Perfect Ten

by L. Philips

  He shakes his head again, and I almost wish for his anger back, because it’s better than the awful, torturous hurt in his eyes. “Really? So you haven’t seen him again since we’ve been official?”

  I hesitate again, and it’s just long enough that he knows the truth, even if I tried to lie. I confess. “Once. He had a party.”

  “And?”

  I hate myself, genuinely hate myself, because the next words I have to say are really going to hurt him.

  “He kissed me.”

  Jamie nods, like it’s no surprise that I’m the world’s biggest asshole. “And I’m sure you didn’t kiss back, right?”

  I don’t answer that. I don’t need to. Then he points to the door. “Get out.”

  I hear myself beg, “Don’t. Everything with Travis is over. Please believe me.”

  “Why should I believe anything you say?” Jamie asks, then does something that is far worse than his anger, far worse than his crying. He walks around me to the phoenix’s canvas and stares at it. Then he reaches for a brush on the table to his right, and it’s covered with black, oozing paint.

  “No!” I say, horrified. He pauses, the brush in midair. “I’m sorry about Travis, but don’t break up with me. I was just stupid. It’s you, okay? Only you.”

  It occurs to me in that moment how much I sound like Gus, and I’m even more disgusted with myself, if that’s even possible.

  Jamie bites his lip and shakes his head, then pushes the brush against the canvas like he wants to cut it, push through and lacerate the thin material until it’s nothing more than shreds.

  “Please leave.”

  His words come out weak, strangled, barely spoken. He continues to slash the brush across the canvas, though, spelling out all the anger he can’t voice.

  I reach out and place my hand over his and the brush stops its massacre.

  “Don’t,” I say. I know he’s right and I know I’m wrong and there’s nothing I can do now but beg and pray and hope he’ll forgive me, but I can’t let him do this. “Don’t ruin any more, Jamie. I’m not worth it.”

  “I know,” he says, and even though I deserve it, even though I agree, that goes straight to my heart like a knife.

  I walk toward the door, but before I leave, I turn to look at him. He hasn’t moved. His hand is still poised over the canvas, a horrified look on his face as if he’s just realized what he did to his beautiful artwork.

  “I’m really sorry I hurt you,” I say, and he drops the brush into the cup of paint and buries his head in his hands.

  I leave him then, and walk numbly back in the direction of the cafeteria. I’m seconds away from crying, from screaming, from beating my fists against the wall in hopeless rage, so I walk faster. I have to get out. I have to get far away from this stupid school and let it go. Scream and cry and hit something hard.

  “Sam,” says a voice from behind me, and I barely acknowledge that it’s Landon. I hear him jog to catch up to me and he plants himself in front of me, unmoving. “Hey, what’s wrong? What happened? Meg’s still angry?”

  Tears are coming, threatening and blazing hot, and I shake my head at them, or maybe at Landon. “Jamie . . . found out about Travis . . .”

  “Oh.” I hear Landon’s pity and his concern ringing through his voice, and his arms wrap around me for a hug.

  “No, don’t. You hug me now and I will lose it. I’ll lose it in front of the whole school and I can’t lose it in front of the whole school. I can’t . . .”

  Landon immediately lets me go and I can feel his eyes on me, even if I’m staring at the ground and trying to hold in my tears. “What can I do?”

  “Can I have your car?”

  He pauses, thinking. “Can I drive you somewhere? I don’t think you should drive like this. Not with this snow.”

  “Please, Landon.”

  He hesitates for another minute before digging into his pocket and pulling out his car keys. “If I don’t hear from you within an hour, I’m going to send out a search party. And I’m going to call your mother. Please, Sam. Drive carefully, okay? Don’t go too fast. And don’t take any of those damn back roads. Stay on straight stretches of highway, please?”

  I promise him I will, take the keys, and run out the door of the school. Within minutes I’m flying down the highway, the windows rolled down even though it’s the middle of December, the radio blasting indie rock anger as loud as I can push it. I don’t stick to my promise. After a few miles on the highway I pull off onto a country road, and after a couple more miles I pull off the road completely, under an old rusted train overpass.

  When I was a child, maybe six or seven years old, my mom and I had taken this country road out to an Amish farm, where we’d picked our own strawberries and grapes, paying for them by the bushel. But on the way home, a deer had run out in front of our car, and even though Mom had slammed on the brakes, she’d hit it, full on. It fell right in front of us, right underneath this old overpass, and we both climbed out of the car, ignoring the huge dent it had made in our old brown Volvo, to lay a comforting hand on its broken body as it breathed its last breath. Mom and I both cried after that, holding each other for what seemed like hours, mourning the loss of something so beautiful and innocent. It seems like an appropriate place to stop today.

  I get out and sit on the hood of Landon’s Honda and let myself cry until I’m dry. Then I get up, wipe my face clean, and start the car. I don’t take it back to the school, which would have been convenient for Landon, but I’m not exactly thinking about his needs. I’m not thinking too clearly at all. I park it in front of my house, go inside, and crawl into bed. My dad is in New York, and Mom won’t be home for hours yet, and I’m exhausted.

  I fall into a shallow sort of sleep, and when I wake it’s dark outside and the car is gone, so Landon must have walked over to pick it up. And he must have said something to my mom because they let me sleep and don’t knock on the door. I catch my mother, sometime after midnight, peeking in to check on me. I pretend to be asleep as she wanders up to my bed and kisses my forehead softly, like she used to do when I was little. She doesn’t wake me in the morning either, and I spend the day in a bed surrounded by presents meant for Jamie, meant for my boyfriend, constant reminders of what I’ve lost.

  Fifteen

  I wake up to my mother’s voice, which sounds far too bright for the gloomy winter’s day outside. Of course I can only assume it’s gloomy. I haven’t been outside lately, much less even walked to the window. But the light coming through my pulled blinds is dim at best, and even under my down comforter I feel a little chilly.

  It’s been a couple of days, maybe three, since Jamie broke up with me. I’ve been sleeping so much it’s hard to tell, to be honest. Mom comes in from time to time to offer food or attempt to get me moving. Dad came in when he got back from New York to say hello and drop off a few books his editor recommended for me. For the most part, though, my parents have left me alone to wallow in self-pity. And I am having a spectacular wallow. All I can think about when I’m conscious is the look in Jamie’s eyes as he told me to get out, so filled with dark contempt, and it’s only made worse by the slow, torturous reckoning that I’m never going to kiss him again and I don’t deserve to.

  My mom’s voice drifts through the door again like chiming bells, and it dawns on me that she’s not talking to me, or my father for that matter. Then I hear Landon’s soft laugh and I put two and two together. Before I can even think about getting out of bed to put on a fresh shirt or brush my teeth, Landon cracks the door open, just wide enough to fit his head through, and gives me a weak smile.

  “Am I allowed in?”

  I almost consider saying no. I haven’t been out of this bed for possibly three days and I must look (and smell) like crap.

  “I’m gross,” I say in lieu of a protest.

  “I know. I can smell you from here.
” Landon’s grin is warm and so welcoming that I can’t resist smiling back. He sets a large cardboard box on the floor as he enters. He leaves the door ajar, remembering my mother’s rules about having boys in my room, even though it’s been years since that mattered with us. “How are you?”

  I sit up and Landon takes a seat next to me. “Hurting,” I say, even though that one word can’t possibly cover the anguish that’s made itself at home in my chest since Jamie said those painful words.

  “Gina said you haven’t been out of bed in a few days. She’s worried.” He reaches over and seeks out my hand on top of my comforter and rubs his thumb along my knuckles. “Me too.”

  “Did she ask you to come over?”

  “Nah. I figured it had been long enough that you might be ready for a friend now.” Landon shrugs and swoops his thumb over my knuckles again.

  I watch his thumb move. “And Meg?”

  “Meg will be over tomorrow.”

  “She’s not mad anymore?”

  Landon makes a face. “I wouldn’t say that, but she’s not pissed enough to stay away while you’re doing the breakup hermit thing. She really did want to come over but her parents won’t let her out of the house. They have to go to Christmas Eve Mass or something, although I’m pretty sure that’s not for hours yet.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve?” I ask, and the realization that it has indeed been three days sobers me a little, brings a tingle to the edges where it had felt so numb.

  “Yep. Very important day for Santa Claus. And apparently Catholics.”

  “Far too holy of a day for Meg to soil herself with the likes of us,” I say, and chuckle. My throat feels rusty with it.

  “Precisely. Can’t go gallivanting about with us heathens on high holy days. Pretty sure that’s grounds for excommunication.” He laughs with me, and it feels so good to hear that sound. Then, after a long pause, Landon says, “Were you in love with him?”

  I pause before answering. “It hurts like I was.”

  “Close enough, maybe?” Landon offers.

  I use one of my father’s favorite sayings. “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  “And sometimes carpentry,” Landon adds, and then gives me a smile that barely turns up the corners of his mouth. “And love, perhaps.”

  “He was kind of wonderful, you know?” Despair colors the edges of my voice dark. “Everything I wanted.”

  Landon leans away from me and fidgets with his clothes, first smoothing a wrinkle in his dark jeans, then tugging down the hem of his gray sweater. “He did seem to be your Perfect Ten.”

  “So why did I screw up?”

  “I don’t know.” Landon’s pale gray-blue eyes are warm, sweet, almost prettier than normal. At least I think so. It’s been a long time since I really looked closely at his eyes. It’s really been a long time since I’ve pulled my head out of my ass and really looked at anything, to be honest.

  “I was being an asshole.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe two really hot guys both wanted you and you had trouble deciding between them.” Landon shrugs. “Which isn’t an asshole move. Maybe a horny teenage boy move, but not an asshole move.”

  I chuckle because there’s a lot of truth to that, but then I sober again. “I made that stupid list, though. I know what I want. Or at least I thought I did. And then I basically did to Jamie what Gus did to me. What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with you, Sam.”

  “I lied to Jamie.”

  Landon nods. “Yeah. But he should have given you another chance.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, incredulous. “Would you have given me another chance if I’d cheated on you?”

  “Yes,” Landon answers without hesitation. “Because I was so stupid in love with you. But also because you’re awesome. You’re a Perfect Ten. Jamie should have realized that.”

  I stare at him, taken aback and flattered. I shake my head at him. “You’re just as delusional as Meg. No wonder you took her side the other day.”

  “I didn’t take her side. I just understand.” Landon shrugs like it’s no big deal, what he just said, but he’s blushing. The blush deepens as he adds, “For what it’s worth, I think Jamie should have fought for you. A real Perfect Ten would have.”

  I consider that. Landon might be right; a real Perfect Ten might have given me another chance. Then again, would I have even noticed Travis if Jamie was really the Perfect Ten?

  The whole thing makes my head hurt on top of an already hurting heart, and I rub at my temples.

  “I want a break,” I blurt, and Landon raises a brow at me. “I don’t want to think about that stupid list for a while because I’ve got no clue what I want, or what I don’t want, or whether he measures up or not, or whether he should have given me a second chance, blah blah blah. I just don’t know anymore. All I know is that I hurt Jamie. And I miss him. And this whole thing sucks and it’s really kind of sucked since I first started it, with Gus and Travis and Jamie and ugh! I don’t want to do this anymore. It hurts.”

  Landon nods and I can tell he understands. “Okay, then. Take a break. Be single for a while. Are you hungry?”

  It’s kind of whiplash-inducing, but I’ve always been thankful for Landon’s no-nonsense approach. He just accepts things and rolls with it.

  “Starving,” I reply. I’ve eaten sandwiches and other things my mother has brought me, but not anything substantial enough for a growing boy.

  Landon nods. “Okay. Why don’t you shower and I’ll go find food? Then after you eat we can watch bad TV all day long.”

  “Sounds great,” I say, and it does. I throw the covers off of myself and stand, stretching. “What’s up with the cardboard box?”

  “Oh,” Landon says, and shrugs. “I figured I’d box up all this stuff you were going to give to Jamie for Christmas and, uh, dispose of it.”

  I sniff, amused. “Gonna burn it in some Wiccan ritual?”

  Landon covers his mouth because an irreverent snicker escapes his lips. “I was just going to give it to the Salvation Army. But maybe a ritual burning is more fitting?”

  I shake my head. “Nah. Good karma might undo this stupid spell more than burning paintbrushes, and goodness knows we need to end it.”

  Landon gets up and sets the box on the bed, eyeing it once before squinting at me. “You sound like you believe the spell worked.”

  “I’m not saying it worked, but don’t you think it’s a little fishy that three impossibly gorgeous boys mysteriously came out of the woodwork after that?” I can tell Landon’s trying to hold back a laugh and I roll my eyes. “What? All I’m saying is that maybe Meg doing some sort of spell to end it doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me. Just in case.”

  Landon snorts and then orders me to go shower. I take a long time, standing under the water until my muscles relax completely and my skin is all wrinkled up. I even shave. When I get out, I dress for comfort—wool socks, flannel pajama pants, and an old Denison sweatshirt of my dad’s. The box is gone, along with all of Jamie’s presents, and I follow the sound of laughter to the kitchen, where Landon and my mom are putting together plates of food. I sit on a stool at the counter.

  Mom winks at me. “Good to see you’ve rejoined the living.”

  “Nursing a broken heart takes time,” Landon says.

  Mom hums. “Yes, but even the most heartbroken of all of us need to eat on occasion. And shower.”

  Landon snorts at my mom and shoves a plate across the counter for me. It’s my favorite—chunky peanut butter and homemade strawberry jam, with the crusts cut off like I loved when I was a kid. I’m almost positive it was my mother who cut the crusts off, but if it was Landon I wouldn’t have been surprised. There’s a healthy dose of potato chips and sliced apples on my plate too, sprinkled with salt, and I truly do feel like a kid again. A kid who needs some
one to take care of him and cut off his crusts. But it feels wonderful, not insulting, and warmth spreads through me, taking away the chill that’s been settled in my bones for days.

  “I seem to remember seeing something about a Star Trek marathon on the sci-fi network,” I say casually, and accept the glass of milk my mom hands to me. I catch Landon’s eye. “If you’d like to watch that, I could go for it. But I know you hate Star Trek, so it’s okay if you don’t.”

  “I don’t hate it, I just don’t worship it like you do.”

  “It is completely deserving of worship, I’ll have you know,” I argue around a mouthful of peanut butter. “Whole languages were invented because of that show.”

  “Oh yeah, and I’m sure Klingon is extremely useful in the real world.”

  “We both study a dead language and you want to argue with me about usefulness?”

  “Touché.” Landon swipes a chip off my plate, even though there’s still a pile on his, just to feel like he’s winning something, I’m sure. “Star Trek it is. Anything is better than Sixteen Candles for the millionth time.”

  “We can watch Labyrinth after,” I offer. “And maybe The NeverEnding Story.”

  “Ha! We’d need a full week of my favorites just to make it even.”

  I nod and then say, with as much gratefulness and pride-swallowing as I can muster, “Then consider it a thank-you.”

  Landon, to my surprise, flushes and glances at my mother for a second before shrugging it off. Then he says simply, “I’m sorry he hurt you, Sam.”

  I don’t miss the quick hug my mother gives to Landon before we make our way back to my room. I don’t miss her whispering her own words of thanks into his ear either. On any other day, I might be upset that they’ve obviously been talking about me and planning things behind my back, but today I’m just grateful.

  Two hours later, while Commander Riker and Deanna Troi are having one of their exciting moments of sexual tension, Landon lies down beside me, his head in my lap, and for a second it feels like we’re back in freshman year, hanging out like we used to do. Together. I comb through his hair with my fingers, smiling when he keens like a cat against me.