Perfectly Flawed (50 page)

“Seriously?” I ask skeptically. Am I wrong
for not trusting this?

“No,” she starts sarcastically, narrowing her
green eyes. “I’m lying only to get you to stir the cheese sauce for
macaroni and cheese.” Her face breaks into a smile.

“All you had to say was
macaroni and
cheese
and I’d do anything you ask.” I smile.

“That true, huh?” she takes the spoon from my
hand. “Start boiling some pasta, then, child. I’m pretty sure
there’s a new bag in the cupboard above the fridge.”

I climb the counter, something that my aunt
scolds me for half-heartedly, and grab the elbow macaroni noodles
from a cupboard she’d need stilts to place things in. I suspect she
had help of the hot neurosurgeon kind. That makes me smile. Knowing
that he’s been here and helped put away groceries. It’s so
adorable, so domestic, and I wish I caught it on camera.

After dinner that night, I dragged the
seriously heavy bin—that I’m positive is the reason for the
freaking ozone layer because imagine how many trees were sacrificed
for these unopened letters—up to my room. I debate whether I want
to crack open a letter or just shove it in the back of my closet
until I’m ready. That starts my questioning if I’ll ever be ready.
Maybe, maybe not. I decide to go with the latter, kicking the bin
into the back of my closet until I could successfully cover it with
other items that make a great disguise and forget that it’s
there.

Okay, so forgetting that it’s there is going
to take more time than five minutes, but out of sight, out of mind,
right. That had to work… eventually.

***

The start of November was a little
boring—okay, very boring. I almost fell asleep doing menial
activities, like classes. I finally told Hilary, after Zephyr
threatened to tell her for me, about the school Idol singing
competition of which I was a part. She told me that she’d be there
with whistles and air horns for when I undoubtedly won in the end.
I told her she had too much faith in me, I wasn’t certain I was
going to make it past the first round. Hilary only responded with,
“I’ve heard you sing, honey,” before leaving for work.

I sent in more college applications, deciding
to forego applying to any schools on the East Coast. Mostly, I
wanted to stay close to home but everyone decided that
stay
close to home
meant
stay close to Zephyr
. So, maybe they
were just a little bit right to think that, but I refused to openly
admit it. They wouldn’t judge me for it, or whatever, not my
friends, and they didn’t discourage me from applying to close
schools. All they told me was to go to whatever school I wanted. My
aunt just told me to be happy and follow my dreams.

Thanks for the help, people.

Yeah, I don’t understand my sarcasm,
either.

But even Zephyr told me not to worry about
him and the future. I just couldn’t help it, it was staring me in
the face and taunting me. And I didn’t want to head to college,
start a new life, and leave Zephyr behind. He didn’t deserve
that.

It was easy for him to say
don’t worry
about it
or
don’t worry about your future
, his was not
approaching at lightning speed.

With a sigh, I bury my face into my hands
with thoughts of my future running rampant in my mind. In movies,
the future always seems so perfect—it’s the intended goal. Can I
just live in a movie? Those characters have it easier.

I continued to work diligently on my senior
project, even having that important discussion with my aunt that I
begged
for, which was not
that
great. She didn’t have
any new information for me. All she knew was what I knew, and
that’s not much. My mother did a great job of keeping my aunt in
the dark about all aspects of her life with my father. Although,
Hilary did tell me that my mother and father separated two weeks
before the murder. From what my aunt understood, and she was still
a bit fuzzy, my mom had kicked him out and he didn’t want to go.
She had to get the police involved and then she, like any other
woman would, changed the locks to prevent him from returning. She
was even debating moving houses, maybe leaving the town. Aunt Hil
continued to tell me that my mother even filed for divorce, my
father just couldn’t be found to serve the papers.

Maybe that had something to do with his
rampage. The fact that his wife wanted him gone, from what I’ve
heard, he didn’t seem like the man to take things like that lying
down, he’d get up and do something even if it ruined lives.

I’m not done searching yet, I doubt I’ll ever
be, but it’s more exhausting than I ever thought.

So when that first weekend arrived, I decided
that I needed a little relaxation and a break from everyone,
everything, and all of the questioning. I tossed aside all of the
homework, grabbed a book from my shelf that wasn’t school-related,
planted myself on the living room couch with a blanket, and started
reading. Halfway through the first chapter, I decided that I wanted
ice cream, specifically Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. The problem
was we were out of ice cream and I had to leave the house.

[Insert obnoxious whine here.]

“Aunt Hil!” I yelled while walking out of the
kitchen, heading through the living room to the stairs. I had to
confirm our lack of ice cream.

“Hold on,” she calls back. I hear steps
upstairs before she runs down the steps—bouncing is the more
correct term—and stops in front of me. It’s a moment like this,
when her face is clean of makeup and she looks happy, that I
realize how young she looks, almost like a teenager. “Yes, honey?”
she asks.

“I want ice cream,” I tell her, running my
hands down my bare legs. It might not be smart for me to venture
through the November air in shorts, but I’m too lazy to change.
“I’m thinking of heading to the store.” I grab my jacket and tie my
hair up in a ponytail. “Want anything?” I ask before grabbing her
keys from the bowl by the door, listening to them jingle as they
dangle from my fingers.

“Oooh, yeah, let me think a moment.” Hilary
thinks for a moment, tapping her finger on her chin, her green eyes
rising to look at the ceiling. “Golden Oreos, please, I’ve been
craving those like no other, lately.”

“Random,” I blurt out with a giggle, tucking
a few loose strands behind my ear. I shove my feet into a pair of
purple flip-flops by the door. I look like a hot mess.

Before I turn, a light knock, knock raps on
the door, catching both my aunt’s and my attention. We exchange
quick glances with each other. I wasn’t expecting anyone today;
everyone is busy. Hilary even mentioned earlier that Patrick was
busy with work, so we’re perplexed.

“I wonder who that could be,” Hilary mutters
with a shrug.

“I move toward the door and pull it open
without checking the peephole, a bad habit I need to break. But,
honestly, what’s the worst that could happen?

A tall woman in a black suit that consists of
a tiny skirt, with long, dark hair turns to me. She’s wearing very
large Chanel sunglasses—I didn’t know those were still in
style—they cover most of her face as she smiles at me. From looking
at her, you can instantly see the confidence oozing from her body.
She has model-like features and towers over me with height and from
the help of her heels—name brand, I just don’t follow designers
well enough to know who they’re by.

“Hello,” she eagerly thrusts out her hand for
me take. I notice the immaculate manicure, the white tips jutting
from her fingers. “My name is Ambrielle Knight.”

I take her hand, giving it a light shake. Her
name sounds familiar but I can’t place the woman that stands before
me, I would definitely remember someone like her. “Hi, I’m Joey,” I
reply while I feel my aunt stand protectively behind me. If she
could, I’d bet that she’d push me aside to block the woman from
me.

This Ambrielle Knight is looking at me like
I’m the key to… something, I don’t know, something important. That
can’t be good.

“I know that,” Ambrielle tells me, her
perfect smile widening, and I have an uneasy feeling rolling
through me, a shiver trailing down my back, but that could be from
the cold, I am wearing shorts. “I’ve been meaning to discuss doing
a piece on you.”

Huh?

“A what?” I ask, instantly confused. I
quickly look back to my aunt who shrugs her shoulders; she’s as
baffled as I am.

“I work for
News Today
,” she begins. I
can see that she’s someone that loves attention. “We wanted to do a
Then and Now
piece on you,” the woman tells me, using her
manicured hands to emphasize her words. “We just want to show how
your recovery is going since you moved here from Texas eight years
ago.”

Seriously?

I look to my aunt, confused. She doesn’t
share the sentiment.

Hilary pushes me aside, stepping in front of
me, cutting me off from Ambrielle. “I remember you and I thought
that you understood when I told you when you called,” my aunt
angrily spits out. I guess they’ve spoken about this before. “Joey
doesn’t need to be reminded of that, of any of that. She doesn’t
need to be broadcasted across national television as a victim
again.”

Again?

That’s news to me.

“Not a victim. Never would we show her as the
victim
,” Ambrielle clarifies, taking her sunglasses and
sliding them up her forehead, like headband. “As a
survivor
.”

“The answer is still
no
.” Hilary grabs
the edge of the door, about to slam it in the other woman’s face
like I know she should, but I wedge my way between her and the
woman, preventing the door from separating us and ending the
conversation. I want to hear what more she has to say.

This could be information I need to fully
understand my past. Surely, the media would know more about it than
me. They found me, after all, and they’re crafty, they have tricks
to discover things. They should be able to give me the information
I need.

“What’s the point of it?” I ask, placing my
hand on the door to prevent my aunt from closing the door.
“Really?”

“Joey, you don’t have to do it,” my aunt
tells me but I knew that. It’s not like this Ambrielle person is
holding a gun to my head, forcing cameras to follow me just so she
can get the interview that’s going to start her career.

I wave her off. “I just want to hear what she
has in mind, what could possibly be planned if I agree.” And if
there’s a chance that any of my questions could gain answers.

“We just want to show how you’ve overcome
your tragic past,” Ambrielle starts, using the two words I hate
when put together—
tragic past
, they make my life sound like
a Shakespearean play. Last time I checked, I was a far cry from
Ophelia. “We want to show everyone that believed you’d instantly
dive into a world of drugs and promiscuous sex that you are in the
top of your class at school—even graduating a year early, a part of
the school orchestra, doing school functions and extracurriculars.”
That doesn’t sound too bad—but who are these other people she’s
referring to? “We want to show that your past has not affected your
future whatsoever.” I’m beginning to like the sound of this.

“And how would you do that?” I ask, actually
interested in the idea, provided it doesn’t bite me in the ass. If
it can’t answer any questions, which I’m beginning to think was
wrong for me to assume, it could, instead, show the people that
I’ve grown up with that I’m not a product of my father.

I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or
not.

“We would follow you around for a week,” she
answers simply. “Any week of your choosing, it’s all up to
you.”

I take a moment and think about what any of
this could mean for me. It could open doors for me; it could get me
accepted to college if nothing else. Not that I’d need help with
that, it’s just an afterthought.

“Joey?” Hilary asks when I haven’t spoken for
a few moments. She tugs me from my mind back to the brisk cold
surrounding me. Now that I think about it, we could have done this
inside, where it’s warm.

“I’m thinking,” I tell her. “And this—this
piece—it would appear where? On
News Today
?” I want to slap
myself in the face the moment the words leave my lips.

“That, and any other news correspondent that
wishes to use it,” Ambrielle explains, matter-of-factly.

“Can I get back to you about it?” I ask,
still debating it in my mind. I can see the pros and I can see the
cons even clearer, but I just need more time to decide if this is
the right thing for me to do.

“Absolutely, take your time.” She digs in her
bag, a large Chanel purse, pulling out her wallet. “This is my
card, it has my personal line at the office and my cell phone
number, and this is my email.” Her French manicured nail points to
a line on the card. “These are the best and easiest ways to contact
me. And I always reply.”

“Okay, thank you.” I hesitantly take the
card.

“I look forward to hearing from you, Joey.”
Ambrielle smiles, slides her glasses back over her eyes, and turns
away from me.

If Ambrielle Knight, or
News Today
,
wants to do a story on me, what happened to me must have been a big
case with national exposure if they want to do a follow up on me. I
should do a thorough web search.

“Joey,” Hilary begins as she slowly closes
the door. “You don’t have to do this, honey.”

“I know I don’t,” I tell her absentmindedly,
still thinking while my eyes train on the card in my hands. It’s
small and white with neat type and the
News Today
logo by
her name. “I still want ice cream, though.” I turn to head toward
the stairs.

“I thought you wanted ice cream,” Hilary asks
when I don’t head toward the door.