Perfectly Flawed (53 page)

“It’s definitely something I want to do,
Zephyr,” I tell him with so much confidence and conviction that he
can’t
not
believe it. I roll my chair to my window, looking
across the dimly lit alley to the brightly lit room, connecting
eyes with my beloved concerned boyfriend. “I really want to do it,”
I tell him, staring into his eyes as best I can with the
distance.

“Then you should do it.” He smiles to me from
across the alley, our distance more obvious now than before. “I
have to finish studying for this test I have tomorrow, I’ll see you
in the morning.”

“I’ll leave my window open,” I tell him
before I hang up my phone and drop it onto my book cluttered desk.
I glance at all the work I need to finish before tomorrow. Calculus
homework, chemistry reading, this report on the Boston
Massacre—it’s all scattered around me, some even on the floor. I
can finish it all; I know that, I just don’t want to.

Still, it’s time to hunker down. And I
do.

As I trudge down the stairs illuminated by
the gray hazy light of Monday morning, a knock lightly raps against
the door, catching my slow attention. I pad to the door in my
socks, covering my mouth as I yawn, and spot Ambrielle and an older
man with a large camera in his hands.

“Good morning, Joey,” Ambrielle nearly
cheers. Actually, she sings it. She’s one eager beaver in the
morning; I strongly hope this doesn’t continue throughout the week.
“This is Brian Horne; he’ll be filming you every day.”

“Hello,” I mutter depressingly. Anyone
standing next to Ambrielle right now will sound in need of
anti-depressants.

This is going to be an awkward week, isn’t
it? Darn.

By Thursday, it really is. I never realized
how boring I am until I had someone follow me around. Though this
week was decent. On Monday, I was asked by Mr. Cheney to tutor some
students during an after school study sessions, on Tuesday, I had
an orchestra concert, and on Wednesday, I hung out with Zephyr at
the movies. I’ve had a pretty busy week.

I just walked into the house from the sound
check for the Idol competition, crashing on the couch while the
camera tapes me. I don’t feel like being entertaining anymore and
he’ll be leaving soon, anyway.

Brian lowers the camera and smiles at me.

“You are a very busy girl,” he tells me as he
clicks buttons and does something to the lens on the front. I still
don’t understand all of that stuff, or any of it, and just let him
do his thing—I’d be curious but the only think I want is to shed my
pants, crawl into bed, and sleep.

“Only this week,” I tell him. “I’m usually
lounging on the couch in sweats with a book or homework, trying to
get ahead in school.” I shrug weakly, exhausted.

I walk him to the door, wishing him a good
night and safe travel back to his hotel, and decide that it’s time
for me to hit the hay. My bed sounds so tempting, I’m almost asleep
walking toward the stairs.

But the world has other plans for me as the
doorbell rings.

“Shit,” I whisper to myself as I turn toward
the door.

I shouldn’t answer it, I don’t have to answer
it. But…

My bed will have to wait until after I answer
the door.

I fling the door open—I still haven’t
captured the grasp of the peephole—and Zephyr sidles past me into
the house, smelling fantastic, might I add. Subconsciously, I
follow him in my sleep-deprived state, trailing after him briefly
until I snap to attention and my steps falter. I stagger into the
middle of the living room.

“Please, come on in,” I mutter,
sarcastically.

“We haven’t seen each other so much this
week,” Zephyr says, standing in my living room, looking hotter than
usual. I really must be tired. All I can focus on is his tousled
hair, tight t-shirt, and arms. His arms,
sweet Jesus
, his
arms are indescribable, and yeah… I need sleep.

I shake my head. “I know, I’m sorry,” I
start, lifting my hand to rub my eyes. I only smudge up my glasses.
“I somehow had plans,” I mumble, feeling my exhaustion take over.
“But we did hang out yesterday.” I walk through the living room to
the kitchen, if I’m not going to bed, I might as well have
something to eat. “You hungry?” I call as I head toward the
refrigerator.

“You know me, I’m always hungry,” he reminds
me, following me into the kitchen and leaning against the counter,
his arms crossed over his chest.

“You’re always hungry?” I ask skeptically
even though I know it’s the truth. He pilfers my food more than I
realize, usually from my plate as I’m eating, saying I eat like a
bird and he doesn’t want to waste food. Boys, eh?

“Unless I’m busy and distracted, I’m
hungry.”

I slam the door to the fridge, a bit
aggressively. “Then let’s get busy,” I blurt out before catching
myself, my cheeks reddening.

“Well, if you insist.” Zephyr reaches out his
arms, pulling me close to him, his hands sliding down my sides
until the rest comfortably on my hips, his thumbs hooking into my
belt loops.

“Forget I said anything.” I push him away.
“I’m too tired,” I mumble as I walk out of the kitchen and plop
onto the couch, forgetting the food. Actually, I’m too embarrassed
to eat.

I remove my glasses and let my hands move up
to my eyes, gently pressing into them before pinching the bridge of
my nose. When I’m tired, I get horrible headaches, and I can feel
the start of one, forming in the center of my forehead. The
throbbing, pounding pain behind my eyes, it’s almost like a tiny
drummer took residence in the base of my brain and is starting some
kind of parade, generating a large mass of drummers to march from
one end of my brain to the other.

I lean my head against the back of the couch,
yanking the hair tie from my hair and dragging my hand through the
curling strands. I feel the couch shift and dip as Zephyr sits next
to me. He drags my legs over his lap, basically turning me to face
him, and tugs off my shoes. I hear them fall to the floor before I
feel a soft blanket cover me. His hand clasps mine, threading our
fingers together, and I smile to him.

Sometimes, he’s really just too good to
me.

I only meant to blink, really, but the
exhaustion is too much. Sleep is consuming me. I’m out before I can
realize.

The closing of the front door is the first
thing that wakes me. I stir briefly, clutching onto something warm
before succumbing to the darkness once again. The second thing to
wake me is the shift of a body next to mine. An arm tugs me closer
and I unconsciously fist the fabric in my hands, trying to pull the
warm figure next to me closer before deciding I’m comfortable
enough to continue sleeping, and I’m out once again.

But it’s the bright white flash that gets me
up and moving.

“What the hell was that?” I slur out in a
raspy murmur, clutching my hand to my eyes to block out the light
that surrounding me. It hurts to open my eyes, but I know it must
be done. I have school today. And tests.

Oh, the tests…

“Five more minutes,” a groggy Zephyr growls
next to me, shifting his body and reaching an arm up until he grips
my shoulder and pulls me closer to him.

Zephyr?

This is new.

“Good morning, beloved teenagers,” Hilary
announces loudly in the room. My eyes spring open and I see my
aunt, but she’s not alone. Jamie is stand next to her, and behind
her are Molly and Antonios. There’s too much family in this room.
All of them are staring at us with humor in their eyes.

Why is everyone in my room? No, this isn’t my
room. I’m in the living room. What am I doing in the living room?
And why is Zephyr breathing against my neck? I turn to look at his
sleeping form, his breath light against my cheek as I stare at him,
silently praying that he wakes up.

He doesn’t move.

You see, if he was awake, he could help me
with whatever is about to happen.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” I blurt,
catching the attention of all the eyes in the room. I lean up on my
elbows, hearing Zephyr groan in protest before his breathing evens
out.

“We know,” Hilary tells me. “We got a picture
of it, though.” Molly laughs at that and my eyes widen in horror.
“It’s quite adorable.” She waves her phone back and forth,
mockingly.

“What do you mean?” I ask, shrugging Zephyr’s
arm from around my stomach. My body wants to resist the cold.

“Well…” Jamie holds out her iPhone and shows
me a picture of Zephyr and me on the couch, pretty much wrapped in
each other’s arms. His face is buried against my neck and I’m
clutching onto him. Against my better judgment, I giggle when I see
it—because it
is
funny—and tell her to send it to me. “Will
do,” she replies, tapping on her screen.

A few seconds later, my phone sings,
vibrating on the table with an incoming text message. Ah, the
beauty of technology today.

“We just fell asleep down here,” I tell
everyone—though, it’s blatantly obvious. The last thing I remember
is Zephyr knocking on the door and walking in, he wanted to hang
out, but I just fell asleep. I’m a sad girlfriend. “Sorry,” I
mutter.

“It’s okay, dear,” Molly tells me. “But could
you wake my son for me?” she asks, standing on her tiptoes to get a
better look at him.

Antonios waves his arm in the arm. “Can I do
it?” he asks his wife. She nods, a smirk tugging at her lips. But
her husband’s expression is the one that scares me—no, terrifies
me. His brown eyes, so much like Zephyr’s, narrow slowly and at the
same time, his smile slowly blossoms and it’s filled with mischief.
Oh, dear. “Joey, you might want to move.” I scramble off the couch,
or fall to the floor if I want to be honest, and crawl over to my
aunt.

“Now, Antonios, be nice,” Molly begs quietly
of her husband, not disturbing Zephyr as she speaks, keeping her
voice to a low whisper. However, I hear her giggle as she watches
Antonios stalk toward their son with light, catlike steps.

Antonios shakes his head. He pulls something
from the pocket of his jacket—an air horn—holding it up and waving
it, showing us. Where does everyone get those things? No, I have a
better question, why does he have it with him now. He holds it over
his son’s head, signals for us to plug our ears, and presses the
button.

Zephyr jumps up from the couch, somehow
leaping through the air, and lands on his back. Hard. Like,
painfully hard. We’re all laughing so loud, so hard, that I lose
feeling in my stomach. Jamie falls to the floor, taking me down
with her.

“Thanks, everyone,” Zephyr mutters, sitting
up and rubbing the back of his head, the part that hit the
floor.

The rest of the day is uneventful, very
boring—very downhill from the morning. I take the usual pop
quizzes, acing them all, and soon enough, I’m back at school,
dressed in a white dress with a music scroll swirling up the side
and black flats with skulls on the side. I decide to wear my hair
in a side braid. There are only three of us left, a boy named
Douglas Stephens from a high school in a neighboring town, he has
pale skin, dark blonde hair, and his face is covered in
freckles—he’s
adorable
. He stands three inches taller than I
do, so he’s on the short side. Then there is Candice Wallace, a
girl from the local private school. She has dark, chocolate colored
skin and large green eyes, her long dark hair is straightened,
falling stick straight down her back. She’s taller than Douglas by
at least five inches—which means she towers over me
without
the help of her pink heels.

We’re all nervous, shaking like leaves as we
sit together in the green room. We’ve also become quite chummy with
each other through the past three weeks, talking about anything but
singing and music. Though I do learn that Candice is a member of
her school’s choir and Douglas is a member of a band that plays
local bars in Seattle.

I pale in comparison to them but they don’t
seem to mind, we all know we’re talented, and we all know that we
showcase that talent in different ways. When they sing in front of
crowds, I’m usually rocking out in a practice room, to-may-to,
to-mah-to.

For the final night, we have two songs to
sing. My choices are ZZ Ward’s
If I Could Be Her
and Gin
Wigmore’s
Dying Day
. The latter might be wrong to sing in a
school competition, but I like the song and I can play it on the
piano.

At the end of the night, after they announce
that Douglas Stephens is in third place, it’s down to Candice
Wallace and me.

When Brittany stands before the microphone,
the audience grows quiet, no; they are completely silent. If I were
to drop a pin on the stage, you could hear it in the back row of
the theatre. You can even hear the crinkle of the paper as Brittany
tears open the envelope, complete overkill if you ask me. She could
just say the winner and we could all move on with our lives.

“And the winner is…” she trails off, pausing
for dramatic effect.
Give me a break, people.

I steal a glance at Candice Wallace and give
her a reassuring smile. I really don’t care if I win or lose, I
didn’t want to do this thing anyway. Sure, I’d like to say that
after all the time and effort that I have invested into this
competition that I want to leave with that stupid trophy in my
hands, but I really could care less. This is a high school
competition, not
American Idol
, that is not Ryan Seacrest
standing on stage, and neither of us will win a recording contract.
I’m not even sure what either of us will win. But Candice smiles
back at me before we both look out to the crowd seated before us. I
connect eyes with Zephyr and wave to him. He waves back and shoots
me a thumbs up.

“…Candice Wallace!” Brittany says into the
microphone, a slight sound of surprise in her voice, as if she
didn’t believe Candice to win. Did she think it would be me?