Perfectly Flawed (47 page)

And I kind of want to make it.

Person after person, girl after boy after
girl are called into the room. Some come out happy and in good
spirits, the others look like they’ve been shot.

This is only a school competition, people,
nothing to get your knickers in a twist about.

Finally, someone with platinum blonde hair
calls my name, and sneers as I stand. I can tell that she’s not my
biggest fan by the way her nose—an obvious plastic one—turns up
when I approach her. I can make that nose look a little better,
honey, if you do that one more time. Could I get disqualified by
flicking her nose into the right direction? It’d be an improvement,
really.

Weirdly, I expected Zephyr to be here
whispering good things in my ear like
you can do it
and
I
believe in you
, but he had a practice he couldn’t miss. So
Harley is waiting at the end of the hall for me, staying away so I
can focus and prepare myself. I only sent her away because she was
more nervous than me—unbelievable, but it’s true—and her jitters
made mine worse.

I walk into the cold room, the
choir/orchestra room, and suddenly wish they’d have left the window
in the back of the room closed. All the chairs have been cleared
from the room, probably locked in the instrument storage closet. In
the center of the room is a thin table; one that you’d normally
find pressed against a wall holding important paperwork in the
front office; behind the table are three people, seated with their
hands neatly folded in front of them. Two very pretty girls and one
boy; from what I know, everyone seated at the table are seniors in
the top choirs that require auditions to join. The girl that called
my name takes a seat on a stool behind the ancient video camera
sitting on a tripod next to the table.

“State your name and the song you’ll be
delighting us with,” she mumbles flatly, bored. I glare at her,
hoping she can feel the metaphorical daggers I’m shooting at her.
I didn’t ask you to do this, lady
, I want to tell her but I
feel that that’d be a bit too much right now.

My polite upbringing kicking in, I plaster a
wide smile on my face and say, “My name is Joey Archembault and
I’ll be singing
Ain’t No Other Man
by Christina Aguilera.”
It was the first song that popped into my mind this morning when I
thought about it. On the way to school, I shoved my ear buds into
my ears, ignored Jamie and Zephyr as they tried to engage me in
conversation, and listened to the song repeatedly to make sure that
I actually know and could remember the lyrics.

The bottle blonde behind the camera snorts in
derision and rolls her eyes as she aims the camera at me. I’m
surprised she doesn’t aim it toward the ceiling in spite for
whatever I did to ruin her pretty little world today. I know from
that sound, she doesn’t think I can do it.

This is going to be fun wiping that scowl
from her face.

The door creaks open behind me, the sound to0
loud in the quiet room to go unnoticed. I turn and spot Harley
trying to sneak into the room, sending me an apologetic look. The
judges don’t seem to mind. I don’t either.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, pop my wrist,
then untuck my hair and let it fall over my shoulder—I’m a weird
nervous person.

Here goes nothing.

After what seems like an hour of preparation,
I take a deep breath and start from the beginning of the song,
letting the words, the music, flow from my mouth in a swirl that, I
swear, I can see. If I could play this on the piano, I would do so
much better with my hands guiding the music. It doesn’t matter
anyway, they cleared the piano from the room to prevent people from
using it. In my mind, even though I’m royally pissed at him for
signing me up for this without my permission, I picture Zephyr,
dedicating the song to him when he can’t even hear me. He’s the one
I want to be singing to.

I hit the high note, perfectly I might add,
before one of the judges wave an over accessorized arm through the
air, signaling me to stop.

“Thank you,” the lone boy says, a small smile
tugging on the corners of his mouth as he winks, congratulating me
without showing any favoritism. I think I like him for that little
gesture alone.

“We’ll post the list, like, later tonight on
the school website,” the girl in the middle with long auburn hair
tells me, her smile large and fake on her face but she still looks
impressed.

I fake a smile and walk out quickly, hearing
Harley’s steps as she follows me, taking one brief glance back to
the bottled blonde taping the auditions. Her gray eyes are wide
with shock and envy, even a little confusion, as if I couldn’t
sound like that. I smile at that, happy with myself. And I did wipe
that look from her face, yay.

“Um, we have a problem,” Harley tells me as
we grab our things leaning against the wall in the hallway to
leave. Another girl is called into the room as we walk past, paying
her no mind as she gulps and slowly walks into what she probably
believes to be the lion’s den.

“What’s that?” I ask, absently checking the
time on my phone before I click off the screen of my HTC and slide
the phone back into the front pocket of my jeans. That only took
ten minutes, not bad.

Harley scoffs loudly. “That you could
sing
, Joey,” she nearly yells in the empty halls. It
would’ve echoed.

“I never thought it mattered,” I tell her
with a shrug she doesn’t see, following her to her car in the
student parking lot. With Zephyr at practice, she’s my ride home
for the afternoon.

“It matters, you idiot,” she snaps angrily.
Does she think I was keeping this as a secret? It just never came
up, dude. Why is she throwing a hissy fit? “That was incredible,
you were better than Christina Aguilera herself,” she tells me.

“Now that’s overreacting, Harley.” I roll my
eyes. “I’m just decent.” She clicks her car unlocked from five feet
away using the tiny remote on her keychain.

“Not an overreaction, just stating a
fact.”

Whatever.

***

She drives me home and I decide this is the
perfect time to start applying to some colleges. Or tonight, I
should clarify. The University of Washington and Washington State
University applications don’t take too long, and I’m quick to pay
the application fee with my debit card. I bookmark a few schools in
Colorado, Montana, Oregon, and Idaho. While lazily perusing through
the University of Oregon website—Go Ducks!—I decide that’s the
school that I really want to go to, so I start the application. I’m
halfway through when my aunt walks in.

“What are you doing?” Hilary asks sweetly,
plopping down next to me on my bed, leaning over to check the
screen on my laptop. She’s trying to be parental, making sure I’m
not surfing porn or reading large amounts of
Twilight
fan
fiction—because I am
so
addicted these days, it’s getting
too hard to stop reading about Bella and Edward.

“Looking into my future,” I tell her when she
sees the Oregon application. I type something into the search bar,
looking more into their Pre-Law program.

“University of Oregon, huh?” she asks, making
conversation when the silence overwhelms her. “You want to be a
Duck?”

“Quack, quack,” I answer, wanting to add
Mr. Ducksworth
, but that may be too much. “And I look
spectacular in green, even hotter in yellow.” Adding a laugh
because she knows I despise the color yellow.

“So…” she starts, her hand playing with my
curls. Hilary pulls one straight and watches it spring back to
form. She used to do it when I moved in with her; it was the only
way she could make me smile, but I grew out of it too soon. It’s
not as funny as it was before but it’s still nice for her to
do.

But… I know that voice.

“What do you want?” I ask with my attention
still on my computer screen, clicking the links on the page.

“What makes you think I want something?” my
aunt asks, attempting innocence, but failing like I did last week.
We both really need to take a few acting classes, we can’t lie or
scheme worth a damn.

“Seriously, Aunt Hil,” I start with a huff.
“It’s last week all over again,” I remind her, glancing to her
briefly. “Only, we’ve switched roles. Now you want something from
me, what is it?”

She pauses a moment, her green eyes glowing
greener as she stares at me, pondering what she should say.
Eventually, she blurts out, “Fine,” and giggles playfully. That’s
new. “Patrick is coming to dinner,” she says quickly, looking at my
eyes to gauge my reaction.

It’s nonexistent.

“When?” I ask. I don’t care, she can invite
Barack Obama and the Pope to dinner and I wouldn’t mind. “Wait—who
is
Patrick?” I ask, realizing something new. I don’t
remember her mentioning a Patrick to me before.

“He’s that doctor I told you about,” she
starts, her cheeks flushing red in a blush that matches her bright
hair. “The one—”

I cut her off quickly with an excited, “Is he
McDreamy or McSteamy?” I set down my laptop and transition my body
to sit on my knees, moving closer to her to learn the answer. I’m
sure that my eyes make me look crazy. I don’t care, I’m
Grey’s
obsessed.

“Joey, come on—”

“McDreamy or McSteamy?” I demand in a loud,
shrill voice. For some reason, this excites me. And my aunt needs
to choose because I’ll call him this name until the end of
time.

“I don’t know, Joey, I—”

I still cut her off. “If you won’t answer the
question based on observation,” I ramble out. “Based on his name,
I’ll have to guess McDreamy.” I tell her with a sly smirk on my
face. “When is this even supposed to happen?” I ask.

The doorbell rings, or creepily sings,
through the house.

I had no idea our doorbell still worked.
We’ve had that thing replaced thirteen times since we’ve moved in
here. It’s a real pain in the ass.

“Now,” she answers. From her body language, I
can see she’s scared, nervous, anxious, and excited at the same
time. Hilary reminds me of a Mexican jumping bean with the way
she’s shaking.

That was eerily perfect timing, I don’t think
anyone could have scripted that better.

“I’m going to let him in; you just come down
whenever you’re ready.” She backs away from the bed, heading
backward toward my door, nearly tripping over a lone shoe I’ve
neglected shoving in my closet every time I’ve passed it this week.
My aunt recovers, still smiling gleefully. “I can’t wait for you to
meet him.” She claps her hands together and bounces out of my
room—literally freaking bounces like a rubber ball—and makes her
way briskly down the stairs.

This should be very interesting.

Instead of delaying the inevitable and
camping out in my room until I’m absolutely positive the dinner has
grown cold—a very angst ridden teenager thing to do—I walk down the
stairs and watch my aunt throw open the front door with gusto,
holding it open for a very tall, very large man. And I don’t mean
large is in
fat
, I mean large as in
why is this man not
playing professional football or throwing people of similar size
around in a square ring?
He has to bend his head forward just
to enter through the front door. I feel that we should’ve prepared
more and built this man his own personal entrance, one suited to
his enormous size.

Holy balls, man!

As he stands in the living room, I take in
the sight of him—having to lean back to get the best look, but it’s
a nice view. He’s very clean cut, his blonde hair very trim and
coiffed, I can see he’s trying to make a good impression. He’s in a
nice pair of dark jeans and a button-up, very casual while still
trying to look nice. He’s even wearing a dark blazer. The most
stunning thing about him, other than his smile, which takes my
breath away, by the way, is his eyes. They are the most beautiful
shade of blue I’ve ever seen aside from the sky on a sunny summer’s
day.

My aunt has very great taste in men, just
saying.

Speaking of, seeing him stand next to my aunt
is a hilarious thing because she goes up to the middle of his
forearm when she stands up straight. I might go to his elbow. I
think Zephyr would go to his shoulder,
maybe
, and that’s
pushing it for his six-foot-two frame.

“Patrick, great to see you,” Hilary nervously
gushes. Why do I have the strongest feeling that I’m about to
chaperone a middle school type date. Yay me, I get to play
adult.

“Thank you for the invitation, Hilary,”
Patrick replies in a deep voice. His cheeks also turn a nice shade
of red.

Yep, I’m about to see the corner of Cute and
Adorable with these two.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus, this is going to be
entertaining. I should embarrass them and take a picture like
parents do.

Where’s our camera?

Hilary collects herself, trying to calm the
blush still blazing on her normally pale cheeks. “Let me introduce
you to my niece,” she begins, pointing to me—the spectator gawking
at the Hulk-sized man standing in the living room—standing by the
stairs. “Joey, this is Patrick Walsh, a neurosurgeon at the
hospital.” Definitely McDreamy. “Patrick, this is my niece, Joey, a
junior in high school.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice
vibrating my bones as he speaks. He holds out his hand, his very
massive, meaty hand, for me to take. His hand swallows mine
instantly. If it wasn’t attached, I’d never think that I’d see it
again.

“Likewise,” I mutter, feeling his grip
tighten uncomfortably as my hand slips into an awkward,
bone-crushing angle. He notices my wince and loosens his grasp,
making the gesture more comfortable.

Turns out Hilary has been cooking all
afternoon, preparing for this important meal. Honestly, I had no
idea; I was so set on being angry at Zephyr and turning in some
applications that I didn’t even notice the delicious aroma wafting
from the kitchen. If I wasn’t so wrapped up in my own world, I
would’ve noticed she made lasagna and garlic bread. I think she
even made dessert.