The Perfectionists (11 page)

It was awful at first—people wrote
Slut
on her locker every day for a week. Guys followed her around asking for details of her exploits. Girls stopped talking when she came into a room. She'd texted Nolan in a blind rage:
If you keep telling lies about me, I'll kill you
. But this was Beacon Heights, and the damage had already been done.

Most of it had blown over by the beginning of junior year—everyone had moved on to other scandals, and Ava's friends knew Nolan was a lying scumbag anyway. And then she'd started dating Alex, who loved her for who she was, not how she looked. But Ava knew that the rumors were never truly gone. Every time she caught a group of girls whispering and shooting glances her way, or saw a boy giving her a once-over for a second too long, she wondered if it was because of what Nolan had made up about her.

She thought back to that night, at Nolan's party, when Caitlin had talked her into leading him upstairs.
It has to be you, Ava. Say you want to get back together with him. He'll love that. He thinks he's God's gift to women.

And Caitlin had been right.

A cold, hard pit formed in her stomach, just like it always did when she thought about the prank. Nolan had been so willing to go upstairs with her, like he really believed she wanted him back. Ava didn't dare tell Alex about what she'd done; she was sure he'd get a little jealous about her seducing her ex. But more than that, he'd be afraid of how it now connected her to Nolan's death. Ava certainly was scared. The others kept insisting that his death was a coincidence, but she felt haunted.
She
had been the one to lead Nolan upstairs.
She
had been the one to feed him that spiked drink. But she knew exactly how much Oxy Caitlin had put in there: one measly pill. Just enough to make Nolan loopy. Not to kill him.

So how
had
it?

“Fine.” Ava turned to Leslie and sighed. “You win. I won't bring Alex over here anymore. Just don't tell my dad about those stupid rumors.”

Leslie smiled, looking pleased and amused. “I'm so glad we agree, Ava. I just want what's best for you. You know that.” She turned and headed up the stairs without another word.

Ava was so angry she was shaking.
This shouldn't really be a surprise
, she thought. Nolan's rumors had been tormenting her for over a year now. Why would the tormenting stop, just because he was dead?

AFTER SCHOOL ON TUESDAY, JULIE
sat in her sleek, spotless bedroom, wedged between two cushy throw pillows with a faux-fur blanket wrapped around her legs. Light poured through the window, making the room look clean and cheerful and, most of all, normal. Like the nice, normal bedroom of a normal girl, who had a normal mother and a normal house. A normal girl who had not possibly accidentally killed a classmate in a prank gone terribly wrong.

Don't think about it
, she commanded herself. It was a coincidence. A horrible, awful coincidence that they had written on him just before he died. But nobody would believe that if she didn't believe it herself.

Police officers had popped into classrooms yesterday, asking questions. A few kids said they'd already been interviewed about the night of the party, though Julie hadn't been called in. What if someone had seen her go upstairs? What if someone had heard their conversation in film studies? Someone
must
have, right?

Only . . . who?

Now, all Julie wanted to do was lie in her bed with her head under the covers, but she had to be normal, perfect Julie. And normal, perfect Julie was happy and popular. So she had Nyssa on her phone and her friend Colette on hold. Natalie was IMing her on her MacBook Air, she had fifteen Facebook messages to read, and she had three hundred “likes” on an Instagram selfie she'd posted only last night.

“And someone told me they were making out in the photography darkroom,” Nyssa was saying in Julie's ear, punctuating the gossip with a snicker. She was talking about Rebecca Hallswell and Corey Grier, the newest couple at Beacon, scandalous because they'd both cheated on their exes. “I mean, get a
little
creative, Corey! The poor girl's hair is going to smell like fixer for the rest of the day!”

“Seriously,” Julie said, rolling her eyes. “Although there
is
something romantic about the darkroom, you know? That dim lighting. And all those black-and-white photos hanging on clothespins . . .”

“Julie!” a voice called.

“Weirdo,” Nyssa joked. “Although I'd go to any darkroom with Mr. Granger. Photography is hands down the best club ever.”

“
Julie!
” said the voice again. Then she heard a hacking cough.

“Who's
that
?” Nyssa asked, sounding a little grossed out.

“Um, our cleaning lady,” Julie said, her heart beating hard.

“You should send her home. She sounds sick,” Nyssa said. Then she groaned. “My mom's calling me. What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Julie!”

“Um . . .” Julie needed off the phone fast. “Actually, I gotta go, too. Call you later.”

She hung up. Then she stood from her desk, her heart beating harder and harder. Her mother called her one more time, her voice rising with urgency. “Coming,” Julie said, her voice choked with a sob.

And then she opened the door.

Every square foot of carpet was crammed with boxes or furniture or Rubbermaid crates full of random collections. She squeezed through the hallway, shoving her way through a maze of boxes. Plastic garbage bags were piled so high they blocked out the sconces. Her heart thudded against her sternum, a familiar nausea blooming in her stomach.

Every step she took she felt cats brushing her shins, swarming around her ankles. In the kitchen, broken appliances cluttered the floor, old stand mixers and ice-cream makers nestled between paper sacks full of the fragments of shattered dishes. An unusable vintage stove Julie's mother had scavenged from somewhere sat under the window, piled high with stained and swollen cookbooks. Stacks of old newspapers and magazines tied with twine stood five feet tall against the walls. A dingy white cat was curled sleeping on top of one pile, while another sharpened its claws on the stack, leaving tendrils of newsprint drifting across the floor. Cat hair hovered in the air around them, swirling up in eddies every time Julie moved.

Calm down
, Julie told herself. She began to count.
One, two, three . . .

A cat's tail brushed against Julie's bare leg. She thought she might lose her mind.
Four, five, six . . .

“Julie? Are you coming?”

Dwarfed by the teetering piles, her mother sat at the table, letting a small gray tabby lap the milk out of her cereal bowl. Four more cats swam around the woman's pudgy ankles, mewling for food. Mrs. Redding wore a pink quilted housedress, gray at the hem and stained with food. Her face was soft and doughy, her skin dull-looking. Julie fought the urge to run the kitchen scrub brush over her mother's flesh, to scrape away the outside layer of dirt and neglect. And then turn her sights on the rest of the house. Throw out everything. Burn the place to the ground.
Seven, eight . . .

“I'm here,” Julie said, sweeping into the room. Julie snatched the bowl and brought it to the sink, knowing that if she didn't clean it, it would sit there for weeks, or maybe even months.

“I wasn't finished!” her mother cried. Then her eyes boggled. “And don't throw that away!”

She gestured to Julie's hand, which held a crumpled-up piece of newspaper on the sink as well as a newspaper circular boasting sales that had ended weeks ago.
Why
her mother needed those two items, she had no idea. But, wilting, she placed them back on the counter. On top of some stacked dirty dishes and a pile of other newspaper circulars that were probably equally as obsolete.

Nine. Ten. Eleven. Don't get mad. You'll make her cry, and that's the worst. Twelve. Thirteen.
Julie squeezed the sponge tightly, watching the suds ooze out of its pores.

“I was just trying to help, Mom,” she said, her voice steady. She rinsed the last of the breakfast pans and unplugged the drain. Of course there was nowhere to stack the clean dishes—except for on top of the other dishes. She wiped them down with a dish towel, and then carefully stacked them on the teetering pile. “So, um, you were calling me?”

“Yes. Can you deposit my check today?” her mother said. “And get some kitty litter from the store?”

Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.
Of course her mother needed kitty litter. And god forbid she left the house
herself.
Then again, Julie was grateful for that: Her mother might admit Julie was her daughter to someone who'd pass it along to kids at school. And then the jig would be up. “Uh, sure.”

“And can you get me an
Entertainment Weekly
while you're out?”

A sudden hysterical need to laugh bubbled up in Julie's throat as her eyes slid over the towers of paper around the kitchen. “I don't know, Mom,” she snapped, unable to resist. “Maybe you want to catch up on your back issues first?”

She had a fleeting glimpse of her mother's hurt face before she managed to wiggle her way past a cardboard box of Christmas ornaments and into the hallway. Guilt flooded her. She knew her mom was sick, that this was an
illness
, as Dr. Fielder had said, but Julie couldn't help but feel angry at her.

She squeezed into the bathroom, which smelled like the bleach she'd scoured the small room with and was stuffed full of bulk boxes of macaroni and cheese, opened bags of kitty litter, used toothbrushes, empty shampoo bottles, and god knew what else.

She took a deep breath and looked at herself in the mirror. Her glossy auburn hair was sleek and straight. Her pale green blouse was crisp and wrinkle-free.

“You are not your mom. You will not become her,” Julie repeated to herself. She calmed down a little, but she knew she had to get out of the house to keep from losing it. Pulling out her phone, she dialed Parker. “I need some retail therapy—stat. You in?” Julie said when Parker answered.

“Sure. Pick me up?” Parker said huskily. “But I have to be done by six. I'm seeing Dr. Fielder then.”

Julie shut her eyes and said a silent
thank goodness.
“Done. I'm leaving now.”

Twenty minutes later, Julie and Parker were cruising the aisles of Tara's Consignment, a secondhand boutique in Beacon whose owner had a thing for
Gone with the Wind
—there were posters of the movie all over the walls, famous quotes in the dressing rooms, and a Scarlett O'Hara doll behind the counter. It was Julie's favorite store, partly because it was on a nondescript side street away from the main shops—meaning she could slip in without her friends seeing her and asking the obvious questions of why someone like
her
would shop consignment—and also because it was where the rich residents brought last year's castoffs to make room for this season's line. Tara's was how Julie, who basically lived off her lifeguarding wages, could afford Joe's Jeans, Diane von Furstenberg dresses, Joie blouses, and Elizabeth and James accessories.

“How about this?” Julie asked, holding a canary-yellow dress up to Parker's skinny frame.

Parker made a face. “Have I
ever
worn yellow?”

“Not in a while,” Julie said quietly. “I'm glad you're seeing Dr. Fielder today. Are you nervous?”

Parker shrugged and walked toward the shoe racks at the back of the store. Julie followed her, knowing she shouldn't push.

She thought of her own session with Elliot Fielder. Unlike a lot of things that were a stigma in Beacon Heights, having a shrink wasn't one of them. Nyssa, who'd had eating issues, talked about hers all the time. There was even a rumor that Nolan had had a shrink, though Julie doubted it was true. The guy wasn't human enough to need counseling.

Call me Elliot
, Dr. Fielder had said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. Julie had been surprised at how young he was when she opened the door to his small but cozy office.

Elliot had made Julie feel so comfortable as she'd explained her family history to him. All her worries about her mom.
I'm scared that I'm going to be like her
, she'd said.
She used to be so gorgeous, successful, perfect. But then . . . something changed.

Long ago, her mother had looked just like her. Acted just like her, too, caring about her looks and her home. Caring about what people thought. Julie wasn't sure when she'd started to slip, only that it had been bit by bit. If someone had told her ten years ago that they'd be evicted by the California health board because their house was unsafe to live in—
because of her mother's cats
—Julie would have told them they were a big, fat liar. She hadn't seen her mother's condition coming. And now, she had no way of dealing with it except to breathe . . . and count . . . and hide.

“Have you talked to anyone else about this?” Elliot had asked her.

Julie lowered her eyes. Her secret was
horrible.
People had dropped her in California, made fun of her relentlessly, teasing her on the playground, writing gossip about her on the chalkboard when the class broke for lunch. They all assumed she was as dirty as the house she lived in. That last year felt like a prison—she'd had no friends. Her mom was a stranger now. She literally had no one.

“Only my friend Parker. And now I just need to know if what happened to my mom will happen to me,” she said softly, gathering her courage.

Elliot had been understanding and reassuring. “You know, from a clinical perspective, you don't fit the mold of someone poised for a mental break,” he'd said. “You seem like a high-functioning, extremely smart teenager who is balancing a lot of really heavy problems.” In other words:
You are not your mother.