Perfectly Flawed (15 page)

“Please, call me Hilary,” my aunt corrects
while I start my own laughing in the corner of the room. I haven’t
heard anyone call her
ma’am
in years. Not since Zephyr had
the idea to follow her around the house and just call her the name
repeatedly, thinking it’d be funny. He was banned from the house
for a week. Thus the reason why he find it so funny. “I’m not
that
old.”

“Sorry.” He seems to say that word a lot
around me. “Hilary,” he clarifies, testing the word.

“What innocent fun do you have planned with
my
only
niece for this evening?” Hilary asks, directing her
question to him but her eyes travel to me, as if I have any idea
what is going on through his head and what he has planned for our
date. “I hope nothing too outrageous for my niece.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Zephyr
move into the frame of the kitchen door, leaning against it, just
watching us.
Creeper…
I roll my eyes and turn my attention
back to where’s important, no matter how much I just want to stare
at Zephyr standing behind me.

“Nothing too crazy,
ma
—Hilary,” he
promises, catching himself before says
ma’am
. He tucks his
hands into his pockets. “Dinner. Maybe a movie,” Ryder answers,
nonchalantly. He drags his hand through his hair, moving the fallen
blonde curls from his eyes.

“Yeah, you’d take her to a movie,” Zephyr
mutters to himself, but I can hear him. I don’t turn around. He’s
only doing this for attention.

“Well, don’t have too much fun, now,” Hilary
tells us as I grab my peacoat from the closet, letting us walk
through the door to his car. Zephyr stomps loudly, following
closely behind us to the front door. “Her curfew is midnight, give
or take thirty minutes early.” I smile at her; the only thing that
would make this better is a shotgun and a threat of instant death.
Unfortunately, we don’t have a shotgun. “And remember, if you hurt
her in any way, Ryder, they will never find you.”

Spoke too soon.

I clamp my hand over my mouth to prevent my
giggles from erupting. Hilary just made my night. I think I love
her a little bit more. Standing beside Ryder, I think I hear him
gulp. I want to tell him that my aunt doesn’t have a gun or any
other form of weaponry but she is a surgeon—which, in my opinion,
is far, far worse.

Zephyr watches us as we leave. I can feel his
eyes burning a hole in my back. I’m surprised he didn’t threaten
bodily harm right then and there. I mean, it’s one thing if my aunt
does it. While it was awesome and I believe her, we’re talking
about Zephyr. He used to take bullies down for me on a daily basis.
I expected something, man.

Parked in the driveway is a new BMW, shiny
and black, the nicest thing I have ever seen parked in this
driveway. The setting sun gleams from the hood of the car, blinding
me with light as I walk toward the passenger side. Like a
gentleman, he opens my door. I mutter my thanks and slide into the
warm leather seat. I didn’t know I knew anyone with a car that has
a leather interior. Already, my legs stick to the upholstery
through the lace of my borrowed tights.

He puts the car in drive and peels out of my
drive. Apparently, Ryder doesn’t believe in speed limits. I can
tell as we careen down the street, going fifteen miles over the
speed limit, that my grip on the seatbelt will leave permanently
marks on my hand. Wherever we’re going, we’ll make it there
early.

“So, where are we having dinner?” I ask
simply to make conversation. It’s too quiet. I don’t do well in a
confined space with awkward silence.

“Lily’s.”

Thanks for the attempt of conversation,
Ryder. I greatly appreciate the effort.

“Cool,” I answer before directing my
attention out the window, watching other cars, people, trees, and
houses fly by in an earthy toned blur.

He really needs to loosen that lead foot of
his.

The ride to Lily’s, the little family owned
Italian restaurant in town, is quiet, the only noise, which is
neither of us speaking, is coming from the stereo in the dashboard.
He has the popular music station playing—I didn’t know that people
still listened to the radio these days—Movin’ 92.5, I think. I
haven’t listened to that since fifth grade. That was the last time
I had my own portable stereo.

Ryder opens my door again and holds out his
hand for me to take when we get there. I don’t want to but I do
because that’s the only way I’m getting out of his car easily. He
even pulls out my chair for me when we make it to the table.

Who is this dude?

During dinner, we talk about school and
classes. There’s really nothing else to discuss unless I want to
talk about football… which I don’t.

“Four AP classes, damn,” he says between
bites, or between his shoveling food down his gullet. We just got
the food and he’s halfway done with his spaghetti. I’ve had one
bite from my plate.

“I like a challenge,” I tell him as I push my
food around my plate. It doesn’t even look appetizing.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” he
says with a full mouth. I gag when he isn’t looking. There’s
nothing more disgusting than someone talking with their mouth full
of food.

Can I call Zephyr to come and get me yet?

Is there a
Get Out Of Jail Free
card I
can cash in?

I need a savior or something right now.

Turns out, he never took an AP class a day in
his life, he never really wanted to.
Guffaw, I am shocked
.
He thought that they would jeopardize his playing sports so he’s
been playing everything safe throughout high school, never once
overachieving academically, only getting the bare minimum required
to play football in the fall and baseball in the spring. To tell
you the truth, it sounded pathetic. I could not go through life
just being
average
. I have a mind—I might as well use
it.

“Have you applied to any good colleges yet?”
I ask, searching for something, anything, to make me feel like I’m
talking to someone with even the tiniest blip of intelligence. Who
knows, perhaps he has his sights set on an Ivy League school. I
doubt it, but it would make for a good conversation. It’d make for
some
type of conversation that
I
could participate
in.

“It’s only September,” he answers through
what remains of his spaghetti. His look calls me
stupid
and
I want to slap him.

But I suck it up and try to soldier on.

“Oh, yeah,” I answer as I rub my forehead. I
can feel the start of a migraine throbbing behind my eyes. I remove
my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose to try to relieve it; it
doesn’t work.
Damn
. The migraine, I know, will only get
worse throughout the night—as long as I’m with Ryder.

I guess he doesn’t really care about early
acceptance
, it’s a stupid thought but one that makes me cringe
when I remember what type of guy I’m on a date with. One that
doesn’t apply himself to anything but sports.

“I already have some schools interested in
me.” He takes a drink from his ice water and leans back in his
chair. This is the one thing he’s excited to tell me. “Louisville,
South Carolina, West Virginia, UCLA.”

“All great schools.” From what I’ve heard, I
would never want to go to any of them. I was hoping I was Ivy
League material. Forget that, I
am
Ivy League material. But
those are good schools for him.

“I think so.” He nods his head to my
faux-compliment, proud of himself for appealing to the smart girl.
“Any place that I can play ball, you know? Football or
baseball.”

No, I don’t know, I’ve never played a sport
before.

“And when I say
interest
, I mean
it—some great baseball programs and some awesome football
programs.” Ryder smiles as I look past him to the front door with
longing. “I don’t think it’ll be hard for me to go anywhere, get in
anywhere, after high school.”

Of course not, not for you and your golden
arm
, I want to tell him and just be the sarcastic bitch I was
born to be. Instead, I continue to fake a smile and act interested
in… him.
Why am I even doing this to myself?
This discussion
is nauseating, it doesn’t help that my fettuccini alfredo has more
cream than cheese, and the cream looks more like curdled milk, or
the salad had more wilting greens than a dying garden.

“Enjoying dinner?” he asks, his face split in
an amused grin as he watches me choke down bites of my pasta. A few
noodles are undercooked and hard. There’s nothing more appetizing
than crunchy pasta.

“Yeah, this is great,” I lie, taking a bite
of too-creamy-not-cheesy alfredo and wash it down with the too-flat
soda.

Was that mocking?

“I was thinking,” he starts.
I didn’t know
that you knew
how
to think.
“After this
lovely
meal, that we could hit up a party.”

My head snaps up so fast that a curl slaps me
in the face. A party? A party with other people from our school?
Witnesses?
Have you ever seen me at a party before, you
pretentious, supercilious pretty boy?
I want to shout this at
him but I bite my tongue.

“A party where?” I ask instead, worried about
whatever that means for me.

“It’s a cheer party.”
Even better
. “So
one of their houses.” Ryder shrugs his shoulders, leaning back in
his chair to get comfortable as I struggle through the rest of my
dinner. I’m ready to push it aside and be finished with it, even if
it offends him or anyone else in the restaurant.

In fact, I do.

“Cool,” I mutter, hiding my eye roll with my
hands as I rub my forehead.

But I’m not excited about this party. I don’t
get along with cheerleaders. Or jocks. Or normal high schoolers for
that matter. Surely, Ryder has noticed this little part of me.

At least Kennie will be there. She’s a
cheerleader. She frequents these things; she’s even tried to drag
me to a few.

***

After we finish dinner—he finished, I passed
on mine—I try to pay for my half of the bill but he won’t let me.
I’m a little relieved that I’m not wasting any money on this
pathetic attempt at a meal, a sad excuse for dinner. Whoever the
chef was tonight should be fired. And shot. He speeds us to a
street in Brier and soon we’re standing in Jennifer Lange’s monster
of house. Her parents are out of town for the week thus the party
is here.

Pictures of Jennifer and her younger sister,
who is a freshman at school with us, cover the walls. And I don’t
mean tiny little Polaroids; I’m talking giant portraits of them
that take up entire walls. I think a few are painted.

“HEY!” Kennie squeals as she drunkenly
emerges from the crowd, stumbling forward before wrapping her arms
around my body in a tight hug. Naturally, my body stiffens from the
contact and I mentally count—making it to seven—until she lets go
and backs away. “I didn’t know you’d be here, silly.” She playfully
hits my arm, the movement sloshing the beer about in her red cup. I
can smell the alcohol pouring from her in a thick sickening wave.
How much has this pixie had to drink, man?

“Neither did I,” I yell back, hoping she can
hear me over the booming music. I think the song is by One
Direction. What’s even sadder—I know I’m right about that.

Someone large and looming walks by, claps
Ryder on the back, smiles at me, and leaves.

Uh… okay, hi.

“I’m going to get us something to drink,”
Ryder yells, watching his friend disappear into the pulsing
crowd.

“Whatever,” I say to myself as he leaves,
watching him vanish amid his kind, before turning back to my drunk
friend. She’s using the wall to stay standing as she takes a long
drink from the cup in her hand. I fight the urge to take the cup
away from her and tell her that she’s cut off but she’ll only be
angry at me so I let her do her thing and I pretend I don’t notice
her swaying.

Kennie suddenly stands up, her face breaking
into a large smile as spots another girl from the squad. This must
excite her because she charges after the innocent girl, squealing
like a pig on helium, and wraps her arms around the other girl in
another tight hug. I don’t know her name but she must be as drunk
as Kennie or she doesn’t care because she returns the hug with
gusto.

I don’t belong here. I’m certainly not
dressed for this. Girls are wandering around in minimal clothing,
revealing parts of their body they might want to keep secret. The
cheerleaders—you can spot all of them like Oompa Loompas—are
wearing different colored bikini tops and short jean shorts.
Kennie’s bikini top is blue with white polka dots. The guys are
shirtless—some really shouldn’t be—and hitting on any girl that
passes by them. Some even stop to hit on me but other than that, no
one pays me any attention, something I like, and I blend in against
the wall.

“What are
you
doing here?” I can see
her sneer before I turn to look at her.

Slowly, I turn, bracing myself for her look
of haughty derision.

There, in all her made up glory, she stands.
Or snarls.

Alexia Cavanaugh.

And I never thought it possible, but my night
just got
worse
.

Yay me.

Like her mindless horde of followers—sadly,
that includes Kennie tonight—she’s wearing a yellow triangle bikini
top covered in black polka dots and dark jean short shorts. Her
dyed blonde hair—which judging by her roots, is in desperate need
of a touch up—is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. Little
tendrils fall around her face, framing it perfectly. Her gray eyes,
heavy lined in black liner—her failed attempt at the smoky eye
look—trail me up and down, disgust clear on her caked face.