Perfectly Imperfect

by Kara Leigh Miller

  Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and she’s wearing the green Lakewood Valley Grocery Store vest, her name tag proudly displayed on her chest. Ugh. I forgot she works here. But I’m so anxious to get food and get home that I didn’t even think about driving across town to the only other grocery store.

  She looks at me for a long moment, and then the corner of her mouth lifts in an annoying smirk. “Skipping church today? Such a bad little Christian.” She tsks and shakes her head.

  I scowl but don’t reward her with a response. Instead, I push my cart around her. Brittany steps in my path, and I nearly hit her.

  “Move,” I say.

  She grips the sides of my cart and leans closer as if she’s trying to intimidate me. “I don’t know what games you’re playing with Grayson, but knock it off.”

  I narrow my eyes. She’s warning me to leave Grayson alone. I can’t stop from laughing. “You don’t seriously think he’s into you, do you?” I stand taller. “FYI, Brit, he was in church with me today.” Giving the cart enough of a shove so she moves, I walk away.

  “He felt sorry for you,” she calls.

  Ignoring her, I continue on my way.

  “He told me so when I talked to him earlier.”

  That makes me stop. The tips of my ears burn. Grayson is talking to Brittany outside of school? Why? He told me last night that he wouldn’t do that.

  The click of Brittany’s heeled boots echoes around me. Then, she holds her phone in front of my face. “See?”

  Despite my best efforts not to, I read the messages between her and Grayson.

  Brittany: want to hang out today?

  Grayson: can’t. i promised belle i’d go to church with her.

  Brittany: ew. why?

  Grayson: she’s having a hard time right now. she needs a friend.

  Brittany: so it’s like a pity date.

  Grayson: lol.

  Bile rises in my throat, and I shove her hand away, not caring if I knock her phone to the ground and it breaks. Tears sting my eyes as I rush to the closest checkout lane. Not only did Grayson lie about choosing me over Brittany, he’s laughing about me behind my back.

  I pile groceries onto the belt, blinking back tears, trying to get out of here as fast as possible. Behind me, Brittany is laughing, but I refuse to turn around. She’s already taken so much from me; I won’t let her take my dignity, too.

  16

  GRAYSON

  “BIG LABOR DAY PICNIC AT my house this weekend,” Vick says as I pass him in the hallway.

  I stop. “What time?”

  “One. It will probably go all day. It’s an adult thing, so you can bring your dad if you want.” He shifts his books from one hand to the other. “And you don’t have to bring anything.”

  “All right, cool. I’ll let my dad know.” The doctor still has him out of work, so I know that won’t be an issue, and he loves to socialize. It will be good for him to meet some new people—at least, that’s what he’s always telling me. “Who else is coming?”

  “I’m inviting everyone.” He drags his hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “Fair warning. Cam and Andrea will probably be there.”

  “Which means Belle probably won’t be,” I say, finishing his unspoken thought.

  Vick shrugs. “She might come if you’re going to be there.” He pats my shoulder. “Ask her, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure thing.”

  “Catch ya later.”

  I head for Spanish, excitement swirling inside of me knowing I’ll see Isabelle soon. I feel bad for how I just ran out of church, and I messaged her to apologize, but she didn’t respond. I hope she’s not too mad at me. In my defense, it’s not like she doesn’t know my history with church.

  When I walk into class, she’s already there. My pulse quickens. “Hey.”

  She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t even look at me. Whoa. She really is mad. I frown.

  “About yesterday…” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry for how I ran out of church. It was rude. But everything I went through with my old church and my mom…”

  Slowly, Isabelle turns to face me, a single brow raised. “It’s fine. I’m sorry for how Cam and everyone else treated you. I expected more from my church.”

  I slump in my chair. I never once considered how yesterday affected her. Of course, she thought her church would be more welcoming, and now that she knows they’re not, she must be struggling with that.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s not your fault.”

  Without another word, she faces the front of the room. I study her a moment before turning my attention to Señorita Guzmán. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more bothering Isabelle than what happened at church. I want to ask, but as guarded as she’s being right now, I know she won’t tell me.

  Class progresses slowly—we’re watching another video, this one about the importance of dance in the Spanish culture—and when it finally ends, I feel like I’ve just wasted several hours of my life. I gather my backpack and wait for Isabelle. We walk out of the room together, but she’s still unnaturally silent.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  She nods and makes a beeline for her locker.

  I follow.

  “Look.” She turns to face me, her back against her locker. “I’m sorry about yesterday, and I don’t expect you to ever go back there, but church is important to me, so maybe it’s best if we just stop whatever this is.”

  “What?” Where is this coming from? So, I had a bad experience at her church. That’s no reason to stop being friends—or moving toward more, which is what I really want. “Are you saying you don’t want to be friends anymore?”

  Isabelle hangs her head. “I’m saying I don’t want to waste my time with someone who doesn’t share my beliefs.”

  “So, now I’m a waste of time?” My tone is sharp, and I feel slightly bad about that, but she’s being unreasonable.

  “That’s not what I said.” She looks up, and her eyes are blazing with anger. “Besides, why would you want to be friends with me anyway? Yesterday was just a pity date, right?”

  I stare at her, dumbfounded. What on earth is she talking about? And then it hits me—my messages with Brittany. How does Isabelle know about that?

  “It was not a pity date,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “That’s not what you said to Brittany. In fact, you laughed about it.” She spins around and dials her locker combination.

  I have no idea what Brittany said to her, but I imagine it wasn’t the whole truth. I pull my cell phone from my pocket and open my messages. Then I stick my phone in front of her face. “That’s what I said to Brit.”

  it’s not a pity date. i’m actually excited to go with her.

  Isabelle is silent, and I hope she’s reading the messages. An agonizingly long moment later, she lets out a heavy sigh and turns around again. “You told me you weren’t going to hang out with her anymore.”

  “Messaging her is not hanging out with her.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” She slams her locker closed and shoves past me.

  “Belle, wait!”

  But she’s already swept up in the crowd of students. I resist the urge to kick the closest locker. What just happened? I meant what I said Saturday night—I’ll choose Isabelle over Brittany any day. I simply haven’t had the chance to tell Brittany yet. And really, did I have to? There’s no reason to be unnecessarily mean to her. I can just distance myself. I’ll definitely need to see about getting a new physics partner.

  I walk into study hall and take my seat in the back of the room. Isabelle isn’t here yet, and I pray she doesn’t find a reason to skip class. There are words written on the whiteboard: Please sit quietly and work on your assignments. Mr. Ashton will be a few minutes late today.

  The bell rings, and Isabelle rushes into class. The room is loud with conversations and laughter; no one is bothering to follow the written instructions. I’m not surprised. It’s st
ill early enough in the semester that teachers haven’t assigned a lot of homework.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as soon as Isabelle sits.

  “Let me see your phone again.” She holds out her hand.

  Without hesitation, I set my phone in her palm. I watch over her shoulder as she scrolls through my messages with Brittany. Isabelle won’t find anything incriminating, and I take some comfort in that knowledge. When she reaches the end of the messages, she sets my phone down in front of me. I take it and put it back into my pocket.

  “Why do you hate her so much?” I ask.

  “You’ve heard the way she talks about me. Do I need another reason?” she snaps.

  “No,” I say cautiously. “But I have a feeling there’s more to it than her teasing you.” Some of the things Vick told me race through my mind—rumors that Brittany was somehow involved in Brandon’s death.

  “Brittany and I used to be friends,” she says.

  “Seriously?”

  “Good friends.” She nods and leans closer. “But then we got to high school, and she changed. She was boy crazy, and she decided one day that she wanted my brother.”

  My eyes widen, but I don’t speak for fear she’ll stop.

  “He was a year older than us, and he wasn’t really interested in her like that.” Isabelle’s voice is barely above a whisper, and she picks at her fingernails. I can imagine how hard this is for her to talk about, so I remain silent. Waiting. She sighs.

  I place my hand over hers. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I say softly. Although, I hope she will. I’m desperate to understand.

  She flips her hand over so we’re palm to palm. I lace our fingers. “My brother was a Jesus freak, too.” She smiles, but the sadness in her eyes makes my breath catch. “I think that’s why he wasn’t interested in Brittany, because he knew they were polar opposites. He tried a few times to talk to her about God.” Her deep breath is shaky.

  “I take it she didn’t really listen.” I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood a little. I can’t stand to see Isabelle so upset.

  “No.” She slips her hand from mine and wipes her palms on her jeans. “The night of his accident, she called him and said she wanted to talk to him about God, that she’d been thinking about everything he told her. I begged him not to go. I knew she was just using that as an excuse to get him to come over. But he refused to listen to me. So, he grabbed his Bible and went to her house.”

  My stomach churns. Part of me wants to tell her to stop talking, because I don’t need her to tell me what happens next—I can figure it out on my own. But a bigger part of me wants her to confide in me like this.

  “I don’t know what happened while he was there. I tried asking Brittany, but she refused to tell me. Or she'd tell me different stories about that night. Once, she said they had sex, but I know that’s a lie. Brandon wouldn’t have done that—it went against everything he believed.” She wipes at her cheeks, and it’s only then I realize she’s crying.

  I swallow hard and fight the urge to pull her into my arms.

  “It was storming like crazy when he left her house. The cops say his car hit a deep pothole filled with rainwater, and he lost control. He slammed into a tree and died instantly.” She sniffles and wipes her face again.

  “Belle,” I whisper. My voice is strangled with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s because of her that my brother’s dead. If she hadn’t tricked him—lied to him to get him to go over there—he wouldn’t have been driving during that storm. He wouldn’t have lost control of his car. He’d still be here. And she's not even sad that he's gone. What kind of person just doesn’t care?” Her chair scrapes sharply against the tiled floor. Rising, she gathers her backpack and rushes out of the room.

  I stare after her, completely lost for words. Do I go after her? Do I let her have some space? No, she’s upset and crying. I can’t let her be alone right now. I gather my stuff and hurry out of the room, thankful that Mr. Ashton still hasn’t arrived. I race into the hallway, fully expecting Belle to be gone, but she’s sitting on the floor, knees tucked to her chest with her head down.

  I ease down next to her and hesitantly put my arm around her shoulders. She turns into my embrace and buries her face against my chest. Her body shakes with her tears, and I close my eyes. God, please help her through this. Help her handle all this grief and find peace.

  “All I keep thinking is that she’s going to do the same thing to you,” Isabelle mumbles.

  My heart stops, and my breaths come harder and sharper. “What?”

  “I worry that she’ll convince you to be with her and then something bad will happen to you, too.” She pulls back and wipes the tears from her cheeks. “I know. It’s stupid.”

  “Hey, no.” I cradle her face in my hands. “It’s not stupid. But now I know the truth—you do like me.” I use my thumbs to wipe away fresh tears. “Here.” I take out my cell phone, delete all my messages with Brittany, and then block her number. “I’m done, okay? No more Brittany.”

  “Thanks.”

  I smile.

  “Sorry for”—she waves at her face—“all this.”

  “You and your brother were close, huh?”

  “Yeah.” She averts her gaze. “I miss him so much.”

  “I miss my mom every day.” Even though she cheated on my father and left a legacy of lies and betrayal, she was still my mom. And I love her.

  “What are you two doing out here?” Mr. Ashton stops in front of us. His face is flushed, like he just finished running a marathon, and his grip on his travel mug is so tight his knuckles are white.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Isabelle isn’t feeling too well, and I was checking on her.”

  Mr. Ashton tilts his head. “Do you need to see the nurse?”

  “No, I’m okay.” Isabelle stands. “May I have a bathroom pass, though?”

  He nods and motions for her to follow him into class. I follow, too, and reclaim my seat. Isabelle leaves the room again, and I know I won’t see her until later. I fold my arms on the desk and rest my head on my arms. Now that I know more about Isabelle’s brother and Brittany’s part in the whole thing, it will be easy to distance myself from her. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  17

  ISABELLE

  SINCE I SPILLED MY GUTS to Grayson about Brandon’s accident—two days ago—I’ve been doing everything in my power to avoid him. I’m not sure why, though. He’s been nothing but understanding and supportive. But I told him something no one else knows, and then I cried in front of him. There’s no way I can face him after that. Too bad I can’t skip Spanish, too, because practicing our dance every day is not helping my cause.

  “Mom?” I walk inside and drop my bag to the floor. The house is quiet, and I do my routine check of each room. She’s once again face down on her bed, passed out. For a few moments on Sunday, I thought maybe things were improving, that Mom might actually stop drinking and get her life together, especially after she apologized to me. But by the time I got home from the store that day, she was drunk. Again.

  I close her bedroom door and trudge into the kitchen. My appetite vanished days ago, so I don’t bother cooking dinner. Dad probably won’t be home tonight anyway. He hasn’t been home since before he left for his work trip to Chicago. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and head upstairs.

  My cell phone rings, and Lakewood Valley Christian Church appears on my screen. It’s probably Martha calling to see if I want to come back to choir. I swipe to accept the call. “Hello?”

  “Isabelle? This is Pastor Jeff. How are you?”

  Why on earth is Cam’s father calling me? Even when Cam and I were dating, his father never called me. I flop down on my bed. “I’m okay. How are you?”

  “Good.” He sounds distracted. “Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Uh, yeah, it’s fine.” Nervous energy buzzes through my veins. “Is something wrong?”

  “I
don’t think so. At least, I hope not. I’m worried about you,” he says in a rush. “Martha tells me you quit choir, and Cam says you’re no longer attending youth group. Is everything okay with you?”

  “Yes.” How dare Cam tell on me like that? He should be happy I’m not in youth group. He can be with Andrea without having to worry about my feelings—not that he cares anyway.

  “Well, I guess I’m not sure if your heart is still in this church, what with you pulling away from everything and everyone. If you’re struggling in your walk with God, I can help.”

  I stand and pace. “No, I’m okay with God. I think.” What exactly did Cam tell his father? And how much is the truth? Anger sparks in my chest and spreads like wildfire. “Did Cam tell you I brought a friend to church on Sunday and everyone was rude to him?” I momentarily regret my words—and my harsh tone—but when I think about how Grayson was treated, I no longer care.

  “He briefly mentioned something about you being there with another boy.” Pastor Jeff clears his throat. “Please, tell me what happened.”

  I recount the events, explaining how angry Cam was and how no one other than Mrs. Stratton said hello to him.

  “Well, that’s certainly… upsetting.” He clears his throat again, and I can imagine him wiping his brow and shifting in his chair. He does that when he’s nervous. But he isn’t apologizing for how Cam or his congregation behaved. Nor is he suggesting I invite Grayson again so Pastor Jeff can meet him.

  “It’s very upsetting. I have never been so embarrassed.” There’s an accusatory edge to my tone, and I try to temper it when I speak again. “I was so excited to share my church with him, and now he’ll probably never want to come back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Rustling noises muffle his words. “But with all due respect, Isabelle, my concern is for you. I don’t know this boy you brought, but I do know it upset my son greatly.”