Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  Then there was the birthday when Hilary took me bowling followed by a trip ice skating. It was just the two of us and she tried to teach me how to ice skate—it’s unsuccessful when you, as the teacher, have no idea how to ice skate yourself—I only did well because it’s a lot like rollerblading to me. I still lost at bowling, though. It’s the memory that counts, though.

  The birthday Mommy gave me a tiny piano to keep in my room. It was pink and purple with flowers painted on the top.

  Wait… what?

  Where did that come from?

  The card Ivy made for me when I turned six. She used her awesome markers, because she had so many colors and some were even scented, and drew a butterfly on the cover. It was so pretty, I tacked it onto my wall by my pillow so I’d see it everyday.

  That one time Noah let me play with his red toy truck. It was his favorite and he wouldn’t let anyone touch it but me.

  The day that Mommy taught me to play chopsticks on the big piano in the living room because, she said, it was an easy song. I would spend hours playing it on my piano in my room.

  Where is all of this coming from? Is my mind finally working correctly? Are doors unlocking?

  Will I finally have answers?

  I’m here to help you…

  Sitting up, I look around the room, searching for the source of that voice. It was a girl, light and lilting, melodic, almost too young to be someone I know. I only see Zephyr with his nose stuck between the pages of his reading assignment for English.

  Other than him, that’s it, we’re alone. We’re alone and I’m starting to hear voices. Oh, goody, goody. Great, simply fan-freaking-tastic, that’s another check for the crazy column.

  His book slams shut and he’s standing up from his chair by the window before my thoughts stop rolling. We look at each other, his happiness drowns out my worry and a smile blooms across my lips, matching his.

  “I’m finished!” He exclaims joyfully. His parents are having their self-imposed date night, and Jamie is out with Marcus. That just leaves me and Zephyr lounging in his room… in his empty house… with no one to walk in and disrupt whatever it is we decide we want to do. Yeah, what teenager won’t take advantage of that? “Who the hell actually enjoys doing homework on a Friday night?” he asks as he shrugs off his hoodie, tossing it over the back of his desk chair.

  I could answer that honestly, but I don’t want the weird look. And he knows me well enough to know my honest answer.

  “Look at it this way,” I say instead. “Now you’re entire weekend has opened up.” I sit up on his bed and tuck my hair behind my ears. “There’s no need to scramble to finish everything on Sunday night.” The perks of being studious.

  Zephyr stares at me for a moment, before he slowly shakes his head with confusion. It’s a momentary thought because soon he’s walking toward me, slowly dropping his hands onto the edge of his bed. “Since my entire weekend is open, there is something I’d like to start right here.” His chocolate eyes burn into mine as he stalks closer to me, his hands caging me to his bed as he moves closer, inching, inching, inching, until his scent envelops me, overwhelms me and I’m ready to succumb.

  “What’s that?” I ask distractedly, mesmerized by his luscious lips when his tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip before they split in a mischievous grin. My eyes glance up, staring into eyes looking back at me with so much intensity that I forget to breathe. I can sense a need I’ve never felt before burning through my body, one that starts in my core and blossoms through the rest of my body, driving through my veins, leaving me, for lack of a better word, hot. No, molten.

  He can feel it too. I can see it in his eyes, an intense, carnal need just to be with me.

  He doesn’t answer, only smirks mischievously before he presses his lips against mine tenderly, almost apprehensively, like he’s scared I’ll just bolt from the room the moment our lips touch. But that’s the last thing I want to do. My hands snake up, grabbing his neck, and pulling him closer to me, as close as I can, silently telling him it’s okay. Everything’s okay. His hands grip my sides, fisting the thin fabric of my shirt before one hand moves up, cradling my cheek.

  His hand grazes bare skin, first tentatively, then his palm flattens against my side, gripping me like he’ll lose me. He holds on to every part of me, pulling me, tugging me, wanting me closer, closer than ever before.

  Alarms sound off in my head as his hand snakes higher and higher, leaving a trail of electricity with every touch, reaching uncharted territory I’d prefer remained uncharted.

  “Stop,” I say against his lips. It’s too quiet for him to hear. He kisses me hard, his hand snaking higher. “Stop,” I yell, pushing him away from me as hard as I can with as much force as my shaking body can muster. It shocks him. Scrambling from the bed, I drop to the floor, tugging down my shirt to keep my broken body hidden. There’s nothing uglier than my body. I should know, I’ve seen it. I’ve seen every nook, cranny, and terrifying blemish. Every jagged scar, I’ve committed them to memory. What will he say when he sees me, when he finally sees me? All of me? He’d run, because it would all be true, every rumor would be confirmed, and I wouldn’t blame him for running.

  He can’t see what lies beneath my shirt; he can’t see the marks on my skin. It’d disgust him, it disgusts me and I have to see it every day, I have to live with it.

  I should’ve known this would be too much for him to handle, my body and my scars, I should’ve spared him the issue and just told him I never felt the same way about it. I should’ve pushed him away instead of kissing him that night. He can’t handle it. He can’t handle my past. No one can.

  Not even me.

  “What? I’m sorry,” he instantly says, jumping from the bed and quickly making his way over to me. I scramble away, crawling back until I hit the wall. “What did I do? Was I pressuring you? I wasn’t aware, Joey, I swear,” he rambles out, running his hands through his hair before he drops to the floor in front of me, his knees in my direct line of sight. His hands fall to the floor, trembling as he nears me.

  “No, it wasn’t that,” I tell him, keeping my hand on my stomach, keeping my shirt down and everything hidden. “I just…” I trail off, not entirely sure what to say or even what to tell him. How can I explain this?

  “Just what, Jo? Talk to me.” he asks, his hands resting on my knees. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  I know, Zephyr, believe me, I know.

  Why do I continue to scare him over and over?

  “I can’t tell you,” I whisper lightly. I hug my knees to my chest, feeling the need to rebuild those brick walls I knocked down for him but I don’t want to be strong about this, I just want to let him in. I can let him in, right. I can’t be this hopeless. But the biggest part of me knows that I’m hopeless.

  “Why can’t you tell me?” he asks as his hands grip my ankles, tugging my legs over his lap.

  I so much want to tell him, Because I’m a pathetic basket case. The words won’t leave my mouth. The truth remains within me.

  But it’s Zephyr. I can tell him anything. I look up to him, staring into a gaze so pure, so warm, that I just want to unleash everything.

  I reach up and thread my fingers through his hair, feeling the silky locks glide along my fingers. He leans into my touch. My fingers find the scar on the back of his head, the one he got by accident when he was playing baseball as a kid. One of the other kids wasn’t paying attention when he was swinging the bat and hit Zephyr in the back of the head so hard, it resulted in twelve stitches and his mother pulling him from baseball and preventing him from starting again. I’m surprised she lets him play tackle football.

  “Do you remember when you got this?” I ask so lightly, I barely recognize my own voice. My finger rubs against the long, jagged line of smooth, raised skin hidden within his hair.

  “Yeah, I do.” He laughs softly as his hand reaches up, his fingers circling around my wrist while his thumb rubs circles along the inside of my wris
t. “It sucked, I liked baseball a lot.”

  I figured that he’d say something like that; he was always playing different sports as a kid.

  I’m debating within myself to open up. I can tell him, I can trust him, he’s Zephyr and he wouldn’t judge me, right? What am I saying? Of course he wouldn’t judge me or whatever other horrible things I’m thinking of from the likes of mayhem and vandalism to completely shunning me.

  He’d never do anything like that, not to me.

  I pull away, holding his hand in mine and massaging it, still thinking how I want to show him. I could just take off my shirt, but the visual is a little much. I could just tell him, but he’d still want to see them. He’d want to know.

  I know what I can do.

  Taking his hand, I lift up my shirt and place his hand over a scar, lining up his fingers with the jagged line along my skin. It’s the ugliest one on my body, one he can feel without having to try. From his eyes, I can tell he doesn’t understand, but after a moment, his hand moves and his expression changes to scared as he tries to figure out what his fingers are tracing.

  “I have a few scars of my own,” I tell him. He raises the fabric of my t-shirt, looking at the white jagged lines crossing along my stomach. There are four on my lower stomach he can easily see.

  “Oh, Joey,” he whispers as his hands navigate the bare flesh, seeking each and every last blemish and deformity. I make it easier for him by tugging my shirt over my head and turning around to show him my back. His fingertips trail down my back lightly, like connecting a macabre Connect-the-Dots drawing. “So it was true?” he asks quietly, but not to me, to himself. “Everything those idiots started spreading around school, all if it’s true.” He sounds certain of himself, of his statement.

  Where is he going with this?

  What does he mean?

  Arms wrap around me from behind, tugging me to his chest, his heat warming my back. “I am so, so sorry that any of this happened to you,” he whispers into my ear, a shudder in his voice.

  “Zephyr, it’s okay,” I tell him, my hand reaching up to cup his cheek, feeling scruff brush against my fingertips. He doesn’t look at me, only stairs at the painting leaning against his wall. It’s the painting of me surrounded by green. He still hasn’t finished it. I open my mouth to tell him it’s a part of the past I can’t change when he abruptly cuts me off.

  “No, it’s not, Joey.” His voice hardens. “Something like this will never be okay.” His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer. He fears he’ll lose me if he releases. “If I could take all of your pain, if not away, I would. I would wear these scars for you if only you still had your family.”

  His words bring tears to my eyes.

  “We can’t change the past, Zephyr.” As much as I would love to change that night or anything before that night, the outcome is still the same. I’m here and they’re gone.

  “I know that.” His grip loosens slightly before his hands slide down my arms.

  “This is just what you get with me.” My throat tightens and I try to hold back the tears that want to erupt.

  “When are you going to understand how truly beautiful and perfect you are to me?” he asks, feathering a kiss against my bare shoulder. I may want to put my shirt back on but his kiss completely changes my mind.

  “Perfectly ruined,” I mutter, appreciating and loving him for trying, but scoffing all the same.

  “Perfectly flawed,” he responds, proud. “But we’re all flawed, that’s what makes us human, and that’s why I love you.” He presses his lips against my neck.

  I lean back, looking up to him as his hair tickles my cheek. I love him; I really, truly love him. I know that I’ve told him before, I’ve expressed my feelings, but now there’s a warmth blooming in my heart, it’s coursing through my veins, and it makes me realize that I never want to be separated from Zephyr. I can see this being forever.

  Thirteen

  I sit in my favorite recliner in the back of the library, reading through my next AP English assignment, Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. I’m halfway through the first out of six parts—when I should be doing other homework—when Zephyr walks up, dropping dramatically into the neighboring recliner. I haven’t lifted my eyes from the book, reading the same sentence twice, when he slides a sheet of paper into my line of sight.

  It’s light green with large, hand-drawn block letters on it.

  “What’s this?” I ask, holding out the green sheet of paper, not bothering to read it, even though that would be the easiest solution.

  “Just read it,” Zephyr offers with a grin. A grin that kind of scares me. He has a look on his face that screams mischief but also this is for your own good and now I’m really worried.

  My eyes scan the sheet, taking in the words Idol and singing competition hoping that what I think he’s implying is wrong. Very, very wrong. “Our school is holding an Idol competition?” I ask with skepticism. This can’t, no, will not turn out well.

  “Continue,” he directs, rolling his finger in the air, begging me to read on.

  “It’s for the entire school district,” I say aloud. That’s all that the paper says, other than a few names of people I don’t know. “So what?”

  “So what?” Zephyr repeats. “You should sign up to do it.”

  I snort loudly, catching the attention of someone sitting at the closest table attempting to finish their homework. “Not going to happen,” I tell him, flinging the paper back to him. I’d rather deal with Raskolnikov’s stupidity—seriously, the man has an axe and he doesn’t chop the lady?—than sing in front of a crowd, let alone auditioning in front of people that probably don’t like me to begin with.

  “Come on, Joey,” Zephyr coos. “You’re really good. No, you’re great,” he tries to convince me.

  “Thanks, honey,” I say, speaking to the book in my hand. “But never, in a million years, will I agree to do it, just move on.” I turn the page.

  Zephyr drops to the floor, in the middle of the library, right in front of everyone and it didn’t seem to bother him as much as it was bothering me, crawling over to me on his knees with his hands clasped together. “Please,” he begs, jutting out his bottom lip in an accentuated pout. “Pretty please.” Now everyone’s starting.

  “No,” I tell him, trying to ignore him, but I can’t read a full sentence without getting distracted and starting over.

  He snatches the book from my hands, flinging himself backward to keep it away from me. My mouth drops open as I realize I’m dating a child.

  “Zephyr, give me my book,” I command, standing up from the chair to take it back from him. He continuously snaps his hand back before raising his hands above his head. Damn his height.

  I really don’t want to wrestle for a book in the middle of the library. Not today, I’m not in the mood for it. And his happy-peppy smile isn’t helping things.

  “Only if you agree to do this,” he offers, tossing the paper back at me. It floats to the floor between us.

  “And if I don’t?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest defensively, seriously giving him the stink eye.

  “Then you fail whatever assignment this is,” he tells me, taking a moment to look at the cover of the book. “Crime and Punishment, huh?” Like he has any interest in Dostoyevsky.

  “Dude, I can just go to Barnes and Noble after school to buy another book, jack ass,” I snap at him, still trying to take my book back. Zephyr’s too fast for me, whipping his hand back, nearly launching the book across the room. I doubt anyone wants to be smacked in the back of the head Crime and Punishment. Though, if my boyfriend continues with this stupidity, he will be the one getting smacked in the head with it.

  “And I’ll just keep taking every copy you buy until you agree to do this.” He points to the paper at my feet.

  I roll my eyes, cross my arms over my chest, and pop out a hip. “The deadline passes in a week, Zephyr.”

  “It does?” He looks to the paper. “Hmmm,
I didn’t notice that,” he mumbles, still holding the book out of reach. There goes my chance at distraction. “Still, it’d be awesome, Joey, can’t you picture it?” I shake my head. “Come on, picture your name in lights, a crowd of millions cheering your name…”

  “Dude, it’s a high school singing competition,” I remind him. “I won’t be singing at Comcast Arena or the Tacoma Dome, I’ll leave that to Taylor Swift.”

  “You don’t dream, do you?” he asks, deadpan.

  Not really! “You know what, fine, whatever,” I blurt out. “Just give me my book,” I demand, holding out my hand.

  His hand drops as he looks at me in disbelief. In his brief moment of weakness I snatch my book back and launch back onto the chair, resuming my reading.

  “Seriously, you’ll do it?” he asks, confused. I can see well, that was easy float through his mind, like it’s reading through his forehead.

  “Sure,” I concede while searching for my bookmark, I lost it somewhere in the chair. I flip my hair over my shoulder as my hands slide between the cushion—a very disgusting and disturbing thing to do, I don’t know what’s happened in these chairs—and slide out the Everett Silvertips ticket I use to mark my place.

  “That’s good to hear,” he tells me as he takes his seat in the other chair. “I already signed you up for it at lunch.” He smiles at me and my mouth drops open. I want to punch him, hard, in the face. Am I supposed to thank him for going behind my back? Should I thank him for his cockiness?

  “Are you kidding me, Zephyr?” I ask, loud enough to garner a few shushes from nearby people, and a glare from a teacher in the back of the library by the computer bank.

  “Like I said, you’re a great singer.” His smile widens as he leans between the two chairs, close enough to kiss me, or for me to sucker punch him. Let me tell you, it’s really tempting to just bitch slap the smirk off his face right now. “I did what I thought was right, Jo.” Really, tempting.

  I look to the book in my hand; I could smack him in the face with it, but it wouldn’t really be worth it. If I were reading Anna Karenina or War and Peace then his face wouldn’t be safe. That seems like an appropriate idea for the moment. Or I could just shove him until he falls between the chairs. He would fall on his nose and I could just tell him I did what I thought was right, Zeph.