Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  “All I have,” I answer her. She hasn’t even seen my dresser. It’s more barren than my closet, if that’s to be believed.

  Her eyes trail to me, looking me up and down, nibbling her thumbnail lightly—making sure not to chomp through the nail—as she decides something in her mind.

  “What size are you?” she asks, curiously. Should I answer? Isn’t that against girl code or something? “I mean, you’re small, definitely smaller than me,” she clarifies quickly referencing my tinier-than-normal body. “But I still might have something that might fit you.” Quickly, she sucks her lower lip into her mouth, lightly nibbling on it in exchange for her nails. “Come on,” she tells me, briefly looking into my closet one more time. “And bring those boots.” She pointed to a pair of black slouchy boots Hilary gave me for my birthday last year, the ones I hadn’t yet worn.

  I grab them and follow her across our joined yards into her house. It’s a two story, just like my house. The layout is the same, only flipped. The interiors are mirror images of each other. And while their house is blue with white trim, mine is white with a blue trim and some funky rock sculpture glued beneath the large front windows.

  Inside Jamie’s bright yellow room—her favorite color when she was twelve, she hates it now and vows to change it when she can—she throws a black skirt at me. The fabric slides from my hands, the skirt falling in a heap onto her carpeted floor. It’s soft and smooth, too cute for me, though. It’s the exact thing that I can picture Jamie wearing. It’s small enough that it’d be tight and show off her curves, perfectly flaunting her—ahem—assets.

  “Try that on,” she demands, her eyes narrowing as she contemplates. “It’s too small on me, I never wear it.”

  I slip it on, noticing how high waisted it is. I angle my body so she can’t see my stomach as I tug the skirt up. Jamie has never seen my scars. She doesn’t even know about them. I don’t want her to see them now.

  She stares at me—clicking her tongue and tapping her fingers on her desk—as she decides what to pair with it. Rummaging through her dresser, the second drawer from the top, she produces a pale, grayish-teal top. I pull it over my head, thankful that I wore a camisole today, and work to tuck it into the skirt as she instructs me to do.

  “I like it,” I tell her quietly, amazed at how she can dress me. I smooth my hands over the fabric, wincing at how tight it is against my body, but I still look good. Great even. I look different, I feel different.

  “Me too,” she murmurs, still staring at me like a work in progress. “But it’s still missing something.” Her eyes widen and light up; she turns and starts searching the top left drawer of her dresser, pulling out a pair of lace thigh high tights. My face falls. “These aren’t as slutty as your thinking.” She knows me well. I pull them up my legs and then slip on my boots. They feel new, Makes sense, I’ve never worn them before. “Perfect!” she tells me, excitedly. “You look ready for an evening of anything.”

  I laugh.

  “This isn’t too much, is it?” I ask, a little uncertain. I check my reflection in the mirror on her vanity. Turning every which way, spotting different parts of me I’ve never seen before. I have an ass—where did that come from? And my chest doesn’t look too bad either. It’s still too big for my taste, but I can’t hide them in this top.

  “Not at all,” Jamie assures me before continuing with, “and any jewelry should work.” Her hands reach up to my hair, pulling a curl and watching it fall into place. “Now, how were you planning to wear your hair?” she asks with actual eager interest that scares me.

  “Wear my hair?” She makes it sound like I can remove my scalp and trade it for a different version—maybe the newer model. Hair 2.0?

  “Zephyr!” Jamie calls twenty minutes later, after she has tamed my unruly curls so they fall down my back in a wave rather than frizz. Whatever anti-frizz serum she used on my head I really need to invest in because my hair has never been this soft, never moved so effortlessly before. I thread my fingers through it, feeling the curls glide along my skin. It feels like silk. “Come and see the final product!”

  Jamie is oddly too excited about this.

  “Jamie, what are you yapping—” he stops that sentence when he sees me standing in his sister’s room, his brown eyes widening. I think his mouth dropped open. He has never seen me like this; no one has ever seen me like this, like… feminine. It is a bit weird but I kinda like it. Distracted, he pulls his hands through the strands of hair that fell out of his hair tie, whatever remaining paint on his hands now streaks his hair in a dull rainbow. “Wow, Joey.”

  I think I just made my best friend speechless.

  “I know, right?” Jamie declares excitedly behind me.

  “What is it?” I ask, self-consciously. The need to flee overwhelms me but Zephyr is blocking the door, blocking my escape. “Do I look weird? Do I look bad?” My hands instinctively smooth out the fabric again. “Should I change?”

  I may not like Ryder—I damn near loathe the kid—but I don’t want to look horrible, I want to look beautiful, breathtaking even. This is my first date after all; I want it to be memorable and fun. Okay, what I really want is for someone, which would be Ryder in this case, to become speechless at the sight of me.

  “Uh—gah—no,” Zephyr sputters out. “You should only wear that for the rest of your life.”

  “This girl thinks she looks bad,” Jamie chimes in from behind me.

  “No, the complete opposite, Jo,” Zephyr starts as he leans against the doorframe, his eyes grazing me up and down as if he’s seeing me for the first time. I can understand that, I feel like I’m seeing myself for the first time, too. “You look great, really.”

  But not beautiful? That’s the word that I really want to hear.

  “Okay, then.” I nervously tuck my hair behind my ear, still captivated by the feeling it. It makes me smile. “Thanks, Jamie.” I turn to give her the biggest smile I can muster, and shockingly enough, it isn’t fake. It’s wide and toothy and makes my cheeks hurt. Again, if I was a hugger, this would be a moment to hug her.

  “Not a problem,” she waves my thanks away with her hand. “You have to promise to call me tomorrow and tell me how it went, okay?”

  “I will.” I think.

  I walk past Zephyr, watching his eyes follow me as I slide by him. I make it to the stairs, hearing him keeping up behind me, keeping close on my tail as I descend the stairs to head back to my house.

  Somehow, the feeling of his eyes on my back makes me smile. There is some sort of flutter going on in my stomach. Not sure if it’s nerves or…

  “If you need me,” he tells me before I can make it through the front door. “To come and get you, I will, you know?”

  “I know, Zeph.” I turn to face him; he’s close. Very close. Close enough that I can smell the paint on his hands, on his shirt, on his cheek. Subconsciously, I reach my hand up to wipe at the paint smudged under his eye, the yellow rubbing off onto my thumb easily.

  “If he does anything that he shouldn’t,” he begins quietly, grabbing my hand to look at my thumb. I’ll need to wash the paint off when I get home. Or maybe I’ll just let it dry. “Touches you, pressures you to do anything, I will be there faster than he can say No, not the face.” He quickly wipes of my thumb with the towel, leaving it clean, leaving my hand in his.

  I squeezed his hand. “You’re really worried about me—about this date—aren’t you?” I ask, surprised that Zephyr’s taking so much interest in this. It’s only a date with Ryder Harrison. What should he be worried about?

  However, yesterday, after he watched Ryder serenade me, horribly, he asked me if I agreed to the date. When I told him that I had, I watched his face fall and he told me that I had nearly sold my soul to the devil. He said that all that Ryder was going to do was hurt me. Zephyr acted like I was in love with Ryder, that he was my dream date, when I just wanted to get this date over with so Ryder would leave me alone.

  Whatever Zephyr thought, w
hatever he was worried was going to happen was not going to happen. I’d make sure of that.

  “Just a little bit,” he admits, hesitantly, possibly goading my own response. “What does your aunt say about this?”

  I giggle lightly. “Hilary just wants to meet him,” I tell him, remembering the conversation I had with her when I got home from school yesterday. I told her that someone asked me out, she thought I turned him down—because, normally, I would—and her mouth dropped open when I told her that I agreed to a date with the quarterback of the football team. “You know, she needs to commit his face to memory in case I go missing and she needs to identify him in a lineup, the usual parental/guardian stuff.”

  “As long as she’s on board with your date with the devil,” he mutters, deadpan and sarcastic. He’s not as good as I am but there’s the Zephyr I know.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” I tell him as I back out of his house, releasing his hand and letting it drop in the open space between us, giving him a smile as I close his door. I pass his parents as they arrive home from the grocery store, but lugging three store tote bags. You know, the ones that you buy from the store so you don’t use the plastic or paper bags.

  “Well, you look lovely,” Molly, Zephyr’s mother tells me as I pass.

  “Thank you,” I respond quietly, blushing nervously, startled by the compliment. “I have a date tonight.” It’s still odd to tell. Especially Zephyr and Jamie’s parents.

  “Well, you go girl,” Antonios, Mr. Kalivas, tells me, raising his free fist in the air as a fist bump. I try to hide my giggle but it escapes.

  Molly shoots her husband a confused look before shaking her head and returning her gaze back to me. “Don’t mind him, dear,” she tells me as she reaches out to lower her husband’s hand. “He’s been watching those teen movies from the nineties with Jamie again.”

  I outright laugh, watching the happy look drop from Antonios’ face as he realizes what he just did.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles, lowering his head in faux-shame.

  After my giggles die down, I ask, “Do you two need any help before I head back home?” I ask, ready to head toward the car for any stray bags.

  “We’ve got it, Joey, but thank you,” Molly tells me with a wide smile. “You and your aunt should join us for dinner on her next day off,” she offers, shifting the bags in her arms. “Next Saturday, right?”

  “Yeah, we’ll be there,” I promise. “You know Hilary can’t turn down your cooking,” I tell her, a little in jest, before turning to leave and finish getting ready for whatever tonight entails.

  In my room, I stand in front of my mirror and slick on enough makeup to be noticeable, nothing too outrageous, then try and decide about what jewelry to pair with Jamie’s outfit. I don’t have much—besides my locket that I refuse to remove. I’m not that into shopping for things like that, I normally stick to the basics, necessities, and books when I’m at the mall. I certainly do not have anything appropriate for what I am wearing.

  Although… I think to myself as the image of a black velvet box pops into my mind. I may have something perfect for the occasion after all.

  Hilary made sure to save my mother’s jewelry before we moved across the country. As I’ve aged, that means birthdays and the occasional Christmas, she has slowly been handing them over to me, piece by piece, believing my mother would want that. Last year, when I turned fifteen, she gave me a beautiful, extravagant black-and-silver floral cuff my mom bought when she was in high school Hilary told me that my mother fell in love with it the moment she saw it in the store window, she saved up just to buy it. She didn’t want a cheap knock off that would turn her wrist green, and certainly nothing that she was allergic to—I have the same allergy. She bought it for her junior year to match her Homecoming dress; I also have that hanging in my closet. On the inside of the box is a picture of my mother wearing the cuff, a picture that Hilary had saved for me as well.

  I take the cuff from the box in the top drawer of my dresser where I keep all things that are important to me, like the picture of my mother at her Homecoming dance, and slide it onto my wrist, smiling at how well it matches the outfit. The silver glints bright in the light, still clear and flawless, completely perfect. I think my mother only wore it for special occasions.

  I feel beautiful as I stare in the mirror at a girl I’ve never seen before. Her makeup is flawless, what little she applied, her hair perfectly curled and coiffed. This girl is beautiful.

  I am beautiful.

  As I wait, I switch my glasses for the contacts I hardly ever wear, thinking this might be a great time to break them out. But at the last minute, I switch back. If Ryder’s spending time with me, he’s getting the real me. The blind me. Although my hazel eyes are brighter and more vibrant without my thick black frames, I feel more like myself when I wear my glasses.

  ***

  The wait seemed too long. I feel like a sheep waiting for shaving, a cow waiting for slaughter… a girl waiting nervously for her first date. While I really didn’t want to spend time with Ryder, I was eager for my first date to start. I smiled at the thought of that alone, just cut Ryder from the picture, replace him with someone interesting and more capable of holding my attention, and I was damn near ecstatic.

  “When is this boy getting here?” Hilary asks from the doorway to my room, surprising me—scaring the crap out of me—as I sit on my bed in my own little world of wonder and curiosity. I look up to her; her arms are folded across her sweater-clad chest. She’s wearing dark blue skinny jeans that are tight on muscled legs and an olive green sweater that makes her green eyes greener—if that’s even possible. She had a lunch date with an old sorority sister visiting from Texas—I think her name is Missy or Muffy or Ronnie, something like that. Her usual Saturday attire is oversized sweats and a baggy t-shirt or tank top—the clothing of comfort.

  “Any minute, now.” I check the time on my phone, also checking that my phone has a full charge… just in case I desperately need an escape from a person that’s a phone call away.

  “He better be nice,” Hilary threatens. She’s not threatening me but I hear the humor in her voice. I also know that she is not joking. If he weren’t such a kiss ass, maybe I would want to spend time with him. If I had my choice, my first date would be with someone I could at least tolerate. If I had my choice, it’d be with someone I’m originally friends with, someone I can have a good conversation, someone that can make me laugh, someone I could consider a best friend someday. “You look really beautiful, Joey,” she tells me, using the voice that subtly says If only your mother could see you.

  If only my mother could be here… As much as it hurts, I hold it in, hold the words tight. It might not hurt so much to keep them inside. I know my mother would give me the greatest advice for tonight—as any mother would—she’d even threaten Ryder. Who knows, she could be waiting for him with a shotgun. These thoughts, these things that can never happen, make my eyes start to water.

  Just what I need right now: Water works.

  Dang, when did I become the girl that cared about my makeup?

  The doorbell rings, the sound box in the hall, well, annoyingly and repeatedly chimes, actually.

  Great. This thing is about to start.

  I run down the stairs—the sooner I start this, the sooner it’s over—rolling my eyes as I walk toward the front door. I place my hand on the knob and compose myself. The last thing I should be is a bitch tonight. No. I should look like I’m enjoying myself and Ryder’s company.

  If I can do that, I should take up acting.

  I pull open the door, bracing myself for blonde hair and blue eyes and a smile that completely irks me whenever it’s unleashed. But that’s not what I see.

  “Zephyr?”

  He’s leaning against the frame, his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. He’s cleaned up since I last saw him, his face and hair are free of paint, as are his hands. If I rub my thumb and finger together, I can still feel the drop
of yellow paint clinging to my skin. His chocolate eyes slide up to me, slowly taking me in.

  “You’re still here,” he asks, obviously faking. He steps into my house and aims straight for the couch. He drops down, legs spread wide as he slings one arm on the back feigning indifference. “I thought I’d just chill with your aunt tonight.” The fact that he said that with a straight face amazes me.

  “That’s not creepy at all,” I say, slamming the door shut.

  “Is he here—” the sight of Zephyr on the couch stops her on the bottom step, what excitement was in her voice vanishes. “You’re not what I expected.” She takes the final step from the stairs, walking over to the recliner by the window. She peeks through the curtains, looking.

  “Thanks,” he says, that grin playing at his lips as he waggles his eyebrows. I don’t know this guy anymore. “So when does Golden Boy get here?”

  I openly glare at Zephyr as he leans up to look out the large front window. He should know that it’d just be easier to join Hilary as she creeps on the neighborhood.

  “Any minute now,” I answer. I fold my arms over my chest, staring at the lump that’s now attached to my couch. Who does he think he is, just showing up? And why does he feel it necessary for him to be here when Ryder shows up? Ugh! I don’t understand this person.

  I walk over to the couch, shoving his legs out of the way and take a seat as gracefully as I can in this outfit. Zephyr eyes my legs subtly. Or what he thinks is subtly. I saw him, though. He’s not that slick.

  “Why are you here?” He looks to me, not answering. “Really?” I ask him. He doesn’t need to be here for this.

  That smile returns, and wider. “It’s your first date, kid.” Zephyr wraps an arm around my shoulders and tugs me closer to him, tucking me beneath his arm. “It’s something I’ve got to see.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I punch him in the side.

  The doorbell rings for the second time. Just great.

  Ryder’s here.

  Excuse me while I jump around the room in nervous excitement and glee.