Flawless (5 page)

“If I hadn't been there, you'd have been sunk,” I say to Kristen from the passenger seat on the way home.

“I've already asked you to help me,” she says with her signature sarcasm.

“I never said I would.”

Kristen casts me a sideways glance, skepticism contorting her striking face. “Do you like him?” she asks.

“Who? R-Rock?” I stutter, keeping my eyes glued straight ahead and praying she doesn't notice the flush spreading up my neck. “No way. He's all yours.”

“Are you sure?”

Am I sure? I almost laugh out loud, but sigh instead. “Positive.”

“I mean, I can see how you'd like him.” When she pauses, I shoot her a quick glance. She's biting her lip and tapping her thumbs on the steering wheel, lost in thought. “You have a lot in common.”

“Nothing that matters,” I say quickly. And it's true. What really matters is that Kristen and Rock are the kind of people that just go together. They make sense. Me and Rock? Complete nonsense.

“You'd tell me, right?”

I turn in my seat to face her. I would never betray her friendship, especially over a guy she's so consumed with. “You're being ridiculous.”

With a semisatisfied sigh, she flops her head back, making me wonder how she can even see the road. “How was I supposed to know
David Copperfield
wasn't about the magician?” she whines.

“The fact that it was written in 1850 should have tipped you off,” I say, grinning. Looking back at lunch, it was pretty funny. Only Kristen would think Charles Dickens could have written an entire novel about a twentieth-century magician in the nineteenth century. “Google things you don't know about before you talk about it. Or maybe you could just take my advice and talk about things that actually interest you. When did you decide that wasn't good enough? Every time you shoot your mouth off about things you know nothing about, you take the risk of digging yourself a hole you can't climb out of. I won't always be there to dig you out.”

“I've been thinking about that,” Kristen says.

I keep my face forward, afraid to look at her. She has a way of talking me into some really stupid schemes, and I already know this one is going to be the worst of the worst. “Nuh-uh,” I say.

“Come on, Sarah. You promised you'd help me.”

“I said I'd think about it,” I correct her, concentrating on the houses zipping by. Anything but looking directly at her. It's like staring at the sun; one glance and you're a goner.

“What's to think about? It's me!”

I finally turn my unseeing gaze from the road and look at my best friend, the same girl who's stood by me year after year as I've been tormented by other kids. “Fine. I'll listen. But I'm not making any promises.”

Kristen pulls into the driveway at my house and kills the engine.

“That's all I'm asking.”

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we will find it not.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Chapter Five

“Okay, spill it,” I say. I'm sitting on the bed cross-legged, with Ringo curled up tightly in my lap. I stroke his back, letting his rhythmic purring relax me like nothing else can.

“So, I've been thinking about how we can convince Rock that I'm smart.”

“You
are
smart, Kris.”

“Not like you are. Not like he is.”

“Are you really sure you want to put this much effort into pretending you're something you're not? I mean, don't you think you'll get tired of lying to him? And what kind of foundation is that for a relationship, anyway?”

“Well, the way I see it, after I've proven how smart I am and he's totally fallen for me, then it won't be necessary to pretend anymore.”

“You think he's going to just stop all conversation at some point?”

“We'll find other things to talk about. Things I actually know something about.”

Hard as I try, I can't imagine Rock spending an afternoon watching Kristen try on twenty-three pairs of shoes. This is a guy who actually
thinks
. “You know, Kristen, you're a pretty good catch. I'm not convinced you need to do anything to get his attention. Seems to me you've already done that.”

“I know,” she says with her trademark smugness. “But I really think proving how smart I am is key.”

“And how do you propose we do this?” I hope like hell she's got a killer new idea, because I'm drawing a complete blank. And I sure don't want to get into the whole imposter-conspiracy thing with her again.

Kristen pulls a folded scrap of paper out of her pocket and smiles. “Remember this?”

She tosses the paper to me and I unfold it. Inside is an e-mail address written in an unfamiliar handwriting. But I don't have to recognize the penmanship to know whose e-mail it is. The address says it all: [email protected].

“What are we going to do with Rock's e-mail address?” I ask, doing my best impersonation of the ever-clueless but well-meaning best friend. I mean, helping her learn more about lit is one thing, but lying … well, that's an entirely different issue altogether.

“Write him.” Kristen whispers the idea I'd hoped she'd forgotten. I don't blame her for whispering; it's a plan doomed for utter disaster. And she doesn't even know it will leave me bloody and broken in the wreckage.

I'm shaking my head before she finishes the sentence. “When I said I'd
think
about helping you, I thought I'd be teaching you about things Rock's interested in. You know, actually
helping
you.”

“What's the big deal? I'll tell you what I want to say and then you can write it in that way you have. Besides, you didn't say no. You said you'd think about it.”

“Kristen, I just … I just can't do it,” I say quietly, focusing on Ringo, who's rolled onto his back for some belly rubs. There are days I'd seriously trade my life for his. Starting with today.

“You have a way with words. Don't deny it, Sarah. How many times have you won first place for creative writing in the state competition? Four? Five?”

Seven
, I think to myself. “That's different,” I mumble.

“How is it different?” she asks, desperate for me to agree. I can read it in her face. She's counting on me and I hate to disappoint her. If I'm honest with myself, I like it when Kristen needs me, maybe because she needs me so rarely. It makes me realize my place in our friendship is as real and necessary as hers. Like we might actually benefit each other instead of me doing all the taking.

“First of all, it's deceitful. Second, it's a little creepy. I mean, I don't really want to get in the middle of your love life.” Especially if it involves Rock.

“That's ridiculous. I'm not asking you to make it all up. Just help me. Come on,” she pleads, taking my hands and squeezing them. “I'm begging you.”

I chew on my bottom lip, scrambling for some excuse good enough to convince her I can't do this. But I come up empty. And I'm supposed to have a way with words? How pathetic is it that I'm able to save Kristen from total self-destruction but not myself?

“Ground rules,” I say, thoroughly disgusted with myself. I am so weak. I deserve to be miserable.

“Anything,” she agrees.

“I decide when and how often. You can't expect me to drop everything and do this for you. I'm working to get a scholarship, remember?”

“Of course,” she says, victory lighting her face. “Anything else?”

“You can't tell anyone—especially not Rock—that I did this.
Ever
.”

“Promise,” she says, then reaches over for a suffocating hug. Kristen would normally hurt herself before letting an animal suffer, but she's so excited she completely ignores Ringo. He tears out of my lap, clawing my legs as he goes, but Kristen's oblivious to the damage she's causing my otherwise blemish-free legs.

Somehow I think that's a good indicator of where I'm headed … me suffering the battle wounds while Kristen rides the wave of triumph.

I've just agreed to help my best friend catch the guy of
my
dreams.

And people think I'm the smart one.

By the time Mom gets home in the evening, I'm usually done with my homework and have started supper. Since it's just the two of us, we stick to simple dishes with little or no cleanup: salads, sandwiches, takeout. Over the years, I've learned to be a pretty decent cook. I can follow a recipe like no other and have a basic understanding of how to cook different types of dishes. Our normal fare is low carb, low fat, and low taste; fish is a regular part of our health-conscious diet. Not exciting, I know, but it helps me keep my weight in check.

But after a day like this one, I need some serious comfort food so I can spend a night wallowing in the sad state of my personal life. I just need one night, then I'll be over it.

I think.

I put some skirt steak in the microwave for a quick defrost, then grab the flour, eggs, and milk. After pouring grease in the cast-iron skillet, I set the stove on high and focus on the batter for my favorite guilty pleasure: chicken-fried steak.

The next half hour involves me multitasking over the heaping meal I'm determined to prepare. Peeling potatoes, frying steak, and tossing together a to-die-for salad is oddly therapeutic.

When Mom glides through the door—and I do mean glide; she walks like she's riding on air—I'm washing dishes.

“Hmmm …,” she says, entering the kitchen with an appreciative smile. “I know what that smell means.”

“No questions right now,” I say, holding my hands up to squelch the interrogation I know she's about to launch. “Please. Let's just eat.”

Mom and I know each other well; too well, sometimes. I guess I'm pretty transparent; it's not like I've ever intentionally kept something from her. Aside from the business about my nose, she's pretty cool. She can be a little obsessive about things she cares about, like work and me. But she's got a good heart and I know she loves me, which makes me luckier than a lot of kids I know.

Mom knows that chicken-fried steak is like my personal SOS. I guess the last time I made this meal was when I found out my ranking in our class had slipped from second to third. That was two years ago and I'm happy to say I've since solidly regained my status as second in our class. The guy in first place has an IQ as high as Mount Everest and a social life that makes mine downright enviable. I'm not willing to sacrifice that much for first place.

“Okay,” she says, giving me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. She kicks her high heels into the corner of the kitchen and grabs the plates and silverware.

“There's bread in the oven, if you want to get that out,” I say, focusing on the task of transferring the potatoes to a serving dish. I know it seems silly to dirty another dish when we could just serve ourselves out of the pots, but Mom says it's uncivilized. She also thinks it's barbaric to eat any kind of sandwich without cutting it in half first.

We quietly go about the task of getting dinner on the table and then making our plates.

“Rough day?” Mom asks.

“Mom,” I warn.

“Well, look at this feast, Sarah. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out something's bothering you.”

Instead of answering, I chew my food, studying the remaining meat on my plate like it holds the secret to breaking the Da Vinci code.

“Sarah,” Mom says quietly, barely above a whisper. “Talk to me.”

I drop the fork on my plate and turn in my chair. “I'm just frustrated.”

“About?”

Before answering, I try to decide if I should tell her the truth. She'd definitely take issue with me purposely deceiving someone, even if it was to help a friend. Mom is militant about honesty and justice.

“Guy stuff,” I finally say. Not that I expect her to let it go at that.

“New guy?” she asks.

“How could it be an old guy?”

She smiles at me, like she knows what I'm feeling. And I guess in some ways she does. She did, after all, grow up with the same nose I have, so she was bound to go through the same teasing and insecurities. But it's hard to imagine her with any imperfection. I've only known her like she is today: impossibly flawless.

“What's the problem?” she asks.

“The usual,” I reply, with maybe a little more bite than I intended. “There's this great guy who just moved here and we totally click. I mean, he actually likes school.”

Mom raises her eyebrows. “How's this a problem?”

“He's made it clear he's interested in someone else.”

Mom tilts her head like a puppy who's just heard a new sound. “Who?”

“Kristen,” I say in full pout. I'm not proud of it, but it's my right to throw a tiny little fit. It's so unfair.

“Oh, well, that definitely muddies the water, doesn't it?”

Muddies the water? Who talks like that?

“A little,” I say sarcastically. “Not only that, she wants me to help her win him.”

“How are you supposed to do that?”

It's a good question I can't answer honestly. “Just help her understand more about … everything. Things he's interested in. Things she knows nothing about.”

Mom laughs, then takes a drink of water before being able to talk. “Kristen is concerned she isn't good enough? For a guy? Since when?”

“Since Rock,” I say, enjoying Mom's response just a little bit. It's good to know I'm not the only one who recognizes the absurdity of the situation.

“Rock?” she asks, eyes wide, eyebrows sky high. “That's his name?”

I nod, grinning. “His name is actually Rockford, but he goes by Rock. Rock Conway.”

“Well, that's quite a name. Does he have some brains to go with that?”

“Afraid so,” I tell her. And I really mean it. It'd be so much easier to act like he didn't matter if he had the IQ of a tick. “He's pretty bright.”

“So what are you going to do about this guy?” she asks. I hate it when she slips into investigative-journalist mode.

“Nothing.”

“That hardly seems like the right decision if you really like him. Maybe you should talk to Kristen about it. Why don't you spend a day at the mall like you used to and tell her how you feel?”

I think about how Kristen reacted to Rock holding my hand and the way she questioned me about liking him on the way home. “The mall part sounds good. The talking-about-Rock part? Don't think that'd be smart.”

Mom moves the food around on her plate, thinking. “You know, it's getting harder to help you with your problems. It was a lot easier when your biggest dilemma was who to invite to a slumber party.” She grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze. “Why don't you come to the station tomorrow after school? We've got a new reporter I want you to meet. She's fresh out of college; you'll love her.”

Without waiting for my answer, she pushes her barely touched plate away from herself as she stands. She doesn't have to say what she's thinking; I've heard her say it a thousand times.
The camera is unforgiving.

I smile and nod. “I'll get the dishes. Why don't you change out of your work clothes?”

“What'd I ever do to deserve you?” she asks as she walks out of the kitchen.

Our house normally has plenty of silence since it's just the two of us. Mom married her high school sweetheart right after she graduated, and then promptly divorced him six months later. She never married again; she said she just didn't have the time. It's hard to date when you work eighty hours a week.

Husband or not, she wanted children. So she did what any self-respecting, liberated, twentieth-century woman would do: she was artificially inseminated. And voilà, here I am.