Flawless, a Claire Fontaine novella

by Tanpepper, Saul

  Flawless

  a Claire Fontaine novella

  by Saul Tanpepper

  Flawless

  a Claire Fontaine novella

  by Saul Tanpepper

  Copyright © 2011 by Saul Tanpepper

  All rights reserved.

  Published November 16, 2011 by Brinestone Press, San Martin, CA 95046 at Smashwords

  Cover design Brinestone Press Copyright © 2011

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://www.brinestonepress.com

  Tanpepper, Saul (2011-11-16). Flawless

  Brinestone Press Electronic Edition

  Flawless is a selected title from Zombies in Bermuda Shorts and Other Atrocities: A Grab Bag of Horror and Humor for Young Adults

  (release Jan 2012)

  For more information about this and other titles by this author:

  http://www.tanpepperwrites.com

  FLAWLESS

  Was it really such a bad thing if, despite all the years that Claire Fontaine had been friends with Heather Graham, she’d never actually paid attention to the girl? The truth was, Heather was the kind of person who… Well, to put it delicately, she was one of those girls you could take only in very small doses.

  Indelicately, the girl was a complete motormouth, except she was perpetually running on idle, never actually going anywhere, just spewing exhaust. The guys liked her, though. “Heaven on the eyes,” they’d always say, “but hell on the ears.” And Claire couldn’t disagree.

  But it wasn’t her ears she was worried about, it was her sanity. Heather was so totally unaware of the effect she had on people that many ran away if they saw her coming. Without the ability to block her out, a person might be driven to do something horrible. Murder, for example. In fact, the thought might have crossed Claire’s mind if she hadn’t figured out a way to ignore Heather early on in their relationship. It was only because of that that they’d managed to stay such good friends over the years, even, at time, best friends.

  Currently, they weren’t best best friends. For the past year or so, that position had been occupied by Deirdre de Havilland. Still, third best friends was pretty good, all things considered. And no one was complaining, least of all Heather. Plus, everyone got to keep their sanity. It was a win-win situation all around. Ignoring the girl was proof of how much Claire actually cared for her.

  But then, everything got all mixed up and turned around starting—what?—two, three weeks ago?

  Four, actually, Claire reminded herself, counting backwards. It had been almost a month since Heather had suddenly stopped being so obnoxiously sweet and chirpy. A month! Funny how time flies. Imagine, almost four weeks since Dennis’s funeral, four weeks since Heather had had that scary episode during the memorial service. And it had been scary. Anyway, it was right about then that Claire had decided she’d better start paying attention again, if only so then she’d know exactly when it was that Heather had finally completely flipped her lid.

  She remembered sitting in the church that day, wishing unsuccessfully that the Giffords would stop making such a racket, not that the organ music was any better. But it was so undignified, wailing like that. They had another son, for chrissake, who was sitting right there and probably wondering if his folks had forgotten all about him. Claire had tried blocking out their sobs, but they hadn’t been so easy to ignore as Heather’s jabbering was. After an hour and half of it, she was starting to get one of those tension headaches. She hated the way the wails echoed around inside the sanctuary, multiplying until the whole place seemed to shake. The way they’d suddenly rise up above the organ’s plaintive wheezes, startling all the mourners out of their naps; the way they’d sink away again so that you couldn’t do anything but sit there anticipating when the next one would come. For some strange reason, it made Claire think of the Loch Ness Monster calling out to its mate, all mournful and echoey. In fact, when you added in the chant-like drone of the ancient priest leading the service, the whole thing took on a distinctly druidic overtone. A person just couldn’t relax and enjoy the scenery with all that going on.

  And, really, what the hell was up with that priest, anyway? The guy had to be all of a hundred and ten—both in years and in pounds. And he just kept going on and on and on in that listless voice of his. Weird. Honestly. Dennis had been only seventeen when he died, not a hundred and seventeen. It wasn’t like he’d done all this fabulous stuff in his short, uneventful life, nothing remarkable enough to talk much about in public, anyway. Twenty minutes tops, that’s how long the service should have lasted. Not the hour and a half that it did.

  Claire was really beginning to resent sitting there. She didn’t mind at first, but then she started getting the creeps. The place was spookier than a freaking tomb. Not quite as bad as Tasselbaum’s third period Econ class, but close. Talk about freaks. Tasselbaum was a nightmare, with his glass eye and that huge mole-thing on his neck. Actually the glass eye was just a rumor, but the mole was almost certainly the shriveled up stump of a second head.

  She remembered how the ancient preacher lifted his crooked face and looked out over the congregation, peering over that sharp nose of his, his eyes locking on the pews where she and the rest of Dennis’s friends were sitting. Those piercing black eyes that seemed to know everything, and not just because people confessed their deepest, darkest secrets to him, either, like who was doing whom and who wasn’t, who had sinful thoughts and what sorts of thoughts they were. Of course the guy was going to be all twisted and bitter-looking; he was the only one in Edgemont not having any fun.

  He’d asked if there was anyone who wanted to say anything before the closing prayer. Nobody moved. He stared harder at the girls and boys who had been Dennis’s friends, and waited.

  And waited.

  No freaking way, Claire thought. She wasn’t going to make a fool of herself pretending to blubber in front of all these people. Not a chance. Dennis had been a good guy—good looking and smart, too. Not to mention a pretty good—

  She pinched herself. Lightly. It wouldn’t do to leave a mark on her flawless skin. She even silently chastised herself for thinking unholy thoughts in a church. Not that she was the religious type, but it was his funeral, after all. Nevertheless, it didn’t change the fact that Dennis hadn’t been that good in life, not enough to deserve being honored as such in death. Certainly not enough for her to make a fool of herself.

  She averted her eyes from that vulturine face hanging over the altar and fanned herself with the memorial pamphlet…or program…or whatever it was called. The picture of Dennis on the front didn’t him justice. It was almost certainly from last fall, before puberty had finished turning him into a stud. What a waste.

  The church had grown unbearably hot and stuffy in the last ha
lf hour. Apparently churches weren’t allowed to have air conditioners or anything that might lessen one’s suffering. Claire wasn’t into suffering, least of all sweating. Not unless it was at the community pool and there were a lot of guys to notice how the sweat glistened on her skin. Her flawless skin. But right now she was sweating a lot more than she preferred, and it was all underneath her clothes and making her itch in places she didn’t want to be thinking about right now. She just wanted the service to end so she could get the hell out of there. She and Simone were going to hook up later, and Claire was dying to try out that new Ronnie Marx two-piece bikini she’d picked up at DiMarco’s downtown. But here it was almost three o’clock and time was flying. Dennis was dead already, for chrissake! He wasn’t getting any deader. It was time for everyone to move on with their lives.

  “Will nobody say a word for our fallen brother?” the priest said, his voice carrying no inflection at all. He sounded like a Ben Stein Clear Eyes commercial.

  Claire heard the creak of the pew as somebody got up. She slid her eyes to the right and saw Heather scootching past April’s knees, making for the aisle. A rustling of whispers came from the direction of the boys sitting two rows over, the ones who had been ogling the girls in their formal black dresses—which, by the way, Claire had carefully selected three days earlier, and which also happened to be doing a fantastic job of showing off as much cleavage as possible while still being acceptably respectable. Make that cleavage and thigh. The boys were definitely enjoying the view of Heather, which, after all, was exactly the point.

  Claire thought that maybe Heather was getting up because she was feeling sick. She had every right to be, having been Dennis’s girlfriend, even right up until the very bitter end. And what a horribly bitter end it had been. But Heather didn’t look at all like she was going to be sick. In fact, she had this determined look on her face, resolute and confident. It wasn’t something you ever expected to see on her. You expected blissful stupidity. You expected cheerful emptiness. You didn’t expect seriousness, and you certainly didn’t expect to hear what would soon be coming out of her mouth.

  But serious is how Heather looked as she turned and marched toward the front of the church, and Claire suddenly got this awful feeling in the pit of her stomach, an augur of something horrible about to happen. Heather was about to subject over three hundred of Edgemont’s residents to yet another of her craptastically mind-numbing speeches.

  Many of the other mourners knew it, too; they were beginning to shift uncomfortably in their seats and murmur among themselves. The low rumbling chatter began to spread throughout the church, starting with the Gifford clan across the aisle and passing from pew to pew like a deadly contagion. There was at least one clearly audible groan before somebody shushed loudly and angrily, and everyone fell silent again.

  Claire looked questioningly at Deirdre, who was sitting next to her, and Dee returned the look with a shrug. Claire checked her watch, sighed. So much for getting in a little tanning time. Out of respect for the dead, she supposed she should listen to what Heather had to say. Five minutes. But as soon as she detected any nonsense, she was going to zone out.

  Heather cleared her throat. “I just want everyone to know,” she mumbled. Everyone leaned forward to hear her better. She dropped her mouth closer to the microphone. “I just want people to know that Dennis’s death wasn’t a random accident.”

  There was a gasp, and someone on the other side of the sanctuary shouted, “What did she say?”

  Heather repeated it, louder this time.

  There was a sudden disturbance near the back, some muffled words and, a moment later, the sound of the church’s massive door opening and closing with a loud boom. Claire turned around in her seat, along with the rest of the congregation, but from where she was sitting, she couldn’t see a thing. Later, at school, she heard a rumor that the owner of Pongo’s Pizza had left right then, and he sure seemed to be in a hell of a hurry. But of course Claire didn’t know this at the time.

  People were muttering with their neighbors. “What could she mean?” “It was nobody’s fault.” “He was such a lovely boy, and he didn’t deserve what happened to him. But it wasn’t like anyone wanted him dead.”

  Dennis lovely? Well, he was that, Claire thought. Although he hadn’t always been so lovely. Puberty had treated him well, taking someone who had been a total geekwad before, a skinny kid who’d spent way too much time at the skate park, and turning him into one of the school’s hottest-looking guys.

  She turned back to the front to find Heather’s eyes pinned right on her. Well, not her specifically, but in her general direction. She could’ve been staring at Dee or Simone, or just off into space, which she often did. Even so, Claire felt a little worm of anxiety squiggle its way through her perfectly flat belly. Maybe the poor girl was having some sort of emotional breakdown. She sure hoped not; it wasn’t good for appearances to be seen hanging out with a nutcase. Airheads she could tolerate, but not the crazies.

  “Dennis was killed,” Heather shouted into the microphone. “Somebody did want him dead!”

  Another round of gasps.

  The priest was getting restless. He was standing behind Heather in the shadows, gesturing frantically off to one side with his bony hands, but of course nobody was paying any attention to him. Everyone’s eyes were riveted to Heather. Whether or not everyone was listening to her was another question, but everyone was definitely looking.

  “I’ll find the person responsible for doing this to him!” she went on. “They’ll be made to answer for their cri—”

  The microphone gave a loud POP! and the electrical sizzle that followed swallowed the rest of Heather’s words. The priest took the opportunity to hurry her back to her seat. By the time he’d returned to give the closing remarks, the microphone was working again. Praise god, halleluiah, thought Claire. It was a miracle: he hadn’t asked for anymore testimonials, and the service finally ended.

  But whatever had possessed Heather that day in the church, she’d apparently gotten it out of her system. She didn’t bring up her ridiculous charge again. Instead, she’d entered into a period of respectful mourning, which, for Heather, meant suppressing her excessive chirpiness. She acted almost normal. Well, close enough to pass muster, anyway. She was more serious, quieter, more thoughtful. The things she said, when she did speak, actually made sense. Usually. But most importantly, Heather didn’t forget her obligations as one of the school’s hottest girls. It would have broken Claire’s heart to lose such a good friend.

  But now here she was, almost four weeks after the funeral and apparently she was done mourning. Nobody had told Claire, but it was obvious. The old Heather was back, and with a vengeance, too. Which was too bad, since Dennis’s death had really brought out the best in the girl.

  At the moment, Heather was caroming down the crowded school hallway, going blissfully on and on about some new boy who’d just arrived that day. Claire could hear Heather talking about how he had “like, two totally first names,” as if a meaningless fact like that actually mattered to anyone. Well, it did, but only to people who lived in Heatherland.

  “And he’s sooo cute!” she squealed, which was rather ironic, given Heather’s past. She usually had terrible taste when it came to guys. They tended, with only one exception, to be on the plainish side. And they had all—without exception—been interested in Heather for only one thing: sex. But that wasn’t so surprising. What else could boys possibly see in a girl who believed corndogs were the result of some crazy cloning experiment gone wrong? In fact, if Claire didn’t know any better—and she didn’t, because she hadn’t actually personally met the new boy yet—she’d bet he was probably a complete jerk, or a dork, or a waste of space. Or—god help us all—ugly.

  Did Heather really think anyone could replace Dennis so soon? He’d been her one exception in the looks department. At least until he got sick and all his prettiness went away. Then all he’d become was this…this horrible disg
usting creature.

  Ugh! Claire refused to think about it.

  She sighed and wrapped her arm around Deirdre’s elbow and, together, they threaded their way through the crowd to the front door. She tried to focus on the positive: another school day was now behind them and they were one more day closer to graduation. When they got close to the front door, they had to slow down for the crush before stepping out into the bright sunlight. As soon as they did, Heather pounced.

  “Isn’t he just, like, so totally awesome, guys?” she squealed. “Say he is!”

  “Who?” Claire asked, pretending ignorance.

  Heather twirled in front of Claire, stopped, grabbed her arms just above the elbows. The grip was so tight that it took Claire by surprise. She couldn’t help wondering if Heather had been secretly working out, despite the fact that it was highly discouraged. Club rules. Strong was not sexy. Guys didn’t like girls who could kick ass, especially theirs.

  “The new boy, you silly dilly.”

  Claire shifted awkwardly. Her arms were beginning to ache now, and she worried that there’d be marks in the morning. As for what Heather was asking, she didn’t know what to say—she couldn’t even remember what the question had been to begin with. Something about the new guy, she knew. But what?

  Not that it mattered. Heather didn’t wait around for an answer. She swirled away in her harlequin-colored cotton and chenille print dress, her naturally dark brunette hair glistening in the sunlight. She skittered off down the sidewalk with reckless abandon. For a moment, Claire had an image of fall leaves and rose petals caught up in a brisk wind.

  Ugh, wind. She hated it. She hated the things it could do to your hair.

  “He’s totally, totally gorgeous!” Heather shrieked from the other end of the schoolyard. Several people around her laughed, but, surprisingly, even more nodded solemnly, almost reverently, in agreement, as if they shared the exact same sentiment.