Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  “I think I can manage tonight, but thanks, Zeph.”

  “I wish I could kiss you goodnight,” he says into the cool night air. It’s a whisper between us, the moon, and the stars, carried on a soft breeze from him to me, but he never felt closer.

  “Me too,” I whisper back, lightly lifting my hand as if to reach to him. As close as we are, we’re still too far apart. “We’ll save that all for tomorrow.”

  That familiar crooked smile of his sneaks through, playing at his lips the way that makes me swoon.

  “I’ll leave my window open,” he tells me, repeating our familiar send off for the night.

  “Me too,” I whisper.

  “JoJo, honey,” a woman’s voice calls from the other side of the room. There’s someone in my room? I turn away from the window, slowly facing her, spotting chocolate skin and a loose navy tank top. Her jet-black hair curls around in mini spirals, framing her face in a frizz too adorable for words. She holds her hands out for me and I reach for them, feeling the soft skin caress my tiny fingers. “Come sit on Mommy’s lap.”

  Mommy? She’s my mom.

  I do.

  I climb onto the bench she’s sitting on and plop onto her lap. Her body is warm and comforting as her arms surround me, hugging me from behind, a sweet scent filling my nose—she smells like cinnamon sugar. She grabs my hands, holding them over something large and black, shiny and grand, I’ve heard my mother call it a piano but I’m still not sure if that’s its real name. It must be, my mommy wouldn’t lie to me.

  “What are you doing, Mommy?” I ask, my tiny voice squeaking out every word as I watch our movements.

  She tugs lightly on my braided ponytail. “Playing the piano, silly,” she explains to me. She presses my hand onto a white key and a light sound releases faintly into the air. It sounds beautiful, like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I want to hear it again. “Want to learn?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say excitedly, almost cheering, with a large smile on my face. “What’s a piano?” I ask, leaning back to look up at mommy, taking in her beautiful features I hope will pass to me someday.

  “The giant thing in front of you, stupid,” a voice as tiny as mine barks back. I look to my right and spot someone who looks familiar, as if I’ve seen her in a mirror, looking at me with a scowl etched on her pretty face. I know I’ve seen her before with her pale hazel eyes and dark curls, her olive skin and freckles.

  One word plays in my mind: sister.

  She’s my sister.

  “Ivy Nevaeh!” Mommy scolds angrily. “We do not call anyone stupid in this house, ya hear me?” Ivy rolls her eyes, skillfully for a seven year old. “Apologize to your sister, now,” Mommy demands.

  Ivy crosses her arms and lets out a long sigh—way too dramatic for a little girl, but she’s working it. “I’m sorry.” She spits out, not meaning it. You can tell by her surly tone, the way she’s standing, and the look in her eyes. She’s angry, an angry little girl, she’s guarded and hurt and just wants to lash out. As her little sister, I know this. I know this because she loves me, she really does, she just needs to hurt someone and that someone is me.

  “Mean it, please,” Mommy commands.

  “I mean it, geez,” Ivy tells her. She walks over to the bench we’re sitting on and grabs my hand within her own. It’s warm and clammy, not something I’d expect. She plasters a fake smile on her face before she drops my hand and walks back into the living room, pretending that didn’t just happen.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately,” Mommy says, her hands lightly massaging my arms and shoulders as I bang down on random keys. Once the tension I barely felt left the room, I felt it was time for me to make some noise. And I like it.

  “Mommy! Mommy!” I say loudly, trying to catch her attention between each bang. I lean back, letting the noise die away, looking up at my mom. I try to see her eyes but she isn’t looking at me. “I still love Ivy,” I tell her, hoping that my sister can hear me. “Even though she called me a bad name, I love her.”

  “I love you, too, JoJo,” Ivy calls back from the living room.

  “Where’s my camera when I need it?” Mommy asks herself, letting out a little giggle as her hand rubs the top of my head.

  “Mommy! Mommy! Mom!” a little boy yells with excitement, running up with his red toy truck in hand.

  Brother?

  He’s small, almost as small as I am; his hair is a crazy mess on the top of his head. Large curls dangle in front of his eyes, bouncing as he moves. As he smiles, I notice that he’s missing his two front teeth; he lets his tongue poke through. Unlike Ivy, his eyes are a deep brown, vibrant but dark, almost black as he looks to me.

  “Noah, not now,” Mommy tells him, her attention turning back to me.

  “But Mom!” he whines, trying to get the attention back on himself. He grabs her shirt and starts tugging aggressively, hoping to get our mother’s attention.

  Mommy sighs, dropping her head onto mine. Noah’s still yanking on her clothing, determined to get her attention. She takes a deep breath before she turns to look at her son. “What is it?” she asks.

  He doesn’t answer, he can’t—something loud interrupts him. Somewhere far, a door slams loudly, rattling and shaking a few pictures on the surrounding walls. One falls to the ground, the glass cracking the moment it hits the floor, a jagged web cascading over the family in the frame.

  “DAMN IT!” a man shouts on the other side of the house before a loud crash sounds through the air. I jump at the unexpected sound. Mommy wraps her arms around my shoulders, trying to settle my body’s uncontrollable trembling but it’s no use, I can’t stop.

  Is that Daddy?

  Mommy sets me on the floor next to Noah with a final rub of my arms. “Ivy, honey, take them upstairs, please.”

  Ivy jumps into action, running over to me.

  “I thought we were playing the piano,” I whine loudly.

  Mommy shushes me, her attention darting between the kitchen and me. “Not now, baby,” Mommy tells me before placing a quick kiss to my forehead. She does the same for Ivy and Noah.

  “Come on,” Ivy grabs my hand forcefully, tugging me alongside her.

  Noah grabs my other hand and Ivy leads us up the stairs. She stops in the hallway near the top of the stairs and crouches down, listening for something. There, we wait. The moments seem endless while Ivy clutches my hand tighter.

  “Honey,” Mommy hurriedly asks, I can hear her steps on the tile. “What’s wrong?” Something made of glass crashes against the wall and shatters, I jump and Ivy tugs me closer to her side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Ben, don’t throw things,” she yells, her voice begging.

  “Mommy!” I scream, but Ivy’s hand clamps over my mouth, preventing the shrill sound from escaping.

  There’s silence. An eerie thick silence that surrounds us. It’s interrupted with the man yelling, “Where are my kids, Keisha?” Something hits wood, the sounds splintering loudly. “What did you do with my fucking children? Are you keeping them from me?” He continues loudly. “I’m their father, God damn it, you can’t keep me from their lives.”

  That is Daddy…

  “I’m not keeping you from anything, Ben.” She sounds defeated. “They’re upstairs,” Mommy tells him.

  “Good, that’s good,” he says. The air is still and quiet before I hear footsteps stomping up the stairs. They’re heading right toward us.

  “Where are you going?” Mommy asks—the stomping halts—as Ivy drags Noah and me into the nearest bedroom. The walls are blue with baseballs and footballs taped all over the place, the floor is messy with toy trucks and action figures, random sporting equipment we’re all too young to use takes claim in various corners. This is Noah’s bedroom.

  “To see my kids, Keisha,” he yells, the stomps begin again. “Is that a fucking problem?”

  “You’ve been drinking, Ben,” Mommy accuses. “You’ll scare them; you should sober up before y
ou see them.”

  “You’ve been drinking, Ben,” Daddy mocks, making his voice higher. “God, you sound so pathetic, Keisha. Get out of my way before I make you.”

  Ivy looks around the room frantically, trying to find something. She opens the closet door and points. “Closet. Go,” she tells us, ushering us inside quickly. We scramble inside and Ivy closes the door, falling to sit on the shoe-covered floor, pulling me close to her side.

  More steps echo down the hall, vibrating the floor as they stop and start, stop and start, until they finally stop.

  “I thought you said that they were up here,” Daddy says, his voice quiet.

  “You scared them, Ben,” Mommy explains. “They’re probably hiding.”

  A light laugh that doesn’t sound happy floats through the door. “I probably scared them?” he continues to laugh as his voice waivers. “It’s only Daddy, kids.” His voice travels around the room, through the air, steps vibrate through the floor, tickling my feet where they lay. “Nothing to be fucking SCARED of.” That makes me jump. Ivy’s arms tighten around me. “Get your little worthless asses out here or I will hunt you down, each and every one of you.”

  “Ben,” Mommy shoots out. “You’re not seeing the kids like this, not when you’re drunk, do you hear me?”

  He barks out a laugh. “Come here, Keisha.” It’s long moments before something falls to the ground, the sound of it breaking on the hardwood floor of Noah’s room startles my brother and he grabs my elbow, squeezing for his life. Mommy screams in pain, I can’t see what’s happening, but I know it can’t be good. Leave my mommy alone! Then a hollow sound, much like a person hitting something both hard and soft, echoes in the room.

  “Don’t move,” Ivy whispers so quietly, I don’t think I heard her say anything at all. “He won’t find us if you don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

  I try not to move, I try to remain quiet.

  But I don’t.

  “Ivy,” I whisper, lifting my head to look at her. “I won’t move, I promise, but is Mommy okay?” I ask. I have to know. I have to know how Mommy is. Please be okay, Mommy, please!

  Ivy looks at me, something in her eyes changes. They become empty and hollow, graying ever so slowly, as if she isn’t my sister anymore. She pushes away from me, pushes me into Noah.

  “He won’t kill us if you don’t tell,” Ivy says loud enough for Daddy to hear. But she’s not Ivy anymore.

  Her skin turns gray, her eyes turn black, and blood covers her clothes—her pajamas. Her dark curls frizz and mat together, they clot with blood, and she smiles a toothless smile. Her hands reach out as she repeats, “He won’t kill us if you don’t tell, Joey.” Her body inches toward mine as cold hands grip my arms, hands of bone clamping so tight, the pain laces through me, ripping through me, tearing at me. Both of them are gone, both of them have disappeared…

  My eyes spring open, staring at the ceiling above the bed. I sit up in bed and frantically search the room for the little zombie girl from the closet. She’s not there. I’m alone.

  Of course, she’s not there, stupid.

  My breathing is fast, too fast, and tears stream down my cheeks. I gulp for air, I reach for something that isn’t there, and I come away with nothing—nothing! I half expect Zephyr to burst through the door but I know he isn’t coming. He can’t save me from this. No one can.

  I drop my head in my hands, letting myself drain free from what’s within, but it’ll never help.

  “Oh, my God,” I blubber out. “What’s happening to me?”

  Twelve

  When I saw Zephyr sitting in my kitchen the following morning, I didn’t dare mention the dream—he still doesn’t know about the other dreams I’ve suffered and I plan on keeping it that way. I felt like the dreams were my cross to bear, something that I should suffer alone. He didn’t really need to know anything about them. I tried to forget about the dream as I went through my normal day. But I couldn’t shut it out, not for good. It plagued my mind, it haunted every thought and feeling and I couldn’t exorcise this demon. So I let it consume me, in class, in the halls, at lunch, and I tried to devise a plan. If Dr. Jett wouldn’t help me, if she thought other things were more important than any of this, I’d discover my own past without her. What was the point of her, then? I was only more determined to learn what happened to me the more she tried to keep me away from it. I mean, I’m no longer eight years old and hiding in the closet, I’m sixteen—almost seventeen. I’m graduating early, for Pete’s sake—I need to know what happened to me! I need to deal with what happened to me.

  I’m old enough to know, damn it!

  I sit in one of the desks at the front of the room. A pair of girls—I think sophomores—sit in the back of the room working on a project together while they giggle about something. Miss Cherry, the teacher assigned as my senior project advisor, is a sophomore English teacher. She used to teach Senior Project (the class) when it was a required course. That was back when the length to work on your project was a trimester, then a semester when the school switched to the new system. Now it’s a yearlong study tacked on to your history class. It’d make more sense for it to be attached to your English class but who am I to complain. If it was with the senior English classes, I may already be doing it. Or at least know that I was in an English 12 class.

  Miss Cherry stands near the front of the room in boot cut jeans, black Converse, and a loose cable knit sweater that hangs too short, often revealing the small of her back when she bends over, and the tattoo—or tramp stamp—her students like to look at. Mostly the boys, anyway. She looks more like a student than a teacher. In fact, I thought she was a student when I walked in. I’d never heard of Miss Cherry, I’ve never taken a regular English class and she doesn’t teach APs, so who she was never crossed my path until now. She’s bent over a large file drawer, searching for the paperwork and guidelines of the project I’m supposed to do.

  I can’t wait to start this bad boy.

  “Have you given much thought to what you want your project to be about?” she asks me as she continues her search through every slot in front of her, her attention focused on the papers, not me.

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought,” I tell her, completely lying, nervously tucking my hair behind my ears. I’m missing lunch and I desperately want an apple. “I’m just still in the dark about it.” Completely honest.

  She finds what she’s looking for, giggles happily, and pulls out a stack of paper half an inch thick. Holy balls, that’s for me? With her hand outstretched, she walks to me, handing me the packet. The thing has weight to it, my goodness. “I think your project should wow your audience,” Miss Cherry tells me as she takes the open seat next to mine. It’s not every day you see a teacher sit in one of the desks. It’s a bit awkward.

  Eyes narrowed in confusion, I ask, “Shouldn’t everyone’s?”

  “Well, yeah,” she starts, nervously tucking her light auburn hair behind her ear. Despite how young she looks, she’s in her mid thirties, so she hasn’t taught this subject in a few years time—maybe the last time was the year before I started my Freshman year; it’s getting obvious the more she fidgets in her seat how foreign this topic has grown to her. “But since you’re a junior, you need to prove you can do this better than any senior.”

  As Hilary, every adult, and every single Disney Channel show has told me in the past: I can do anything I set my mind to. There’s also that song Who Says by Selena Gomez and the Scene. Who am I to argue with Selena Gomez? I want to do this, I want to graduate early and make my family proud even if they can’t be here with me to celebrate the festive event. I want to make them proud. I want to make my mother proud of me…

  I flick through a few of the pages, shoving the thought from my mind with such ferocity that it gives me a headache. I stop halfway through when nothing makes much sense—I shouldn’t really skim this, I need to actually sit down and read it. “What can they be about?” I ask, my eyes briefly glancing down to look
at the snow white papers she handed me. “I mean, what topics, or whatever?” I close the packet and set it on the desk in front of me.

  “They can be about anything,” she begins. “Provided they lie within the guidelines,” Miss Cherry adds, tapping the thick stack in my hands. “You can job shadow or intern anywhere and describe your experiences; you can volunteer your time with a specific establishment then write about it. Just remember that you need a mentor. That’s very important.” She looks to me, her pale green eyes staring intently at me, as I read over the first page. “Have any idea yet?” she asks.

  “No,” I admit. “But I’ll continue thinking about it.” My future depends upon it. “Thanks, Miss Cherry.”

  “I’m happy to help any time, Joey.” She smiles as I gather my things and leave, entering the hallway.

  I almost pass Zephyr when I exit the classroom, forgetting he’s waiting for me outside the door the entire time I’m with Miss Cherry. His grin is wide when I turn my attention to him in his Clash t-shirt—he’s never even heard a song—and dark jeans. I’m wearing his black jacket. Every few moments, I tilt my head to the side and sniff, smelling my favorite scent: Zephyr.

  “Have any idea what you’re going to do for your project yet?” he asks, taking the papers from my hands and looking through them. He’ll have to do this assignment next year, better he learns more about it now than later.

  I wrap an arm around his waist, tucking myself beneath his free arm. “Not in the slightest,” I admit shyly. This is the first time I don’t have a game plan going into an assignment. Usually, I have everything outlined before the teacher even finishes discussing the topic, but I’m just… stumped. I hate that. Never in my life have I been stumped with an assignment, but never has it mean so much to me before. I want to do something memorable, something that makes people think, but I have no idea what that could be. Is it sad that I want to do something moving and inspirational? Something that leaves a mark? I turn my attention back to Zephyr as his eyes scour the pages of guidelines. I turn to look at him, like really look at him. How is he taking this so well? If he were the one graduating early, if he were the one leaving me, I would be a complete bitch about it. “You know, you’re taking this way better than I originally thought you would?” When I pictured telling him, the image I had of Zephyr in my head was extremely different from what really happened. I pictured anger and arguments; I got acceptance and appreciation.