Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  “Hello?” Right on schedule. A small smile tugs on the corners of my lips as I wait. “Where are you?”

  “In here,” I yell, hearing the heavy steps stomp toward me from the living room. As long as I’ve known him, he’s still incapable of taking light steps. He always sounds like he’s marching somewhere. “Hey,” I say, not looking at the boy leaning against the counter on my left. I slather butter on one piece of toast moments before he snatches it from my hand and shoves it into his mouth, taking a large, hungry bite. I nibble the corner of my bottom lip, trying not to sarcastically snap That’s attractive. He quickly washes it down with the orange juice set aside for him and smiles at me as if none of that happened.

  “Thanks, Joey,” Zephyr mumbles after his second devouring bite, his mouth full of soggy, mushy toast. I start smearing peanut butter on the other two slices, just waiting patiently, like I do every morning.

  The door closes for a second time and something heavy drops to the floor with a thick thud. Ah, the beautiful sound of textbooks in the morning. I can smell the thick vanilla scented perfume she wears as it quickly floats through the air before I see her glide into the kitchen.

  “You just left me,” Jamie grumbles. She doesn’t whine. Quickly, her eyes shoot an angry glance toward her little brother. Her manicured hand snatches one of the peanut butter slices from the plate sitting in front of me on the beige counter, like normal, and she takes a small bite out of the corner. Jamie won’t ruin her lip-gloss, but she’ll still reapply the pink glossy coat when she’s finished eating. Anything for her to look absolutely perfect. She is all about perfection. “How’re ya doing, Joey?” Jamie asks, all sweet and kind to me, not how she was just speaking to Zephyr.

  I look up, connecting with Jamie’s subtly lined mahogany eyes. Upon close inspection when we were kids, on the basis of science, we saw that her eyes are lightened with flecks of gold and honey, nothing like Zephyr’s dark chocolate eyes that make me feel like I’m looking into two pools of a starless night sky.

  As she stands before me—her back straight, her shoulders back—Jamie has a presence that commands your attention. When she walks into a room you can’t not look at her, you can’t even pretend that you didn’t see her. She’s like a magnet attracting your stare. You just stare and gawk at her while your mouth drops open and your drool collects on the front of your shirt in an obvious hideous dark spot. It may be her overwhelming height—she’s just south of six feet—or her flawless, model-like features. No one can avoid her and no one can ignore her. Even her boyfriend knows how lucky he is.

  Zephyr is just the same, just for different reasons. While he is just as stunning—as my one of his best friends, I feel that I can say that without any, uh… context. He’s also around six-three, maybe six-four, with shoulder length dark brown hair that almost rivals his sister’s, in volume and silky/softness, and eyes that, I swear to you, look into your soul. When he looks at you, there’s something that makes you believe he only has eyes for you.

  Both the Kalivas kids have tanned skin, only growing darker when they spend any amount of time in the sun, or outside for that matter, but they never burn. We have that in common.

  “Good,” I reply, being polite right back to her—just like any other morning—and rubbing it in Zephyr’s face. Although, she was my first best friend, like Zephyr, why wouldn’t I be nice and polite to her, even if only to gloat? “Yourself?” It’s too formal, but I say it every time.

  “Pretty good,” she answers, a small smile tugging at her re-glossed lips. Jamie turns to lean against the counter, pushing Zephyr from his spot. She’s acting every but the big sister I wish I still had. Zephyr moves to take a seat at the dining room table against the far wall, relaxing into the chair as his eyes scan the kitchen. They stop on me; I can feel it like the heat from the sun, warm and gentle. I turn to watch him drag his hand through his hair, pulling it away from his face before it fall back into his eyes.

  Jamie is distracted with her small breakfast, holding the glass of orange juice by her mouth as she checks the text messages on her phone, completely cut off from the world as her thumb tap, tap, taps against the screen as she types out a message.

  This is my morning—my normal morning. With the kids next door stealing my food, all of us waiting to head to school, this is familiar. I love familiar.

  The Kalivas kids, Jamie and Zephyr, spend time with me in the morning before school because I’m usually home alone. I don’t mind it. My aunt is a heart surgeon in Seattle and, for some reason that only makes sense to her, she loves to operate at night. Hilary tells me that she thinks better at night, works better at night. She is very nocturnal, like an owl. So when she is here, which is, sadly, rare, she’s normally asleep or close to it, operating in a zombie-like state. It’s been like that since we moved her, though, back then, she was a full time student and working while I was spending nights at the Kalivas home, taking the top bunk in Jamie’s room and making it mine. She still reserves it for me when I don’t want to be alone at night. But I haven’t taken her offer in a few months. Even if I did, I’d probably just take over Aidan’s room. He moved to New York after he graduated college two years ago. I wouldn’t mind leaving something pink and girly for him to come home to.

  Their parents took pity on me when I first stepped onto the driveway. It was pity on the orphaned child; I knew it then, at the tender age of eight. They forced their children to befriend me. I didn’t mind. Not then, anyway. I don’t really mind now. They don’t treat me like an abomination. They refuse to act as if I’m a plague, like I’m some contagious disease that’s going to kill someone’s entire family. Murder isn’t contagious, people. Somehow, after all of the stuff that they’ve heard about me, they stuck around.

  The front door opens for a third time I wasn’t expecting. More heavy objects—emphasis on the plural—hit the hardwood floor of the entryway before my aunt walks into the kitchen with her tired, bloodshot eyes set on the vintage coffeemaker she desperately needs to update. Even though I hate coffee, I’m hoping for a Keurig.

  “Mornin’,” she mumbles like an afterthought, exhaustion obvious in her voice as she sighs. Her eyelids are dropping, her tiny body is sagging and drooping awkwardly to the left, and she looks ready to fall asleep wherever she stands.

  Good morning, indeed.

  “Hey, Aunt Hil,” I say into my orange juice, calling her the nickname she despises. It was a happy accident when I was eight and it just stuck. Zephyr and Jamie repeat my greeting, much to her chagrin. We’ve called her that for years, now; she can’t stop us, no matter how hard she tries. As teenagers, we are, like most, very stubborn.

  She starts a pot of coffee with fumbling fingers that briefly make me mentally question her quality of work as a surgeon. She leaves us our nickname for her, not snapping at us like she used to do, then turns to lean against the counter on the opposite side of Jamie. Hilary drags her hands through her orange hair and turns her attention to me, lifting her gaze from the empty mug she holds in her hands, one of those Seattle mugs for tourists. “Don’t forget your appointment this afternoon,” Hilary reminds me.

  Again.

  I watch Jamie’s body stiffen, her eyes briefly glancing to me before they dart away. Zephyr turns his attention to the window on the other side of the room, pretending something, anything, outside the window is more interesting than what is about to happen in here. They do anything to avoid me on this subject. It’s a bit touchy for me.

  I have a standing monthly appointment with a psychiatrist. It started back in Texas, so I was told—another thing I can’t remember. I started seeing them twice a week to make sure that I was okay after everything that happened. According to Dr. Jett, my shrink now, I didn’t speak in Texas. She says that my records stated that I was practically mute—Practically? What the hell does that mean, exactly?—she says that I had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, that’s why I couldn’t talk. When I turned ten, I saw Dr. Jett once a week, that changed to twice a
month a few years later. Now I see her once a month. I barely speak now but it’s required—court ordered and mandatory—until I turn eighteen. Even then, they need an assessment from Dr. Jett before they can release me from my appointments.

  I let out a long, exaggerated sigh and close my eyes, leaning my head back. I try mentally counting to ten as Dr. Jett suggested I do when I get upset, or extremely pissed off. “Have I ever forgotten?” I ask her, the annoyance slithering into my tone like a snake.

  “No,” Hilary replies shyly. As her cheeks flush, her eyes cast down to look at the kitchen floor as if she’s studying the linoleum squares patterned around our feet. “I’m just being nice, Joey.” Like family. Damn, I should know this crap. She’s just caring about me! I have to remind myself of this every time. Just as she’s been doing for most of your life, moron.

  I am such an idiot sometimes.

  Shame slips through me, coursing through my veins. Shame that I sounded like an immature little brat, shame that I embarrassed my aunt, shame that I did this all in front of an audience. I know based on her expression and flushed cheeks that she didn’t mean any harm by it. She’s just being nice. I want to apologize. I want to set down my glass, place my hand on her shoulder, and, while looking into her emerald green eyes as vibrant as the gem they resemble, smile sweetly and comfort her. Or as sweetly as I can.

  But I’m not like that.

  I will never be like that.

  Instead, I set my empty glass in the sink, run water into it—one of us has yet to run the full dishwasher—and look to Zephyr, raising my eyebrows in a signal that we should head out for school. He takes it with relief.

  “See you later, Auntie.” I plaster a large smile on my face—well, I try, but it looks more like a forced sarcastic smirk—it’s fake, but she can’t tell. Can she?

  “Absolutely, Joey.” No, she can’t. She reaches out her thin arms to give me a hug. It’s a simple act of love and kindness. By my reaction, you’d think she was about to inject me with lethal drugs. I back up quickly to avoid her embrace, bumping the back of my head on the low cupboard. I hate hugging. I hate being hugged—scratch that, I hate being touched. I mean any form of touching whether innocent of something else. God forbid it’s ever something else, I may just run screaming from the room. I search the surrounding area for something to save me from this innocent interaction and debate shoving the broom into her arms. Jamie is already walking through the living room, her long dark hair swishing and swaying from side to side as she steps, as if it were Goodbye, you’re on your own, dude, so pushing her into this is out. But Zephyr suddenly sweeps into Hilary’s arms, taking the hug she meant for me and saving the awkward situation.

  After all these years, damn, this boy knows me too well. I’ll have to remember to thank him for that.

  “Later, Aunt Hil,” he murmurs to the top of her head. He’s over a foot taller than she is.

  Hilary nods, forcing a small smile as I back out of the kitchen. She’s scared for me. Hilary has been scared for me since the day she discovered she was the legal guardian of an eight-year-old. Since then, she has changed her life to accommodate my needs. That’s a hard thing to do when you are twenty-three years old, living in a college town, and your usual weekend includes fraternity parties, sorority formals, and track meets.

  Looking at the former sorority girl, the former party girl and former track star, I want to thank her for everything that she’s done for me, everything that she’s sacrificed for me. She transferred schools for me, she left her sorority, she stopped dating, stopped running—all for me. Yet, I still treat her like a stranger when she’s pretty much all I have left in the world.

  I just want her to know how thankful I am, sometimes.

  Maybe I do have something to talk about with Dr. Jett later.

  “Thanks, Zephyr,” I whisper before we leave my house, leaving Hilary to her coffee and much needed sleep. Jamie’s already outside walking toward her car, her keys jangling as she walks across the combined yards to her driveway.

  Zephyr smiles at me, cockily, before he says, “Not a problem, Joey.” If I was a hugger and this was a sappy movie, this would be a good moment for a hug and cheesy slow music, maybe an Aww or two.

  Sweet baby Jesus! Thank God, it’s the real world.

  ***

  We arrive at school—surprisingly early by Jamie’s standards—and part ways. Jamie finds her flock of matching mindless followers, Zephyr is welcomed by the jocks, and I am left to walk alone to my locker. I notice a few stares and one mumbled freak, but it’s easy to ignore. As long as it isn’t written on my locker in hideous coral lipstick, I’m good.

  I unload all my post-lunch class books and notebooks into my locker, watching the book tower grow. It knocks serious weight from my back. Only a week, not even a full week, into school and I’m seriously regretting my decision of four advanced placement classes.

  I know, right? I’m a bit of an overachiever.

  The bell rings right as I slide into my seat in my AP European History class. I’m in the seat next to Zephyr. We took the table in the back of the room in front of the windows. I tug the red notebook from my backpack, the composition notebook reserved for this class. Already, the first five pages are filled with notes in a rainbow of color, the pages crinkly and curling from my neat handwriting. I choose a purple pen today; I choose a different color every day for note taking. It keeps things interesting.

  What’s like without whimsy?

  “I’m not going to be able to keep up in this class,” Zephyr mutters bitterly as he prepares his side of the desk, his eyes stealing glances at my notebook. I shoot my eyes in his direction, knitting my brows together. Albeit, I was surprised—more shocked than anything—when he walked into the classroom with me. My mouth dropped open when he took the open seat next to mine. I was completely flabbergasted when Mr. Cheney called Zephyr’s name during roll call.

  I did a double take.

  “Then why take it?” I ask, still seriously confused by his choice. Zephyr isn’t the AP type. He’s smart, don’t take what I’m saying as Zephyr’s an idiot, but he isn’t devoted to academics like I am. He would rather be average, scraping by with Cs. As long as that means he can play on the varsity football team during the fall semester and soccer during the spring.

  “You said that you were taking it.” That catches me off guard and I smile slightly. I’ve always taken advanced classes. I took honor classes in middle school, joined after school academic groups in elementary school; I even take online college courses during the summer. It was all I could do to keep me occupied when the other girls made fun of me. I found that when I studied I could block them out. I could block everything out. All the mean words they said to me, all the stories they’d spread about me. None of that existed within the pages of textbooks. “I’ve never had a class with you before,” he continues, as if it makes perfect sense to me—when it doesn’t. Not to me. His pencil sits poised above his blank notebook page, ready to start writing. Or doodling. He’s a doodler.

  “We have PE together,” I reply matter-of-factly, my hand drawing a small three-dimensional cube in the top right corner of the page, right above the date for today. “You could drop this and take the junior history class. You know, if that’d be easier.” I shrug my shoulders.

  “Maybe,” he drawls out as if he’s actually considering the option. Zephyr’s brown eyes stare at the page in front of him, sadly.

  I hate to admit it, but I wouldn’t like to see him go.

  “Dude,” I begin, getting his attention, before continuing with, “You know I’d never let you fail,” I tell him. I drag my hand through my hair, moving wisps and curls away from my eyes. “We can study for tests, partner together for group assignments. I’ll even help you with the essays.” He’ll definitely need help with those with the way Cheney grades.

  “Thanks, Joey.” He smiles at me, looking genuinely pleased and relieved. “I really appreciate it, you know?”

 
“I know,” I reply with a wide smile as Mr. Cheney walks through the door, his bald head glinting in the bright fluorescent light. It only gets worse throughout class, somewhat blinding us as he exaggerates points with is entire body. With every move he makes, it’s as if he’s trying to tell us something in Morse code.

  Fifty-five minutes and three full purple pages of notes later, I’m on my way to AP Calculus. Zephyr’s class is in the opposite direction, on the other side of the school. He turns away from me, giving me one last cocky smile as he pulls his hand through his wavy locks, heading to his English class before we have gym together.

  I tug my black tank top over my head, leaving the white camisole on to hide my torso. I notice a few girls glance to me as I grab my shorts and t-shirt from my locker. The last thing these people need to see—need to know about—are my scars, the infamous scars the entire school knows I have but have never seen for themselves. The worn heather gray t-shirt I wear for this class falls down my stomach as someone struggles with the combination on the locker next to mine.

  Harley aggressively twists and spins the lock at least five times before grunting and hitting her palm against the hard, cold metal once, twice, three, four times until I fear she’s about to sprain her wrist. She gives up, looking to me with her pleading puppy dog eyes no one close to her can resist, mostly me. I’m a sucker, really. I memorized her combination, for her gym locker and her regular locker, for this reason alone. I giggle as I pull her locker open on the first try, something she can’t do—it’s usually the fifteenth, sixteenth try by the time her locker opens for her and by then, she’s late for class.

  “I hate these damned lockers,” she grumbles angrily to herself. The innocent puppy dog eyes quickly drop from her face, an expression of pure malice covers her face as she grabs her clothes from the metal box. She throws them down on the bench I’m sitting on in a huff. “I hate this stupid class.”