Flawless, a Claire Fontaine novella

by Tanpepper, Saul

  The boy smiled. “It’s Trevor James, actually.”

  “Huh?”

  She blinked, came partway back to her senses. What the hell was she doing? Here she was, the hottest girl in school talking to what was obviously the school’s newest and hottest guy and she had never been at a loss for words before, but the best she could come up with was huh?

  “You said James Trevor, but it’s actually the other way around.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded.

  Claire’s hands flew to her mouth. Oh god! She was the one who’d said his name. And—stupid!—she’d said it backwards, too! And now he knew that she knew who he was, though he still didn’t know who she was, or that she was the leader of the most powerful group in school, and he probably thought she was an idiot for screwing up his name and it was all Heather’s fault for singing that stupid chirpy song so that she’d gotten all confused and—

  But, damn, he really was extremely hot! Not dorky or ugly at all. And he didn’t seem like a jerk. No, not a jerk at all. Definitely not a waste of space. She tried to smile up at him, though she had to resist this urge to run around and grab people by the arms and force them to profess how hot and awesome he was.

  “Two first names,” he said, somehow shaking his head and nodding all at the same time, which Claire immediately decided had to be the most totally cutest thing she had ever seen. “Yeah, it’s such a hassle. Sometimes even I forget which goes first.” He smiled again, flashing those impossibly white teeth.

  “Hech-h-h,” Claire sputtered.

  “Here,” he said, offering his froyo. His smile never even faltered, though Claire could sense concern in his eyes, concern for her. Or maybe it was amusement. It didn’t matter. She took the proffered cup.

  Trevor unshouldered his backpack, unzipped it, reached inside. By the time he’d pulled out what he was looking for—a water bottle—Claire had already stuck a spoonful of his mango froyo into her mouth, was relishing its impossible coldness and the flavors that seemed to explode on her tongue as if she’d spent her entire life up until that moment eating absolutely nothing but the blandest of foods.

  Trevor gave her a strange little smile. “Um…sure. I guess that’ll work, too.”

  And now, as understanding washed over Claire, she really did start choking: he’d only meant for her to hold his froyo while he got her something to drink because he’d thought she was choking, though she really hadn’t been, except now she was.

  She could feel her throat contracting and her vision going all tunnel on her and she probably would have fainted if he had done anything except the thing he ended up doing, which was to gently extract his virgin froyo from her lifeless fingers, and smile somewhat sympathetically and say, “You can keep the spoon. I’ll just get another one from the bowl.”

  She blinked, said “Hech” one more time, but by then he had already left.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  “Oh! My! God!” April was squealing. “Did you see how hot he is?”

  “No,” Claire grumbled beneath her breath, as the three of them walked home—her, April and Heather. Of course she’d seen how hot he was. But he wasn’t just hot, and that’s what was troubling her now. It was like a spell had fallen over her, but had now been broken. She realized that Trevor hadn’t just been good-looking. There had been something else about him. What had happened in there had been almost…supernatural.

  “Not just hot,” April joked, “but also very cool.”

  Claire winced at April’s clever irony, but there was something she knew about Trevor that the others didn’t: in that flash of a moment when he took his froyo back, their hands had touched, and she’d felt him, had known him. His fingers had been cool, deliriously so, like a refreshing dip in a swimming pool on a hot summer day. No, not a pool, but a river, an alpine river madly rushing wild with fresh snowmelt, full of terrifying energy and forcing her beneath its surface, drowning her. She’d give anything to feel that again; she’d submit herself to its pull, knowing she would not live, just to feel his touch again.

  She shook the thought from her head.

  Crazy!

  “I think he likes you,” Heather said, sounding a lot like the Heather after the funeral and nothing at all like the Heather from before.

  “Ya think?” April squealed.

  “He was just being nice,” Claire said. She felt a twinge of guilt, though she couldn’t exactly understand why.

  “Right, Claire. That’s why he totally couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Of course he couldn’t!” she snapped. “Nobody could. I was choking! God, I’m so embarrassed.”

  She kept her head down and walked, her face a storm of emotions—burning shame, burning desire, guilt—her mind reliving every moment of the encounter over and over again. All—what?—fifty seconds of it? It felt like it had lasted hours. And now it felt like a lifetime had passed since then.

  After he’d left, while everyone was still distracted by his leaving, Claire had quietly slipped out of the booth. She’d mumbled to Dee that she needed to go the bathroom. In truth, she had started feeling a little nauseous. It felt almost like she was hung over.

  Wouldn’t it be just perfect if you started puking in front of everyone?

  Oh yeah. What a perfect way to top off the humiliation she’d brought on herself in there.

  After splashing some cold water on her face, she began to feel a little better. She lifted her head and panted as she studied her face in the mirror, watching the water run off her flawless skin in rivulets, down her cheeks and past her luscious lips, off her chin. She’d always found solace in this, looking at herself in the mirror. It calmed her, grounded her. She had never before seen anyone she’d rather look at than herself.

  “Clarabelle?”

  Dee. Behind her, calling her by her pet name. Claire hadn’t heard her come into the bathroom.

  “You okay, honey?”

  Claire pushed herself away from the sink and nodded at Dee’s reflection in the mirror. “I’m fine, but maybe you can you explain to me what just happened in there. Because…”

  Deirdre was nodding, but the look in her eyes was far away, almost dreamy. Claire had seen that look before, though not in a very long time. Not since she and Ralph first started dating each other way back in the tenth grade. Realization washed over her, followed by a fierce defensiveness.

  “No!” she gasped, spinning around and slapping her friend lightly on the arm. “I can see it on your face, Dee. You’ve totally fallen for Trevor!”

  The look on Deirdre’s face vanished in an instant, and panic flashed over it before that, too, was gone.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Claire. I haven’t fallen for anyone. I’m in love with Ralphie, you know that.”

  “No way. I know that look. You are totally smitten.”

  “Seriously, Claire? Smitten? I mean, really, who even uses that word anymore? Except maybe my grandmother. But you know her. She plows through stacks of those trashy romance novels like they’re M&Ms.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Then don’t make silly accusations!”

  “So you don’t deny it?”

  “I don’t think I need to explain anything to you, Claire. But I will anyway, because that’s the kind of person I am. The only person I am smitten by—or is it smitten on?—is my Ralphie.” She paused, thoughtfully. “It is ‘smitten by,’ isn’t it?”

  “I think it’s ‘smote’ actually. And you’re still changing the subject.”

  Deirdre snorted. “Silly goose. Smote’s not even a word.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Forget smitten. You’re in lust then, lust for what you can’t have. I know that look when I see it.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” But she didn’t want Dee to answer. She tried to push herself past, but her friend wouldn’t move away from the doorway.

  “I’m not in lust with anyone, Claire,” Deirdre said, h
er voice level and low and threatening. “And don’t you even think to say otherwise. Not to me, not to anyone.”

  Claire gulped. “I was just…” She was going to say she was joking, but she knew Dee would know it for the lie it was. “I’m just thinking about you and Ralph. You guys are, like, the definition of true love. I just want you two to stay together.”

  The look in Dee’s eyes stayed hard. “Really? And what about Simone and Six? Or…?” She didn’t finish, but Claire knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “What does this have to do with them?”

  “I’ve seen you flirting with Six.”

  “Just a little harmless fun.”

  “Don’t think you can try it with Ralph. I’m not as forgiving as Heather is.”

  Claire snapped her mouth closed. She wanted to lash out at Dee, to slap that smug look off her face, but slapping was a cardinal no-no in The Five. Slapping, biting, scratching. Anything that might mar their otherwise perfect skin. Besides, Dee was right. Of all of The Five, Claire had the worst track record keeping a boyfriend. Dee and Ralph had been together for almost three years. Heather and Dennis for just over one when he died. Even Simone and Six were more on than off in their eight months together. The longest relationship Claire ever had had lasted just eleven weeks, and she had to go all the way back to the seventh grade to claim that. And every single one of her relationships had ended badly, all tears and broken hearts and embarrassing scenes.

  Okay, so none of those tears and hearts and scenes had been hers, but that was beside the point. She wasn’t a reliable source of relationship advice.

  Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. She’d had that one fling, and she’d actually begun to think maybe he had been the one. They seemed so right for each other. But then she grimaced. That relationship had ended up the messiest of them all.

  “Besides,” Dee said, her voice softening. She leaned in to whisper in Claire’s ear, even though there was no one else in the bathroom to overhear them. “I think you’re the one who’s smitten.”

  Claire started to protest, but then she stopped. Was she smitten?

  “Holy shit.”

  “What?” Heather said, almost running into her. She waved her hand in front of Claire’s face, startling her. “Hey, poopie pants.”

  Claire blinked and turned around, struggling to get her bearings. They were standing at the end of Heather’s front walk. There was her front porch with its cheerful white picket railing and its pink aluminum siding. Heather’s parents were such dorks, well known scientists, brilliant even, but apparently their smarts hadn’t extended to Heather or their taste in home décor.

  “Um,” she asked Heather, “where’s April?”

  Heather snorted. “Silly goose. We dropped her off already. Ten minutes ago, remember? Are you feeling all right? You haven’t answered any of my questions.”

  “I’m, uh… What?”

  “I said you forgot to give him his water bottle back.”

  Claire looked down at her hand and at the bottle that was still in it. Had she been carrying it all this time? Had she been…drinking it?

  She shook it. It was nearly empty.

  She distinctly remembered that it had been nearly full when Trevor had handed it to her in The Hut.

  I’ve been drinking a stranger’s water?

  But rather than disgust, a sudden thrill coursed through her body, and she smiled. She’d shared spit with the new god—guy. Well, maybe not shared, but about as close as you can get without actually doing it.

  “I think he wanted an excuse to talk to you again,” Heather said, solemnly. “I’m sure he’ll be expecting it back.”

  Claire realized it wasn’t one of those disposable bottles, but a heavy aluminum reusable one, painted black and red and plastered with skull stickers. The thing was dented and clearly abused. In between the stickers were the names of ancient bands scribbled in white nail polish: Guns and Roses, Grateful Dead, Bauhaus. Any other time, Claire would’ve said the bottle was half dorky, half skinhead, and entirely putrid. But this time, it didn’t feel like any of those things at all.

  “I’m sure he’s already forgotten about it.”

  Heather sighed. “Don’t be a silly dilly. He wants you to find him. Why else would he ‘forget’ it?”

  Claire couldn’t help but return the smile. Despite everything, she had to admit that Heather occasionally said something that made sense. Of course, Trevor had wanted her to find him.

  But how would the conversation go when she finally caught up with him in school tomorrow? Here’s your water bottle; thanks, it was skull-diggery delicious?

  She cringed. Where the hell had that come from?

  But then again, she thought, giving the bottle a second look, skull-diggery did have a certain charm to it. She set off for home, imagining how the rest of the conversation would go. Before long, she had the two of them in each other’s arms, and it was all she could do to keep walking in a straight line.

  Yes, she had plans for tomorrow. Big plans, indeed.

  ‡ ‡ ‡

  Unfortunately, nothing turned out the way she’d wanted it to, starting with her walk home.

  “Mugged?” Deirdre shrieked through the phone, after Claire told her what had happened. In fact, she was still shaking from the experience, so much so that it had taken her three tries to correctly punch in Dee’s number on the phone in her room. “Oh, honey,” her best best friend sobbed. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there for you.”

  “No,” Claire replied, tiredly. Though, secretly, she did feel as if Dee was partially to blame. If she and Simone hadn’t abandoned her for their boyfriends after they left The Hut, things might have turned out differently. “The mugger would’ve gotten you, too.”

  “What did they take? Wait, how many were there?”

  “Just one.” Claire raised her arm to her eyes to check the scratch she’d received in the scuffle. The cut had bled a little, totally ruining her favorite blouse, but it had stopped before she got home. Now it looked angry and red. The edge had puckered a bit. She felt her anger rise up inside her, resentment at what the mugger had done to her, marred her. She’d never cut herself as badly as this in the past.

  She’d cleaned it up as soon as she got home. The last thing she wanted was a nasty scar. Antibiotic, she thought. Forgot to put on antibiotic. But now, talking to Dee, she suddenly felt sooo very tired, probably from the excitement of the day, plus the hangover from the shock of being attacked. And she still had her homework to do.

  Well, screw the homework.

  “He took my wallet and cell phone,” she told Dee. She didn’t mention that the mugger had also taken Trevor’s water bottle, though she wasn’t sure why it was important that she didn’t. She found herself feeling protective of him.

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No, Dee, it was just—”

  “You should call them, file a report. You don’t want whoever did it to start calling China or someplace far away on your phone.”

  “Fine. Okay. I’ll do it as soon as I’m off the phone with you.”

  “I’m serious, Clarabelle.”

  “I said I will.” Now she really was getting irritated. “Look, I have to go.”

  The line was silent for a moment, then Deirdre said, “So, what did you think of him?”

  Of course, Claire knew immediately who she was talking about, but for some reason it just irritated her even more.

  “Who? The mugger? I actually thought he was kind of a prick. Although since I still don’t have a date to the ball, maybe I should’ve asked if he was free.” She heard Dee gasp. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then she hung up.

  The next morning, before first bell, the girls formed a tight circle around Claire and clamored for information about the mugging. It was a good diversion from what they were all thinking, which was whether she had seen Trevor James yet. Claire was glad they didn’t ask. The scratch on her arm felt like a giant neon sign annou
ncing that she was just as human as the rest of them, just as vulnerable and imperfect, and for the first time in her life, she began to feel insecure. Not much, but enough to make her doubt the absolute power she had always enjoyed over others, especially those of the opposite sex (and several of her own).

  The scratch had grown raw and tender to the touch overnight. No longer was it a faint line, but it had begun to swell somewhat around the edges. She had washed it again with soap and peroxide before going to bed. Had applied triple antibiotic ointment, too. She didn’t want it to get infected, knowing it would make things worse. But now it looked as if she hadn’t caught it soon enough.

  The thing still itched a little, hidden away beneath her long-sleeved shirt, but she tried not to let it distract her. Her fingers rubbed absently at it as she considered what she should do about Trevor and the water bottle, which she no longer had, thanks to the stupid mugger. Maybe, if she was lucky, Trevor’d just forget all about it.

  The day progressed. Each class period came and went, and yet she’d seen no sign of the new boy, neither in her classes, nor in the hallways. It was both a relief and a torment.

  Last period of the day was math. Claire peeked around the edge of the door before going in, just as she had with her other classes. But there were only the usual suspects. She found her seat in the back and waited for the bell. A few stragglers hurried in just as it started to ring, but none of them was Trevor. She started to relax.

  Her teacher, Mister Kristofferson went over to shut the door, but just as it was about to click shut, it jerked open and a body came flying through it.

  “Sorry,” Trevor said, out of breath. The class collectively sat up and sighed; a few people—those who had been at The Hut yesterday and a few who’d heard through the grapevine what had happened there—glanced over at Claire. Mister Kristofferson frowned. He was easily thrown off his stride. He accepted the late pass Trevor offered and his excuse that he’d gotten lost.