world, and no one can take me back to reality.

  “I’ll sing you a sweet song if you say to…”

  The notes of These Roses fill the air, floating around me, drowning out everything, all my problems, all my worries, all my issues. I feel at home in the sound. That’s the beauty of music and why I love it, it gives the ability to disappear within something so beautiful that it seems to make everything wrong completely vanish. The music drowns out all sounds, encasing me in a bubble, that I don’t hear the final bell signaling the end of the day. I don’t hear the students as they walk past the door talking loudly with their friends, I don’t hear the door open, despite its loud squeak, and I certainly don’t hear the little gasp of surprise behind me. I only hear the music flowing from my fingertips.

  “I got fight in these roses, and I still can’t be scared…”

  Though, I do feel the breeze from the open door and I feel the temperature of the normally warm, stuffy room drop, and my hand stills above the keys before slamming down on a wrong chord.

  Turning, I find Zephyr leaning against the doorframe, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping open. He’s surprised, he’s shocked… he’s freaking me out with the way he’s staring at me. The way he’s staring at me, his eyes wide with a smile, does things to my body that I wish I didn’t notice, I wish I could ignore, and I almost do. I want to hide from his intense stare, crouch behind the piano until he leaves, forgetting that he ever saw me, but I know that’s a lost hope.

  “Don’t stop,” he whispers, lightly shaking his head.

  I turn back to the piano keys, not even thinking about playing anymore. Zephyr’s on my mind, in more ways than one, which doesn’t help this friendship. I’m just staring at the black and white keys, just trying to avoid his gaze that seem
s to stare into my soul. He wasn’t supposed to see me; he wasn’t supposed to hear me.

  No one was supposed to hear me.

  “When did you get here?” I ask quietly, dreading the answer. Taking a chance, I turn around to face him before asking, “How long have you been standing there?” Another answer that I dread hearing.

  “Long enough,” he answers, walking into the room and letting the door fall closed behind him. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. “Keep playing, keep singing,” he begs me. “That was beautiful. Please.” I’ve never heard him beg before. “Please, please, please.”

  I let out a tiny laugh, a nervous giggle. “I didn’t write it or anything, it’s Gin Wigmore,” I tell him, as if that makes any difference.

  “I never knew you could sing,” he tells me, in praise, and I ignore him to grab my backpack leaning against the wall. The key to the practice room is lying on top of the piano and I grab it, sliding it around in my hand as I take it back to the substitute.

  “I guess my showerhead isn’t the only thing impressed,” I mutter sarcastically, shooting a look to my best friend as he follows behind me. “Look, I can’t sing, Zeph,” I reply, handing the key over to the sub before she places it back onto the key ring. “That was just me fooling around with a piano and an iPod. How long were you even there?” Don’t be long, don’t be long, please, don’t be long.

  “A while,” he answers vaguely. “My class let out early so I thought that I would wait for you outside your class and be your body guard against Harrison if you needed it.” He smiles at me and says, “I think you’ll need it.”

  “Guess we should get going, then.”

  We walk into the main hall, our arms occasionally bumping, sending warmth through me. What the hell, body? We join the large mass of students in attempts of exodus.

  “I never knew you could play the piano,” he continues as if I still wanted to this embarrassing conversation. He follows closely on my right as we head to my locker at the other side of the school while I try to pretend that I have no idea what he’s talking about, though he should know that one.