Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  “Uh, Zephyr,” Hilary yells loudly, and audibly nervous, from the living room.

  “What now?” I ask quietly, flinging the sheet from my legs while Zephyr rolls from the mattress onto the floor.

  “Your mother is here.”

  Crap!

  “This can’t be good,” he mutters. We walk down the stairs.

  Actually, he walks down the stairs, I stay near the top in case Molly wants to yell at me for being a bad influence on her son, even though we did nothing but sleep. Zephyr walks into the living room, fully prepared for whatever is about to happen, smiling to his mother like he didn’t just walk out of my bedroom at, oh, eight in the morning.

  “Zephyr,” she begins with a long, drawn out sigh, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, mimicking exactly how my aunt is standing next to her. “Can you explain to me what you’re doing here?”

  Oh, dear.

  This is not going to be good.

  Not good… not good at all.

  “Isn’t that one of the big philosophical questions, Mom?” Really, Zephyr? Now’s the time you want to say something like that. I can see smart-ass run across Molly’s mind. “Why am I here? Why are any of us here? Are we real or possibly a dream?” He turns to me, winking. Oh, baby Jesus; she’s going to slap him. “Is this all we’ll ever really know?”

  “Zephyr Alexander Kalivas!” Ugh, the dreaded middle name. “Before you go all Allegory of the Cave on me, you know what I meant.” I bite my lip to stifle the nervous giggle threatening to erupt. “I want an explanation, now.”

  Oh, no, she’s pointing. She’s pointing very aggressively. Not good! Not good!

  “Mom, we didn’t do anything.” His hand covers his mouth as he yawns, it’s infectious and I try to bite back my yawn.

  “I walked in, Molly,” Hilary start. “He was sleeping on that old air mattress, he was on the floor,” she explains.

  Molly knits her brow. “Really?” That surprises her? She looks to me, walking in front of the staircase to get a better look at me. I try to vanish, try to blend into the banister as best I can but I’m not that small nor do I match the dark brown of the wood. “An air mattress?” she asks me.

  I nod quickly.

  “Yeah, Mom,” her son replies.

  “I should lecture you about this,” Molly begins, her index pointed out again. “No, I should let your father handle this. But if there was an air mattress involved…” she shrugs. “And you don’t look disheveled,” she adds quietly, as if trying to convince herself of something she barely understands, “Then I shouldn’t be that upset. I still am, kid, don’t you dismiss that.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” Zephyr states. “Jo needed me.”

  That seems to soften Molly’s hard exterior.

  “Just tell me next time you leave the house in the middle of the night, would you?” she asks with a sigh, reaching her hands out to hug her son. “I don’t want to spend another twenty minutes talking to your bedroom door when you’re not behind it pretending to listen to me.” Zephyr laughs, wrapping his arms around his mother. It’s such a cute family moment; I’m a little envious. She pulls away. “And you.” Her gaze and index finger zero in on me as I cower on the top step hoping they all forgot about me.

  “Yes, Mrs. Kalivas,” I say instinctively, still sitting, now cowering. My trembling legs would send my down the stairs faster than I’d like—probably with a few broken bones.

  Her eyes narrow with confusion, briefly darting to Zephyr. “Still, Molly, honey,” she tells me. “I’m not upset, dear, just making sure you’re okay. That everything’s okay.” She takes a few steps toward the stairs, toward me. “We love you, Joey; remember that. We’re all one giant family here. There are plenty of people that care about you.” She smiles. “I’ll see you all later, when you’re all over for dinner, right Hilary?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, Molly,” my aunt tells our neighbor, sending a look in my direction. I forgot about the dinner but I wouldn’t miss Molly’s cooking for anything.

  The adults walk to the door, talking quietly, while Zephyr ascends the stairs, taking a seat on the step beneath mine. He rests his hands on my legs, jutting out his bottom lip. I roll my eyes before placing my hands atop his arms.

  We look to each other, happy that all the tension has left the room, and start laughing, loud, boisterous laughter, the kind that cleanses you. It’s a gut clutching laughter, one well deserved.

  Hilary turns to us while we laugh, loudly, clutching to each other to not fall down the stairs. She closes the door, making sure to lock it behind our retreating guest. “I don’t understand the two of you,” she mutters to herself. “Not one bit.”

  She walks up the stairs, passing us and patting me on the head. Zephyr and I take the opportunity to walk down the stairs and take over the couch.

  “Want to watch a movie?” I ask, grabbing the remote from the coffee table.

  “As long as it isn’t another bloodbath marathon,” Zephyr replies. “Sure.” He makes himself comfortable, spreading out where he sits, even tugging down the afghan draped along the back of the couch.

  And we do. I choose a Nicholas Sparks film just to piss him off. Specifically, The Notebook. He doesn’t bat an eye, just pulls me to his side and watches the movie with me while rubbing his hands up and down my arm. The next movie we watch is his choice. He chooses D2: The Mighty Ducks and spend the rest of the afternoon with the second and third movie, screaming at the screen with every hit Team Iceland makes against the main team, cheering loudly at the end of the movie when Team USA, or the Ducks, win.

  I’m a nerd for The Mighty Ducks.

  That night, as promised, we enjoy dinner at Zephyr’s house—macaroni and cheese, my favorite—and the rest of the weekend is filled with homework, studying, and tutoring Zephyr through AP Euro.

  Eleven

  After all the excitement, it finally came time for my lovely monthly appointment with Dr. Jett. Two weeks later than usual but I don’t really care. I have a few things to talk about this session, a few questions brewing, and important things about my past that I must know and I have a strong feeling that she has a few answers.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while, Joey,” Dr. Jett says from her chair, her usual yellow legal pad sits on her lap, her pen poised above the page ready to take down whatever I say.

  “I sort of had detention,” I tell her, even though she already knew. “For two weeks.” Her eyes widen, her brows raise, and I can see the questions forming.

  I really should start lying to her more often. What could it hurt, really?

  “Why did you have detention?” she asks, her pen already moving across the page. Her brown eyes connect with mine, waiting for my answer.

  But I don’t wanna.

  I sigh, my fingers start tugging on a loose thread in the chair. It’s black, not matching the brown of the upholstery. “That’s not what I want to talk about,” I say.

  “It seems important,” she tells me with a nod. “I mean, there had to be some—”

  “I remembered something,” I say so quietly, I don’t think she heard me, but she stops talking, her pen stops moving, and I can feel her staring at me. I think I’ve stunned this woman.

  That’s a first.

  I tuck my hair behind my ear before lacing my hands together in my lap.

  “Something?” the poised doctor asks, as if she didn’t hear me correctly. “Like what?”

  I need to clarify? I need to explain? She earned that degree hanging on the wall, right?

  “About that night,” I tell her. “The night.”

  Dr. Jett nods slowly. “What?” she asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “What did you remember, Joey?”

  “I was…” The memory overtakes me, taking me back to the tiny dark space, filling me with that familiar fear, tugging me darker and deeper. “I was hiding in a closet,” I finish, averting my eyes to the window. I watch a bird land on a branch, looking content to be there, away from the ra
in. “That’s why my father couldn’t find me at first; I was hiding, or sleeping, in my bedroom closet.”

  She makes a quick note before flipping the first sheet of her notepad over and setting it on her desk, placing her hands in her lap.

  “Do you know why?” she asks, professionalism restored. “Why you were in the closet?”

  That’s a good question. One, I too, wondered. I just don’t have an answer. Not one that makes sense, anyway. Many things keep floating through my mind but none makes any sense.

  I still have an answer, though.

  “I remember when I first moved in with my aunt,” I begin, briefly remembering the persistent fear of my childhood. “I’d spend hours sitting in the closet because I thought it was safe.” I’d make a little cocoon of blankets and pillows, shoving the shoes and various knickknacks that covered the floor over to the side. “She wouldn’t be able to find me. Then, when she’d start freaking out, I’d pop out of the closet.” It got to the point where Hilary knew to check the closet before she decided she needed to call the police.

  “So…” she starts slowly, trying to add things in her mind. “You were in the closet that night?”

  “And he was screaming Josie, Josie over and over.” I can still hear the man’s voice calling for the girl that wouldn’t answer. “I think that’s what he called me,” I tell her. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “It was mentioned in your file,” she tells me, her face looking like it was carved from stone.

  That’s news.

  “And you didn’t tell me when I asked about it last session?” I blurt out, feeling anger swell within me. That’s vital information that I’d loved to learn weeks ago. I lurch forward in my seat, unable to let my fists land where I want them.

  “I wasn’t supposed to tell you, you were supposed to come up with that on your own, Joey.” I scoff and cross my arms over my chest. Yes, I know that’s the teen equivalent to a temper tantrum, I’m still throwing one. “You did. Now, do you want to talk about your reason for detention? Two weeks’ worth of detention, I might add.”

  At the end of the session, by the time I step from the room, I’m fuming. I swear you can see steam blowing through my ears. It’s taking every part of me to prevent myself from punching the beloved doctor in the face.

  We did talk about my reason for detention. Not in so much detail, and I didn’t dare mention what this reason did to me at that party, but I told her after she swept what’s really on my mind under the rug.

  I walk into the waiting room, where Zephyr’s sitting on the decayed two-seater, reading a People magazine from two years ago. It has Miley Cyrus on the cover, you know, back when she had hair.

  “Are you ready?” I snap. I don’t wait for him to respond; I turn on my heel and bolt through the glass front doors.

  “Hey! Wait up!” Zephyr yells, running to catch up with me as I stomp through the empty parking lot like a toddler pissed about being denied a cookie. I guess I’m still having my little temper tantrum. He catches up, his body struggling to take in breath—and he’s the athletic one of the two of us.

  I unlock the car and dive behind the wheel, starting the engine before Zephyr even opens the passenger door. He gets into the car and shoots me a look of concern, one I don’t want to acknowledge. I want to seethe. I want to scream.

  Damn it, I want to hit things.

  I peel onto the road, burning rubber and cutting off the car behind me. The driver lays on the horn and I flip them the finger, hoping they can see it through the back window. Zephyr grips the handle to the door with white knuckles as I speed down the street, weaving in and out of traffic as if I were in some Fast and Furious film.

  “Joey,” Zephyr starts slowly, trying not to piss me off anymore than I already am. He’ll fail if he says the wrong thing; I could possibly throw him from the car… without stopping. “Calm down.”

  I don’t want to calm down—I want to hit things. Preferably with a couple tons of car.

  Though, I can’t with this car, I wouldn’t be able to explain to my aunt without having my driving privileges revoked, but I still want to put something against a wall… or a person.

  I wonder if I could kick Ryder again, that helped the last time.

  But Zephyr is right—damn it—I need to calm down. Driving when I’m this angry, this infuriated, can’t be good.

  I slow the car down, trying to be a responsible driver, and take a deep breath. Finally, I pull the car over, parking in the nearest fast food restaurant to collect my bearings.

  I remove my hands from the steering wheel; it hurts to unclench, but I need to breathe, I need to release, I need to detach myself. My knuckles turn from the stark white back to their normal tan color and I try and shake the feeling back into my hands. They just hurt.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly as I mentally count back from ten to calm myself, one of the tricks—ironically—Dr. Jett taught me in the start of my sessions with her. When everything became overwhelming, when I felt completely buried, I needed to detach myself from the situation and distance myself—somehow counting did that.

  “It’s okay,” Zephyr responds quickly, breathless. There’s a shaky vibrato to his voice. I scared him, didn’t I? That almost makes me laugh but it remains buried beneath the present anger still within me, the anger still boiling my blood.

  After I take the time to breathe, making sure I’m calm enough to drive without causing an accident on the road, I drive home—going the speed limit. Zephyr wants to talk about it but I quickly nip it away, kissing him quick before wishing him a good rest of the night and heading inside my house alone. I try to work on homework but I can’t focus. My mind is filled with thoughts and images: I can still picture the man searching for me, or Josie, I can still picture what he held in his hand, and I’m still angry, no livid, that Dr. Jett just dismissed what I remembered. She dismissed my feelings and fears about being in the dark about my own past.

  I think that’s something I need to know!

  You can’t know where you’re going if you don’t know where you’re from. How can I even think about graduating high school, going off to college, and starting my own life if I don’t know important things about myself? About my past? How can I move on with my life if I don’t know from which I’m moving on? It doesn’t make sense to me. And the people I thought would help me, the people I believed in my heart would help me, are leaving me in the dark because it’s better for me if I don’t know or it’s better if I figure things out on my own.

  It’s complete crap if you ask me.

  But just because I feel like this, just because I’m so angry, doesn’t mean I can treat Zephyr like I did. I treated him like scum and I know that. I had no right to endanger his life like that just because I didn’t like what I heard in therapy. It’s my problem, not his, and I was being… crazy.

  Overwhelmed with emotion, I slam my chemistry book close and run my hands roughly through my hair, my curls clinging to my fingers as I bunch my hair in my closed fists, feeling the anger and worry surge through me. It’s brief current coursing through my veins, then I’m tired, exhausted from everything.

  It’s time for bed. I walk up the stairs, brush my teeth, and head into my room to change into pajamas. I dig around in my top drawer until I find a pair of multicolored striped sleep shorts and slip them on, tugging off my t-shirt. I stand in my room, feeling the chill brush against my legs. I feel so small here, I feel like a passing moment, waiting for my time to end, but the moment continues on an endless loop and I’m waiting, waiting for something different. It just never comes.

  Is this everything that I have to look forward to, is this everything my future holds for me? I know that I’m going places, I’ve always known I was destined for something greater than this place, I just never knew that I’d possibly take my demons with me.

  That thought, that realization, is enough to fuck with me, it’s enough to drag me from the depths of my deepest pits, into the shallow grasp
of the monster. The monster, the thought is strong enough to send chills down my spine, shaking me where I stand. Just the memory of the man, of my father, chills me to the bone. It’s so cold, the memory, that I can’t shake it away. It immobilizes me.

  But I can’t let it.

  I tie up my hair and look to my window, spotting Zephyr reading on his bed. It’s such a sweet sight. He’s shirtless—thank the gods!—and he’s leaning against the headboard, one hand above his head, the other holding tightly to the book. He moves to turn the page but immediately resumes the position, a tiny crease forming in his brow as he stares at the page.

  This sight warms my heart, it warms me where I stand and I momentarily forget everything.

  I walk to my window and wave until he sees me. Brown eyes slowly raise from the page while his hand marks the spot. There’s nothing more appealing than a guy who reads! He makes his way to the window after he sets his book on his pillow, his chest bare and still surprisingly rippled. The way he moves has me transfixed, mesmerized, and I want to be there, I want to be where he is. Zephyr pokes his head out into the chilly night air.

  “Hey.” He sounds happy to see me. That’s surprising after the afternoon we had. Maybe it’s because I’m not behind the wheel of a car. Probably.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” I tell him, speaking through the alley. “It’s just that, I don’t know…” I trail off trying to put my feelings into words. “Sometimes she looks at me; she speaks to me, like I’m some pathetic little girl; that I can’t help myself from being the victim.” I shake my head. “I just get so pissed off when she does that.”

  He knows I mean my doctor. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “You shouldn’t be,” I tell him. It’s not his problem, it’ll never be his problem, it’s mine, all mine and I need to learn to cope with it. Somehow, I need to cope.

  “Want me to come over there?” he asks, pointing into my room. “I could sleep on your floor again?”

  As amazing as that sounds, I know he’d rather sleep on hot coals or on the floor more than that crappy air mattress. And, with him looking like that—eeek!—I’d be too tempted to relieve him of that funky air mattress for the comfort that is my bed. It’s awesome, nice pillow top, so comfortable that I hate leaving it every morning. But that aside…