No Such Thing as Perfect

by Daltry, Sarah

  “There aren’t, though,” I say. “This is the most important, Jack. This…” But words minimize it. He knows and I know. I don’t need to tell him everything about Derek, about my past or my fears, because it’s not important to him. He cares about me despite those things. I’ve lived so deluded about what caring looks like, but there’s no question that this is what people do when they care.

  He holds me against him, his body warm but tense. I know he has something to say and I feel like I know what it is. I don’t want him to say it. Not yet. I want to hear it, but not now. Not until other things fall into place, because I need to get that right to make this what it should be.

  “Lily… Elinor… the girl who has a plan for everything.”

  “Don’t say it,” I plead. “Not tonight, Jack. I’m not ready. I want to be ready, but I don’t want to lie to you.”

  “Okay. I won’t,” he agrees. “Not until you’re ready.”

  The cold doesn’t bother me while we sit by the lake, arms wrapped around our knees and talking. The conversation isn’t important – school, favorite movies, things that are transient, but the night is massive overhead. The sky is full of nothing but stars and light and the water spills onto the shore, inching closer to us as we speak. I remember the rainy day with Derek, but in this moment, I recognize what he was for me. You can’t love an idea. When you do, you love that vague concept more than the person. Derek was the only one who stayed in the rain, the one who didn’t tell me I had to come inside. He was the idea of freedom, but he also fit into the plan. It was safe rebellion, a sort of hallucinatory imprisonment. He represented what I wanted, but he still kept me locked away. Like that afternoon camping, I believed I was out in the rain, but we never left the tent. We were still protected from anything outside of us.

  Jack is none of these things. He’s dangerous because he doesn’t care about rules. But if Derek was the idea of rain, Jack is the rain itself. He’s the risk of failure and hurt, but I trust him. I believe in this boy.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I tell him. “But I’m scared and I think I need to get other things worked out. I think I need to do certain things – alone.”

  “I know. I figured. I just wanted you to have a happy birthday. Even if it’s late.”

  When we leave, we don’t touch, walking distant to avoid the kind of stupid moves we made earlier. I care for him, but I need to be whole, to be separate from another person, to define myself without someone else’s standards as a guide. I hate walking away from him when we get back to school and I don’t know if it’s a terrible mistake.

  “I’ll see you around,” he says by the elevators. There’s no kiss, no hug, no affection, but it’s not cruel. I know it hurts him, too, and I want to tell him I changed my mind, but I can’t. I can’t make this what it was with Derek – an idea that never had time to manifest into what it really was, but existed like a photograph’s negative of what I had imagined. Jack deserves more than that. I deserve more than that.

  In the room, I turn on my desk light and in the dim space, I find the card and box he gave me; I’d forgotten about them in the immensity of the night. He just literally gave you the world you had imagined, a world you mentioned in one casual conversation, and you walked away. But when I think of changing my mind, of running to his room, I know what comes next and my body grows weak at the thought of it. I catch the bile as it rises, thinking about someone touching me intimately, the effects of being used, of how much things change once you open yourself to someone in that way. No matter how much I want to believe it might be different, I’m not ready.

  The card is a simple black and white photograph of a moon. It’s blank on the inside, except for the note from Jack.

  Happy Birthday, dear Lily. Go believe in your moon.

  Inside the box is a bracelet – a simple silver band with one charm – a silver leaf. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s personal, like the card, like the whole night, and I start to cry. The tears rush out as I try to shut it all out, every memory of my mom, of Derek, of all my failures and mistakes, but once it begins, it’s like living your entire life in high velocity and you know the inevitable crash is probably going to kill you.

  36.

  Kristen’s surprised when she gets back and my side of the room is fully decorated. I spent all day cleaning and putting up some posters that were sitting in the lounge. One is a motivational quote with a mountain on it and the other is from a movie that came out years earlier, but they’re something. And I ate a granola bar, so she’s even more excited when she sees the wrapper in the trash.

  “What happened this weekend?” she asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re lying. But okay.”

  “Really. It was nothing. It was just a lot of things at once and a lot of thinking and I can’t keep letting the wrong things matter. I need to stop this. I can’t change what happened and I’m angry and hurt and it’s not okay, but I’m not letting it ruin the future, too. If my past is all a lie, at least I can write my own future, right?” I ask.

  She closes the door and opens her bag, pulling out a Milky Way bar. “Here. Eat this. We’ll split it. And tell me everything.”

  “Do you just carry food in there all the time?”

  “Yeah, mostly.”

  It feels good to tell her, to explain it, to talk about the memories I’ve kept and hear from someone else that things weren’t what I believed them to be. It helps to have another person look at me and tell me that it wasn’t my fault. Although I don’t completely believe it and despite my fears about going home for Thanksgiving, the idea that there is a girl inside of me who could be what everyone else sees – everyone beyond my mom and Derek and the me of a year ago – keeps me hopeful.

  “I really don’t want to go home, but I have to,” I admit. “I have to face it. But she’s going to want to talk about him and my brother isn’t going to listen and I’m sure he’ll have his own version and it will all be my fault.”

  “Who cares?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you want to make it a big deal, I will be right there with you, but if you don’t and you want it to die, I’ll be there for that, too. But who cares at all about the people who won’t? If they can’t see through it, maybe you’re better off away from it.”

  “She’s my mom,” I try to explain. “I know it’s stupid and I get how it looks to you, but she’s the only mom I have.” Hearing the words makes me think of Jack, of how much he misses a woman who didn’t care about him while she was alive, how angry he is at his father for taking her, even though she wasn’t perfect. He loved her although she was so far from perfect.

  “Have you talked to them about classes?”

  Most of my professors have been great, but I missed a lot and it’s unlikely I can finish the semester with anything higher than a 3.0. It’s only one semester and I’m on scholarship, but I have next semester to improve and bring it up overall. Plus a couple of the professors said they’d back me if it came down to academic probation. But my professors aren’t my mom – and a 3.0 might as well be failing everything.

  “I haven’t. I don’t know what she’ll be most upset about – Derek, my grades, or how fat I’ve gotten.”

  “Well, those are all stupid reasons, so whatever. If she’s awful, you can stay with me for winter break. And my mom loves food.”

  Laughing, I take a bite of the Milky Way she gave me earlier, which is the second thing I’ve had today. I can’t express it to Kristen, but I love her, because she has never lectured me. She’s not stupid; she knows I’m not okay. But she hasn’t given me a speech about self-esteem or therapy or health or anything. She just comes back to the dorm with food when I’m not at meals – or she sends one of the guys with food. When I don’t eat it, she doesn’t say a word, but she never stops. Her faith in me makes me grateful we were randomly placed together.

  “I’m glad our forms were matched,” I tell her.

&n
bsp; “Right, because I carry chocolate in my purse.”

  “Exactly. I could have ended up with a roommate who carried nothing but tampons.”

  She laughs and opens her purse, taking out a roll of Mentos. “Worse, they could’ve carried, like, broccoli.”

  “The logic in this hypothetical feels flawed,” I joke.

  Popping half the Mentos into her mouth at once, she says around the mouthful of coated chewy candy, “Logic schmogic. Eat a Mento.”

  People act like life is a series of big moments, of the things that shape you and when you’re sad or even when you’re happy, it’s all these huge and impactful memories that come to mind. But the best moments I’ve had since college started involved sitting on the frozen ground by the lake with Jack and this – eating Mentos with a girl who’s only part of my life because someone grabbed two pieces of paper at the right time.

  ****

  Jack keeps his word and I don’t see him at all before Thanksgiving. Every day I look for him, hoping I can blame fate for his presence, that I can excuse my joy at seeing him as an accident, but he’s never there. I know he works, that he has band practice, that his classes are on the other side of campus from mine usually, but if I tried a little harder, our paths would cross. It confuses me because I’m still not ready, but I miss him. I miss watching him try to smuggle soup in his coffee mug because he says sandwiches aren’t healthy. I miss the way he rolls his eyes when I try to remember the name of the game he’s playing. I miss the fact that talking to him feels comfortable and when I’m working on my homework, he’s usually nearby. I miss having him sit so close to me but still leaving me my space.

  Going home is hard. Since the night with Derek, I’ve refused to let the past in, trying to think of nothing but who I want to be and what I need to let go. But I know the weekend will be a challenge. It’s only Tuesday night and while I’m waiting for my dad, I can’t stop worrying. Anxiety makes me chew on my pen and I end up biting down too hard, spraying ink across my teeth, mouth, and shirt.

  “Awesome,” I mumble and grab another shirt and a towel. The bathroom is empty because most of the dorm is already empty. Dad had to work late, so it’s after seven and everyone else has gone home until Sunday.

  I run the water, waiting for it to heat up, staring at the blue that coats my smile. There are too many things to talk about this weekend, too many fears, and I just don’t have the energy to have ink in my teeth.

  “Oh, hey. I didn’t know anyone was still here.” The girl isn’t familiar, but she clearly lives here, carrying her shower caddy and change of clothes towards the showers. I want to ask her where she’s going for the next few days or why she isn’t leaving if she’s not, but it feels rude. I don’t know her.

  “I was just trying to clean myself off,” I explain.

  She comes over and rubs hand sanitizer into the towel, which is sopping wet but water isn’t enough to get the ink out of my shirt. I’m in a black skirt, tights, and dress shoes, with a ratty Winnie the Pooh t-shirt. The shirt we’re washing is white and I don’t think anything will make the ink come out.

  The girl keeps scrubbing, though, and gestures towards her caddy. She makes a cocktail of body wash, toothpaste, and shampoo and scrubs my shirt with the expert skill of someone who still knows how to hand wash clothes. “How do you know how to do this?” I ask.

  “I’m the oldest. My brothers – they’re twins and they’re eight – don’t have anyone to clean up after them. My dad passed away a few years ago, so I’ve gotten really good at keeping the house clean while my mom works.”

  “Does she miss you? While you’re here?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard because they’re in California and I can only go home twice a year. I miss them a lot, but she refused to hear it when I suggested going to school close to home. This was the best school and the best scholarship offer and she says they’re surviving. But I haven’t seen them since August.”

  “That must be tough.”

  She shrugs. “It is, but they’re right. It’s a good school and I can’t stay there forever.”

  I look in the sink, where the water has gone deep blue. Pulling the shirt out, I hold it up; the stain is gone. “Wow. Thanks.”

  “Here,” she says and she hands me a toothbrush, still in its package. “Always have a spare toothbrush. Guess it’s a good thing I did.”

  “Lily,” I say. “I mean, I’m Lily. And thanks. That came out weird.”

  “You’re fine. Meghan.” She goes to the shower, now that the ink is mostly gone. I brush my teeth and use part of the towel to wash the ink off my face. Everything is perfect – no sign of damage. Almost on cue, my phone buzzes.

  “My dad’s here,” I say to the bathroom, but the water is already running in the shower and she won’t hear me.

  I run back to my room and change out of my Pooh shirt into another white dress shirt and grab my bags for the weekend. I realize as I run down the stairs that Meghan and I have lived near one another for three months now and I’ve never even see her before.

  I’ve spent too much time living in some kind of suspended life. Going home is going to be very different this time.

  37.

  He has the nerve to show up on Wednesday morning. By the time I got home last night, everyone was tired and I didn’t have to socialize, but I’m trying to pick at a corn muffin my mom ironically insists I eat despite her comments about my weight and I don’t need to see him right now.

  “I was surprised you didn’t bring Lily home,” my mom says. She’s washing dishes. I don’t know why – Jon and I both just got back last night and the house is spotless. No one has eaten. I have no idea where the dishes even came from. The kitchen smells like lemon dish soap, though, and it’s interfering with my ability to eat this muffin. Every bite tastes like detergent.

  “Oh, she didn’t tell you?” Please don’t, I think, but it’s pointless. He does. “She broke up with me.”

  In movies, my mom would be so shocked she would drop the dish and we would all enjoy the slow motion shattering. Somehow it would be some heirloom, too, just to instill in the audience what a terrible person I am. None of that happens, of course. She scrubs harder and refuses to make eye contact instead.

  “I see. Well, Lily, I imagine you have a good explanation for this?”

  I stare at the mangled muffin. Do I sit here, with him so close, telling her what he did? Would she believe me? Would she care? I can still feel him fighting me, can still hear the words he used. How would he defend himself? Would he even bother?

  My brother has his head in the fridge, rummaging for food, and he’s oblivious. He’s always oblivious. My dad had to work, so I’m trapped in this room with all of my nightmares and I have only a corn muffin and my version of the story to support me.

  “It just wasn’t working,” I say. “We want different things and being away at different schools was hard.” Generic. Vague. Acceptable.

  “I guess you should have considered going to school with Derek after all,” she tells me. “I thought you were stronger than that.”

  So many words fly through my brain – arguments of my strength. I’ve survived what he did. Survived a year in a relationship that was toxic because I was too naïve to know better. Most of all, I have survived her and she stands there, doubting my strength? But as the defense takes form on my lips, I see her cleaning the already clean plate, her hair in a perfect updo and her clothes starched and ironed, and I realize it doesn’t matter. She won’t understand, but that doesn’t mean I need to wait for her approval.

  “I’m going upstairs. I have some schoolwork to do,” I say and I toss the uneaten muffin in the trash, spilling crumbs and not caring.

  I can hear their voices downstairs while I work. She made him breakfast and they’re eating, talking about school and complaining about how difficult I am. I’m sure he was so heartbroken, I think. He probably had to sleep with ten people just to get over it. I’m angry, but mostly that I wasted so
much time. All of high school really. Imagining him as a decent person.

  I hate that all of my firsts were his.

  ****

  Abby came home from Europe and all she wants to do is shop. It’s escape, though, so I agree to head out after Thanksgiving dinner to stand in lines so we can buy a car or something for a dollar. The afternoon was unbearable, listening to my mother’s questions that all focused on how I had failed her by ending things with Derek. The only respite was talking about Jon’s new girlfriend or her joy at the fact that I was “dieting.” I ate three carrots and wanted to puke, but she chalked it up to a success.

  “It’s really cold,” I complain. We’ve been standing here for three and a half hours. The store won’t even open for another five.

  “Why do people do this?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. I thought you wanted to.”

  She shrugs. “I wanted to come home and suck up the American-ness. It gets really depressing sometimes to be an outsider.”

  “So this is your idea of being American?”

  “Where else can you get frostbite just to save twelve dollars on a laundry basket?”

  “How is Europe anyway? Your texts are cryptic as hell.”

  Abby looks around at the mob that has been growing. Some of these people have chairs and small grills. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

  “It’s after six on Thanksgiving. Is there somewhere else?”

  “Let’s go to the city,” she says. “Come on. No one is expecting us until tomorrow afternoon when we’re wiped out from shopping. Something has to be open in the city.”

  With the exception of my camping adventure, I had never done anything off schedule. But the last few months had changed a lot and I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  “Yes?” she asks. “What the hell? That was easy.”

  “Tell me about Europe – and I’ll tell you about school.”

  Inside the car, Abby programs coordinates for Rockefeller Center into the GPS. I can’t imagine we’ll find parking and I really can’t believe she intends to drive all the way in, but I’m not saying a word. This isn’t about planning. It’s not about logic. There will be parking somewhere and that will be the place where we should spend the evening. It feels freeing to leave it up to fate.