Perfectly Flawed (42 page)

“Come on,” Ivy grabs my hand forcefully,
tugging me alongside her.

Noah grabs my other hand and Ivy leads us up
the stairs. She stops in the hallway near the top of the stairs and
crouches down, listening for something. There, we wait. The moments
seem endless while Ivy clutches my hand tighter.

“Honey,” Mommy hurriedly asks, I can hear her
steps on the tile. “What’s wrong?” Something made of glass crashes
against the wall and shatters, I jump and Ivy tugs me closer to her
side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Ben, don’t throw
things,” she yells, her voice begging.

“Mommy!” I scream, but Ivy’s hand clamps over
my mouth, preventing the shrill sound from escaping.

There’s silence. An eerie thick silence that
surrounds us. It’s interrupted with the man yelling, “Where are my
kids, Keisha?” Something hits wood, the sounds splintering loudly.
“What did you do with
my
fucking children? Are you keeping
them from me?” He continues loudly. “I’m their father, God damn it,
you can’t keep me from their lives.”

That
is
Daddy…

“I’m not keeping you from anything, Ben.” She
sounds defeated. “They’re upstairs,” Mommy tells him.

“Good, that’s good,” he says. The air is
still and quiet before I hear footsteps stomping up the stairs.
They’re heading right toward us.

“Where are you going?” Mommy asks—the
stomping halts—as Ivy drags Noah and me into the nearest bedroom.
The walls are blue with baseballs and footballs taped all over the
place, the floor is messy with toy trucks and action figures,
random sporting equipment we’re all too young to use takes claim in
various corners. This is Noah’s bedroom.

“To see my kids, Keisha,” he yells, the
stomps begin again. “Is that a fucking problem?”

“You’ve been drinking, Ben,” Mommy accuses.
“You’ll scare them; you should sober up before you see them.”

“
You’ve been drinking, Ben
,” Daddy
mocks, making his voice higher. “God, you sound so pathetic,
Keisha. Get out of my way before I make you.”

Ivy looks around the room frantically, trying
to find something. She opens the closet door and points. “Closet.
Go,” she tells us, ushering us inside quickly. We scramble inside
and Ivy closes the door, falling to sit on the shoe-covered floor,
pulling me close to her side.

More steps echo down the hall, vibrating the
floor as they stop and start, stop and start, until they finally
stop.

“I thought you said that they were up here,”
Daddy says, his voice quiet.

“You scared them, Ben,” Mommy explains.
“They’re probably hiding.”

A light laugh that doesn’t sound happy floats
through the door. “I probably
scared
them?” he continues to
laugh as his voice waivers. “It’s only Daddy, kids.” His voice
travels around the room, through the air, steps vibrate through the
floor, tickling my feet where they lay. “Nothing to be fucking
SCARED
of.” That makes me jump. Ivy’s arms tighten around
me. “Get your little worthless asses out here or I will
hunt
you down, each and every one of you.”

“Ben,” Mommy shoots out. “You’re not seeing
the kids like this, not when you’re drunk, do you hear me?”

He barks out a laugh. “Come here, Keisha.”
It’s long moments before something falls to the ground, the sound
of it breaking on the hardwood floor of Noah’s room startles my
brother and he grabs my elbow, squeezing for his life. Mommy
screams in pain, I can’t see what’s happening, but I know it can’t
be good.
Leave my mommy alone!
Then a hollow sound, much
like a person hitting something both hard and soft, echoes in the
room.

“Don’t move,” Ivy whispers so quietly, I
don’t think I heard her say anything at all. “He won’t find us if
you don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

I try not to move, I try to remain quiet.

But I don’t.

“Ivy,” I whisper, lifting my head to look at
her. “I won’t move, I promise, but is Mommy okay?” I ask. I have to
know.
I have to know how Mommy is. Please be okay, Mommy,
please!

Ivy looks at me, something in her eyes
changes. They become empty and hollow, graying ever so slowly, as
if she isn’t my sister anymore. She pushes away from me, pushes me
into Noah.

“
He won’t kill us if you don’t tell
,”
Ivy says loud enough for Daddy to hear. But she’s not Ivy
anymore.

Her skin turns gray, her eyes turn black, and
blood covers her clothes—
her pajamas
. Her dark curls frizz
and mat together, they clot with blood, and she smiles a toothless
smile. Her hands reach out as she repeats, “He won’t kill us if you
don’t tell, Joey.” Her body inches toward mine as cold hands grip
my arms, hands of bone clamping so tight, the pain laces through
me, ripping through me, tearing at me. Both of them are gone, both
of them have disappeared…

My eyes spring open, staring at the ceiling
above the bed. I sit up in bed and frantically search the room for
the little zombie girl from the closet. She’s not there. I’m
alone.

Of course, she’s not there,
stupid
.

My breathing is fast, too fast, and tears
stream down my cheeks. I gulp for air, I reach for something that
isn’t there, and I come away with nothing—
nothing!
I half
expect Zephyr to burst through the door but I know he isn’t coming.
He can’t save me from this. No one can.

I drop my head in my hands, letting myself
drain free from what’s within, but it’ll never help.

“Oh, my God,” I blubber out. “What’s
happening to me?”

Twelve

When I saw Zephyr sitting in my kitchen the following
morning, I didn’t dare mention the dream—he still doesn’t know
about the other dreams I’ve suffered and I plan on keeping it that
way. I felt like the dreams were my cross to bear, something that I
should suffer alone. He didn’t really need to know anything about
them. I tried to forget about the dream as I went through my normal
day. But I couldn’t shut it out, not for good. It plagued my mind,
it haunted every thought and feeling and I couldn’t exorcise this
demon. So I let it consume me, in class, in the halls, at lunch,
and I tried to devise a plan. If Dr. Jett wouldn’t help me, if she
thought other things were more important than
any of this
,
I’d discover my own past without her.
What was the point of her,
then?
I was only more determined to learn what happened to me
the more she tried to keep me
away
from it. I mean, I’m no
longer eight years old and hiding in the closet, I’m sixteen—almost
seventeen. I’m graduating early, for Pete’s sake—I need to know
what happened to me! I need to deal with what happened to me.

I’m old enough to know
, damn it!

I sit in one of the desks at the front of the
room. A pair of girls—I think sophomores—sit in the back of the
room working on a project together while they giggle about
something. Miss Cherry, the teacher assigned as my senior project
advisor, is a sophomore English teacher. She used to teach Senior
Project (the class) when it was a required course. That was back
when the length to work on your project was a trimester, then a
semester when the school switched to the new system. Now it’s a
yearlong study tacked on to your history class. It’d make more
sense for it to be attached to your English class but who am I to
complain. If it was with the senior English classes, I may already
be doing it. Or at least know that I was in an English 12
class.

Miss Cherry stands near the front of the room
in boot cut jeans, black Converse, and a loose cable knit sweater
that hangs too short, often revealing the small of her back when
she bends over, and the tattoo—or tramp stamp—her students like to
look at. Mostly the boys, anyway. She looks more like a student
than a teacher. In fact, I thought she was a student when I walked
in. I’d never heard of Miss Cherry, I’ve never taken a regular
English class and she doesn’t teach APs, so who she was never
crossed my path until now. She’s bent over a large file drawer,
searching for the paperwork and guidelines of the project I’m
supposed to do.

I can’t wait to start this bad boy.

“Have you given much thought to what you want
your project to be about?” she asks me as she continues her search
through every slot in front of her, her attention focused on the
papers, not me.

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” I tell her,
completely lying, nervously tucking my hair behind my ears. I’m
missing lunch and I desperately want an apple. “I’m just still in
the dark about it.” Completely honest.

She finds what she’s looking for, giggles
happily, and pulls out a stack of paper half an inch thick.
Holy
balls, that’s for me?
With her hand outstretched, she walks to
me, handing me the packet. The thing has
weight
to it, my
goodness. “I think your project should
wow
your audience,”
Miss Cherry tells me as she takes the open seat next to mine. It’s
not every day you see a teacher sit in one of the desks. It’s a bit
awkward.

Eyes narrowed in confusion, I ask, “Shouldn’t
everyone’s?”

“Well, yeah,” she starts, nervously tucking
her light auburn hair behind her ear. Despite how young she looks,
she’s in her mid thirties, so she hasn’t taught this subject in a
few years time—maybe the last time was the year before I started my
Freshman year; it’s getting obvious the more she fidgets in her
seat how foreign this topic has grown to her. “But since you’re a
junior, you need to prove you can do this better than any
senior.”

As Hilary, every adult, and every
single
Disney Channel show has told me in the past: I can do
anything I set my mind to. There’s also that song
Who Says
by Selena Gomez and the Scene. Who am I to argue with Selena Gomez?
I want to do this, I want to graduate early and make my family
proud even if they can’t be here with me to celebrate the festive
event. I want to make them proud.
I want to make my mother proud
of me…

I flick through a few of the pages, shoving
the thought from my mind with such ferocity that it gives me a
headache. I stop halfway through when nothing makes much sense—I
shouldn’t really skim this, I need to actually sit down and read
it. “What can they be about?” I ask, my eyes briefly glancing down
to look at the snow white papers she handed me. “I mean, what
topics, or whatever?” I close the packet and set it on the desk in
front of me.

“They can be about anything,” she begins.
“Provided they lie within the guidelines,” Miss Cherry adds,
tapping the thick stack in my hands. “You can job shadow or intern
anywhere and describe your experiences; you can volunteer your time
with a specific establishment then write about it. Just remember
that you need a mentor. That’s very important.” She looks to me,
her pale green eyes staring intently at me, as I read over the
first page. “Have any idea yet?” she asks.

“No,” I admit. “But I’ll continue thinking
about it.” My future depends upon it. “Thanks, Miss Cherry.”

“I’m happy to help any time, Joey.” She
smiles as I gather my things and leave, entering the hallway.

I almost pass Zephyr when I exit the
classroom, forgetting he’s waiting for me outside the door the
entire time I’m with Miss Cherry. His grin is wide when I turn my
attention to him in his Clash t-shirt—he’s never even heard a
song—and dark jeans. I’m wearing his black jacket. Every few
moments, I tilt my head to the side and sniff, smelling my favorite
scent: Zephyr.

“Have any idea what you’re going to do for
your project yet?” he asks, taking the papers from my hands and
looking through them. He’ll have to do this assignment next year,
better he learns more about it now than later.

I wrap an arm around his waist, tucking
myself beneath his free arm. “Not in the slightest,” I admit shyly.
This is the first time I don’t have a game plan going into an
assignment. Usually, I have everything outlined before the teacher
even finishes discussing the topic, but I’m just…
stumped
. I
hate that. Never in my life have I been
stumped
with an
assignment, but never has it mean so much to me before. I want to
do something memorable, something that makes people think, but I
have no idea what that could be. Is it sad that I want to do
something moving and inspirational? Something that leaves a mark? I
turn my attention back to Zephyr as his eyes scour the pages of
guidelines. I turn to look at him, like
really
look at him.
How is he taking this so well? If
he
were the one graduating
early, if
he
were the one leaving
me
,
I
would
be a complete bitch about it. “You know, you’re taking this
way
better than I originally thought you would?” When I
pictured telling him, the image I had of Zephyr in my head was
extremely different from what really happened. I pictured anger and
arguments; I got acceptance and appreciation.

“How is that?”

“Well, I’m graduating a year early…” I begin.
“I’m going off to college—if I can get into one. I’d be a mess if
it were
you
leaving.” I stop for a moment to ponder, a life
without Zephyr would be unbearable. I’m not sure that I’m ready for
that. “Hell, I’m still a mess about it. As cliché as it sounds,
you’re my rock, Zephyr.”

If he starts singing Simon and Garfunkel, I
might just…

“I’m not
that
happy about it, Jo.” The
seriousness in his voice shocks me. I turn, looking up to him,
confusion covering my face. “Let me rephrase that: I
am
happy about it and I’m so proud of you, but the situation sucks,”
he tells me, squeezing me tightly against his side. “I’m not going
to make you feel horrible about leaving this place when that is all
any of us wants to do. It’s not like I’m going to break up with you
because of this—this is awesome and we still need to celebrate. But
I’m not worried about our future. I’ll just apply to whatever
college you get into, because you’ll definitely get into college.”
I shoot him a look, narrowing my eyes, because I was planning to
apply to Ivy League schools. “Or a college close to wherever you
go; community college, random job in the area, clown college,
whatever, really. Just know that this is only the beginning for
us.”