Perfectly Flawed (9 page)

“Is this seat empty?” Ryder Harrison asks,
pointing to the open spot next to me. He can’t be serious. His
voice is light and smooth but deep, very different than I have ever
heard spoken before. If I could judge a person based on a voice, I
would say this person has a superiority complex.

I let out a sigh and tuck my hair behind my
ear. “Yes. And this one will be, too, if you sit down.”

He doesn’t listen to me. His leg bumps into
my right shoulder as he throws his leg over the bench to take the
spot next to me.

“Hello, ladies,” Ryder coos next to me,
sucking up to my friends. His voice is too smooth, like chocolate
pouring over velvet. You can hear the cockiness and the agenda in
his tone; that he’s here for me, only me, and my friends are just
bystanders here to witness what he thinks is inevitable because
he’s Ryder
effing
Harrison and he gets whatever he wants
whenever he wants it.

Right now, he wants me.

That makes me want to punch him.

I don’t look at him, I don’t want to. In
fact, the thought of sharing this small space with Ryder is enough
to make me want to wander into oncoming traffic at the height of
rush hour in downtown Seattle. I don’t want to play into the
disturbing fairytale Kennie dreamed up nor do I wish to toy with
the outrageous idea that maybe, just maybe, she was right. She
cannot be right.

But with the way Ryder is stealing glances at
me, the way the side of his mouth tugs up in a smirk when he takes
these glances, these brief looks at me, has me thinking that I may
be wrong.

Crap, I am wrong. Very, very wrong.

Damn it, I hate being wrong.

“Hey, Ryder,” replies Kennie in the high
I
am cheerleader
voice she uses during pep rallies when they hand
her the blow horn. Her smile wide and toothy, like she is in on the
joke I have yet to hear.
Did she plan this?
No, she knows
that I would hate—
hate
—that and give her the childish silent
treatment every day by spending lunch in the library surrounded by
books.

My guilty pleasure.

“Kennie.” He nods his blonde head, and worn
Seahawks cap, in her direction, as if to acknowledge her in the
High School Acceptable way—without emotion. “How’re you doing?” he
asks her, taking a real interest in her.

Hmm, surprising
.

Maybe she’s wrong and he is here for her?
Really, what if he’s only sitting next to me because it’s the only
open seat at the table, this way he can stare at her, ogle her
flawless beauty, and creep the only way he knows how.

As much as I’d love that, as much as some
little piece of me wishes to believe that, it can’t be true. Duke
is one of his good friends, from what I remember. I’d like to think
that Ryder is the scum of the Earth, but I heard somewhere in this
hell that is high school that Ryder would never, and I quote,
‘
mess with a friend’s girl
.’

I take a bite, a bit too aggressively, from
the apple as Kennie replies politely, “I’m good, Ryder.” I swear
that the girl is beaming. I really want to peel the banana but
there is no way I’m eating that in front of him. I’ve seen teen
movies and I’m already joked about enough around here.

“How are
you
, Joey?” That throws me
for a loop and I nearly choke on my mushy chunk of apple. His eyes
are set to mine, staring into them as if he’s trying to discover
some deep secret to seek access to the temple.

Fat chance, buddy.

I know this is random, but I really want him
to be chased by a giant boulder. Downhill. And the boulder crosses
the finish line first. With a little Ryder imprint. My macabre
thoughts and interest in
Indiana Jones
makes me smile.

“Amazed,” I grumble with a full mouth, better
to try and gross him out as I ask him, “and yourself?” I stare at
him, hoping he caught my comment. His blue eyes are blank and show
no understanding.
Just great
.

Why is sarcasm lost upon the weak minded?

He’s fine, he tells me, and that lands us in
familiar territory: the awkward silence. That lull in the
conversation that seems to take five hours to overcome rather than
the realistic thirty seconds. I just want to walk away—because it
would be rude and interesting—but I fight the overwhelming urge.
The thought brings a small smile to my lips, imagining leaving him
with Kennie and Harley; Kennie smiling like a mad woman because
she’s so happy that Ryder is talking to me and Harley glaring as if
she was staring at something both amazing and disgusting, mostly
agreeing with the latter.

However, I don’t. I, for some unknown reason,
stick it out five awkward, silent minutes, while my friends
continue to stare at the wreck that he’s creating at the moment by
being here.

“So, Joey, I was thinking—” Ryder begins. I
open my mouth to cut him off with,
Good for you, I didn’t know
that brains worked beneath that shiny, blonde head of yours
,
but someone with impeccable timing beats me to it.

“Joey, let’s talk.” Zephyr slides onto the
bench next to me. He’s so close that I can smell his cologne—I
think he wears cologne. Whatever it is, it’s familiar and it makes
me smile, briefly. I stop myself when I realize how close he is and
that he’d know I was happy to see him. Don’t want him thinking
that
, now. His chocolate eyes glance toward Ryder, his eyes
silently asking for a challenge, and I think I see something else
in his stare…
jealousy
? But it’s gone before I can correctly
identify it.

I roll my eyes dramatically. Looking across
the table. Kennie is watching the three of us with wide eyes and…
fear? I think fear. Why the girl is scared, I couldn’t answer.
Harley’s smirking, waiting for someone to throw a punch. I need to
tell her that it might be me; I might start swinging—any second,
now.

Annoyed with the two boys surrounding me, I
start with, “What do you want, Zephyr?” Asking through clenched
teeth—a sure sign of my growing anger. Soon, I’ll pass angry and
hit infuriated going full speed.

“To talk to you,” he whispers, close enough
that I can finally decide that yes, he is wearing cologne. Very
delicious cologne that makes my mouth water, I might add.

Damn!
Where the hell did that come
from?

Brain, focus.

The thought to tell him that he’s had plenty
of opportunities to talk to me throughout the morning, plenty of
moments when he could have grabbed my arm, pulled me aside, and
gotten my attention, but he passed them all by. I don’t. I ignore
it and stare out the window through the tiny space between my two
friends’ heads. I don’t want to see the looks on their faces; I
can’t even begin to fathom what they must be thinking.

Actually, I can.

Harley, being as great as she is, probably
wants to injure both Zephyr and Ryder—just like me—while Kennie,
who’s still a sweetheart with a thriving library, the typical
hopeless romantic, might think this is straight from a romance
novel.

There is no romance here and this is my life,
not a Jane Austen novel.

Instead, I stand up, dragging my backpack
with me, ignoring everyone’s loud protests, and I flee to my only
safe haven within the constricting walls of the school. It’s easy
to find me but no one does, no one searches for me, no one chases
after me, and I’m happy about that. The librarian smiles at me as I
run into the book-filled room seeking solace between the stacks,
she’s so used to seeing me at random times during the day. I heard
toward a few well-worn recliner chairs sitting against the wall
behind the classics section. I quickly plop into my usual seat and
wait for the bell ending lunch as I pass the time by trying to
decipher the words of
Beowulf
.

Lunch ends too quickly, leaving me with a
half finished homework assignment, and I go through the rest of my
day in a hazy fog. A thick fog that no one can penetrate because
I’m just so angry about lunch; angry with Ryder for thinking that
just because he is who he is, that I would instantly fall into his
arms, and angry with Zephyr for being a dickhead.

How can Ryder ‘Pretty Boy’ Harrison just
swoop to my section of the cafeteria and pretend that he finally
sees me as an acceptable person to be with, spend time with, be
around? It doesn’t make sense to me, not when I explain it to
myself, not when I just think about it. And I don’t want it to
happen, regardless of the outcome.

I’m not his type.

And Zephyr. What
the hell
is his
deal—pardon my French. If he’s truly upset with me, or downright
angry, then why try and save me from Ryder? He doesn’t make sense.
This entire situation doesn’t make any sense and I just want to go
home and hide in my closet next to my old books, beneath my
clothes, surrounded with all the stuffed animals I’m
too
cool
to have still.

After the last bell signals the end of the
day, I’m walking to my locker, quickly avoiding the glares of the
people that still aren’t comfortable being around me. Lucky for me,
I don’t hear anyone conspicuously cough
freak
as I
pass—yeah, like I
never
heard that before. Maybe they’ve
outgrown that by now. An unusually large form catches my eye as I
near my locker. Ryder is waiting for me, planted against my locker,
blocking me.
Why the hell is he here? Can’t he just move on to
some idiotic bimbo with Daddy issues by now?
And, just for
clarification, I’m not an idiot bimbo. But I can’t pretend that I
didn’t see him and I can’t just turn around and walk away; I need
most of my books for homework. He shuffles to the side, fixing his
baseball cap—which, ironically, has a football logo on the front—as
I twirl and turn my lock to open the metal door. He is patiently
waiting for me to acknowledge his presence.

I won’t.

“Hey,” he finally says, understanding that I
don’t want to talk to him
or
be near him. You know, I just
don’t want to do anything with him, really. I can feel his eyes
slowly glide over my body—like his eyes are undressing me—as if
he’s selecting cattle to slaughter.

Um,
ew
.

“Hello,” I mutter, angrily twisting and
turning the dial on my locker. It opens—I’m too aggressive, a
byproduct of my anger, so the door slams back emitting a loud metal
clang
that echoes in the emptying hall—revealing a mountain
of books hidden inside. Ryder peeks inside the small metal space,
viewing the world I’ve created for myself here: books, a calendar
with future tests and school appointments inked inside the boxes,
no pictures, no magnets, no mirror. Pretty plain, pretty basic,
pretty boring, but still me.

I’m not the type for glitz and glamour, if
you couldn’t tell.

Tugging the books from the shelf, his hands
shoot out, reaching for the books in my grip. “Let me,” he offers
kindly, but obviously showing off his
muscles
, as he piles
the textbooks into his arms, nearly shoving me away from my own
locker.

“I can manage,” I snap angrily, reaching to
take
my
textbooks back. I’ve never let anyone do anything
for me. The thought of someone thinking that I’m weak and incapable
of doing basic tasks infuriates me. I understand the whole
chivalry
thing, but we’re not dating and he doesn’t need to
treat me as if I’m on a pedestal. I can manage on my own just
nicely; I’ve been doing it for the past two years just fine, thank
you very much.

He still doesn’t relent.

“I know you can.” He angles his body away so
I can’t reach him and I can’t take back the books piling in his
arms. “But I just want to help you out, okay?” Ryder seems sincere.
It could be false. I’m not that trusting of people like him. I’ve
been burned too many times to count. Still, after a few moments of
argument inside my head, I let him hold my books just so he can
feel what it’s like to take an AP class before I try to cram them
into my backpack.

“What do you want, Ryder?” I ask once I zip
close my bag, slinging my pack onto my back and slamming my locker
shut to lean against it with my shoulder. He shakes his curly
blonde locks from his blue eyes in that annoying way that makes the
girls swoon, faint, and gasp.

Um,
ew
… again.

“To get to know you, Jo,” he says
matter-of-fact, like I’m an idiot for wondering, for asking why
he’s standing in front of me, blocking my exit. His smile lights up
his face, illuminating his blue eyes, which I’ll admit, are pretty
perfect, but I will never let him know that. Not after what he just
called me.

I could slap him for that. In fact, my hand
twitches with the urge.

Strike one against him: He called me
Jo
. Only Zephyr calls me that.

I hold up a finger. Not
that
finger.
“First thing you should know,” I begin, my other hand gripping the
strap to my bag. “It’s Joey.” I don’t add the
Idiot
but I
strongly hope that it’s implied.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, correcting himself.
“Joey.” His lips wrap around my name, his tongue almost tasting the
word as it leaves his mouth smoothly, even seductively. The look on
his face, the glint of his eyes, would make me think that he loved
the taste and would want, and do anything for, seconds.
Holy
balls, that is never going to happen, dude
. He smiles against,
maybe thinking that his smile has some dreamy effect on me like it
does on all the other girls in the school. It doesn’t. I’m not a
mindless drone wandering around hoping that one day I’ll attract
the attention of the
hottest guy in school
. In this case,
Ryder. God, someone gag me with a spoon. “I was thinking that I
could take you out, get to know you over dinner, maybe?” His hand
reaches out to play with the buckle on my backpack strap and I back
up, moving out of his reach.