Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  Because it’s all so stupid.

  There are names from other schools on the list—because it’s a district wide competition—and a few names that I vaguely recognize from my school. Then, at the top of the list, is my name. Josephine Archembault, it’s right there for the world to see. Damn… I didn’t expect to make it.

  For a brief moment, I’m giddy. I jump around the room, doing my sad excuse for a happy dance, and quietly cheer so Hilary and Patrick can’t hear me or my excitement for something so superficial as a high school competition that’s going to be based on popularity in the end.

  Then it hits me like a sack of potatoes…

  Well, hell… now I have to actually sing in front of people.

  Crap!

  Fourteen

  “What did I tell you?” Zephyr gloats as he lazily flips through his history book, scoping out pictures. He’s been bragging about my making it into the Idol thing since I stupidly told him, which I didn’t even want to do. He started tickling me and wouldn’t let up until I told him. If I were stronger, I would’ve been impervious to his tickling and made his ass look it up on the school’s website. But he has magic fingers, damn it.

  “Shut up,” I say to my copy of our AP Euro book, reading the rest of the paragraph on France.

  “I will when you tell me how wonderful and awesome I am,” Zephyr replies. Gah, someone shoot me now. I swear that I’m dating the most conceited, vainglorious, egotistical person in the school, if not the city. “Wait, I prefer epically awesome.” He winks at me. Sadly, I love him.

  “You’re epically something,” I mutter, flatly, dragging my highlighter through a line in a packet I have to read for history. I compare that to the text in the book and smile; it matches up. I hate misinformation. Fact check, people!

  Mr. Cheney gave us our first partner project and, because I promised him, I partnered with Zephyr to help bring up his grade. Okay, and maybe because we are dating, but that was a small maybe. We have to do a report on a major part of World War II and we, or I, chose the Storming of Normandy. I don’t know that much about it and I like to learn new things. Zephyr had the good idea to make a diorama, so I’m doing the actual report and he’s going to do the diorama.

  I’m a little worried that we’re going to turn in a brilliant depiction of blood and gore. There could be someone gutting a soldier with a knife, a head exploding from a bullet, I don’t know what goes on within Zephyr’s mind. But I doubt it’s sunshine and rainbows.

  He promised me something tasteful, and I hope he knows the meaning of the word.

  Needing to rest my eyes from processing the tiny typed script in the textbook, I look out the window, noting the nice day, the third that we’ve had in a row. Usually, we have a good inch or ten of rain by now. Slight movement catches my attention and I watch the mail carrier pull away from the curb and the mailboxes lining the street and decide to take a five-minute break by walking out to the box to retrieve the mail like a good niece.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell him as he continues to search the textbook for pictures, and yes, he’s sticking Post-It notes to remind him of the bloody ones. Ew, dude!

  “I’ll be here,” he shoots back. That’s what I was counting on, I want to blurt out, and I hadn’t expected you to randomly disappear. I walk out to the mailbox, cutting across the yard, skirting around the yellow fire hydrant, and grab the mail.

  I start casually flipping through the different sized envelopes. Bill, bill, bill, fake sweepstakes, bill… long, thick envelope addressed to someone that doesn’t live here. It’s pink in color, and has a forwarding address from Texas. In neat handwriting along the front is J. Lucas as the recipient. My grandparents forwarded it, I can see that, and they know that Hilary and me are the only two that live here. Certainly, there is no Lucas at this residence—I would’ve seen them. Unless it’s a ghost that receives mail.

  “What’s that?” Zephyr asks as I drop into my seat at the table. I tossed the other mail on the coffee table where Hilary is sure to see it and keep the pink envelope with me, examining it closely.

  “I don’t know,” I say quietly with my mind focused on what is in my hands. I try to hold the envelope up to the light, trying to see something, anything, through the paper, but it’s too thick to make out any words.

  “Who is J. Lucas?” he asks while peeking—more like breathing—over my shoulder to see what I hold in my hands, the mysterious envelope.

  “I don’t know,” I reply with a bite, my voice filled with annoyance as I stare at it, trying to figure out a way to learn what it says.

  An idea pops into my mind thanks to an old I Love Lucy episode I saw a few years ago. I stand up, shoving the chair back, and walk toward the stove. I set the envelope on the counter, grab the teakettle from the back burner, and start filling it with water.

  “Do you want tea?” Zephyr asks, puzzled, standing up to join me at the sink. He mostly wants to see what I’m doing. He’s as nosy as I am.

  “No, I want to open that letter,” I tell him, placing the kettle on the front right burner and turning the heat on high. All we have to do is wait patiently. Patience has never been my strongest suit.

  “Are you sure you should?” Zephyr takes the envelope from the counter, looking at it again. “What if it’s just a wrong address? That’s a federal crime, what you’re doing.” As if he needs to remind me of crimes. I did very well in my government class.

  “Then I’ll just reseal it,” I mumble. “Besides, my grandparents sent it here, it must be for someone… here.” But there isn’t a J. Lucas so it doesn’t make any sense.

  After ten minutes or so, steam starts whistling loudly from the kettle and I use tongs to hold the letter above the stream. Slowly, with a toothpick—because I feel like MacGyver’s lazy cousin—I start peeling the glued flap away from the envelope until it is fully open.

  I burn my hands in the process.

  “Hot, hot, hot,” I repeat as I fight the pain in my hands to hold everything. I could just wait for it to cool, but I repeat, patience is not my friend, and I’m a curious girl plagued by the love for instant gratification.

  “Here.” Zephyr takes everything from me and tosses it into the freezer for a few minutes. Good idea. After a minute, he yanks the door open, grabs the envelope, and tugs out the letter.

  He gets a chance to read it before I do, his eyes quickly scanning the words I can’t see as he holds the paper away from me.

  “What’s it say?” I pester as his eyes scan the letter for a second time, his face falling into an unattractive grimace.

  “Uh, I don’t think you should read this,” Zephyr says, folding the paper and shifting to slide it back into the pink envelope.

  “What does it say, Zephyr?” I ask loudly, angry that he won’t hand it to me. I hold out my hand, palm up, waiting for him to comply.

  He hesitates, holding the letter above my head, out of my reach—he should really stop doing that because it makes me want to knee him—then hands it to me with a shake of his head.

  What the hell can be so bad about a letter?

  Letter 1127

  My darling daughter,

  The first time I held you in my arms was the first time I heard the angels sing. I believe that God, after everything I’ve been through in my life, gave me something special, and it was you. The world was in your eyes, the sun shone when you smiled that little toothless smile, and I was in love with the little pink bundle in my arms.

  I never felt that way before; I never thought I could feel that way. I never felt that before, not with your sister, not with your brother, and certainly not with your mother.

  By the grace of God, we will be a family again, Josie, the way that we were supposed to be. Just you and me. You and me against the world, baby.

  Don’t you want that, too?

  Don’t let those people out there that you live with keep you away from me, don’t let them taint you from me because everything they say, it’s all a lie, bab
y girl. They want to keep you away from the only family you have left. That’s what I am, your family, the only family that loves you aside from Mother—your grandmother.

  Don’t listen to them, my precious and beautiful, baby girl, Josie.

  Never listen to them.

  Love you always and always and longer

  Daddy

  My hand covers my mouth as the final word, Daddy, leaps from the page, nearly blinding me. It burns to hold the page in my hands. It burns to read the words of this man, my father. I drop to the floor, my knees pounding on the tile beneath my feet. The pain shoots up my thighs, stinging and throbbing, but I don’t feel it. The pain doesn’t compare to the feeling of my heart ripping through my chest.

  Letter 1127? There are more letters from him? To me? At least 1126? But… why?

  “Joey?” Zephyr asks loudly, slowly kneeling down next to me. His hand glides soothingly down my back but I barely feel it. I do feel the paper crumple in my hand from my strong grip. I want to crush it, I want to crush him, I want him to know that I don’t want his words, I don’t want to know about him, what he loves, he’s not a man to me, anymore, and he’s insignificant.

  But as I stare at a spot on the floor, dropping further onto the ground so I’m sitting, I know that this man will never be done with me and I’ll never be finished with him. He did this to me; he ruined me. He ruined me and he doesn’t even believe it.

  It breaks my heart to see, to know, that he has no remorse. I was in love with the little pink bundle in my arms. I never felt that way before; not with your brother, not with your sister, certainly not with your mother… what made me so special that he wanted to take my family away from me? Why? Why? Why me? We will be a family. Don’t you want that? That man has never been my family. My family is Hilary and the people surrounding me today, they made me who I am. Without them, I would be nothing.

  I would be like him, worthless, pathetic, and alone.

  “Hello?” Hilary calls when she walks through the door. I don’t know how long I’ve been on the floor, all I know is that I’m crying and I don’t want Zephyr to let go of my hand. “Where is everyone, I see the li—oh, my God, Joey, what happened?” My aunt crashes to floor next to my sobbing form; taking my shaking shoulders and pulling me close for a tight hug, yanking me from Zephyr’s grasp. My body feels weak without his touch.

  I turn to her, taking in her worried green eyes, her concerned face, her trembling lip, and all that I can think is 1127. Letter and letter, note and note, from my father to me, and then something flows into my mind, coming back like a stubborn cold. A few weeks ago, after my September visit with Dr. Jett, Hilary sat at the dining room table in her robin’s egg blue robe, holding a similarly pink envelope in her hand. I remember it because she looked so scared to see it. Once she realized I was home, she slipped it into her pocket, out of sight. I never asked about, I was quick to shrug it away as nothing.

  It was a letter from him. I know it now. And she was keeping it from me when I should have known about it, when I should have been given the chance to read it or throw it away myself.

  She took away my decision.

  I look at her and all I see is betrayal, all I see is secrecy, and I don’t want her arm around me.

  I shove her away and throw the crumpled envelope at her. “What is that?” I ask, no, demand, shocking both Hilary and Zephyr as they each make audible gasps.

  “What is what?” She grabs the paper ball and smoothes it out, looking at the name, J. Lucas, in the neat penmanship. “Where did you get this?” she asks without looking up at me. Her body tenses in worry and concern but I don’t want her worry or her concern, I want the truth. I think I deserve that much right now.

  “It was in the mail,” I growl through clenched teeth, standing to get away from her, backing into the dining room table. “Is that from my father?” I ask, nearly yelling. Aunt Hil doesn’t answer me, doesn’t look at me, just reaches for the crumpled ball on the floor by Zephyr’s feet. “IS THAT FROM HIM?” I yell, pointing to the wad of paper.

  “Yes,” she answers simply, timidly. Her gaze shifts up, toward Zephyr. Concern covering her face. “Zephyr, I think you should go.”

  He hesitates, looking to me for permission. I’m not sure if it’s to stay or go, but he shouldn’t see this. This is the last thing I want him to witness.

  “Just go home,” I tell him, trying to remain strong and focused, though I can feel my resolve start to slip. The last thing I need right now is to crumble.

  He slowly stands, keeping his eyes on me. I avoid the gaze, looking to the space by Hilary’s head. Zephyr leaves, leaving his books behind on the kitchen table—he can always come back, slowly taking one more look to me, as if he’ll never see me again and he wants to remember me, before he disappears out through the front door.

  “Tell me,” I order once we’re alone, demanding to know what secrets she’s been keeping from me, from the looks of it, for years—many, many years.

  “It’s just a letter, Joey,” Hilary tells me defensively. “It doesn’t mean anything. Not a thing, Joey.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything, Aunt Hil?” I ask, seriously struck dumb. “It’s a letter that says Letter 1127 on the top,” I point out, knowing she can see the evidence staring her in the face. “That means there are more of them, aren’t there?” She remains quiet, keeping her green eyes to the floor. “ARE THERE MORE LETTERS FROM HIM OR NOT? AM I INSANE FOR THINKING THIS AT ALL, AUNT HIL?” I yell, practically screaming at her, wishing, praying that she’d just answer the damn question and be honest with me.

  “There is, Joey,” Hilary yells back to me, with less ferocity, but the bite still stings and I take a step back, knocking the chair into the table. “Does that make you happy to hear?” My aunt stands up. “He’s been writing you since the moment he was convicted, Joey.” She shrugs her shoulders

  “Why have you been keeping them from me?” I ask quietly, still angry with my aunt.

  “Because I wasn’t going to open them, I didn’t know what the hell he was writing to you, and you don’t need to hear from him, Joey,” she explains, counting things on her fingers. She then starts to rip up the letter. “You never needed to know about them. Not a single one. And I’ll be damned if I see him sink his claws into you through these letter like he did to your mother.”

  I watch her throw the shreds of his words into the garbage can, attempting to erase that one blemish from my already disfigured and bespeckled life. I don’t want her to toss them away. Actually, I’m not sure what I want, I just want to option to decide for myself like the adult she’s raising me to be.

  “Why are Grandma and Grandpa sending them here if I don’t need to know about them?” I ask, neglecting to call my grandparents by their respective nicknames.

  “I don’t know, Joey,” she answers, exhausted. My aunt turns to me and drops her arms down to her sides with a slap. “I’ve never asked them to stop. I wanted to, I just never brought myself to do it.”

  “And you’ve been keeping this from me for what? Eight years?” I ask, shocked. “It’s something I needed to know. It’s something I deserved to know.”

  “You didn’t need to know anything about it, Joey, nothing, not a thing, damn it.”

  “Are you kidding me, Aunt Hil?” My tone shocks her. “He’s my father.” That shocks her more, and she recoils like I just punched her in the stomach. “I can’t believe this,” I say to myself, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair at the table.

  “What are you doing?” Hilary asks, fear in her voice as she follows closely behind me. “Where are you going?”

  “GOING FOR A WALK,” I yell. “GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT?” I scream before I slam the door, knowing that the entire block can hear me throw my temper tantrum, and start down the street like a woman on a mission.

  I lift up the hood on my jacket, shove my hands deep into my pockets, and walk quickly to the neighborhood park at the end of the street. My iPod, thankfully, is s
till in my pocket so I turn it on, jamming the buds into my ears as I let Corey Taylor scream the lyrics of People = Shit into my ears. It seems like an appropriate song choice to me right now.

  I make it to the park—big shocker since I’m only a block away—and lo and behold, it’s completely empty and devoid of life. Just like I thought it would be. The sky is darkening in that beautiful gray sky shadow that only happens when rain is on the horizon and no one that was not up to any trouble would still want to be at the park. So I take refuge on the large rock near the basketball courts and parking lot, cranking up the volume on my iPod to drown out the silence of the night. It’s a horrible thing to do when you’re alone in a park at night but a rats ass, I do not give.

  Not gracefully anyway.

  Ten minutes of angry metal pass before I see the pinprick of a light enter the park on the other side of the field. It bounces around, the person commanding it deciding which direction they wish to head. If they’re looking for me, whom I suspect he is, both forks in the path lead him to me.

  Great. Just great.

  Not what I needed at all right now.

  I just want to be alone.

  The person holding the flashlight follows the path on the left, taking the short cut to my location, until they see me sitting on the giant rock, flashing the bright light in my face. They walk up, the form growing larger and taller, and I already know who it is.

  Zephyr.

  He jumps onto the rock next to me, tucking his hands into his pocket after he sets the flashlight in his lap, the light illuminating a tree in front of us. He doesn’t look at me, he doesn’t say anything, he only clicks off the tiny flashlight and slides it into his pants pocket. Now we’re encased in darkness, nothing but us and wind.

  After a few moments of Slipknot blaring in my head and Zephyr not trying to communicate with me, I tug a bud from my right ear and ask, “Aunt Hil send you to find me?”