The Perfectionists (2 page)

It was only when the ambulances screeched into the driveway, sirens blaring, lights flashing, walkie-talkies crackling, that all eyes opened. The first thing everyone saw were EMT workers in their reflective jackets busting inside. Miro pointed them to the upper floor. There were boots on the stairs, and then . . . those same EMT people carrying someone back down. Someone who had Sharpie marker on his face. Someone who was limp and gray.

The EMT worker spoke into his radio. “We have an eighteen-year-old male DOA.”

Was that Nolan?
everyone would whisper in horror as they staggered out of the house, horrifically hungover.
And . . . DOA? Dead on arrival?

By Saturday afternoon, the news was everywhere. The Hotchkiss parents returned from their business meeting in Los Angeles that evening to do damage control, but it was too late—the whole town knew that Nolan Hotchkiss had dropped dead at his party, probably from too much fun. Darker rumors posited that perhaps he'd
meant
to do it. Beacon was notoriously hard on its offspring, after all, and maybe even golden boy Nolan Hotchkiss had felt the heat.

When Julie woke up Saturday morning and heard the news, her throat closed. Ava picked up the phone three times before talking herself down. Mac stared into space for a long, long time, then burst into hot, quiet tears. And Caitlin, who'd wanted Nolan dead for so long, couldn't help but feel sorry for his family, even though he had destroyed hers. And Parker? She went to the dock and stared at the water, her face hidden under her hoodie. Her head pounded with an oncoming migraine.

They called one another and spoke in heated whispers. They felt terrible, but they were smart girls. Logical girls. Nolan Hotchkiss was gone; the dictator of Beacon Heights High was no more. That meant no more tears. No more bullying. No more living in fear that he'd expose everyone's awful secrets—somehow, he'd known so many. And anyway, not a single person had seen them go upstairs with Nolan that night—they'd made sure of it. No one would ever connect them to him.

The problem, though, was that someone had seen. Someone knew what they'd done that night, and so much more.

And someone was going to make them pay.

ON A SUNNY THURSDAY MORNING
, Parker Duvall fought her way through the crowded halls of Beacon Heights High, a school that handed out MacBooks like they were, well, apples, and boasted the highest average SAT scores in all of Washington State. Overhead, a maroon-and-white banner read
CONGRATULATIONS, BEACON HIGH! VOTED BEST HIGH SCHOOL IN THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST FOR THE FIFTH YEAR IN A ROW BY U.S. NEWS & WORLD REPORT! GO SWORDFISH!

Get over yourselves
, Parker wanted to shout—though she didn't, because that would seem crazy, even for her. She looked around the corridor. A gaggle of girls in their tennis skirts congregated around a locker mirror, diligently applying lip gloss to their already impeccably made-up faces. A few feet away, a guy in a button-down shirt handed out flyers for the student government elections, his smile blindingly white. Two girls came out of the auditorium and brushed past Parker, one of them saying, “I really hope you get the part if I don't. You're just
so
talented!”

Parker rolled her eyes.
Don't you realize none of this matters?
Everyone was striving for something or clawing their way to the top . . . and for what? A better chance at the perfect scholarship? A better opportunity to score that perfect internship? Perfect, perfect, perfect, brag, brag, brag. Of course, Parker used to be like that. Not long ago, Parker had been popular, smart, and driven. She had a zillion friends on Facebook and Instagram. She made up complicated polls that everyone participated in, and if she showed up at a party, she
made
the event. She was invited to everything, asked to be part of every club. Guys would escort her to class and beg her for dates.

But then
It
happened, and the Parker who rose from the ashes a year ago wore the same hoodie every day to hide the scars that marred her once beautiful face. She never went to parties. She hadn't looked at Facebook in months, couldn't imagine dating, had no interest in clubs. Not a single soul glanced at her as she stomped down the hall. If she
did
get a look, it was one of apprehension and caution.
Don't talk to her
.
She's damaged. She's what could happen if you aren't perfect.

She was about to walk into the film studies classroom when someone caught her arm. “Parker. Did you forget?”

Her best—and only—friend, Julie Redding, stood behind her. She looked perfectly polished in a crisp white blouse, her reddish-brown hair gleaming and her eyes round with worry.

“Forget what?” Parker grumbled, pulling her hoodie tighter over her face.

“The assembly today. It's mandatory.”

Parker stared at her friend. Like she cared about mandatory
anything.

“Come on.” Julie led her down the hall, and Parker reluctantly followed. “So where have you been, anyway?” Julie whispered. “I've been texting you for two days. Were you sick?”

Parker scoffed. “Sick of life.” She'd bagged class for most of this week. She simply hadn't felt like going. What she'd
done
with her time, she couldn't quite recall—her short-term memory was a tricky thing these days. “It's contagious, so you might want to keep your distance.”

Julie wrinkled her nose. “And were you smoking again? You smell disgusting.”

Parker rolled her eyes. Her friend was in what Parker had always called Mama Bear Mode, fierce and protective. Parker had to keep remembering that it was endearing, especially because no one else cared whether she lived or died. Julie was the only remaining vestige of Parker's old life, and now that Parker was shrouded in shadow, Julie was Beacon's new It Girl. Not that Parker begrudged her the title. Julie had her own demons to battle; she just wore her scars on the inside.

They swept down the hall, passing by Randy, the hippie janitor, who was working his hardest to keep the school squeaky-clean at all times. The auditorium was ahead, and Julie pushed open the heavy wooden door. The large room was filled with kids, yet it felt eerily quiet. A lot of people were sniffling. More shook their heads. A knot of girls hugged. As soon as Parker saw the big picture of Nolan on the stage, her blood pressure dropped. The letters
RIP
were spelled out in flowers beneath his photo.

She looked at Julie, feeling tricked. She'd hoped the Nolan memorial had already happened on one of the days she'd ditched. “I'm outta here,” she whispered, backing up.

Julie grabbed her arm. “Please,” she insisted. “If you don't stay . . . well,
you
know. It might look strange.”

Parker bit her lip. It was true. After what happened at Nolan's party, they couldn't afford to call attention to themselves.

She gazed out into the seats. Mackenzie Wright and Caitlin Martell-Lewis sat a few rows ahead. Ava Jalali was on the other side of the aisle, sitting stiffly next to her boyfriend. They looked over and exchanged looks with Julie and Parker. Although they were all trying to hold it together, everyone looked spooked. It was strange. Parker still barely knew them, yet she felt connected to them for life.

How would you do it? If you were going to kill him, I mean?

Parker flinched. Ava's words from that day in film studies floated up so naturally in her mind that it was as if Ava were right beside her, whispering in her ear. She looked at the stage again. Mr. Obata, the principal, was flipping through some slides for the presentation he was about to give. Some were pictures of Nolan through the years—winning the lacrosse state championship, being crowned homecoming king, holding court in the cafeteria. Parker was even in a few of them, from back when she and Nolan had been friends. Other slides were generic images of prescription pills. So this was also going to have an antidrug message, since all the rumors said he'd accidentally overdosed on OxyContin, his drug of choice.

And then came the kicker: the image of Nolan that Mackenzie had posted online shortly after the party, the one with the writing on his face. The picture was mostly blurred out, but the comments below—a long paragraph telling the world how horrible Nolan was—were not. So it was going to be a bullying assembly, too.

Irony of ironies, considering Nolan had been the biggest bully of all.

Parker's memory began to spin with thoughts of Nolan. Climbing in the car with him. Laughing at his dirty jokes. Driving fast along the coastal road to chase away the fear. The shiny feeling from drinking almost a whole bottle of vodka between the two of them. And then, that last night, when he slipped OxyContin into her drink without telling her. Afterward he'd said,
Isn't it amazing? No charge. My gift to you.

They'd been friends for years, but after that night, he never spoke to her again. He pretended as if she didn't exist. And meanwhile,
it was all his fault.
If he hadn't given her those pills, things would be different now. She would be her old self. Undamaged. Beautiful, full of life. Present.
Perfect.

He deserves it
, she remembered saying mere days ago.
Everyone hates him. They're all just too scared to admit it. We'd be heroes.

All at once, the world swirled unsteadily. A white-hot spike of pain shot through Parker's forehead, streaking like lightning across her vision. When she tried to move, her muscles cramped. Her eyes fluttered shut.

Julie nudged her forward. “Come on,” she whispered. “We have to sit down. We have to act
normal
.”

Another wave of pain hit Parker's head. Her knees buckled. She'd gotten enough migraines after her accident that she knew this was the start of another. But she couldn't have it here. Not in the auditorium in front of all these people.

A weak groan emerged from her lips. Through blurred vision, she could just make out the sudden concern in Julie's face. “Oh my god,” Julie said, immediately seeming to recognize what was going on. “I didn't realize. Come on.”

Julie pulled her up and led her out of the auditorium and to the box office alcove above. The air smelled like lemon cleaner, and dust motes swirled in the air. Posters for upcoming events papered the ticketing window—a flyer for
Guys and Dolls
, another for the upcoming Honors Orchestra Fall Concert. There was even an old playbill with Parker on it, from when she played Juliet sophomore year.

Julie sat Parker down. “Breathe,” she said softly. “It's a bad one, isn't it?”

“I'm fine,” Parker managed to say, her fists clenched in her blond hair. She blinked a few times, her vision clearing. The pain subsided to a dull ache, but her mind felt scattered.

“Are you
sure
?” Julie asked, kneeling next to her. “Do you want me to get the nurse?”

“No,” Parker croaked. She took a shuddering breath. “I'm okay. It's just a headache.”

Julie set her jaw, reached into her purse, and pulled out the bottle of aspirin she carried around for just this occasion. She handed two pills to Parker, and Parker swallowed them dry, feeling the rough tablets grate against the sides of her throat.

Julie waited until Parker had choked down the pills, then breathed in. “Have you thought more about . . . talking to a therapist?”

Parker recoiled. “Not this again.”

“I'm serious.” Julie's eyes were pleading. “Parker, your headaches are getting worse, and the stress doesn't help. And with this Nolan thing . . . well, I'm just worried about you.”

“No therapist.” Parker crossed her arms over her chest. She pictured baring her soul to a complete stranger while he stared at her and asked, “Well, how do you feel about that?” As if he really cared.

“I spoke to someone recently . . . about my mom.” Julie lowered her eyes.

Parker whipped her head up. “What? When?”

“Last week. I was going to mention it, but then everything happened, and . . .” She trailed off.

Parker held her best friend's gaze. Julie looked so hopeful. Parker knew this was hard on her best friend, that she was different now in the After part of her life than she'd been Before. And Julie was all she had left. She didn't want to let her down.

“Fine,” she grumbled. “But don't be upset if I bail after ten minutes.”

“Deal.” Julie's shoulders visibly relaxed. She gave Parker an earnest, grateful smile. “But you won't. I think he could really help you.”

Parker stood up, nodded good-bye to Julie, and headed for the exit door. She suddenly, desperately, needed a cigarette.

She walked across the parking lot to a place she called the Grove, a copse of trees she and Nolan had discovered sophomore year and made their smoking hangout. It always smelled like fresh rain and sap. Here, Parker could be herself under the cover of the leaves—angry Parker, crazy Parker, or tormented and damaged Parker. It didn't matter. No one ever came here.

She dug for a smoke and lit up eagerly. As the nicotine hit her bloodstream, another memory of Nolan hit her. Just when he was getting woozy that night at his party, he'd looked at her,
really
looked at her, for the first time since her accident. And all he'd said was,
I always knew you were a crazy bitch.

Parker forced her eyes back open.
No
, she told herself. She would
not
fall down that hole. She would
not
relive last week. She would move forward and forget
everything.

“Hey there.”

She looked up. Her film studies teacher, Mr. Granger, stood at the edge of the trees. Granger was one of those cool, good-looking, young teachers who always knew about current music, looked the other way when kids texted in class, and talked about his semester abroad in Paris, when he'd drunk absinthe and made out with a burlesque dancer. He'd started a photography club, where kids developed black-and-white photos the old-fashioned way, and nearly the entire female student population had signed up.