Perfectly Flawed (11 page)

My hand reaches, searching for the platinum
chain around my neck, clutching the locket in my hand until my palm
goes numb from the pressure. I take a deep breath, pausing to
gather my scattered thoughts, collect my words, and remember the
days when the sensations conquered.

“There is nothing wrong with you, Joey.” She
repeats the familiar mantra, something I’ve heard time and time
again from her, my aunt, Zephyr, all my friends. But how can they
know, how can they, or anyone, understand what’s in my head? “You
suffered a traumatic event at the hands of someone that was
supposed to protect you, not hurt you.”

“I know that, Doc,” I practically shout, my
voice turning shrill. I already know that I should have grown up
playing hide-and-seek with my siblings rather than praying to them
every night. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think that
I’ve come to that understanding in my own mind?” I’ve never been
aggressive during my sessions. I rarely talk, but for some reason,
that just lit a fire beneath me. Of course, her Pilot pen moves
frantically, still bouncing gracefully, along and across the page.
“
Poor little Joey, someone tried to kill her
.
Poor little
Joey, her mother’s dead
.
Poor little Joey
.
Poor
little Joey!
I’m tired of being
Poor little Joey
.” I
stop before I can continue on my rant, mentally trying to compose
myself before I lose what little temper I have left. “I used to
think that dreams were supposed to be untainted and pure and good,
a world within which you could escape, but that’s not what I got,
that’s not the hand I was dealt.”

“What do you mean?” Dr. Jett stalls, lifting
her head to connect her cadet blue eyes, warm with flecks of gold
and honey throughout, with mine.

“I don’t remember that night,” I quietly
mumble honestly, the fact shared between us. As much as I remember
about our sessions together, I never just bring
it
up. I
choose to leave it in the past where it should remain. “I don’t
remember anything before that night.” That, she also knows. “I’ve
never remembered a dream—or nightmare, whatever—I’ve only
remembered the
feelings
; the feeling of fear and the feeling
of drowning, of suffocating in this dark place that I can’t even
see.”

That leaves us in silence when I can’t bring
myself to continue, when I leave off and let my mind wander through
the bits and pieces that I can remember. One of the first early
sessions when I couldn’t speak and Dr. Jett would just stare at me,
tapping her pen against her legal pad. The first night of
nightmares when I woke up sweating and crying. They run like water
through my mind, flowing through moment after moment, memory after
memory.

The air around us quickly descends into a
thick silence.

“Why are we here today, Joey?” the doctor
asks, disrupting the silence, filling it with sound. “Why schedule
this time with me?”

My eyes peer up through my lashes, above the
frames of my glasses, seeking out her gaze from across the
room.

“Because,” I pause to take a breath before I
say, “I finally remembered one, a dream. Or nightmare, night
terror, whatever the correct term is.” I close my eyes, suddenly
feeling the need to cry, and I’m right back there. I see the man
with the bloody knife standing before me, his body large, tall, and
looming over me as I cower on the floor, unable to move. I remember
the name
Josie
; remember how he called me Josie.

Before I can stop myself, I spill the entire
tale, everything that I saw and remember from my nightmare.
Although, it’s a short story, I omit how I woke up, how Zephyr
could hear me screaming in his room in
his
house. I don’t
want to hear what she’ll have to say about that. Omission never
hurt before.

“What do you think
Josie
means?” she
asks once I finish. I didn’t know
that
was the main focus of
the tale. I raise an eyebrow but she smiles like we might be on to
something, like
Josie
holds whatever information I need,
like it’s the key I need to unlock my secrets.

“Well, I was hoping that you could tell me,”
I answer, crossing my arms along my chest, feeling exposed and
vulnerable, common and unwanted feelings in this room. I also feel
a wave of anger wash over me, another feeling not uncommon in this
room.

“You know that’s not how this works, Joey,”
she explains, clicking her pen twice as she stares at me.

“I don’t know, then,” I answer in
exasperation. My eyes travel to the window and the world outside,
watching the puffy clouds glide along the bright blue sky overhead.
The nice weather is a shock these days when it should be raining
and chilly, when we should be waking up in frosted windows. “I’ve
thought of
Josie and the Pussycats
,” I joke, pathetically,
“but that’s it. The seventies cartoon,” I hastily add, “not the
movie with Tara Reid. That was just awkward and weird.”

“Give it some more thought,” Dr. Jett
requests. “Maybe you’ll think of something, maybe you’ll remember
something.” She smirks to me, expecting me to figure it out.

That’s it?
I almost blurt that out,
yelling it to the psychiatrist sitting across from me flaunting her
wealth in designer clothes but not her brains with helping me
figure this out. That is all the advice that she’s going to give
me. I’ve been to hell and back and she just wants me to
think
about it. Maybe I’ll come to some miraculous
conclusion, encounter my own
Aha!
moment, maybe I’ll
remember something helpful?
Hopefully
, I feebly say to
myself,
she is right
.

“You have more faith in me, Doc.” I tell her,
deadpan, as our session ends, just before I’m walking out the door
to the car to speed home.

I walk through the front door, nearly hitting
my aunt in the face as she stands behind it, slipping into her
thick, black coat. Hilary looks at me suspiciously, briefly, before
attempting to button her peacoat. “How was your appointment?” she
asks as she pulls her hair from the collar.

“Okay,” I answer vaguely, handing over the
keys to the SUV.

“Really?” she asks skeptically, eyeing me as
I step by her, heading into the living room. I can see the worry,
the doubt, in her eyes. “You see her monthly, Joey,” she begins,
trying to understand. “What’s up, honey?” She grabs her bags and
dangles them from her arm as she studies me closely as I turn away
from her.

“Nothing,” I lie, avoiding her eyes. I want
to hope that she’ll let it go, move on, and head to work, but part
of me wants her to sit down with me so I can unleash what’s in my
head. Once I do that, once she knows the demons inside my brain,
she’ll cut back on her hours at the hospital because all that
she’ll do while she’s away is worry about me, and I can’t do that
to her. She loves her job, so I lie a little more, “I promise.”

What’s another little white lie?

Her eyes narrow slightly; she leans forward a
bit because she knows I’m lying.

“All right,” Hilary murmurs, letting me keep
my demons to myself, letting me keep the monsters hidden beneath
the bed a little bit longer. She absentmindedly pulls her orange
hair from the collar of her jacket again, her eyes still nervously
glancing to me.

It’s not too long before I am alone in the
house and Hilary is in the car driving to Seattle. It’s not too
long before I text Zephyr telling him to head over, and it’s
certainly not too long before we are surrounded by notes, open
textbooks, empty soda cans, and large amounts of candy and junk
food while trying to study for tomorrow’s quiz.

Three

“I hate history,” Zephyr growls an hour into our
study session. His pen repeatedly pokes the page in the same spot,
making an annoying rhythm against the hardwood of the table
beneath. I wonder what he’s thinking as he does that. Maybe he’s
picturing Mr. Cheney’s head, metaphorically stabbing the teacher
over and over. Thank God he doesn’t believe in voodoo dolls, or
better yet, has no idea how they work. Not that
I
do or
anything.

I push all thoughts of murder from my mind—or
all thoughts of magistricide from my mind before I comment on his
statement.

“No you don’t,” I respond, looking over my
notes for the day Mr. Cheney discussed Franz Ferdinand—not the
band, but that was setting the scene, lightly playing from the
portable speakers attached to my iPod next to a tipped over can of
Cherry Pepsi—Thankfully, it was empty
before
it tipped to
its side.

Zephyr is just over exaggerating, like usual.
I’ve grown used to this over the years..

“I think I do, Jo.” Zephyr throws his pen on
top of his notes before linking his hands together behind his neck,
leaning back in the creaky, wooden dining room chair Hilary got
from my grandparents when we moved out here, the ones that she
keeps saying she’s going to cover with new padding but ultimately
blows off when something else comes along.

The downside to AP European History is the
teacher: Mr. Cheney. He designs quizzes like the other classes
design final exams. He designs regular tests like collage exams. At
least the quizzes didn’t ask for essay questions. While I would do
very well on those—I’m used to Cheney’s tests, I’ve had him as a
history teacher for the past two years, and I’m confident—or cocky,
take your pick—in my abilities—Zephyr would probably start
hyperventilating at the sight of the first question. “Why the hell
must we know all this?” He doesn’t bother to censor himself when
we’re alone in the house.

“‘
Those who do not remember the past are
condemned to repeat it
,’” I quote, still staring at my notes.
The pages I’m looking at have green ink covering them. I look up to
Zephyr’s confused expression. “George Santayana,” I explain,
stating the source.

“When did you become a talking bottle of
Snapple?” he asks, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “Never mind,
don’t answer that, but, for the sake of argument, is that supposed
to mean something to me?” he asks indifferently, his face
expressionless as his eyes bore into mine.

I snort loudly. “It should mean everything to
you, Mr. I’m Greek and Proud.”

“Only half Greek,” he rebuts
half-heartedly.

I drop my hand onto the page before me in
exasperation. “Would you like me to start rehashing every piece of
Irish history I know off the top of my head?” I ask a little too
aggressively. I am a little annoyed that he wouldn’t show more
interest in learning about the past, about how this country went to
war. “I know a lot, dude,” I continue, remembering the report I did
last year about Ireland and Irish immigration to the United
States.

I got an A.

“Not really,” he answers, standing up. “I’m
grabbing another drink—”

“Code for raiding my fridge.” My eyes fall
back to the page in front of me.

“—want me to grab you something?” Zephyr
finishes as if I didn’t just interrupt him. If I were looking, I
know I’d see him shooting me a pointed glare. That’s the beauty of
our friendship.

“Another Mountain Dew, please?” I ask
sweetly, facetiously batting my eyes for him, as my phone rings,
singing
Black Sheep
by Gin Wigmore in the center of the
table beneath my textbook. I check the number on the screen, I
don’t recognize it but the 425 lets me know it’s local. “I don’t
recognize the number,” I mutter to myself.

“Then don’t answer it,” Zephyr says to me
with his focus on the contents of the refrigerator. I expect to see
him carrying as much food as he can hold in a moment.

I don’t listen to him, thinking it could be
something important, I answer with a polite, “Hello?” as I
absentmindedly tap my pen against the notebook in front of me.

“Joey?” the voice on the other line asks. It
sounds vaguely familiar, it’s a guy, but I can’t place it—or him, I
should say.

“This is her,” I reply, politely, hearing my
voice ascend an octave, the way it normally does when I speak into
my phone.

“Ah, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

Didn’t think I would answer?
Why
wouldn’t I answer my own phone?

Wait a minute…
crap!

“Ryder?” Surprise fills my tone. I drop my
pen, nearly dropping the phone as well by accident. “Now I really
wish I hadn’t answered my phone,” I whisper, trying to be sarcastic
but meaning every word.

“Harrison?” Zephyr asks loudly, letting the
door to the fridge close behind him. He’s holding two cans of
Mountain Dew in one hand as he makes his way over to me, setting
one in front of me before taking his seat at the chair across from
mine.

I nod to him.

“Yeah, I got your number from Kennie after
school today,” he explains, the smugness obvious in his voice. It’s
almost as if he’s trying to tell me,
You’ve been waiting for my
call, just admit it
. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I
do
mind, actually.” How could
Kennie, one of my best friends, give out my number without telling
me? I would need the warning! I’d need to give her permission, damn
it. Well, now I have a reason to lose my temper tomorrow.

“What does he want?” Zephyr asks louder,
trying to get my attention, trying to be heard.

I shush him, waving my arm frantically to
keep him quiet. I’m not above hitting him. “What do you want,
Ryder?” I’m beginning to sound like a broken record with this
dude.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ryder asks. Through the
phone, he sounds amused. I can hear his cocky, crooked grin. I
think he’s enjoying this a little too much.

Hell, no
. “Not even in the slightest.”
Idiot
, I mentally add at the end of the sentence. I want to
tell him that I’m not a mind reader. And even if I were, his would
not be a mind I’d want to read.