Perfectly Flawed (48 page)

“This is delicious, Aunt Hil,” I praise,
sliding the fork from my lips after my last bite.

“Thank you, honey.” She beams and blushes. I
should compliment her in front of this man more often, I love the
nervous look on her face.

“Ant hill?” Patrick asks, his stunning sky
blue eyes turn to me, briefly looking at me through long, thick
lashes that make me jealous.

“Aunt Hil,” I correct, watching my aunt’s
face fall into her hands as she tries to hide the embarrassment of
her nickname.

“That’s interesting, I didn’t even notice
that,” Patrick remarks, turning his amused grin toward the woman
we’re discussing. He reaches to take a second helping of lasagna.
“How long have you been calling her that, Joey?” he asks me,
genuinely taking an interest in me.
Damn
.

“About as long as I can remember,” I answer
with a shrug. “An even more awesome fact is that I have an Uncle
Sam.”

Patrick’s eyes widen. He turns to my aunt and
asks, “Uncle Sam?” It is hard to believe.

“My brother’s name is Samuel.”

“I also call my grandparents Graham Cracker
and Popsicle.” I smile widely.

Hilary shrugs. “We’re very unfortunate people
wherever this wordsmith is concerned.” She gestures to me at my end
of the table.

Ain’t that the truth. My grin grows
wider.

They start laughing, as if it is the funniest
thing they ever heard. I just think that Patrick likes my aunt a
lot, he’ll laugh at anything she says.
That’s so cute
.

“I’m finished,” I tell my aunt. “I’m just
going to head on up to my room.” I grab my plate and slide my chair
back, ready to leave the love birds and give them some much needed
alone time.

“Okay, honey, we’ll be down here,” she tells
me, her subtle way of letting me know what’s going to happen
tonight: Nothing. Thank, God. As much as I think my aunt should get
some, that might—no, will—be a little too much for me, especially
if I were to hear anything. I’d like to keep my traumas down to a
minimum number.

I clear off my plate, stuffing the scraps
into the garbage disposal and running it quickly so as to not
disturb them too much, then I slide the dish into the dishwasher,
and head up the stairs to my room, wishing Patrick and Hilary a
good rest of their evening, and leaving my door open. I check
across the alley to the window on the neighboring home, seeing the
light is still out. Zephyr still isn’t home.

I sigh and fall back onto my bed, gazing at
the ceiling wishing I could see the stars. I would spot and point
out—to no one—the constellations I remember from that astronomy
course I took at the community college over the summer. The night
air would graze my skin in a soft breeze, smelling of morning dew
and sweet dreams, the air thick with melodic lullabies.

Whenever I gaze at the stars, I see hope
flash before me, even if fleeting and brief, I know that there’s a
happy ending out there for me, even if I have to suffer to achieve
it. It’s all the work that we do that’ll make that happy ending
worth it. We will suffer, we will cry, we will sing in front of a
terrifying group of strangers, and when we win, everything that
scared us will be worth it.

Which reminds me…

I sit up and throw my hair over my shoulder,
grabbing my computer, I type in the school’s web address into the
top bar of Google Chrome. A large picture of the school and
depressing mascot pops up surrounded by blue links for me to click
depending on what it is I’m looking for. I see the stupid Idol link
and click it, waiting for it to load so I can see if I made the
stupid list.

Because it’s all so stupid.

There are names from other schools on the
list—because it’s a district wide competition—and a few names that
I vaguely recognize from my school. Then, at the top of the list,
is my name. Josephine Archembault, it’s right there for the world
to see. Damn… I didn’t expect to make it.

For a brief moment, I’m giddy. I jump around
the room, doing my sad excuse for a happy dance, and quietly cheer
so Hilary and Patrick can’t hear me or my excitement for something
so superficial as a high school competition that’s going to be
based on popularity in the end.

Then it hits me like a sack of potatoes…

Well, hell… now I have to actually sing in
front of people.

Crap!

Fourteen

“What did I tell you?” Zephyr gloats as he lazily
flips through his history book, scoping out pictures. He’s been
bragging about my making it into the Idol thing since I stupidly
told him, which I didn’t even want to do. He started tickling me
and wouldn’t let up until I told him. If I were stronger, I
would’ve been impervious to his tickling and made his ass look it
up on the school’s website. But he has magic fingers, damn it.

“Shut up,” I say to my copy of our AP Euro
book, reading the rest of the paragraph on France.

“I will when you tell me how wonderful and
awesome I am,” Zephyr replies. Gah, someone shoot me now. I swear
that I’m dating the most conceited, vainglorious, egotistical
person in the school, if not the city. “Wait, I prefer
epically
awesome
.” He winks at me. Sadly, I love him.

“You’re epically
something
,” I mutter,
flatly, dragging my highlighter through a line in a packet I have
to read for history. I compare that to the text in the book and
smile; it matches up. I hate misinformation. Fact check,
people!

Mr. Cheney gave us our first partner project
and, because I promised him, I partnered with Zephyr to help bring
up his grade. Okay, and maybe because we are dating, but that was a
small
maybe
. We have to do a report on a major part of World
War II and we, or I, chose the Storming of Normandy. I don’t know
that much about it and I like to learn new things. Zephyr had the
good idea to make a diorama, so I’m doing the actual report and
he’s going to do the diorama.

I’m a little worried that we’re going to turn
in a brilliant depiction of blood and gore. There could be someone
gutting a soldier with a knife, a head exploding from a bullet, I
don’t know what goes on within Zephyr’s mind. But I doubt it’s
sunshine and rainbows.

He promised me something
tasteful
, and
I hope he knows the meaning of the word.

Needing to rest my eyes from processing the
tiny typed script in the textbook, I look out the window, noting
the nice day, the third that we’ve had in a row. Usually, we have a
good inch or ten of rain by now. Slight movement catches my
attention and I watch the mail carrier pull away from the curb and
the mailboxes lining the street and decide to take a five-minute
break by walking out to the box to retrieve the mail like a good
niece.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him as he
continues to search the textbook for pictures, and yes, he’s
sticking Post-It notes to remind him of the bloody ones.
Ew,
dude!

“I’ll be here,” he shoots back.
That’s
what I was counting on
, I want to blurt out,
and I hadn’t
expected you to randomly disappear
. I walk out to the mailbox,
cutting across the yard, skirting around the yellow fire hydrant,
and grab the mail.

I start casually flipping through the
different sized envelopes. Bill, bill, bill, fake sweepstakes,
bill… long, thick envelope addressed to someone that doesn’t live
here. It’s pink in color, and has a forwarding address from Texas.
In neat handwriting along the front is
J. Lucas
as the
recipient. My grandparents forwarded it, I can see that, and they
know that Hilary and me are the only two that live here. Certainly,
there is no Lucas at this residence—I would’ve seen them. Unless
it’s a ghost that receives mail.

“What’s that?” Zephyr asks as I drop into my
seat at the table. I tossed the other mail on the coffee table
where Hilary is sure to see it and keep the pink envelope with me,
examining it closely.

“I don’t know,” I say quietly with my mind
focused on what is in my hands. I try to hold the envelope up to
the light, trying to see something, anything, through the paper,
but it’s too thick to make out any words.

“Who is
J. Lucas
?” he asks while
peeking—more like breathing—over my shoulder to see what I hold in
my hands, the mysterious envelope.

“I don’t know,” I reply with a bite, my voice
filled with annoyance as I stare at it, trying to figure out a way
to learn what it says.

An idea pops into my mind thanks to an old
I Love Lucy
episode I saw a few years ago. I stand up,
shoving the chair back, and walk toward the stove. I set the
envelope on the counter, grab the teakettle from the back burner,
and start filling it with water.

“Do you want tea?” Zephyr asks, puzzled,
standing up to join me at the sink. He mostly wants to see what I’m
doing. He’s as nosy as I am.

“No, I want to open that letter,” I tell him,
placing the kettle on the front right burner and turning the heat
on high. All we have to do is wait patiently. Patience has never
been my strongest suit.

“Are you sure you should?” Zephyr takes the
envelope from the counter, looking at it again. “What if it’s just
a wrong address? That’s a federal crime, what you’re doing.” As if
he needs to remind me of crimes. I did very well in my government
class.

“Then I’ll just reseal it,” I mumble.
“Besides, my grandparents sent it here, it must be for someone…
here.” But there isn’t a J. Lucas so it doesn’t make any sense.

After ten minutes or so, steam starts
whistling loudly from the kettle and I use tongs to hold the letter
above the stream. Slowly, with a toothpick—because I feel like
MacGyver’s lazy cousin—I start peeling the glued flap away from the
envelope until it is fully open.

I burn my hands in the process.

“Hot, hot, hot,” I repeat as I fight the pain
in my hands to hold everything. I could just wait for it to cool,
but I repeat, patience is not my friend, and I’m a curious girl
plagued by the love for instant gratification.

“Here.” Zephyr takes everything from me and
tosses it into the freezer for a few minutes.
Good idea
.
After a minute, he yanks the door open, grabs the envelope, and
tugs out the letter.

He gets a chance to read it before I do, his
eyes quickly scanning the words I can’t see as he holds the paper
away from me.

“What’s it say?” I pester as his eyes scan
the letter for a second time, his face falling into an unattractive
grimace.

“Uh, I don’t think you should read this,”
Zephyr says, folding the paper and shifting to slide it back into
the pink envelope.

“What does it say, Zephyr?” I ask loudly,
angry that he won’t hand it to me. I hold out my hand, palm up,
waiting for him to comply.

He hesitates, holding the letter above my
head, out of my reach—he should really stop doing that because it
makes me want to knee him—then hands it to me with a shake of his
head.

What the hell can be so bad about a
letter?

Letter 1127

My darling daughter,

The first time I held you in my arms was the
first time I heard the angels sing. I believe that God, after
everything I’ve been through in my life, gave me something special,
and it was you. The world was in your eyes, the sun shone when you
smiled that little toothless smile, and I was in love with the
little pink bundle in my arms.

I never felt that way before; I never
thought I could feel that way. I never felt that before, not with
your sister, not with your brother, and certainly not with your
mother.

By the grace of God, we
will
be a family again, Josie, the way that we were
supposed to be. Just you and me. You and me against the world,
baby.

Don’t you want that, too?

Don’t let those people out there that you
live with keep you away from me, don’t let them taint you from me
because everything they say, it’s all a lie, baby girl. They want
to keep you away from the only family you have left. That’s what I
am, your family, the only family that loves you aside from
Mother—your grandmother.

Don’t listen to them, my precious and
beautiful, baby girl, Josie.

Never listen to them.

Love you always and always and longer

Daddy

My hand covers my mouth as the final word,
Daddy
, leaps from the page, nearly blinding me. It burns to
hold the page in my hands. It burns to read the words of this man,
my father
. I drop to the floor, my knees pounding on the
tile beneath my feet. The pain shoots up my thighs, stinging and
throbbing, but I don’t feel it. The pain doesn’t compare to the
feeling of my heart ripping through my chest.

Letter 1127? There are more letters from
him? To me? At least 1126? But… why?

“Joey?” Zephyr asks loudly, slowly kneeling
down next to me. His hand glides soothingly down my back but I
barely feel it. I do feel the paper crumple in my hand from my
strong grip. I want to crush it, I want to crush him, I want him to
know that I don’t want his words, I don’t want to know about him,
what he loves, he’s not a man to me, anymore, and he’s
insignificant.

But as I stare at a spot on the floor,
dropping further onto the ground so I’m sitting, I know that this
man will never be done with me and I’ll never be finished with him.
He did this to me; he ruined me. He ruined me and he doesn’t even
believe it.

It breaks my heart to see, to know, that he
has no remorse.
I was in love with the little pink bundle in my
arms. I never felt that way before; not with your brother, not with
your sister, certainly not with your mother
… what made me so
special that he wanted to take my family away from me? Why? Why?
Why me?
We
will
be a family. Don’t you
want that?
That man has never been my family. My family is
Hilary and the people surrounding me today, they made me who I am.
Without them, I would be nothing.