Flawless (11 page)

Jacobi booms like he's announcing the president of the United States. “Today marks a new beginning. Today, we will begin our study of one of the most tortured love stories ever written.
The Scarlet Letter
is timeless, a lesson in regret, in morality, in love.” He finishes with a loud clap of his hands. “Let's get started.”

I open my copy of the novel, a little bubble of excitement bouncing around in my chest. There's nothing I love more than the anticipation of starting a new adventure. Even if it's in a classroom. I know, I'm a total geek.

As I read along with Jacobi, I grow increasingly frustrated. Not by the book, but by my hair. I let it dry naturally this morning, so it's a little out of control, loose and curly, hanging in my face as I try to read, forcing me to spend half my time pulling it back and holding it out of the way. I finally twist my hair and use a pencil to hold it in place.

“Stop fidgeting with it. It's fine,” Rock whispers from behind me.

His warm breath tickles my neck and I look over my shoulder to face the grinning god known as Kristen's boyfriend. “What?”

“Your hair.”

I shrug, refusing to let a single kind word settle itself in my heart.

“Your assignment today is a paired discussion,” Jacobi announces after he closes his tattered copy of the novel.

“We're partners, right?” Rock asks, like I'd actually consider pairing up with anyone else. It may be pure and utter torture, but what the hell. Sign me up.

I nod without turning around to face him. The last thing I need is for Jacobi to catch me not paying attention again.

“Your assignment is to discuss the quotes I give you. With your partner, I expect you to dissect the quote and talk about its meaning, its implication in the story. I also want you to think about whether or not the quote is relevant in today's society. Please get in your pairs and get to work.”

I grab the pencil from my hair before turning to face Rock.

When Jacobi hands Rock our quotes, I lean forward in an attempt to read them upside down. Hawthorne's writing isn't as hard to understand as Shakespeare's, but one of the things I've learned from being in Jacobi's class is that he doesn't accept pat answers.

Rock shifts the paper so I can see it better and then reads the first quote aloud. “One token of her shame would but poorly serve to hide another.”

He reads it with the ease of a college professor, with the exact intonation and meaning rarely heard from the lips of a high school senior. Especially a guy. When he reads the second quote, my eyes are shamelessly fixed on his face, his lips.

“Ah, but let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart.”

Lord have mercy.

Kristen is the luckiest girl that ever lived. Honest to God.

“So,” Rock says, breaking up my mental pity party. “Want to start with the first one?”

I nod, then look back at the quote. Anything but back into those mind-melting, heart-stopping, deep brown eyes.

One token of her shame would but poorly serve to hide another.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Seems like he's trying to say you can't ever really hide your mistakes.”

Rock nods, studying my face and making me feel completely uncomfortable. Still, I watch him watch me, looking for any telltale sign that he's studying my nose. But he doesn't. I swear he's looking into my eyes.

“Yeah,” he says solemnly. “The scarlet letter isn't the only evidence of her mistake. There's still her daughter.”

“Makes sense. Think it's true today?” I ask.

Rock bites his lip in a seriously enticing way, making me wonder exactly how he kissed Kristen. Did he hold her face? Did he put his hands in her hair as he brought her face to his? I fight the burn of tears in my eyes. Talk about a tortured love story.

“In a way,” he says. “Not exactly like Hester's situation. Girls get pregnant all the time and don't get married. It's not considered a sin to have sex out of marriage these days.”

Just the mere mention of sex sends a heat to my face I can't hide. What am I? Twelve?

In an effort to detract from my own scarlet display, I tag his thoughts with mine. “But I think, in a lot of ways, what he's saying is still true. I mean, we all make mistakes, but it's almost impossible to hide them.
Really
hide them.”

“You're right,” Rock agrees. “Definitely true. When I first got my license, I was backing up one foggy morning and hit my dad's car. Dented it all to hell.”

“Uh-uh,” I say, shaking my head, a smile creeping onto my face. I can just picture a younger Rock in full panic. “What'd you do?”

“I thought I could lie my way through it. Took off before Dad came out and then acted surprised when he told me about it that night.”

“Get out.”

“Serious. Of course, he'd known the second he'd laid eyes on the dent. He strung me along for a couple of days, building up the cost of the body work that had to be done. I was sweating like a heroin addict in detox.”

“You finally spilled your guts?” I ask, laughing.

He shrugs. “Eventually I figured out he knew, so there wasn't any sense hiding it anymore. When he told me the paint from my green truck left a ten-inch mark on the side of his white car, I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid.”

“It's amazing what we let ourselves believe.” I'm a shining example.

“You'd never do anything that stupid,” he says with a smile.

“You have no idea,” I mutter. But we're not even going to get into how stupid I can be.

Rock turns the paper back so he can see it better, then rereads the second quote. “Ah, but let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart.”

“You first,” I say.

“It's about living with your choices, good or bad.”

“Hester made a horrible choice.”

“For the right reasons,” Rock adds quickly.

“Which makes it even more heartbreaking. Knowing you did the wrong thing for the right reason doesn't go far in making you feel any better.”

“You don't think?” he asks, searching my face again. And this time, he does it. His serious eyes settle on my nose and my heart sinks.

“No,” I say, moving my head so we're face-to-face. Head on, my nose always looks smaller. I should know—I've studied it from every possible angle.

“Explain,” he says, eyes back on mine. And it surprises me when he doesn't apologize or offer some lame comment about my “distinctive” nose, like everyone else.

“About a year ago, I was picking up some things at the grocery store. There was this woman in the same aisle as me and I could tell she was poor, maybe homeless. Her son pulled a jar of peanut butter off the shelf and tried to open it, but she took it from him and put it back on the shelf. He started crying about how hungry he was, so she picked him up and hugged him close, whispering something in his ear. I looked away to get what I needed and when I turned back around, I watched her put that jar of peanut butter in her purse. When she saw me, I could tell she was scared, you know? Worried I was going to rat her out. But I just smiled and walked to the check-out stand. I never said anything to anyone about that. Not even Mom, now that I think about it. That event's been ingrained in my mind. The pain and guilt in that mother's eyes haunted my dreams for months afterward. It breaks my heart to think that's someone's reality.”

“Wow,” he says softly.

“So doing the wrong thing—like my not reporting her or her taking the peanut butter—still makes you feel bad, even when you do it for the right reason.”

“Point made,” he says, then reaches up and rubs my arm in a move of total compassion. The warmth of his hand on me freezes me in place. Never before have I been affected by someone's touch like this.

Never.

On the way to lunch after lit, I do my best to keep the conversation with Rock light. Casual. Like I'm okay with him kissing my best friend.

And I must do a pretty good job, because the second we see Kristen waiting for us outside the cafeteria, he takes two big steps toward her, leaving me behind.

I can't pull my eyes away from the train wreck taking place right in front of me.

Rock reaching for Kristen, taking her hand.

Rock leaning close and whispering something in her ear.

Rock pulling her in for a quick hug.

It's more than I can stomach, and I turn to escape. But I'm not quick enough.

“Where do you think you're going?” Rock calls out, hand in hand with Kristen, proving he's still a guy and completely unaware of how agonizing this is for me.

I stop in my tracks and turn to face him. “Um …”

“Come on,” Kristen says, smiling bright enough to burn my fair skin. “You have to eat.”

I follow the embarrassingly happy couple into the cafeteria, wishing like hell I'd been smart enough to think of somewhere else to be. I mean, I'm about as tough a girl you'll ever find, but this is enough to wear me down.

By the time we make it to the table, I've totally lost my appetite. I do my best to play the supportive friend, like I'm happy to see Kristen in such obvious bliss. And it's not that I don't want her to be happy; I totally do. Always have, always will.

I was taught that friends are the most important people in your life because you get to choose them. Mom's words.

Mom never really had a best friend. Not as an adult, at least. She said she got burned by a friend when she first started in journalism and it must have been a scorcher, because the memory of that betrayal has kept her from trusting other women ever since.

She always taught me to take care of my friends. “Good friends you can trust are rare,” she says. And she's right, of course. The hallways of this building are littered with superficial girls interested only in themselves. And they'll claw their way right over you to get what they want, regardless of who gets hurt in the process. I don't want to be that person to Kristen, the kind of person who would turn on her best friend, who'd throw away a lifelong friendship for selfish reasons.

Kristen and I have always stuck together.

Nothing's beautiful from every point of view.

—HORACE

Chapter Eleven

Despite the fact I'm surrounded by more than fifty kids in the library, I don't have to turn around to know Kristen's walking up behind me. The floral scent of her perfume is the only announcement I need. Well, that and the energy radiating off of her. It's like having the sun at your back.

“Sit down,” I say, never raising my eyes from the Emily Dickinson book opened on the old chipped table in front of me. I definitely don't want any trouble with our cranky librarian, Mrs. English.

Kristen takes two quick hops and practically bounces in the seat. “Put the book down,” she whispers, yanking it from my hands and slamming it shut.

“Rude,” I growl.

“Necessary,” she singsongs, eyes dancing like a toddler who's just been given her first dollhouse. “It's e-mail–writing time.”

I'm shaking my head before she finishes. It was bad enough I did it once and brought them closer together. Then add the texting and Facebook … it's gone too far already. “N. O.”

“Whatever,” she says, totally dismissing me, which makes me even more resolute.

“I'm serious, Kristen. This is wrong. What if he finds out?”

“How would that ever happen? Are you planning to tell him?” she asks, arms crossed over her chest sullenly.

“Hardly,” I scoff.

“Then what's the problem? What he doesn't know won't hurt him.”

“Something tells me he might disagree.”

Kristen turns her attention to the last page in her math folder. She shoves it in front of me ceremoniously, like she's just presented me with the winning lottery ticket.

I refuse to look down at the notebook, choosing instead to nail her with a deadly serious this-isn't-happening look.

She huffs a deep breath, and I think she's finally getting the point.

“I can't do it,” I say quietly, casting a quick glance at Mrs. English sorting books on the library cart.

Kristen's frustrated expression is replaced with pleading blue eyes and a gut-wrenching look of panic. “You have to, Sarah. Please.”

I pull the Dickinson book back in front of me and flip through the pages to find where I'd left off. “I don't have to do anything.”

She grabs my hands and squeezes tightly. “Of course, you're right. You don't
have
to. But I know you will.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, half laughing.

“We do everything for each other. And besides, it's not like anyone will ever know except you and me.”

“That's the problem, Kris.
I'll
know.”

“Come on,” she whispers, leaning closer. “I can't do this without you. Just read what I wrote and help me fix it. I'll e-mail it myself.”

When she pushes the notebook closer, I finally allow my eyes to wander to the full page of writing. To say I'm surprised at the amount of writing she's done would be an epic understatement.

Raising my eyebrows, I look up at her. “You wrote this?”

She nods excitedly, knowing she's got me. Again. “What can I say? He's pretty inspirational.”

Tell me about it.

Dear Rock,

Before I met you, I thought all guys were the same. They all want the same thing (and we both know what that is). But you are so different. You like to do different things, like talk and read and learn new things. That's totally cool. Don't get me wrong, I really liked the way you held my hand and kissed me. Really, really liked it. But I like talking to you and can't wait to go to the Museum of Fine Arts with you this weekend.

XOXO,

Kristen

A jolt of jealousy shoots through me. They're going to
my
favorite museum in Houston.

“Who's on display at the museum?” I ask. Even though I already know, I'm curious if she has a clue.

“Rock said impressionists, which I thought sounded totally cool. I mean, I love it when Jay Thomas does his impression of Napoleon Dynamite. Hilarious!”

My eyes fix on Kristen's, disbelieving. “Excuse me?” I whisper.

“Oh, come on. You've seen him do that a million times.”

I wave my hand in front of her face. “That's not what I mean. Think about what you're saying, Kristen. You're going to a fine arts museum. To see impressionists.”

Worry wrinkles the taut skin on her forehead. “Oh no,” she says, slapping her hand over her mouth. “Omigod, Sarah. What was I thinking?”

It takes everything inside me to keep a straight face.

“It's not funny, Sarah! I went on and on about how my parents took me to see a famous impressionist when I was little.”

“What was his name?” I ask.

“Rich something,” she mumbles.

“Rich Little?”

“That's it!” She smiles happily, briefly forgetting how badly she's embarrassed herself.

“Impersonator, not impressionist,” I tell her.

She swallows visibly. “I'm going to be sick.”

“You told Rock about seeing Rich Little?” I ask, guessing I'm 100 percent right by the look on her face.

Kristen nods, her angelic face breaking into an adorable, embarrassed grin. “He just laughed like he always does, so I thought he was agreeing with me.”

I can't stand for her to be so miserable. There is something inside me that makes me completely incapable of letting her stay that way. Reaching across the table, I rub her hand. “It'll be fine. I'm sure he thought you were just joking.”

“You think?” she whispers.

“Positive,” I answer with fake enthusiasm. “Let's check out this letter.” Because, let's face it, there's no way I can refuse now. I don't have the heart to back out on her when she needs me so badly.

I scan the words again before taking a deep breath to speak quietly across the table that separates us. “Well, it's definitely better than the last one.”

She nods, the frown of a few short seconds ago replaced with a self-satisfied smile that would make Miss America proud. “You can say that again.”

I reread the first couple of lines. “I like your first sentence,” I tell her honestly. Grabbing the pencil from my hair, I circle the sentence. “We can definitely keep that one.”

“And the rest?” she asks. I can tell she's worried I'm going to tear it apart, revealing a rare insecurity, and my heart melts.

“Well, the message is really good, but we just need to reword it a little.”

I pick up the notebook and walk to the computers, Kristen close on my heels. She's clapping her hands quietly behind me. “Thank you, thank you!” she nearly squeals, drawing a loud “Ssshhh” from Mrs. English.

When I pull out the chair to the only open computer, Kristen slides onto the chair with me. “Hover much?” I ask.

“There aren't any other seats,” she complains.

After she signs on to her e-mail account, I pull the keyboard in front of me and stare at the blank e-mail filling the screen. I glance at the paper lying on the counter next to our computer and retype the first sentence, then let the words flow.

Straight from my heart.

Before I met you, I thought all guys were the same—shallow and self-centered. But you're nothing like that. You're intelligent, considerate, and generous. When you smile at me, it's like no one else exists and the world is reduced to just the two of us. There's so much I want to know about you and I'm going to treasure every minute of our time together. I don't know if it's the soft lighting or the artistic passion lining every wall, but there is something uniquely romantic about going to a museum together.

I do my best to lean back to study the screen and wind up squashing Kristen. But she's so completely caught up in what I've written she doesn't even notice.

“Oh. My. God.” She squeezes me in a way-too-tight hug from behind. “You are freaking amazing, Sarah.”

Shrugging my way out of the hug, I shake my head. “Not so much.” If I'm so amazing, why can't Rock see it?

“How'd you know exactly what I was thinking?” she says, but doesn't wait for my answer. “Maybe I should study famous impressionists before our date.”

“You'll be fine,” I insist. But I wonder if I'm subconsciously setting her up, when she's so out of her element. Then I remember their meeting in front of the cafeteria and realize the museum will only serve as a beautiful backdrop for their unfolding relationship. Nothing more.

People like Kristen and Rock don't discuss art. They
are
art.

“Want to add anything else?” I ask, cursing myself for falling into this disaster again. The warm and fuzzy need to protect Kristen has been replaced by pity. Not attractive.

“Just my name,” she says, reaching over and typing in the XOXO before her name.

I can't watch her click Send, knowing I'm just as deceitful as Kristen in this absurd scheme, so I make my way back to the table where I left my books.

If Rock ever finds out, we'll both be booted from his world.

My cell phone is ringing when I walk into the house after school. I drop my backpack and purse on the floor before answering.

“Hello?”

“Sweetie, it's Mom. Can you do me a favor?”

“Depends,” I say, wishing I'd let the call roll to voice mail. Mom's favors are never simple. The last time she asked me for a favor, I wound up standing in line at the DMV for over an hour.

She heaves a sigh of frustration, like I'm a total pain in her size-two pants. “What kind of answer is that?”

“An honest one,” I reply, pulling a soda from the fridge.

“Very funny,” she says, stern-mother voice piercing the phone line.

“What do you need?” I ask.

“Can you deliver dinner for me and Jen? And bring something for yourself, too. We'll eat together after the six o'clock.”

“Late night?” I ask.

“Filling in for Lisa on the ten o'clock.”

“Sure,” I say, glad I don't have to cook. Normally, I wouldn't mind cooking, but this has been one of those days where I could totally use a break. “What do you want?”

“Cobb salads from Mama's Café.”

“Dressing?”

“Just some lemon juice,” she says. Mom says eating a salad with dressing is like having a Diet Coke with your double-patty burger and extra-large fries.

“On my way,” I say, grabbing my purse from the floor and opening the front door as I end the call.

By the time I make it to the station, Mom's already in her seat behind the news desk and Vic has started the ten-second countdown. Mom gives me a small wink, then focuses her attention on the camera.

I quietly set down the bag containing our salads and cruise to my usual spot, ready to watch Mom in action. Just as Vic counts down from three, Jen blows through the door, grabbing everyone's attention. She offers an embarrassed wave and sits next to me as Mom assumes her newscaster persona on cue.

Jen leans close, hooking her arm with mine. “Call me crazy, but I love watching the news live.”

I keep my eyes on Mom, a warm smile lighting her face. Feel-good story time. “Me, too.”

“Especially your mom. She's amazing.”

I nod, appreciating her recognition like a proud parent. “There's nothing like seeing her in action.”

We watch in comfortable silence as Mom and David deliver Houston's headlines with a precision most often seen on the national news level.

“So, she's never been married?”

Instead of answering her, I put my finger to my lips in a useless attempt to quiet her.

“What about your dad?” she continues, eyes focused on me.

“He's never been around,” I say, easily regurgitating the excuse I've used for seventeen years.

“That's too bad. She must get lonely.”

My eyes move from Mom to Jen. “She doesn't have time to be lonely. You know what this job's like.”

Jen shifts her attention back to the anchor desk, a serious look marring her beautiful face. “You'd think she'd want to move to a smaller market. Less hours, less stress.”

I give Jen a look that lets her know exactly how insane that statement is. Mom would go nuts in a smaller market. I've asked Mom why she never got married, but she says she married her job decades ago. There was never any room for a husband.

Jen squeezes my arm still looped in hers, sitting forward in her seat and dragging me with her. “My piece is coming up,” she says excitedly.

I turn my attention to the big screen behind Mom and David, where Jen's
Vogue
-worthy face appears. The caption “Overcrowded Animal Shelter” is visible at the bottom of the screen.

“Oh my God, I look—” she begins, her face contorted as she studies herself.

“Amazing? Spectacular?” I softly fill in the blank with the obvious adjectives.

She looks at me like I've just told her I was naming my firstborn after her. “You're too sweet.”