Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  She’s a survivor, a proud survivor.

  I couldn’t be happier that she’s my mentor.

  What did she learn about me? My name. Not even my full name.

  I didn’t want to tell my tale just yet—it still felt to fragile and raw when I spoke the words aloud—so I just explained who I was, not explaining anything major about my family or life, and why I was doing this project.

  “It’s a very important topic to speak about,” I told her that first afternoon I met her in her office. “And I don’t feel that many people in my school know or care enough about it to learn more,” I continued to explain. Most of that is true, at least in my mind.

  Felicia agreed with that whole-heartedly, nodding once the words left my lips.

  So we discussed what would be appropriate for me to speak about during my presentation. Felicia made emphasis on the statistics and research sites she outlined for me—and the list was long. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was going to discuss more than the statistics of domestic violence and the lasting effects. I was going to speak about personal experiences, back-stories if I could find some people to interview; I wanted the students of my high school to understand that this can happen to anyone. No one is exempt from being hurt, no one is immune to the probability of domestic violence.

  Today, teenagers think—no, believe—they’re invincible, they believe nothing bad can ever happen to them. I’m proof that horrible, horrible things happen all the time and sometimes, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You can’t stop the boulder from rolling downhill once it’s already started. I just want to help people prevent the worst from happening.

  That’s exactly what I outlined in my project proposal. I even added a little pain and heartache, hoping that Miss Cherry could feel what I’m planning to write about like a second heartbeat.

  I just left out my own gory, gruesome details. Those could wait for embellishment in presentation, that is if I can even tell them.

  I handed my completed proposal to Miss Cherry—it only took three hours to write once I ironed out all the basics—and she read the entire thing while I was standing right in front of her, watching her eyes scan the pages in a hurry to devour the next word. Her face went through a multitude of expressions—pain, worry, wonder, intrigue—as she read it.

  “This is good, Joey,” she tells me as she flips through the pages, scanning to see if she missed anything important. I wish I could’ve put a little more information in there. Most of the stuff is scary but very accurate.

  One in four women has experienced domestic violence in her lifetime. That’s 25-percent. Scary fact. On average, intimate partners in this country murder more than three women and one man every day. That’s a scarier fact. Even more terrifying when you know you’ve witnessed it and just can’t remember it.

  “Thank you,” I say when she reaches the end, folding over the binder. “Do you approve it?” I ask with hope and a beaming smile.

  “Are you sure that you’re comfortable sharing this much about yourself?” Miss Cherry asks, an eyebrow raised. I did write that I planned to incorporate what little I know about my past into my presentation.

  I shrug—unsure. “People have been talking about me since I moved here,” I respond, telling the honest to God truth. I’ve been the topic of many conversations throughout my years as a Washington State resident. “At least this time, they’ll know what they’re talking about.” It’d be better if they hear it all from me—the main source—rather than some random person who doesn’t know the full truth.

  “I approve it,” Miss Cherry tells me as she signs the bottom on the line that asks for the advisor’s approval. “It’s going to be tricky, though.”

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  “I know,” I respond.

  “I wish you the best of luck on your journey, Joey,” she tells me as I stand at the door, my hand waiting on the knob.

  “Thank you, Miss Cherry.” I smile, calling, “See you later,” over my shoulder as I enter the hallway and close the door behind me.

  The air is cool in the hallway, caressing my heated cheeks, and cooling them down, diminishing the involuntary blush that climbed up my neck and sprouted on my cheeks.

  “Did she approve it?” Harley asks as I turn toward my locker, snapping my head back when I hear her voice. Has she been waiting there the entire time? I smile as she walks up to me, the light glinting off the hoop in her lip.

  “Yep, she did.” I squeal like an excited puppy staring at their favorite chew toy. One-step closer to graduating, I chant in my head. Then this place can kiss my ass as I walk out the door and venture on to bigger and better things. “This is going to be a fun project,” I say with faux-glee. Hello, sarcasm.

  Harley shoots me a look. “You mean that?” she asks as I twirl the lock on my locker, tugging it open with a loud clang, switching out my books for the rest of my day.

  “Hell no,” I sputter. “Sorry I didn’t add Bazinga! but this is going to one painful thing to deal with.” I can only imagine the things I can actually discover. There are going to be many, many skeletons in this closet. I just need to be sure that I’m ready to deal with them. All of them.

  I close the locker and we start our way to the cafeteria, though I swear I thought she had a makeup Spanish test to take this period. Which reminds me, I still have ASL homework to finish.

  “If you need any help, I’m here for you, Joey,” Harley tells me, her hand landing on my arm as we walk, a small smile splitting her lips.

  I return the smile before I decide to start a different research project. I rarely have chances to do this. “You mean when you’re not too busy playing tonsil hockey with Avery O’Reilly?” I fish, happy my friend’s found someone.

  “Shut up!” Harley yelps, turning beet-red with embarrassment, laughing as she covers her flushing cheeks with her hands. “We’re not playing tonsil hockey,” she defends. “Who the hell even says tonsil hockey anymore?”

  People who want information, that’s who.

  “And how well does he kiss?” I ask like a pompous asshole waiting to see her turn bright cherry red. “Are there fireworks?”

  “Fucking spectacular,” Harley announces with a wistful sigh. I jump up and down, completely not my norm, but this excites me. It’s so rare to see her like this. To see her full of hope for something new. “I saw stars, Joey. He does this wonderful thing with his tongue—”

  I wave my arms in the air frantically, anything to distract her and cut her off as she speaks.

  “I do not need those details, Harley,” I tell her.

  As happy as I am for her, that—whatever she’s about to say—I don’t need to know.

  “You asked.” She smiles brightly. Harley looks over to a classroom; and I’m right, she does have a test to make up. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Yeah, later,” I call as she leaves, waving her off and starting my way toward the lunchroom when something, some little sound I would’ve normally missed in passing, catches my attention.

  It sounded like a whimper, like there was an upset, scared little puppy loose in the halls wandering around in search of its owner. It came from the bathroom, I know that much. So I followed the sound, seeking it out.

  “You are so fucking stupid sometimes, you know that?” I hear someone—that sounds an awful lot like Ryder—says to someone else in the girl’s bathroom. Who the hell is he angry with? And why is he in the girls’ bathroom?

  “I didn’t mean to say anything, Ryder,” I hear Alexia’s melodic voice, almost pleadingly, explain in a cry. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “Sorry?” he says scarily quiet. I can almost picture his expression perfectly. His blue eyes dark and narrowed into thin slits, his breathing deep and steady, the red creeping up his neck. “You’re sorry? Sorry doesn’t fix it, Lexi,” Ryder continues, yelling. I take a few steps into the bathroom, making sure to stay in the entryway where they can’t easily see me. I catch their
reflection in the bathroom mirror but they don’t notice me as Ryder, in Alexia’s face, continues to yell, “God, why do I even allow you to speak?”

  Alexia takes a step back, looking affronted. “Excuse me?” she asks, crossing her arms across her chest, the same thing she does when someone crosses her. This is the Alexia that challenges me. The girl that demands attention and knows how to carry herself. I’m waiting for that manicured hand of hers to launch out, slapping the look from his face.

  But that’s not what I see.

  Ryder looks to her, noticing her defensive stance, and lunges toward her, grabbing her arms and wrenching them away from her body, holding them up in front of her body with so much force, I can feel her pain. “You heard me,” he growls. Alexia’s resolve breaks, her shoulders slump, and I watch all the fight leave her body. She cowers and I fight the urge to walk further into the bathroom and make my presence known. I may not like Alexia, but she shouldn’t be treated like this, no one should be treated like this.

  “Ryder, you’re hurting me,” Alexia coughs out as Ryder noticeably tightens his grasp, twisting her arm. I can’t decide if I should interrupt and do something or if I should just leave. Alexia releases another whimper and I make up my mind—choosing between being a good person or being someone that leaves Alexia to fend for herself (May I mention that I’m too nice for my own good?)—and walk farther into the bathroom, making it known that I’ve been listening to the entire exchange between the couple. I connect eyes with Alexia over Ryder’s shoulder but she quickly looks away out of embarrassment.

  She can’t pretend to be anywhere but the present.

  “You did something stupid, so fucking stupid,” Ryder growls as he punctuates every word with a vicious tug of her arms. “And now you want me to be nice about it?” He barks out a laugh, high and commanding.

  “Ryder,” I say loudly. What am I doing? I don’t actually have a plan. I mean, I could kick him again, but that gets old and he’s not lying on the ground. So, I don’t exactly have a clear shot. Right now, Ryder’s standing and he’s taller than me, bigger than me, and a little scarier than I remember.

  He doesn’t hear me; he’s too focused on his girlfriend, too angry to hear anything other than his voice as he yells at her.

  “That isn’t what I meant, Ryder—”

  She’s pleading, begging something of him, but he cuts her off immediately.

  “Just shut up, shut the hell up!” He yells at her, throwing her arms away from him as if they burned him, as if the feeling of her skin on his repulsed him. He turns dragging his hands through his blonde hair, spotting me standing behind him for the first time, and storms past, checking me in the shoulder, growling, “Out of my way.”

  He leaves me alone with a trembling Alexia. Me, of all people, should not be around Alexia Cavanaugh in confined spaces. But I feel some sort of connection with her right now, something I can’t explain because we’ve hated each other for as long as I can remember. But this time, we have… something in common, something dark and disturbing, connected to us by the same person.

  What I’m about to do I really shouldn’t do, I should just leave this alone, pretend I didn’t see anything, and move on with my day, totally ignoring what just happened. Yeah, that’s what a tiny part of me wants to do. The downside with that: it would make me feel completely horrible and I doubt I’d be able to look at myself in the mirror ever again.

  So, I turn to her, facing her as she shakes by the sink. She’s in shock, maybe surprised with Ryder.

  “Alexia?” I ask, taking a tentative step toward her. I don’t really know what to say to her. I’ve never been in this situation before.

  “What do you want?” she snaps at me, trying to rebuild her strength and resurrect her walls. Pretending that I didn’t see what just happened—that would be so easy to do—but she looks like she needs someone. God forbid that should be me right now, but I am here. “This is just great, freaking great, that you had to see that?” She shakes her head, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side as a tear slides down her cheek.

  I’m too nice.

  “I heard it,” I tell her, taking a few more steps closer to her. She doesn’t openly object, just lets me move toward her as she glares at me. “What he said, I heard it all.”

  I’m curious, but it may be a bad time to ask why they were fighting. I doubt she’d tell me anyway.

  “So you heard him call me stupid, big freaking deal,” she snaps at me—still not swearing like a normal angry teenager, which I want to giggle at—while streaks of black mascara run down her cheeks in thick streams. She makes no move to wipe away the evidence of her tears.

  I am way too nice.

  “It is a big deal, Alexia,” I snap at her, hoping she understands that wasn’t normal. No boyfriend should ever speak to their girlfriend in that way. It’s wrong and I don’t understand how Alexia Cavanaugh, of all people, would ever allow someone to speak to her in such a manner. I’d expect her to whip out her claws and rip Ryder a new one, but that’s not what happened.

  “No, it’s not,” she lashes out at me. She turns away from me, fruitlessly trying to remove the evidence of her tears from her cheeks now that she’s seen her reflection. Anything to be perfect. “Just leave it alone.”

  I’m trying to help her and she turns me away. Typical. Whatever. At least I can say I tried.

  “As you wish,” I mutter, dropping my hands against my side with a slap, turning to leave. I know Zephyr must be wondering where I am if she wants to be alone, she can gladly be alone.

  “Wait, Joey,” Alexia calls from behind me, her voice back to its normal icy lilt. I expect her to threaten me, tell me that what I saw was a onetime thing, a secret that I need to take to the grave. She doesn’t have to worry about that, I won’t tell a soul. That I can promise. Cross my heart and hope to die…

  “Yeah?” I answer, turning to face her.

  That’s not what I get.

  Alexia looks defeated and exhausted. She looks so tired; she could collapse at any moment. I want to hug her, comfort her, tell er everything’s going to be okay even though we don’t have that kind of relationship.

  “I just…” She turns and leans against the wall, releasing a sigh. Her eyes tell me that she lost the raging war and she doesn’t know what to do. I don’t think I can help her.

  I don’t know how to help her.

  “Find your friends, Alexia,” I tell her, sincerely, offering the only advice in my arsenal. Judging from her fallen expression, that’s not what she wanted nor expected to hear from me. “Enjoy the rest of lunch, that’s all you can do, right?” She slowly nods. “He’ll calm down and I promise I won’t tell anyone what I saw.” Even though I should.

  I really should.

  With that, with those final words, I leave the bathroom in search of my own boyfriend, one that would never, ever hurt me, confident in the knowledge that he would never, ever lay his hands on my in that manner. He’s at the back table in a heated discussion with his friends and that makes me smile because he’s happy—I’m happy. That’s all that matters.

  ***

  Zephyr was still planning our first official date, which seemed to be taking forever. He continues to tell me he wants to do something special, extravagant, spectacular, something that I’ll always remember, from this day forward, forever and ever, amen. Okay, so I’m definitely exaggerating with that and that song was stuck in my head but anything compared to my last date will always be memorable and, for lack of a better word… better. But he’s still planning, still saving money like a bank just to take me some place special because, as he says, I deserve the best.

  I tell him I already got the best the night of his suspension from school… the second one.

  However, I can’t wait for our date. He’s really hyping it up. Whenever it is, whatever it is, I’ll be the happiest girl in the world.

  There was a time when I thought I’d never be happy, that I’d forever wallow in my worl
d of self-pity and sadness. That was back when Zephyr was only a friend, and my only friend. I was bullied at school, I’d spend every afternoon hiding in my room, and Dr. Jett had me on medication for depression.

  That’s a lot to take in when you’re a little kid.

  I was told I was depressed; I was told I was worthless, and I tried to pretend that my world was my room.

  But now that I have friends, I have Zephyr, and my life seems to be heading skyward, I can’t help but see happiness on the horizon in a beauty of blurring colors when I look out the window. It looks like a sunrise, the moment when the sky turns to beautiful hues of pinks and oranges; it looks like wonder to me. I wonder… as in the rest of the day, the rest of that moment, anything can happen and I’m in the presence of hopeful wonder. So can be said about life, because I often wonder what’ll happen to me down the road.

  As I lie on Zephyr’s bed while he finishes his homework, taking in the familiar scent of him surrounding me, I remember all of the moments in my life that made me happy.

  The moment I kicked Ryder in the balls, to be completely honest, that was an awesome day. Who wouldn’t be happy after that? It made me feel empowered and dangerous. The school day ended pretty shitty but that not was wonderful. That brings me to my next moment, the night when Zephyr and I discovered our mutual feelings for each other. See, the other day was just filled with epic awesomeness.