Perfectly Flawed (19 page)

The song ends, Ryder’s hand punching into the
air as his big finish, and applause erupts throughout the
cafeteria. I know that I’m bright red. I can feel the heat in my
cheeks shift down my body as I stand in front of him. While his
backup dancers surrounding us. I’m certain they’re insurance so I
don’t run and hide in the girl’s locker room or something.

Seething, I tug him up by the collar of his
sparkly gold t-shirt. I have amazing strength when livid. “What is
wrong with you?” I ask so quietly, it’s a notch above a whisper,
seething My grip on his shirt tightens, it hurts but I ignore the
pain.

“You didn’t like it?” he asks modestly, his
signature smile threatening to blossom along his about-to-be-fat
lips.

I need to take a deep, deep, breath. I need
to calm down before I do something stupid. That’s what my little
voice, that stupid little voice, is telling me.

I should really listen to it sometimes.

“Are you
KIDDING ME
?” I yell. I hear
the audience he’s created
Oooh!
and
Ahhhh!
as I
continue to yell at him. “You said that you would stop this singing
thing if I went on a date with you,” I tell him while fighting the
overwhelming urge to knee him in the groin, reminding him of our
conversation from last Friday. “I guess you’ve been tackled too
many times or taken one too many baseballs to that head of yours
because I remember the date we went on.”
Even thought I’d love
to forget it.

“Technically, you said that if you never had
to hear
me
sing, you’d go out with me.” He points out,
trying to pathetically clarify. “I didn’t sing this time, I
lip-synced,” he tells me, smiling widely.
Oh, what a great
target his perfect teeth would make for my fist.
“And this is
all for a different purpose.”

“This is all really
creepy
and I don’t
like it,” I yell at him, loud enough to catch the attention of a
nearby cafeteria attendant. I’m too worked up to censor myself, not
that I ever would in a situation like this. He deserves
my
wrath
.

“Then you should just be my girlfriend,” he
offers, placing his hands on my shoulders. His thumbs rub up and
down the front of my shoulders. “You could make me stop in many
delicious ways.” A cocky smile splits his face. “Next time I might
sing
and dance.” The smile grows wider.

“What? Are we in the first grade or
something?” I ask loudly, shrugging off his hands. “‘I like you, do
you like me? Check yes, no, or maybe.’ What the
hell
,
Ryder?” I take a deep breath and release his shirt. I try to
collect my enraged thoughts and cool the blood beginning to boil
within my veins. But that fails when I replay what he just said in
my mind.
You could make me stop in many delicious ways…
“And
am I mistaken or were you just trying to blackmail me into a
relationship?” I ask, taking a step forward, poking him hard in the
chest.

If he had any friends whose main purpose in
this friendship is to protect him from fists, he might want them to
step up now. My hands are clenched into fists and the urge to swing
is so overwhelming that I can’t even begin to think of any ways to
calm myself down. Blind fury is about to erupt, here.

“I was pretty obvious?” My instinct tells me
to slap that smile from his face. My instinct also tells me to
shove him into the wall and run far, far away. I’m not sure which
option I like more.

A laugh escapes my mouth. “Not going to
happen
, Ryder,” I tell him loudly, catching the waiting
attention of the nearest tables.
Like they weren’t already
listening to us
. “I don’t even like you enough
as a
person
to tolerate the date we went on. Yeah,” I add quickly.
“I suffered through that. So move out of my way and stop the music
act because you really suck at it.”

“Only if you and me,” he starts smiling,
continuing with, “become a ‘we.’” His smile sickens me. He hasn’t
heard a single word I’ve just said—no, screamed—to him. “An ‘us,’
an item, a couple, boyfriend/girlfriend—”

I cut him off before he gives any more
examples. “You really like to ignore the
no
in this
conversation, don’t you?” I turn to leave. “Don’t follow me,” I
bite out before he can react.

Practically running, I make it to the stairs
before anyone can laugh at me for the show we just put on. I’ve
never been so angry; I’ve never been given a reason to be
this
angry before. I take the steps two at a time, quicker
to escape, until I’m on the second floor, safely away from the
cafeteria.

I hear steps behind me, gaining on me.
Thinking that Ryder completely ignored my last words to him, I turn
with my arms raised, hands tightly clenched, and ready to take aim
and punch him in the nose.

I don’t care that we’ll be standing directly
in front of the main office, I don’t care that the principal or any
teacher can walk by at this moment, I just want this to end, I want
it to end now!

The sight of his long brown hair and familiar
brown eyes causes me to release a sigh and relax. The calm feeling
I get around him takes over and I welcome it.

It’s only Zephyr.

“What the hell’s his deal?” he asks, trying
to portray anger, but I can clearly see his fight not to laugh.

Thanks, best friend.

Old buddy, old pal.

“I don’t know, don’t care,” I bark bitterly,
rolling my eyes. I seem to do that a lot lately. “I’ll see you
later,” I tell him before escaping into an open practice room to
wait out the rest of lunch. I’m afraid if I hide in the library,
Ryder might try another music number to sway me.

There is something peaceful about the music
wing during lunch. There aren’t many classes going on, all the
practice rooms are empty, and the people that eat lunch in this
hall—mostly the band students—are at the end of the hall talking
about things that I wouldn’t care about. They don’t even see me
slip into a room. No one notices me at all. I really want to keep
it that way.

***

The bell signaling the end of lunch rings,
the sound muffled in the nearly soundproof pencil graffiti’d walls
of the room. I force myself up and head through the door, leaving
the safety and invisibility of the the silent practice room. I
follow the trail of band students as they migrate to their various
classes. I follow one to the AP English class we share, through the
door, and to our assigned seats, mine just happens to be the one
behind his. I tug out my notebook—a green one for this class—and a
pink pen, ready to take notes.

Facing forward, I look to the whiteboard at
the front of the room. My mouth drops wide open when I notice two
things: (1) A Shakespearean sonnet written on the board, taking up
both sides, and (2) Beneath the sonnet, in the same crappy chicken
scratch handwritten, which can only belong to one person,
FOR
JOEY, FROM RYDER
.

That son of a bitch!

It wouldn’t be so bad had he chosen a
different sonnet, a different poem, hell he could’ve written one
himself (because girls find
that
so romantic). Even better,
he could’ve ignored the idea, forgotten the stupid plan, all
together and just left me alone like I wanted, like I told him to
do, damn it!

But he didn’t. He had to do
this
. In
one of my classes.

I read the sonnet in my head before class
starts because I’m still too dumbstruck to do anything else. I
can’t even make myself move to remove the evidence.

“
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the
sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips'
red'

If snow be white, when then her breasts are
dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her
head.

I have seen roses damask's, red and
white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes in there more
delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress
reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I
know

That music hath a far more pleasing
sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the
ground:

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as
rare

As any she belied with false compare.”

I go through class pretending as if I didn’t
see the offending sonnet written on the board specifically for me.
I try successfully to pretend Ryder didn’t compare my hair to black
wire. I even try to think that Ryder’s too stupid to know that he
said my breath was horrid. Luckily, Miss Thorne erased the evidence
before most of the class entered the room; it was just me and Simon
Peterson, the jazz band kid I sit behind, that saw it. I half
suspected her, the teacher, to read it and decide to analyze it as
a class, then deciding to compare it to me because my name
is
attached at the bottom, but we’ve all read Shakespeare in
previous classes, we’ve all studied that same sonnet, and we all
know how insulting it is to be compared to it.

At the end of class, after I hand in my
assignment, I leave the room in an angry daze. I’m in my own little
world, plotting metaphorical murder, and I walk right into Ryder as
he waits outside the classroom door for me. He’s still wearing his
Bieber outfit—complete with the horribly styled hair, though it’s
slightly deflated and losing its pizzazz.

His smile is big and toothy, overly cocky,
mischievous, and proud, as he steadies me, his hands gripping my
arms tightly to prevent my escape. “Did you like your surprise?” he
asks too eagerly.

Some surprise, jackass.

I stop myself before I stomp on his foot,
thought, the urge is terrifyingly strong, I look up to him—he’s
taller than I originally thought, I have never really looked
up
to him before. I never wanted to. My hand clutches
tightly in a fist, my way of preventing myself from slapping him
across the face, only it doesn’t quell the urge to punch him square
in the nose. Hard.

Future notes: If all you want to do to
someone when you see them is inflict bodily harm, there
is
a
problem. Distance yourself.

“If that was your brilliant plan to make me
like you,” I start, pointing my finger in his face. “You failed.
Big time.”

Turning on my heels, I let him watching me
leave. Again.

In orchestra, we have a substitute teacher
while Mrs. Pearl is at home with her sick newborn daughter. The
daycare, we learned from the aforementioned sub, does not allow for
infants, or anyone, with colds to be there for two days to minimize
the chance of spreading the bacteria/infection/virus/whatever to
the other children. Therefore, this substitute, who doesn’t know a
thing about music, lets us do our own thing. That includes, but is
not limited to, the laziest of the group talking and gossiping in a
corner of the room, the studious of the group doing homework on the
risers against the back wall. Those that really want to
practice—which is a surprisingly small group, though it makes you
understand the who’s the most dedicated—gaining access to a few of
the practice rooms. I choose the practice room but I don’t take my
violin with me. Instead, I’m sitting with my back to the door,
playing the piano, just messing around to begin with, but a song
comes to mind and my fingers begin to play the familiar notes
unconsciously. Soon, I’m singing along, as loud as I can when I
know no one’s listening. Gin Wigmore’s words are flowing from my
mouth, I’m in my own little world, and no one can take me back to
reality.

“
I’ll sing you a sweet song if you say
to…”

The notes of
These Roses
fill the air,
floating around me, drowning out everything, all my problems, all
my worries, all my issues. I feel at home in the sound. That’s the
beauty of music and why I love it, it gives the ability to
disappear within something so beautiful that it seems to make
everything wrong completely vanish. The music drowns out all
sounds, encasing me in a bubble, that I don’t hear the final bell
signaling the end of the day. I don’t hear the students as they
walk past the door talking loudly with their friends, I don’t hear
the door open, despite its loud squeak, and I certainly don’t hear
the little gasp of surprise behind me. I only hear the music
flowing from my fingertips.

“
I got fight in these roses, and I still
can’t be scared…”

Though, I do feel the breeze from the open
door and I feel the temperature of the normally warm, stuffy room
drop, and my hand stills above the keys before slamming down on a
wrong chord.

Turning, I find Zephyr leaning against the
doorframe, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping open. He’s surprised,
he’s shocked… he’s freaking me out with the way he’s staring at me.
The way he’s staring at me, his eyes wide with a smile, does things
to my body that I wish I didn’t notice, I wish I could ignore, and
I almost do. I want to hide from his intense stare, crouch behind
the piano until he leaves, forgetting that he ever saw me, but I
know that’s a lost hope.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers, lightly shaking
his head.

I turn back to the piano keys, not even
thinking about playing anymore. Zephyr’s on my mind, in more ways
than one, which doesn’t help this friendship. I’m just staring at
the black and white keys, just trying to avoid his gaze that seems
to stare into my soul. He wasn’t supposed to see me; he wasn’t
supposed to hear me.

No one was supposed to hear me.

“When did you get here?” I ask quietly,
dreading the answer. Taking a chance, I turn around to face him
before asking, “How long have you been standing there?” Another
answer that I dread hearing.

“Long enough,” he answers, walking into the
room and letting the door fall closed behind him. That wasn’t the
answer I was expecting. “Keep playing, keep singing,” he begs me.
“That was beautiful. Please.” I’ve never heard him beg before.
“Please, please, please.”