Finding Perfect

by Elly Swartz

  She takes a bite of her muffin and continues. “I asked him if I could come visit that winter break and he said his place wasn’t ready, but that I could come in the spring. A month later, he died in a weird boating accident.”

  I stand up and wipe the crumbs off the counter. Four times. She pauses for a minute and stares at me.

  The numbers creep into my head, now fully awake. 4, 8, 12, 16.

  “A few years ago, I was looking for something in my mom’s dresser and found a box of his stuff, including his obituary. Since my parents weren’t together, and his parents had died, and he was an only child, some random person wrote the obit. ‘Michael Kent died at age forty-three in an unfortunate boating accident off the Florida Keys on Friday, January 16th.’ One line. No mention of me. No mention of his life. Nothing. Just that he had died.”

  “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

  “It was like he never lived. Never mattered.”

  20, 24, 28, 32. In that moment, I realize Bridgett is hiding, too.

  33

  walking around in the dark

  WHEN I GET HOME from B’s, I grab my glasses, sit down, and write my own obituary.

  Molly Rose Nathans died at age twelve and is survived by her loving parents, sister Kate and brother Ian, his pet hedgehog, and their dog. Her mother immediately flew in from Toronto to join the family. Molly also leaves behind her best friends, Hannah and Bridgett. Molly was a wonderful slam poet and neat child until a rare illness took her life. It attacked her brain cells, making her think she was going crazy. She dreamed of being a doctor someday.

  It takes me a long time to get it right. The rare illness seems to fit. I’m not sure OCD is technically correct and I haven’t found anything else in my search that makes sense. In this draft, I add Bridgett because she’ll definitely be reading my obit and I don’t want her to feel left out. I also put in Spider to make Ian happy. Hannah was my last add. I’m still blood-boiling angry, but I couldn’t leave her out. My craziness senses something is happening. I fold my obituary neatly four times and tuck it into the right corner of my drawer next to my ruler. I try to work on my poem in case I make it to the final round, but my mind’s crowded with numbers instead of words.

  B. B. King blasts my daily reminder on my phone—twenty-six days until Mom’s fingers-crossed-still-planned first visit.

  Oscar nudges open the door and stands in the middle of my room staring at me. Then he barks. I realize I forgot to feed him. “Come on, boy.” Oscar and I go outside to get his food from the bin on the porch. Bridgett’s standing there.

  “You have to stop doing this,” I say.

  “Doing what?”

  “Just showing up.”

  “Well, I tried calling, but you didn’t answer.”

  I look down at my phone and see four missed calls from B. “Oh, sorry.” I realize I was writing my obituary when she called.

  “It’s cool. Do you notice anything different about me?” B asks.

  “We just saw each other. What could possibly be different?”

  “Just look. Real close.”

  I stare at her hair, her face, her cranberry zip sweater, her woven belt, her bleached jeans, and her black leather tie boots. “You parted your hair on the opposite side.”

  “Anything else?”

  Isn’t that enough? That’s huge. “You have a small run in the bottom right corner of your sweater and your left pointer finger is missing most of its nail polish.”

  “Okay, all of that is weird and wrong. No, check out my earrings.” She slides her long chestnut hair out of the way.

  “How was I supposed to see those hiding in your hair?”

  “My dad gave them to me before he moved. I thought I’d lost them. I mean, I searched and searched and searched my entire house. Mom was pissed. I tore through her jewelry box, nightstand, and special Dad box—which I never even knew she had. Apparently, she saved her wedding band, a letter he wrote to her when they were engaged, and a necklace he bought her when she turned thirty-five.”

  I count how many times B spins the lizard earring in her right lobe. “So where did you find them?”

  “This is the weird part. I swear it was like his spirit or something.”

  “Whose spirit?”

  “My dad’s. After our talk at my house, I went to check my phone, and sitting next to it were my earrings.” She crosses her arms and waits for my reaction.

  The numbers crowd my brain, making it hard to find space for actual thinking. “Hmm. Wow,” is all I say.

  “I really think these are a sign from my dad.” She can’t stop touching her ears.

  I would love a sign from anyone that everything will be okay.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a message from Mom.

  Sorry I missed you before. Tied up all day. Need to talk about my visit. Looks like I’m going to have to work that weekend. Will call tomorrow to reschedule. Love you.

  My world crashes.

  Loud and hard.

  That’s not the kind of sign I was looking for.

  * * *

  AT NIGHT, I CAN’T sleep. I grab a new, lined, crisp pad of paper and begin to write down the numbers spilling in my head.

  When I roll over I see that it’s 3:00 a.m., and there are eight texts and three calls from Hannah.

  So sorry. Just trying to help. Please please please talk to me.

  I close my phone and the counting begins again in my head. 4, 8, 12, 16.

  My stuff’s getting worse. Hannah knows I’m crazy. I feel my worry waiting, just waiting for me to forget to count, organize, or straighten. Waiting for me to mess up and then something terrible will happen to Ian. Dad says Ian’s fine—just an ear infection—but I don’t believe him. Bridgett has shown me obituaries where little kids die from freak accidents, malaria, rare bacterial infections, and other awful things. It could happen to Ian. 20, 24.

  My mind goes to Mom. I wish she was here to watch over Ian. I wish she hadn’t just canceled her first visit. I wish she’d never left. Sometimes the house is quiet like an abandoned building in the middle of the night. It seems like Dad, Kate, Ian, and I are all just walking around in the dark. Maybe we’ll find each other, maybe we won’t. I scratch the scab on my leg and try to remember what number I was on. Was it 20 or 24? I think it was 24. 28, 32.

  I grab my glasses, slide my computer onto my lap, and open Facebook. I decide to change my password to hueytheglassracoon4. Hannah’s shut off from my account and me. Lynx is mine. Just mine. I scroll down and read a post by Sophia: Can’t stop thinking I’m going to die. I want to post a comment, but after Hannah’s spying, I’m not sure I’m ready for the world to know my secret. 36, 40. I shut my computer, roll over, pull the covers up tight over my head, and squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t want to think about OCD. Don’t want to think about Ian. Don’t want to think about Hannah. She’s mad about Nate and Bridgett, but I don’t care because I’m a hundred times angrier at her. She broke her promise. 44, 48. I flip my pillow over to the side with no tears. I haven’t spoken to her since I stormed out of her garage. She says I’m her best friend. She cares about me. She wants to help. I stuff my face in my pillow. It’s not fair. She knows. I didn’t want her to find out like this. Not sure I wanted her to find out at all. I can’t pretend with her anymore. 52, 56.

  I’m losing control of it. I get out of bed and take off my socks, placing them gently into my hamper. I peek into Ian’s room. He’s sleeping. I move closer. He’s breathing. I let out a sigh of relief and slip back into my own bed. I’m stronger, smarter, better than this. 60, 64.

  Don’t.

  Give.

  Up.

  34

  hiding in plain sight

  WHEN I WAKE UP the next morning, I realize I’m already late. I slept through my alarm and won’t get to do half of my stuff. Dad tries to feed me bacon and eggs, Ian tries to talk to me, and Kate thankfully just leaves me alone. She and Kevin are back together. Kevin said he was sorry for being an idiot. A
t least I agree with him there. I don’t want to talk. To anyone. I’m so tired. Last night was an unrelenting march of irrational fears that Ian was going to die in his sleep. EEE. West Nile. Some unknown and unnamed virus. Part of me knew he was just sleeping, but the other part checked on him eight times throughout the night. Quietly, I count under my breath so the constant worry that I need to check on Ian goes away. 4, 8, 12, 16. This has to stop. 20, 24, 28, 32.

  I pass Mrs. Melvin’s house as I head to school. Without Hannah. 36, 40. I run my hands through my hair and feel a knot. 44, 48. Round Two results of the slam competition are being announced this morning. I already hate this day.

  Hannah finds me at my locker, hiding in plain sight. 52, 56.

  “Hi,” she says. “I waited for you this morning.”

  I’m silent. On the outside. 60, 64.

  Awkwardness splashes all over her face. “Did you get my messages?”

  I stare at her and say nothing. 68, 72.

  “I said I was sorry.”

  Nothing. 76, 80.

  “You all right?”

  I walk away from her.

  Josh and Ryan intercept me. I slam my locker before the smell of beef jerky gets on my stuff.

  “You’re looking at the next slam finalist,” Josh says.

  “The results haven’t even been announced yet,” Hannah says.

  Don’t defend me.

  “But we all know who’s moving on.” Josh high-fives Ryan and jumps up to touch the top of the cafeteria doors. I ignore them and head to class. 84, 88, 92, 96.

  Hannah shuffles next to me. “You seem, um, not like yourself.”

  I say nothing.

  “I just mean that you look tired. I’m worried about you.” Hannah reaches for my hand and softly says, “You can talk to me.”

  My icy stare stabs back and I pull my hand away. “There’s nothing to talk to you about. I thought I made that clear the other day. Unless you want to discuss how we’re going to explain to Ms. P. why we’re late for class.”

  “Look, I know something’s wrong even if you don’t want to tell me. You can’t stay mad at me forever.” She waits for me to agree, but I don’t. She tries something else. “At least you’re not on the verge of moving across the country.”

  I look through her as worry blankets my brain. 100, 104, 108, 112. I check my phone to see if there’s a text from Dad. “116, 120,” sneak out in a soft whisper.

  “What? I can’t hear you,” Hannah says.

  Uh-oh.

  “I didn’t say anything.” Now I have to start all over again. I’ll never finish by the time we get to class. 4, 8, 12, 16. Sorry, Hannah. Please forgive me. Ian needs me to count.

  “20, 24, 28, 32.”

  “What? I still can’t hear you.” Hannah’s words slice through me like a razor. I can’t start over. I need to look after Ian. I glare at her.

  “Go away,” I say. 36, 40, 44, 48.

  Please.

  She doesn’t hear that part.

  She looks like a trapped baby deer.

  I can’t care. I think hard and find my place. 52, 56.

  Don’t worry, Ian. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. 60, 64. The bell sounds and I find my seat.

  Ms. P. holds up two fingers. I try to pay attention. Round Two announcement.

  Stop counting.

  Now.

  “Directly following the announcement, we’ll move to the auditorium for the finals.”

  I check my colored pencils to make sure they’re aligned.

  “The person moving on from grade seven to compete in the school-wide final round of the Lakeville Poetry Slam Contest is Molly Nathans.”

  Claps follow. Almost everyone cheers. Hannah runs over. “This is amazing. You’re so going to win this.”

  68, 72. I look away. She went behind my back. She’s not forgiven. She doesn’t get to celebrate with me.

  I hug Bridgett, which is weird because she’s not a hugger. 76, 80.

  Two fingers up. Everyone quiets and finds their seats.

  I look over at Josh. He shrinks in his seat. I feel bad for him. I shouldn’t, but I do.

  “The crowd was moved by Molly’s authentic and emotional recitation of her poem.” Warm smile toward me.

  I dig deep for my fakest self and smile. I tug on the knot in my hair.

  Lily whispers something to Arianna and points at me. I tell myself I don’t care. Arianna stares back. I smile grand and give a beauty-queen wave. I won. I’m moving on. My plan’s working. 84, 88. The duo turns away and says something to Bridgett. Gossip at full throttle. They’re dissecting me like a formaldehyde frog. Bridgett tells them to shut up. I turn back around. Hannah’s staring at me. No gossip, just kind eyes.

  I want to feel happy, but the numbers crowd my head. 92, 96. Only the numbers. 100, 104, 108, 112. Ms. P. is talking logistics about the finals. I’ve stopped listening. I need to count. Can’t lose my place.

  I slide out a piece of clean, white, lined paper and sharpen an unused No. 2 to the perfect point and begin to write. The numbers start normal size, but then I write them smaller and smaller to squeeze more onto the page. 116, 120, 124, 128. The worry retreats. It’s working! As long as I count, nothing will hurt Ian. 132, 136. I rotate the paper and begin to write the numbers up the right side of the paper. 140, 144.

  35

  missing

  “CLASS, THE FINAL ROUND starts in just a few minutes. Everyone put away your math books and backpacks. We leave for the auditorium shortly.”

  I neatly fold my paper in quarters, put it into my front pocket, and grab for my sea glass.

  But it’s not there.

  I look again.

  It’s gone.

  I check the floor.

  Nothing.

  My pockets.

  Nothing.

  Check my desk one more time. Still nothing. The numbers erupt in my brain. 4, 8, 12, 16, 20, 24, 28, 32.

  “Okay, class, let’s head to the auditorium. Quiet in the halls, please,” Ms. P. says as she shuttles everyone out of the room.

  36, 40, 44, 48.

  I don’t move from my desk.

  Ms. P. comes over. “Molly, time to go.”

  “Um, I just, um, need a minute. Can I meet you there?” I ask. 52, 56, 60, 64.

  “Sure, but don’t be long. We can’t start without you.” She smiles.

  I nod. A wave of panic-fear-nausea lands in my chest.

  My mind ticks. Where could it be? I look around the room.

  Search the bookshelf in the back of the room.

  Books. And more books. And Gretta’s sketch pad.

  Look behind the cage where Tortoise, the classroom guinea pig, lives.

  Nothing.

  Peek in Tortoise’s cage.

  Nothing.

  I stand in the middle of the room. Come on. Think.

  Glimpse in the flowerpots along the windowsill.

  Nothing.

  Stick my head in the art supply cabinet.

  Nothing.

  Stare at the clock on the wall.

  My time is up.

  A tightness grips my chest and steals my breath. This is the first time I feel truly alone.

  No Mom and no sea glass.

  36

  my numbers are showing

  WHEN I GET TO the auditorium, everyone is seated. There are two chairs in the middle of the stage. Sebastian, the other finalist, is already standing in front of the one on the left. Ms. P. waves me over. Sebastian smiles. “Hey, good luck.”

  68, 72. I nod. 76, 80.

  Sebastian sits and I can see he’s wearing matching socks. I’m waiting for it to help.

  It doesn’t.

  Hannah and Bridgett end up sitting next to each other. Clearly, assigned seating.

  The numbers tick off at a steady pace until I see my dad standing in the back of the auditorium next to who I assume are Sebastian’s mom and dad. I forgot this part. The part where the parents of the finalists get invited to the winner
’s round. Mom didn’t come. It’s just Dad. He waves. I deflate. At that moment, I realize that my plan’s a worthless failure. Even if I won the whole thing, she was never coming to the banquet. I thought she would come. I mean, that’s what moms do. But as I stare out at my lone parent, I realize I was wrong. Kate was right. Mom left us. Mom left me. The numbers march to a faster beat as I wonder if Ian has malaria or typhoid or EEE. 84, 88, 92, 96, 100, 104.

  Sebastian delivers his slam poem. I don’t listen, but I see his parents clapping wildly at the end. Almost everyone is up, snapping their fingers and stamping their feet. Bridgett remains seated, picking the black nail polish off her thumbs. I’m grateful for her rebellious dedication.

  The noise is loud and the room is hot. Don’t forget the numbers. I should be thinking about the poem, but I can’t.

  I don’t have one.

  Ms. P. hands me the microphone. It feels heavy and my hands are slippery. I cough. And continue counting in my head. 108, 112, 116, 120. The ocean of eyes stares at me. I glare back, but it doesn’t make them stop. I see my dad. He’s waiting for me to make him proud. 124, 128.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Ms. P. says, assuming my pause is from nerves or for effect.

  I share the only thing I can.

  In my head the numbers spill. 132, 136.

  Crowding my every thought. 140, 144.

  I am frozen in space, unable to move. 148, 152.

  On the right, the right, always the right. 156, 160.

  I line, I straighten, I tuck, I clean. 164, 168.

  But it’s not enough. 172, 176.

  The numbers come, they flood, they pour. 180, 184.

  No normal thoughts anymore. 188, 192.

  I look out at the faces. My eyes reach Dad’s and the numbers can no longer stay silent. They spill out of me.

  “196, 200, 204, 208, 212, 216, 220, 224.”

  My numbers are showing. They’re out in the open for everyone to see. They tick and tick and tick and tick.

  “228, 232, 236, 240, 244, 248, 252, 256.”

  I can’t stop.

  37

  behind the velvet curtain