Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  “I thought you were sleeping,” I mutter under my breath. I drop my backpack in the nearest chair and stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room. I’ve never been in trouble before.

  “Excuse me?” She crosses her thin arms along her chest and leans to the side, cocking out her hip. She means business. “What did you just say?”

  “Nothing,” I reply, avoiding eye contact. I let out a sigh; waiting for the lecture I know is to come. “I wasn’t thinking,” I tell her.

  “That’s obvious, for damn sure,” she snaps, I recoil. She thrusts her hand, pointing to the couch. “Sit,” my aunt demands.

  I take a seat, dropping my gaze to the white carpet.

  “You’ve never done anything like this before, Joey,” she starts, beginning to pace through the living room.

  I fold my hands neatly in my lap, twiddling my thumbs.

  “Why, Joey?” Hilary asks, exasperated. “Why?”

  “God, I’m sorry,” I yell. She stops pacing and turns to me. This is the first time I’ve ever yelled at my aunt. It shocks her as much as it does me.

  She composes herself. “Are you?” she questions, her eyebrows skyrocketing.

  I snort. “Not for what I did to him,” I admit. When I kicked him, I felt a little surge of power. I felt that I could handle myself. I felt like I didn’t need the protection of anyone. It was only a kick but it made me feel better. Like I was telling everyone else that ever said horrible things about me to shove it where the sun don’t shine. “He deserved that and then some.”

  “Why’d you do it?” she asks again, throwing her arm fitfully into the air. “I spoke to Molly, okay? I know Zephyr punched Ryder. Did he say something about Zephyr?”

  “No.”

  I can tell you—if my mouth will let me—I can just open up and tell you what happened… but my mouth won’t work, it won’t let me reveal anything.

  “Well, why, Joey?” she asks, the fight leaving her voice.

  I can tell her. I know I can tell her. About the party, about the rumors, about Ryder, I can tell her. I want to tell her. I need to tell her, damn it.

  But I can’t.

  Hilary takes a seat on the couch next to me, reaching for my hand, but I snatch it away.

  “Please, just talk to me, Joey,” Hilary begs. “Were Ryder and Zephyr already fighting and you just got in the middle of it? Was Ryder hurting you in some way? Was Zephyr hurting you? Joey, you need to start—”

  “He was talking about me!” I yell at her. “That’s why Zephyr hit him, because he was telling people at school that we hooked up at some party.” And he tried to force me to, Aunt Hil, but I can’t tell you that. “He said that even though I’m a great lay, I’m as crazy as everyone thinks. Zephyr was defending me.”

  It shocks her, her green eyes wide with surprise as I spew out the gory details.

  Momentarily. Then things shift.

  “Well,” she starts quietly, treading lightly. “Did you?” she asks.

  What the hell?

  “That’s what you took from that?” I ask, getting angry. No, pissed off. “I just told you that someone, a boy that you’ve met, spread a rumor about me and the first thing you ask is if I had SEX WITH HIM! WHAT THE HELL, AUNT HIL?”

  “No, you didn’t say it was a rumor at first,” she defends, poorly.

  “And it’s okay to just assume that your niece is some slut?” I yell back. My aunt recoils from the anger lacing my words. “Some whore sleeping with random guys behind the bleachers in the gym, huh?”

  I can’t sit here, I can’t think straight just sitting here.

  “That’s not what I said and you know it,” Hilary barks back.

  “It’s not different!”

  Hilary leans away. “I don’t know, okay. I don’t know how to handle this type of situation,” she tells me. She drops her head in her hands, exhaustion running through her, letting out a long, deep sigh. “I just… I just don’t know what to do here. Okay, I’m not…” she stops herself.

  I can’t take this anymore.

  “I know that!” I yell, her head snaps up to look at me. “I know you’re not my mom; I got that. You don’t have to keep reminding me every single chance you get.” I shoot up from the couch, just needing to distance myself. I start pacing back and forth. Exhaustion racks my body and I just want to be any place but here.

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?” Hilary asks, her voice barely a whisper.

  “It’s pretty obvious,” I answer, my arms wrapped around me protectively. I’m fighting to prevent the tears welling from falling. The last thing I need is to start crying.

  “That isn’t what I’m doing here, Joey,” she tells me. I look to her and I see the strain in her eyes, I can hear it in her voice. Her will to try, her determination, I can see it in her. She’s trying.

  And really, that’s all I can ask for, right?

  “Well, you could’ve fooled me,” I tell her, losing my will to fight. I’m still angry. I turn on my heels, heading for the front door. I just need to escape.

  Hilary stands up from the couch. “Where are you going?” she asks.

  There’s no anger, but that doesn’t stop the snarky remark from leaving my lips.

  “To make sure that my fellow prisoner is getting his daily dose of bread and water,” I tell her, throwing open the door. It bangs against the closet behind it.

  “I have to ground you, Joey.”

  “Wouldn’t expect anything less,” I mumble.

  With that, I close the door and make my trek across the lawn, jumping over the large rock that separates the yards. I just want to see him, that’s all I want. I need to see him.

  The sky is an ugly gray and darkening, the air smells like rain. I miss that scent. Finally, the normal Washington weather has arrived, I’ve been wondering when I would see it, encounter it, frolic through it. I’ve been wondering when it would finally feel like home to me.

  Okay, maybe not frolic through it. But I’m excited.

  ***

  Standing at their door, I take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs, inflating me. I don’t want to disturb them. I really hope that Jamie answers. I don’t think I’m exactly their parents’ favorite person right now. I don’t even think that I can look at Molly or Antonios without spilling in hurried speech how sorry I am I got their son suspended. For the second time, no less. I don’t even know what Molly looks like when she’s upset with someone. And she’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met.

  The door opens revealing a yawning Jamie in sweats and a blue t-shirt. She smiles when she sees me. “He’s in his room,” she tells me as she holds the door wide enough for me to pass. I thank her and climb the stairs to the second floor, hurrying my pace down the hall.

  I can hear the music through the door. Five Finger Death Punch, The Way of the Fist. How appropriate.

  I knock once, twice, three times… but he doesn’t answer. I can picture him standing on the other side of the door, his hand dragging through his hair as he wills whoever is standing in my place to disappear. But it’s me. He can’t want me gone. I can only imagine what his parents said to him. Hilary is one thing, but I’ve never done anything wrong before.

  I knock again before saying, “Open the door, Zeph, it’s me.”

  The moments that pass seem endless. I don’t know what he’s thinking, I don’t know what he’s feeling, I just want to be there for him, and wherever he is, that’s where I want to be. For some reason, I feel that he needs me.

  The door inches open. I can see a brown eye look at me through the crack of the door. With confirmation, he holds the door wider and I walk into his room noticing everything familiar about it. The blue walls, the gray-and-blue striped bedspread, messed up and rumpled. There are a few posters on his walls, like the standard bands and sports teams—then there are the random posters of famous paintings. He has more of those than anything else.

  I turn around, coming face to face with a shirtless Zephyr. An
d, sweet baby Jesus, the boy has been working out. There are abs I’ve never seen before chiseled into his stomach, and I’ve seen him shirtless plenty of times. My hand slightly lifts, ready to caress his stomach. It’s developed a mind of its own.

  But the main question is: When did my best friend get so… ripped?

  Holy hell.

  I really shouldn’t notice how his abs ripple down beneath his basketball shorts, or the thing I’ve heard other girls call the happy trail… and holy balls! I need to stop. I need to stop now!

  Pretending that I’m not flustered—or forcing myself to ignore it—I plop onto his bed, as I normally do when in his room, and feel the heat seep through my jeans. He was lying on his bed before I walked in. Somehow, that makes this feel more intimate. I can picture it. His long hair splayed around his head mimicking a drawn sun, one arm behind his head, the other draped along his taut stomach. Gasp. Maybe his legs were crossed at the ankles; maybe he had one knee bent.

  “What’re you doing here?” he asks, still standing near the door with his hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts.

  I don’t know how to answer that question. There are many things floating through my head, many things shifting around in my mind, but the only thing that makes the most sense is safe. To me, safe means Zephyr. That might be weird to tell him, a little too personal, so I command myself to say something different.

  “Visiting my partner in crime,” I answer. Partially the truth. That’s all that matters, yeah. “You’re allowed visitors, right?” I force a smile hoping that he joins me. His lips stay in a tight line. “I mean, the warden won’t throw me out, will she?”

  The song changes to White Knuckles. He quickly turns it down.

  Turning to me, he runs his hands thought his hair. He looks tired, worn, defeated as he takes a seat on the floor, leaning his back against the side of his bed. He drapes his arm over his knee and my heart feels for him. I kick off my shoes and join him on the floor, keep at least seven inches of distance between us.

  “Why’d you kick him, Jo?” he asks, his eyes staring straight out his window to mine, like he’s waiting for me to show up across the alley. How many times has he sat here and just watched my window? Could it be as many times as I’ve watched his?

  Turning my attention away from him, I stare at a painting leaning against the wall in front of us. It’s of a girl with greenish-brown eyes and long, curling hair. She smiles and shies away, as if she doesn’t want to be seen, or she doesn’t want this moment captured. Her hand, I assume that beige-ish stick thing is her arm, is holding back her long locks.

  “You couldn’t be the only one in trouble, Zeph,” I respond quietly. “Not this time.”

  “You’ve never had so much as a pink slip for late homework,” he tells me, reminding me of my former spotless record.

  He’s right; I was a goody two-shoes.

  But he doesn’t really know the entire story. He doesn’t know what Ryder tried; he doesn’t know how scared I was. If he knew any of this, I’d probably be visiting Zephyr in jail.

  Never Enough starts to play, one of my favorite songs by the band.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” I repeat what Principal Grady said in his office. “Why’d you hit him?” I ask, really wondering.

  “Why do you think?” he answers swiftly. “I wasn’t going to just sit by and let him say all that crap about you.” His hair swept his bare shoulders as he lightly shook his head. “And I’d do it again. No question about it.”

  The girl in the painting is wearing a green shirt. Not light green, but a deep dark forest green. It contrasts with the pale beige of her skin, the miniscule freckles along her nose showing more clearly.

  “I can take care of myself, you know?” I tell him.

  “But you wouldn’t’ve done anything about it.” He has a point. “I know you, Joey.” That he does, it shows how well he knows me. “Ryder would’ve won and you’d be the joke. Again.” Zephyr shrugs. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

  Still staring at the girl in the portrait, I say, “Zephyr, this isn’t third grade, you can’t just beat up Ryder like you did Bobby Logan.” Zephyr turns to me, a playful smile on his lips as he raises his eyebrows suggestively. He starts chuckling as he turns away, his eyes back on the window. “Okay, obviously you can, but this was my fight. That’s why I kicked him,” I tell him. “In the balls. Hard.” He deserved it.

  He sucks in a breath, the sound catching my attention. “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he struggles to say, wincing. “Now, I’m scared of you.”

  “As well you should be,” I reply with a playful nudge of my shoulder. Quietly, I say, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  I look to the floor, picking at his carpet. “What happened to us?” A puzzled expression covers his face. “You were avoiding me, you know, after the night you practically broke into my house, and then that fight. What was that?”

  He looks to me, expressionless, and I regret my question.

  Zephyr releases a sigh. “Because it was obvious you were lying to me, keeping things from me,” he answers. “After I broke into your house.” He rests his elbow on his knee. “You weren’t letting me in.”

  “I don’t let anyone in.”

  “I know that, Jo,” he snaps at me. The sound startles me. “I just thought that I was different, I thought that maybe—”

  “You are different,” I snap at him, interrupting him.

  “I know that now.”

  A silence fills the air and we dive into it, waiting.

  I can’t wait forever, though.

  “Why were you able to bury the hatchet so easily?”

  “Because I saw Ryder put his moves on you,” he says through clenched teeth.

  I snicker.

  “Moves?” I narrow my eyes, turning my head to look at him, looking away from the intriguing painting.

  “Shut up, you know what I mean.” No, I don’t. I think I don’t. He shakes his head lightly, before dragging his hand through his hair. “I thought you might actually, I don’t know, like the guy.”

  Don’t worry, at some point, I had the same fear.

  “That is so stupid,” I say, starting to laugh. While I was worried I was developing actual feelings for the asshat, I knew, in the end, it was all a figment of my imagination, just a product of his attention. If anyone has real feelings for him, I’m amazed.

  “I’m a stupid guy sometimes,” he whispers. His eyes trail to the floor in front of him, a sadness covering his face.

  There’s something here he isn’t saying. Some secret he isn’t telling. But he wants to say it. He wants to tell me. It’s written on his face, he wants to tell me.

  “I didn’t say that, Zephyr.”

  “It’s true.” His voice changes. He sounds surer. “I’m already struggling with that stupid AP class.” Well, if you weren’t skipping it to avoid me… “This next week is just going to push me further behind.”

  I let out a breath. “I told you that I’d help you with that.” My eyes travel back to the painting. “All you have to do is just ask me. I’ll help any way that I can.” I lightly punch him in the arm. Maybe taking this conversation to the playful side will make this easier.

  “You’ve been busy dealing with all that Ryder crap.”

  No excuse, buddy.

  “Well,” I start. “I won’t make that mistake again,” I tell him, my body repeating the feeling of him pressed against me, him pushing against me. “I was so stupid—so stupid—and so blind,” I whisper to myself, forgetting I’m in a room with a friend. I’ve entered my own world, my own self-loathing world where the darkness envelops me, stealing me under.

  I turn my gaze, spotting my friend’s smirk. “Yeah, you kind of were,” he confesses.

  My mouth drops open. “Well, I wasn’t expecting you to say that,” I sarcastically sputter. “Thanks, best friend. BFFs forever, huh?” I roll my eyes, an added bonus.

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry,” he begins, a chuckle escaping his lips. “But I’m agreeing with you, I even warned you.” Ugh, I know, dude. “Don’t you remember that?” If only I could tell you what he really did to me. “You know, Jo, for being so smart, you can be stupid sometimes.” Zephyr turns his gaze to me, lightly shaking his head, and I think his soft smile turns to anger and disappointment. The last thing I ever wanted to do was disappoint him. “You’re the dumbest smart person I know.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask, my own anger bubbling up.

  This isn’t going the way I planned. I figured that we’d sit over here, talking about how much a douche Ryder Harrison is, not getting into a fight of our own.

  “How dense are you?” he spits out. “You must be blind if you…”

  “If I can’t what, Zephyr?”

  “If you can’t see how I feel about you.” Those words are like a strong punch to the gut. It shocks and surprises me. “How I’ve felt about you since we were eleven years old.”

  “You’re kidding… right?” He has to be kidding because that would mean… and he’s practically spelling it out… and I am the dumbest smart person he knows.

  “Why would I kid about that, Joey?” he asks. True. “These are my feelings here, I wouldn’t lie or joke about anything like that.” I think I’ve stopped breathing. “Not with you.”

  My heart skips a beat. No, it stops beating. This can’t be happening; he can’t be saying these things—not to me. We’re friends; we’ve always just been friends. But, what about the flutter in my chest I get when I see him, the hope that he’ll smile when he sees me, the look he gives me when we’re just joking around. I love all these things; I need all these things like life itself.

  But this doesn’t make sense, not completely.

  “You’ve dated and had relationships,” I remind him, remembering Alexia and Jasmine and Serena and girl after girl that he’s bragged and kissed and flaunted in front of me, acting like I was just one of the boys. It always hurt to see him flashing around who he was dating, it hurt because… because it wasn’t me. It was never me. “That isn’t exactly what you do when you have feelings for someone else.” I tell him, thinking of all the times when I thought that maybe, just maybe, Zephyr and I… I don’t know—I wouldn’t let the thought bloom. I refused to let it grow because I’m me, I’m broken, I’m the daughter of the psycho murderer and he could always do better than me. “You try and be with them, you try and convince them of your feelings whether they feel the same for you or not, whether they love you back or not.”