Perfect

by Cecelia Ahern

  “We were just trying to protect you.”

  “I realize that now.”

  He looks away, knows that he’s finally lost me.

  “I thought I could be closer to Dad this way.” He looks down at his uniform. “It’s not working. Before, I never saw the side of him that everybody else did: the judge. I mean, you and I made of fun of it, the bravado, the persona he took on, I could separate it all. But now … he’s different.”

  I remain tight-lipped.

  “Did he really hurt you like you said?” he whispers.

  I nod.

  He squeezes me tighter. “Who have I been living with?”

  “He loves you,” I say, the only positive thing I can think of.

  He moves me gently aside so that he can stand. I wince at the pain in my stomach. Art opens the units lining the wall and comes back to me with bandages.

  He lifts my T-shirt, a move that is so familiar, and he winces as he sees the scar I made on myself. It’s clear as day, nothing like the mess on my spine. This scar wasn’t done out of punishment, it was done out of pride. He cleans the wound, which I have to grit my teeth for and grunt, and then he places a cotton pad on the wound and wraps a bandage around my waist.

  “If he loves me like you say, then he’ll forgive me,” he says. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  “No. You don’t need to do that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But…” I look in the direction of the cells. “My granddad, Raphael Angelo.” I swallow. “Carrick.”

  He pulls down my T-shirt. “I’ll get you all out of here,” he says quietly. “I just need time to work out how.”

  “Thank you.” I take his hand and he helps me to my feet.

  “It’s the least I can do,” he says. “I don’t want people to think I’m like him. Imagine, that’s my worst fear. Being like my dad.”

  “Nobody will think you’re like him when they find out that you wanted to let us go.”

  “My fear isn’t of people thinking it, it’s of actually being like him.”

  “You’re nothing like him,” I say, and I really mean it. “Art, there’s something I have to tell you.…” I have to warn him what’s about to happen, but I look up and see Crevan. He’s sitting in the viewing chamber—I don’t know how long he’s been here. I don’t know what he’s heard. I hope he heard every single word that Art said. Our eyes meet, through the glass, and I know from the broken look on his face that he has heard every single word. He’s wearing his cloak, and it seems too big for his defeated demeanor. He stands up and leaves the room.

  Art goes to look behind him but I stop him.

  Then the guards come rushing in, see us, and make for the chamber door.

  We don’t put up a fight.

  SEVENTY

  “EASY, EASY,” Art says as I wince from the pain in my core when they grab me.

  “What happened here?” a guard asks.

  “We’ll talk about it somewhere else,” Art says authoritatively.

  “You take her. I’ll take him,” the guard says.

  “I was following my father’s orders,” Art says, and the guard throws him such a look of contempt and mutters, “Daddy’s boy,” before pulling me away with him.

  Instead of being brought back to my cell, I’m marched up a winding staircase, away from the holding cells in the basement and up to the Guild offices in the castle.

  I’ve never been in this part of the castle before; nobody gets to come here—it’s private, for Guild employees only.

  Each step I take hurts me, but I have no choice but to keep going. We reach the top floor and I’m taken to the turret room. There is a round table in the center of the room, bookshelves lining the walls, broken up only by windows that overlook the castle courtyard on one side and others that look out to all the sides of the city. Sanchez, I can tell, likes to see the world from a height, and this is where the decisions are made.

  Sanchez and Jackson are sitting together, looking troubled. With Crevan’s position ambiguous after Sanchez faced him down, leaving the two remaining judges to deal with the aftermath of the announcement of Crevan’s sinister program, the Reduction of the Flawed, they are in the midst of a crisis. I should be the least of their worries, but I know I’m at the top of the pile.

  “You weren’t feeling hungry?” Sanchez asks, frustrated, and I stare at her in shock. It was she who arranged for the food to be drugged. But why? And then I realize. She never wanted me to sign the deal. She screwed me over again. She wanted me to miss the deadline. Of course she wouldn’t want my ruling to be publicly overturned, for the same reason she wouldn’t allow the footage to become public: It would be the Guild’s downfall, the Guild she is now the head of. She got what she wanted; why would she help me?

  Feeling less confident than I did before, now that my three backups, including my legal representative, have been knocked out many floors below, I slowly sit at the table, my wound aching. It’s me versus the remaining committee of judges; my fate is in their hands.

  Sanchez places a document on the table before me, and a pen. A Highland Castle pen, from the tourist shop.

  “As we discussed, the end of business today is your final date to agree to a new deal.”

  “Shouldn’t I have legal representation?”

  “I was told he couldn’t be stirred,” Jackson says. “And you sent away Mr. Willingham.” His patience with me has clearly come to an end.

  “We discussed these terms with your representative already, and you had time to discuss them with him. Nothing has changed. You either sign the contract or not,” Sanchez says quickly, trying to hurry it all along.

  I remain silent, my heart drumming. I think I actually really hate this woman.

  “These are the conditions,” Sanchez begins. “Instead of a Flawed verdict, we believe the verdict should have been a six-month prison sentence in line with the ‘aiding a Flawed’ law. We withdrew the Flawed verdict; your grandfather and Mr. Angelo have immunity, as you were not Flawed; and you begin your prison sentence in Highland Women’s Correctional Facility on Monday for a total of three months. We removed the three months’ time served as Flawed from that sentence. You can expect to serve one month of your three-month sentence.”

  I look at her in shock. “This is your act of mercy?” I look at Judge Jackson. “You weren’t there, but believe me, this wasn’t the deal she promised me.”

  “I didn’t promise you anything. This is our offer, Celestine,” Sanchez says, pushing the pages closer to me.

  Jackson has a gentler tone. “I know at your age prison seems like a terrifying ordeal, but it will be minimum security, for a period of no more than thirty days, and then you will be free to live your life as a regular citizen of Humming.”

  I look at the grandfather clock against the wall. “But what about Carrick?”

  “I told you, Celestine,” says Sanchez, “he goes unpunished for any involvement he had with you, but his Flawed branding remains in place. His case is not related to yours, there’s nothing we can do.”

  “What’s going to happen to Judge Crevan?” I ask. “No prison sentence for him for what he did to me? No Flawed brand for his unethical, immoral mistakes?” I don’t let either of them respond. “You just wanted his job. You said it was about cleaning up the Guild, but really it was just about power. You wanted the power. You lose your son and gain a job all in one day. Is it really worth it?”

  Sanchez closes her eyes and breathes deeply, as though trying to keep her patience with a petulant child.

  Judge Jackson steps in, still calm. “Think about the opportunity you have been given. You have been given a gift by the Guild. An opportunity to see what life is like on the other side. A chance. Nobody gets that. Take what you have learned and go forward.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” I finally look at Judge Jackson. “I’d like to tell you about what I’ve learned, if I may?”

  I look at the clock again.


  “I’ve learned a great deal throughout this experience, and one of the most important things you’ve taught me is about trust. Who to trust, and who not to trust. Before the branding I don’t think I’d ever been hurt by anyone, not in a real way. But since the branding, people have surprised me. It wasn’t me who changed. You put a letter on my sleeve and these scars on my body, and suddenly the whole world shifted. I’ve had to learn to adapt to that. I’ve been forced to figure out who I am, more than ever.

  “Judge Crevan was right in his interview when he said that punishment helps people become more self-aware. I think of myself more, and think more of myself; but mostly I’m aware of my instincts more than ever. They’ve become my guide.

  “Judge Sanchez came to me nearly three weeks ago, after the trial, looking to help me. She was concerned at that stage that my Flawed verdict was an incorrect verdict.”

  Judge Jackson’s head snaps around to her so fast.

  Judge Sanchez raises her voice. “Now, I don’t think that this is the time for more lies—”

  “I’d like to hear this,” Jackson says firmly. “It seems many of this girl’s lies have turned out to be true.” He glares at her, then returns his attention to me.

  I continue. “I did everything Sanchez asked of me. I went to her this morning with evidence powerful enough to remove Crevan from his position. Except the evidence was powerful enough to take down not just Crevan but the entire Guild, and so she decided to threaten Crevan instead, to take his job, not to help me, or to see that justice was done.”

  Jackson looks at Sanchez nervously.

  I look at Sanchez and smile. “Thank you for teaching me about trust.”

  Sanchez shifts uncomfortably in her seat, just wanting this to be over so she can get on with it, not at all touched, moved, or guilty. I’m glad. It makes what’s going to happen next easier.

  “The thing is, the Guild has trained me well. Did you think I didn’t know that this was what would happen?”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Did you think I didn’t guess that you wouldn’t use the footage against the Guild? Did you think I would come straight to you from Mary May’s house and hand over all my copies to you? Did you actually believe me? Did you think that I wouldn’t know that you’d double-cross me somehow?”

  I smile.

  She braces herself.

  “I was one step ahead of you. The whole time. Judge Sanchez, I’m Flawed. You shouldn’t have trusted me.”

  I look at the clock. It’s 6:00 PM.

  “I suggest you turn on the television,” I say.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  16 HOURS EARLIER

  WHEN I WAS a child, my mom was always obsessed with the sun. Not by the sunset that signaled the end of the day, but by the sunrise that brought about the miracle of the new day. I don’t know if this is because she was an optimist, a joyful soul who celebrated every new day, or because as a pessimist she feared that every day could be the end.

  She used to wake early, wake us all up and take us to the lake, where we would watch the sunrise together. As we got older we refused to get out of bed during the week, and then we just went on weekends. Then it was just Sunday mornings, and as we reached our teenage years and didn’t want to go at all, she went alone.

  Just to keep her happy she planned what she called her “sunrise days,” days planned well in advance of when we would accompany her. But our company was begrudging. Sleeping on pillows in the car, sometimes refusing to even get out, which angered or hurt her depending on the day. I remember watching her from the car one day, all bundled up and feeling so frustrated that our weird mother had taken us from the comfort of our warm beds for this, but when I conjure that image of her now I feel guilty for not sharing it with her.

  It also makes me smile. The picture in my head of her with the sun rising before her makes me feel calm, fills me with love for her.

  She would send us photographs of the sunrise from all around the world, from wherever she was doing modeling shoots. The sun coming up over Milan Cathedral while she was at Milan Fashion Week, over the rooftops of Montmartre during Paris Fashion Week. Rising over the Manhattan skyline or at London’s Camden Market. Dad would grumble that she was probably only on her way home.

  She’d fill photo albums just with these photographs, try to get as many of us with the sun rising as she could, and she would study them, mainly at night by the fire, curled up in her pajamas while the rest of us watched TV. It must have lifted her soul. I don’t think I ever asked her why. It seems such an obvious thing to ask her now, but ever since I’ve had to leave my family behind I think of a thousand things a day that I want to ask or tell them. Even Ewan, who’s only eight. I realize there is so much about his little life that I don’t know.

  After Carrick and I get our hands on the snow globe in Mary May’s house, we quietly sneak away, terrified that she’ll catch us. We don’t call Raphael Angelo yet to collect us, as we promised him. Instead, we send a text message to my mom to meet us at the lake.

  There are a number of reasons why I contact Mom. First, I need to see her before she charges the Whistleblower training center that holds Juniper. Second, I need her to help me with the next part of my plan. But mostly it’s because I miss her. I want my mom. I want to touch her, smell her, feel her. I want her to make everything okay just as she always has done for me, or at least make me feel like everything is going to be okay. Help me with that extra armor for the world. I know I’m old enough, but I need her. Just like Mary May needs hers. Just as Art cried every day when he lost his, and how Crevan fell to pieces when his son lost his. Just as Carrick risked his freedom to find his.

  I want Carrick to meet my mom. I want this so much.

  We wait on the sand. It’s 2:00 AM. I’m sure she will be awake, with her duty of charging into the Whistleblower base to get Juniper only hours away. I’ve no doubt she is plotting and planning, rehearsing and running through it over and over again with Dad, who no doubt wants to be the one to do it, but it can’t be him, it has to be Mom, the mother.

  Thirty minutes later, headlights appear. We hide. She pulls into the parking lot; no one follows her. She makes her way down to the sand, wearing an oversized cardigan, carrying a blanket and bag in her hands. We come out of our hiding place and she sees me. Her face crumples before she even gets to me. She opens her arms wide and I’m lost in that oversized cashmere cardigan, feeling her body heat. I feel like I’m in a cocoon. I can finally breathe, relax, cry.

  “Mom, this is Carrick.” I sniff.

  “Oh, Carrick.” She lifts her wings again and bundles all six feet of him inside, and the two parts of my life come together.

  “I brought food,” she says. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving,” we say in unison.

  We wolf down the sandwiches, while she watches us.

  “Can you taste yet?”

  I shake my head but shovel the sandwiches into my mouth anyway.

  “Look at you.” She moves hair from my face. “You look so grown up.”

  “It’s only been, like, three weeks.” I laugh, then self-consciously share a look with Carrick.

  She looks at him then, and as if realizing what has happened between me and him, she studies him in silence.

  Carrick chews slowly, sensing her eyes on him. He looks up at her and then away quickly.

  “You cut your hair,” I say, taking in her cropped style.

  “I always thought it was such a cliché when women cut their hair, thinking it was like some kind of brave and strong thing to do, as if the hair is of any importance at all. Well, I was wrong. I had to keep it long, for the hair-care contracts. Keep it long, keep it blond, keep it this, keep it that. Half the time it was extensions because that’s what we wanted to project, healthy hair. That beautiful means lots of hair, that perfect means fuller hair. I got tired of it. So I shaved one side for the Candy Crevan housewarming.”

  “I remember.”

  “After yo
u left I dip-dyed it pink, but I hated it. I looked like Barbie’s grandmother. So I cut it. We’re supposed to think that long hair is feminine. The perfect look for summer, beach hair. I told them all to suck it.”

  Carrick and I laugh.

  “You sound like Juniper.”

  “Your dad doesn’t know what to think.” She smiles. “But he likes it.”

  My throat tightens and my heartbeat speeds up at the mention of Dad. I feel Carrick’s eyes on me but I can’t go there yet. Carrick senses we need some time alone and announces he’s going for a walk.

  “Why did you always come here for the sunrise, Mom?”

  “Juniper had colic as a baby, she never slept, she was always in pain, screaming most of the day and always at night. I used to have to walk the house with her all night while your dad was on night shifts. Those hours were the loneliest, scariest moments I’d ever known. Everybody was asleep, the entire street—it felt like the whole world was asleep. The seconds felt like minutes, the minutes like hours, and those screams…” She shudders at the memory. “One night she wouldn’t settle, and I just got in the car and drove. I had no idea where I was going but I wasn’t staying home for a second longer. Sometimes she’d fall asleep in the car, sometimes not, but this time I ended up driving to the lake. I sat on the beach with Juniper while she howled, but it felt like the water and the breeze took away the edge, and suddenly the night began to disappear, as the sun rose, and as it did I felt the weight lift from me, the pressure and the fear all rose with the light. And Juniper, knocked out by the breeze, and maybe sensing my own contentment, finally slept.

  “I came here every single sunrise after that, whether she was sleeping or not. It helped me more than her. And I tried to as much as possible when I had Ewan, though it was harder with the two of you. I would say good-bye to the day I had and hello to the next day—it felt like starting again. A blank canvas. Yesterday’s problems were gone, hello to a new day and new beginnings.”

  I sit beside her on the sand, her arm over my shoulder, and I cuddle into her. I watch Carrick by the water, just standing there, hands in his pockets, head down, lost in thought.