Perfectly Flawed (24 page)

“I think there’s some Greek in your bloodline
you’re not aware of,” she tells me, lifting her phone to snap a
picture. “I’ll be offended if you don’t buy that.”

“I guess that’s your subtle way of saying you
like it?” I mumble to myself, not meaning it as a question, as I
head back into the change room.

I purchase the dress; I couldn’t really pass
it up. Jamie’s right, I look great in the thing. I also buy a pair
of black and gold sandals to go with it, nothing with heels because
I don’t want to face plant when I walk. Jamie buys the green dress,
it makes her mahogany eyes pop, and we head home after a brief stop
for lunch in the food court where she scopes out cute guys.
Just
because I’m on a diet doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu
,
she tells me when I mention Marcus—the love of her life.

The next weekend, just when I think all
things Homecoming related are behind me, Kennie kidnaps both Harley
and me for the sole purpose of dress shopping. It’s just another
day where I’m forced into the mall, practically against my will. At
least I have a friend to suffer with me.

“Harley,” Kennie starts from the nearest
dress rack. Now, she looks like she belongs here. You know, the
mall type, with her tight pink sweater, perfect fitting jeans that
make the passing guys follow her with their mouths dropped, and
tongues wagging while Harley and I wear band t-shirts and dark
jeans with holes at the knees, somehow matching each other. It’s
amazing Harley and I still do that when we don’t plan for it. “Are
you going?”

“I don’t know,” Harley begins quietly, her
eyes glancing over a red dress. “Who would I go with?” she asks, so
quietly, I’m trying to determine if I can hear sadness in her voice
or if I’m imagining it.

“Ask someone,” Kennie offers
matter-of-factly, blinded to our friends true feelings. But I
finally feel like I understand Harley as her hooded gaze wanders
from dress to dress, shoe to shoe. “Or go with a friend,” is her
other option.

“My
friends
have dates,” Harley
responds bitterly, putting the emphasis on
friends
and I get
the instant feeling that I’ve done my friends wrong. I could spend
that night hanging with Harley instead of attempting to dance with
Ryder while he parades me around on his arm like I’m some sort of
ornament or trophy.

“I’ll ditch mine,” I tell her, seriously. Her
eyes brighten at the mere mention of my ditching Ryder, something
she doesn’t normally do. “We can go together,” I offer quietly
hoping that Kennie doesn’t hear me. She’d object to that plan
instantly.

“You’re
not
ditching Ryder,” Kennie
balks from her side of the store, the shock obvious in her voice.
She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear as she stares at me,
nearly shooting daggers with her eyes. “He’d be so
heartbroken.”

Ryder? Heartbroken? That’s a laugh.

“I don’t really want to go,” Harley mumbles
half-heartedly. I can tell she’s lying. There’s something about her
eyes, the color is less vibrant, and she keeps looking down to the
floor. “I think I’ll just take up your tradition.
Carrie
must be watched by someone during the night of a school dance.”

“Don’t forget the ice cream,” I point out,
less hoping that she’ll choose my usual—Ben & Jerry’s Chunky
Monkey—mostly playing along to make her believe
I
believe
her lie.

“I still think you should go,” Kennie cuts in
as she walks up to us, her arms loaded down with—I predicted
correctly!—
blue
dresses. All of them. From sky blue to baby
blue to navy to teal. Just the sight makes me happy I already
suffered through this process with Jamie and bought my dress last
weekend.

“You’re trying to convert me to your kind,”
Harley shifts her eyes, building up her titanium armor and hiding
behind her sarcasm. “It won’t work, I tell you!” She launches her
arm in the air before playfully ducking behind the nearest dress
rack. Kennie and I burst into laughter as Harley falls over, taking
the rack of dresses with her. A loud, shattering crash echoes
throughout the seemingly empty store.

A few people that work in the store poke
their heads up from what they’re doing to see if we’re being
problematic or if we need their help finding anything, then they go
back to what they were doing, ignoring us as if we were not their
problem.

Which we aren’t.

By Friday—the day of the big Homecoming
football game—it’s established that Kennie and Duke were going to
the dance together. He promised to drive over from school for her,
Kennie even made Homecoming court as Junior Princess, leaving
Alexia as Princess Nominee. Harley decided that she was going to
spend Saturday night indulging in my typical tradition. Jamie was
bragging about the dress she bought, how beautiful it was, how much
skin and cleavage it revealed, and Marcus was bragging—to the
entire school I might add—about the hotel room he rented and how
awesome his night was going to be.

Me? I was still going to the dance with
Ryder, Homecoming King, I discovered after I repeatedly played
Pachelbel’s Canon
during the big reveal. He bought a
matching tie, vest, and cummerbund—I still don’t know what the hell
that is—like Jamie said he would, and I was a little—okay, a
lot—excited to wear my dress.

After the spirit week filled with ridiculous
and outrageous dress up days that basically meant the girls could
dress as slutty as they wanted and the guys could ogle them without
fear of being slapped, I felt that I could handle anything.

Or mostly anything.

“Hello, there.” Ryder caught me at my locker,
like he hadn’t been doing it after his last class, which was two
doors away from my locker, so not a
huge
inconvenience, for
the last few weeks.

“Hi.” I smile—a genuine smile—when I see him,
and he leans down, like I expected, kissing my cheek quickly before
leaning away to try and help me with my books. Because I’m
stubborn, I don’t let him.

“What are you doing tonight?” he asks, his
hand sliding down the sleeve of my black jacket—in honor of class
color day. Yes, I’m decked out in all black and there is a black
lipstick kiss print on my cheek from Kennie. He pulls my hand to
his after I close my locker and twist the dial.

“Homework,” I answer truthfully, it’s what I
did every night, even Fridays. I’m the nerdy girl that does
homework on Friday nights; I’ll admit it.

“Boring,” Ryder whines. “It’s Friday,” he
tells me as if I forgot what day of the week it is. For a moment,
he starts singing Rebecca Black’s
Friday
, getting the song
permanently stuck in my head. “The big football game is
tonight.”

I look to him as he leads me through the
halls in his football jersey.

“What’s your point?” I ask as he leads me
past his fellow teammates, amidst their whoops and hollers, leading
me into the school parking lot toward his car.

“Well, since we’re going to the dance
together,” he begins, leaning against the side of his car, pulling
me closer to him. “I thought that we could go to a party after the
game. We’re going to win,” he states, cocking his head to side. “No
doubt about that, and I know the celebrations are going to be
wild.”

More reason for me to stay home, far away
from typical high school stereotypes.

“I think I’ll pass,” I tell him, watching his
face fall like I just broke his spirit, broke his heart, like my
being there’s the most important thing in the world.

It’s just a party
, I want to tell him,
nothing for you to get your knickers in a twist about
.

“Why?” he asks, tugging my hand closer to his
chest, placing it against his heart. I can feel the light
thump-thump, thump-thump
of his heart.

“Because of the last time you took me to a
party,” I point out, kind of a
fool me once
type of
situation. I don’t want to be the fool again. “I spent the night
standing in the corner while people dry-humped and dry-heaved
around me.” The image replays in my mind. “That’s not how I want to
spend my Friday night. And,” I hastily add, “I’m not a high school
football fan.”

“Please,” he begs quietly, lightly kissing my
hand. “Pretty please, I’ll do anything to make you go to my
game.”

That makes me laugh. And snort.

I know that he only wants me at that game
just to watch him in action.

Boring!

But wait. He has ways of getting what he
wants. He’s a fan of cruel and unusual torture techniques.

“Don’t tell me you’ll start singing again.” I
try not to, but I laugh louder with the thought of him singing to
me again.

“If that’s what it takes,” he tells me
completely serious, almost like a promise. “Don’t think that you
can hide out in the library, even
that
has a sound
system.”

Damn.

I’m not sure why, but that makes me laugh
harder and I find myself leaning closer to him, like my body wants
to be near his. I can smell his cologne, woodsy and strong, and
it’s almost comforting, almost a scent that I don’t mind, but it’s
vaguely familiar at the same time. Something that I’ve smelled,
been around, before. I just can’t place it. And it’s revolting.

A shiver runs down my spine and the hair on
the back of my necks stands.
He’s watching this. He’s watching
me.
I know when I turn around, my eyes will connect with the
familiar chocolate gaze that I’ve been staring into for as long as
I can remember.

Before I can stop myself, I look to the other
side of the parking lot, connecting with the familiar eyes that
I’ve tried to avoid for weeks, now. Deep chocolate brown and
staring at me. Zephyr hasn’t so much as looked at me since our
fight that, to be honest, I still haven’t the slightest idea what
it was about. Now he’s staring at me like he’s about to lose me.
He’s already lost me
. And the anger is still there, deep
within, and he can’t hide it from me.

The look in his eyes forces my mouth to speak
without my knowing it.

“Fine,” I sputter out, eyes still locked with
the boy across the lot. “I’ll go to the party with you.” Yep, that
wasn’t really me. I’m possessed by my fury.

“And the football game,” he presses, placing
his finger on my chin to turn my gaze back to him, disconnecting my
eyes from Zephyr’s.

I don’t want to look away.

“I’ll go if Harley goes with me.” My only
qualification, the only thing I need. That means I’m not going to
the game because there’s no way in hell that Harley would go. She’d
only be there if Corey Taylor himself decided to sign the National
Anthem.

“The more the merrier.” Ryder smiles wide.
He’s happy that there’s some tiny sliver of hope for me to see him
in action, some chance that he’d convert me to a football fan.
Turning, he spots Harley—also decked out completely in black,
complete with two kiss prints on her cheeks—walking toward her car
at the far end of the lot. He chases her down, like, fast. The
movement reminds me of a lion on the hunt.

Soon, after some serious begging and
promises, both Harley and I are going to the game, much to her
chagrin. I might need to take up drinking just to get through
it.

Six

“I hate you,” Harley repeatedly mutters as we climb
the cement steps to the top row of the high school stadium
bleachers. I can see her breath, thin and wispy, puff out like a
personal cloud with every admonishment. Like every typical October
night in the Pacific Northwest, it’s cold enough to see your breath
when you speak but not cold enough that it’d snow. Though this is
Western Washington, while we may wake up with frost on our windows,
threatening Mother Nature herself with every scrape against the
window until it’s clear enough to drive, rarely do we wake up with
snow on the ground. It’s most likely rain, pouring or drizzling, of
which we venture through sans umbrella because those, as is
understood by the locals, are for tourists.

“No you don’t,” I reply between chattering
teeth, fighting to keep them locked tight. I’m wearing more layers
than I thought were possible to cover my body and I’m still
freezing. I should have brought a blanket, or two, or three, or a
personal heater. No, what I should have done is bought hand
warmers, enough hand warmers to build a suit, and just shove them
into my clothes and shoes. That would work, right?

We take our seats on the top level of the
metal bleachers, the only open place to sit, and suddenly, we’re
surrounded and immersed in a sea of red and black. Goody, goody gum
drops. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday night.

At least Harley and I are far enough from
other students that we won’t look so weird in our jeans and heavy
jackets, not bothering with the school colors. Well, we’re still
wearing our outfits from class color day; no one can see them
beneath the jackets. However, I am wearing a red-and-black-striped
knit slouchy beanie, should that count.

It probably doesn’t.

Instantly, Harley speaks. “My ass is frozen
to a metal bleacher.” She clamps on to my arm, gripping tightly
despite her gloves, for warmth. “I’m pretty sure that I hate you.”
Her teeth are chattering. I believe her now. “A lot.”

That last remark makes me giggle; puffing the
air out in front of me in a white wisp.

“Think of how Kennie feels right now.” I find
Kennie standing in front of our section wearing her skimpy uniform,
and point to her, leading Harley’s eyes to the blonde bouncing up
and down in cheer. “She’s flaunting her naughty parts to the entire
school and faculty.”

“She’s used to wearing minimal clothing,”
Harley starts. “I’m covered head to foot in thick wool and I’ve
already lost feeling in my toes.” She stamps her feet trying to
move blood to her lower extremities, annoying the couple sitting in
front of us. They turn back, shooting her a look that can only be
described using knife-like gestures.