Perfectly Flawed (28 page)

Pulling into my driveway, Zephyr turns to me,
no smile on his face. He’s expressionless—tired. His mouth opens,
as if he’s ready to confess anything, apologize for everything,
explain anything, but I don’t give him the chance. I bolt from the
car, running up to my front door and struggling with the lock on
the door until I’m safely inside my own house and away from the
scary things of the night.

Everything is dark, Aunt Hil is at work, per
her usual, and I'm going to be alone for the night. Again. Lucky
me.

I walk up the stairs, slowly removing my
jacket before I reach my room. Inside the dark room—I don’t bother
with the light switch—I change into the most covering pajamas I
have. I throw the ruined t-shirt into the trash can, or when I toss
it, it’s close to landing
inside
the trash can. I pull
Zephyr’s old football sweatshirt over my head, the one I stole when
he wasn’t looking back in eighth grade, and crawl into bed. I could
be reading right now, I could have the television on and watching
some obscure old rerun, or I could be plugged into my iPod,
drowning out my mood with some Slipknot or In Flames. Instead, I’m
listening to the sounds of the house—the wind blowing against the
roof, the wooden walls popping, cracking, and groaning as they
settle. My mind floods with abandoned memories from the night. Ones
that I need to box up in my mind and store in the large closet in
my brain.

His hand raking, grabbing, along my body, my
clothes, his hot, sticky breath against my ear, burning against the
tender skin of my neck, his want pushing against me, how there
seemed to be no protection for me, how he laughed at me, how he
made me feel small and unimportant.

The voice telling me I’m beautiful.
The
voice…

That voice didn’t belong to Ryder; I know
that. It was someone else, someone older.

The voice, it was worn and new, smooth and
gruff, familiar and unknown.

But we… we were alone in the room. I’m sure
of that. Right?

Then who told me I’m beautiful?

***

Darkness swallows me, tugging me lower into
the abyss. Emptiness swells around me. It wraps me up and envelops
me. Keeping me cold and alone. Or, at least, I think I’m alone, but
I’ll never know. I’ll never seek what waits for me. I’ll never
wonder, truly, what’s here. Waiting.

It’s so hollow here.

Baby girl…
the voices whisper.
Baby
girl, I’m here for you
. Louder and louder, the voices carry.
I’m here with you
. My hands cover my ears, praying for
silence, but the sounds grow louder and louder, always louder and
louder.

I can’t escape. My usual climb has halted, my
usual struggle has ended when all fight left my body, and I just
fall, weightless, into the darkness.

Wherever I land… that’s where I’ll
remain.

Seven

Saturday morning and I’m lying in bed still trying to
process, still trying to somewhat understand what the hell happened
last night. I didn’t get much sleep. I couldn’t sleep at all,
really. Every time I closed my eyes, I just felt… hands on me,
scouring me. I stayed up until three in the morning trying to
ignore what happened. When that didn’t work, I tried to make sense
of what Ryder was doing, or trying to do, to my body.

How he had me pressed hard against the desk,
into the desk, one hand roaming my body, copping feels, the other
hand in my hair, yanking my head back until it hurt. How he ripped
my shirt, his body pressed into mine on the couch.

Holy balls.

It was disgusting, repulsive—it
is
disgusting. If he did anything like that to Alexia, I feel sorry
for her. If she liked it, she’s crazier than she tells people I
am.

But how could she like that? How could she
like the feeling of someone controlling her body, taking something
from her with the use of that much… force?

It doesn’t make sense to me.

Well, Homecoming is off, whether he knows it
or not. He hasn’t called me, and I don’t want him to. If he does
call, I’ll threaten to press charges for attempted rape—even though
that’ll definitely be an empty threat, one that he’ll certainly see
right through. I just don’t want to talk to him and I don’t want
him to try and talk to me.

But I need to do something tonight, anything
to keep me and my mind occupied.

Hmmm…

I know just the thing.

I grab my phone, dialing a number I’ve
neglected for a while.

“Hello?” Harley says on her end of the line
after three rings. When I’m bored, I count things.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask quickly,
sitting up in my bed. I look toward the window, the part in the
venetian blinds lets me see Zephyr’s window across the alley. His
white blinds are shut.

“Junk food and movies,” she tells me. I hear
the rustle of a bag in the background. Has she already started the
ritual?

“Bring them over here,” I tell her, loving
the idea of a girl’s night. “We’ll start our own Homecoming
tradition.”

Harley’s quiet for a moment. I can picture
her running her hand through her messy bed head or playing with her
lip ring. “What happened to the dance,” she finally asks, her
curiosity getting the best of her.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I reply
quietly. My eyes dart to my window and I just want Zephyr to open
his blinds and pop his head out his window, his voice low as he
calls to mine. But how can I expect everything to go back to normal
just because I called on him last night? “Not now, anyway. Will you
come over?” I ask, knowing that I’ll eventually tell her—possibly,
if I ever work up the nerve—just not tonight. And definitely no
time in the near future. Maybe during our twenty-year high school
reunion when both of us will have completely forgotten this
conversation and we’re both too busy with our separate lives to
care about something that happened during our junior year.

That sounds like a plan.

“Let me find my most comfortable sweats,” she
starts. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.”

I smile.

We hang up and I change into my own comfy
clothes; oversized black sweatpants with flowers running up the
sides, a bright pink camisole, and my bright green Abercrombie
& Fitch zip up hoodie.

By the time she arrives, holding less junk
food than I originally pictured, we take a trip to the nearest Fred
Meyer’s, loading up on enough sugar and salt to put us in a coma or
an early grave. We buy a few new DVDs, mostly of the horror/slasher
variety, and now we’re set for the night.

I hear a light
tap, tap, tap
against
the front door while Harley sets up the coffee table—covering it in
bags and bowls of chips and cookies, and cans of Mountain Dew and
Cherry Pepsi. I open the door, still laughing with Harley about a
joke she told, half-expecting Ryder to be on the other side holding
a corsage or some stuff like that. Believe me; I’m completely
prepared to punch him in the throat.

That isn’t who I see—that isn’t who’s
standing on the other side of the door, long dark hair messy as if
his hands have recently been through it, dark brown eyes trained on
me as the nervous smile stays on my face.

“Zephyr?” I ask, staring at his brown eyes,
not angry, nor tired, this time. It’s not one in the morning; I
haven’t sought his help like a stupid little girl expecting someone
to save her. He’s just standing on my front porch, a small smile
covering his lips, like he’s happy to see me. “What are you doing
here?”

“It’s Homecoming,” he answers with a
shrug.

I ask, “And?”

I know what day it is.

“Just wanted to check on you,” he pauses,
shaking his hair from his face. “You know, before you went to the
dance,” he says quietly.

“Zeph,” I start, leaning against the edge of
the door. That isn’t a smart thing to do, especially if the door
moves at all. Then you’re falling on your ass while your friends
stare, point, and laugh at you. But the door doesn’t move. “You
should know I'm not going to the dance tonight.” I don’t want to be
anywhere near it. Not without reinforcements.

He slides his hands into the front pockets of
his jeans, his shoulders hunch forward—he looks relieved. “I wasn’t
entirely sure,” he tells me. “What are you going to do, then?”

“Movies. Food,” I start, turning to watch
Harley place more things on the little wooden coffee table. “The
usual girl’s night, really,” I say.

“Okay.” He smirks.

We both stand there, surrounded by awkward
silence, just staring at each other.

“Wanna join?” I ask.

His eyebrows shoot up. “For a girl’s night?”
he asks, disbelief and sarcasm in his voice.

“Why not?” I ask with a shrug of my
shoulders. It’d be fun, I think.

“I’m missing crucial body parts—plus the
extra one I have—to be considered a girl, Jo,” he points out. As if
I need to be reminded about that. I’m well aware he has more
between his legs than me.

My eyes trail down his body, taking in the
outfit; dark jeans and a black sweater—a
sweater?
Hello, Mr.
Rogers—he’s slightly overdressed for the occasion.

“You’re just a little”—I hold up my hands,
using my fingers to accentuate—“overdressed,” I tell him.

“Who’s overdressed?” Harley asks from the
couch, her eyes surveying over the sugar buffet we’ve created.

“Zephyr,” I answer. I see her eyes roll. “I’m
inviting him to our girl’s night?”

“Only if he can handle the gore,” Harley
shoots back.

With a slight hesitation, Zephyr nervously
asks, “What gore?”

I don’t tell him. With a smirk, I
do
tell him, “Change into some sweats, this party has a dress code.” I
let him look me over in my lounge attire, and I see happiness light
his eyes. I love the feeling of his eyes on me. Interrupting his
brief perusal, I say, “Then head back over.”

After ten minutes, Zephyr’s on my couch,
clutching a bag of Doritos while
Saw
plays on the giant flat
screen television Hilary won in a church raffle—back when we went
to church. To make sure that we had enough blood, guts, and
dismemberment, Harley grabbed the
Saw
series—all seven
movies, including the 2003 short film—from her house, stealing it
from her brother’s room. Zephyr brought over his
Hostel
series, all three movies. Me, I contributed
Wrong Turn
and
its four sequels. Hilary loves these types of movies.

I know we won’t get through every movie
today; we just love options.

Within twenty minutes, I’m lightheaded and
bending to rest my head between my knees with Zephyr rubbing his
hand on my back in large, soothing circles.

I hear his snicker quietly.

“Shut up,” I mutter from between my
knees.

Halfway through
Saw III
, Hilary walks
in to find us surrounded by food wrappers and empty soda cans.
We’re cowering on the couch, huddled together. I’m nearly buried
behind Zephyr and Harley’s sitting in my lap, clutching my arm so
tightly, her nails are drawing blood.

“What are you three doing?” she asks loudly,
causing us all to jump and yelp with extreme fright. None of us
heard her walk through the door, which is weird because we can see
the front door.

“Horror—movie—marathon,” I respond between
long gasps. I clutch my hand to my racing heart, willing it to calm
down, willing the air the fill my lungs.

It takes a few moments, but we all calm down
and Harley backs away. I stay tucked beneath Zephyr’s arm.

“Is that
Saw
?” my aunt asks, her head
tilting to the side as she watches someone wake up in a trap. The
usual MO for this film.

“Number three,” Harley answers, reaching for
a bowl of Cheetos on the table. The last bowl of chips was thrown
into the air—by me. The remains are scattered around us.

Cleaning later should be loads of fun.

“I love these movies,” Hilary replies,
grabbing the package of Oreos from the table and taking a seat in
the recliner against the front window.

“Only you would say that, Aunt Hil,” Zephyr
states with a nervous laugh. He was actually scared earlier, but I
know he won’t admit it. He’s too
manly
for emotions

“And me,” Harley offers, her orange dusted
hand rising into the air proudly.

“You
so
don’t count,” I counter,
lightly tapping her on the back of the head. “You were just as
scared as me a moment ago.” The smile drops from her face. She’s
caught and she knows it,
ha
. “And Aunt Hil is the only one
demented enough to do anything like
this
.” I motion to the
screen in front of us.

“Not that I ever would, Joey,” Hilary defends
from her chair. “Unless provoked,” she says quieter before popping
an Oreo in her mouth, catching all of our curious attention. We all
stare, openmouthed, at the woman that’s my guardian, my
caregiver.

“Now I’m scared,” Zephyr tells me as I lean
back to my original place under his arm, his hand rubbing my upper
arm slowly.

“As well you should, young Zephyr,” Aunt Hil
says, a tiny giggle escaping her lips.

I snort loudly, Harley chokes on a chip, and
Zephyr stiffens. I can only imagine the look on his face at this
precise moment.

“Gosh, take a joke, will ya, kid?” My aunt’s
joking, thankfully. “Not that I don’t love slasher movie marathons
and all that but I thought you were going to the dance?” my aunt
asks, distracted.

Again, really, can’t a girl change her mind
around here?

“Plans change.”

Plans change, shoes change, feelings change,
people change. Everything changes around here.

I reach past Harley to steal a Cheeto from
the bowl in her lap, quickly popping it into my mouth and mashing
it between my teeth with too much force. I accidentally bite the
inside of my cheek, wincing lightly at the pain.