Perfectly Flawed Page 11

  Yay.

  Uh, I’m not that believable, am I?

  Hilary opens the door and Ryder steps into the door, the room soon taking his scent of musk and Old Spice, something that should be on an old man heading to a banquet, not a teenage boy heading out on a date. He’s briefly distracted by Zephyr, but that’s momentary. In his hands, he holds two bouquets of flowers, one for me—more damned red roses—and one for my aunt—pink lilies, my favorite flower. I roll my eyes after I take the roses hoping that he doesn’t see the annoyance etched on my face, but I’m caught by Hilary who smiles apologetically. She still plasters a happy grin on her face for Ryder. But I can see the hesitation. She doesn’t immediately trust him. That’s good to witness.

  Zephyr spots the flowers and laughs—openly. Very subtle, dude. He stands, moving closer until he’s standing between Ryder and me. He’s still laughing. I turn to glare at him, narrowing my eyes, but Zephyr doesn’t notice or ignores me. Hilary turns to glare at him, like aunt, like niece.

  She takes the flowers from my hands and thrusts both bouquets at Zephyr. “Here, go put these in some water.” He doesn’t touch them. “Please,” she growls.

  Zephyr stares at her, shocked. His laughing stopped. He snatches the flowers from her hand and turns to sulk to the kitchen, muttering something about how he’d like to shove these roses somewhere where the sun doesn’t shine, but I don’t believe that was directed to my aunt. Not when I hear something about how much someone hates roses. Hmmm…

  Ryder looks around the house, inspecting what surrounds him—the living room, the dining room, that’s all that he can see from where he’s standing. I’m not showing him around. He’s not going to get a tour. The walls surrounding him are covered in pictures, my aunt’s way of keeping my family in my life. He peeks at the photos, spotting me as a little kid, me as a baby being held by my mother, the one with Ivy holding a rubber duck in my face while Noah balances one on my soapy head.

  It isn’t until someone else looks at these photos that I realize how awkward of a kid I was. It’s like I’m seeing myself through his eyes. Something I never want to do again. I feel like he’s judging me with every glance, every blink, like these pictures can tell him exactly who I am.

  I’ve searched them for the same reason, never finding an answer to the question.

  Not many people from school have seen what my family looks like. Okay, only four people have seen these pictures. Ryder is getting an inside look on my life and what made me.

  Or whom, I should say.

  “I didn’t know that you were…” he trails off, his thumb pointing toward a picture of my mother holding me, not entirely sure of how to mention my mother’s skin tone, I’m assuming.

  Laughter booms from the kitchen, deep throaty laughter that catches everyone’s attention. Zephyr sure is enjoying something.

  “What?” I ask, crossing my arms across my chest, immediately defensive. “You didn’t know what? That my mother was black?” I ask. Recognition dawns on his face while Hilary tries to hide a snicker. The laughter grows louder and deeper, like he’s holding his stomach. Ryder looks embarrassed, as well he should. “What? You think this is a year round tan?” I ask adding a roll to my eyes. I’m not one for subtlety.

  If Hilary didn’t know that I don’t like this boy yet, she knows know.

  “Hi, I’m Hilary Archembault,” she greets, snapping his attention away from the wall of photos surrounding me, as she holds out her hand, waiting for Ryder to shake it. “I’m Joey’s aunt.”

  That must confuse him more than knowing that my mom is black. There is a petite redhead claiming to be my family. Let’s see how smart he is and how soon he gets it.

  “Ryder Harrison.” He won’t touch the subject of race again. He’ll just accept everything he sees tonight as correct and move on. I love knowing that I’ve made him feel uncomfortable. Ryder gulps, slightly nervous. He grasps her hand firmly, like he is introducing himself to a college football scout, while I stand feeling awkward, watching the really random exchange between them. Not to mention, Zephyr’s still in the kitchen, doing whatever it is he does in kitchens. Oy. Pushing past his discomfort, his smile lights up his face, revealing teeth that I am pretty sure had help from an overpriced dentist. He’s trying to amaze my aunt, dazzle her with his smile. Ew. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  More laughter from the kitchen. My palm finds my forehead.

  “Please, call me Hilary,” my aunt corrects while I start my own laughing in the corner of the room. I haven’t heard anyone call her ma’am in years. Not since Zephyr had the idea to follow her around the house and just call her the name repeatedly, thinking it’d be funny. He was banned from the house for a week. Thus the reason why he find it so funny. “I’m not that old.”

  “Sorry.” He seems to say that word a lot around me. “Hilary,” he clarifies, testing the word.

  “What innocent fun do you have planned with my only niece for this evening?” Hilary asks, directing her question to him but her eyes travel to me, as if I have any idea what is going on through his head and what he has planned for our date. “I hope nothing too outrageous for my niece.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Zephyr move into the frame of the kitchen door, leaning against it, just watching us. Creeper… I roll my eyes and turn my attention back to where’s important, no matter how much I just want to stare at Zephyr standing behind me.

  “Nothing too crazy, ma—Hilary,” he promises, catching himself before says ma’am. He tucks his hands into his pockets. “Dinner. Maybe a movie,” Ryder answers, nonchalantly. He drags his hand through his hair, moving the fallen blonde curls from his eyes.

  “Yeah, you’d take her to a movie,” Zephyr mutters to himself, but I can hear him. I don’t turn around. He’s only doing this for attention.

  “Well, don’t have too much fun, now,” Hilary tells us as I grab my peacoat from the closet, letting us walk through the door to his car. Zephyr stomps loudly, following closely behind us to the front door. “Her curfew is midnight, give or take thirty minutes early.” I smile at her; the only thing that would make this better is a shotgun and a threat of instant death. Unfortunately, we don’t have a shotgun. “And remember, if you hurt her in any way, Ryder, they will never find you.”

  Spoke too soon.

  I clamp my hand over my mouth to prevent my giggles from erupting. Hilary just made my night. I think I love her a little bit more. Standing beside Ryder, I think I hear him gulp. I want to tell him that my aunt doesn’t have a gun or any other form of weaponry but she is a surgeon—which, in my opinion, is far, far worse.

  Zephyr watches us as we leave. I can feel his eyes burning a hole in my back. I’m surprised he didn’t threaten bodily harm right then and there. I mean, it’s one thing if my aunt does it. While it was awesome and I believe her, we’re talking about Zephyr. He used to take bullies down for me on a daily basis. I expected something, man.

  Parked in the driveway is a new BMW, shiny and black, the nicest thing I have ever seen parked in this driveway. The setting sun gleams from the hood of the car, blinding me with light as I walk toward the passenger side. Like a gentleman, he opens my door. I mutter my thanks and slide into the warm leather seat. I didn’t know I knew anyone with a car that has a leather interior. Already, my legs stick to the upholstery through the lace of my borrowed tights.

  He puts the car in drive and peels out of my drive. Apparently, Ryder doesn’t believe in speed limits. I can tell as we careen down the street, going fifteen miles over the speed limit, that my grip on the seatbelt will leave permanently marks on my hand. Wherever we’re going, we’ll make it there early.

  “So, where are we having dinner?” I ask simply to make conversation. It’s too quiet. I don’t do well in a confined space with awkward silence.

  “Lily’s.”

  Thanks for the attempt of conversation, Ryder. I greatly appreciate the effort.

  “Cool,” I answer before directing my
attention out the window, watching other cars, people, trees, and houses fly by in an earthy toned blur.

  He really needs to loosen that lead foot of his.

  The ride to Lily’s, the little family owned Italian restaurant in town, is quiet, the only noise, which is neither of us speaking, is coming from the stereo in the dashboard. He has the popular music station playing—I didn’t know that people still listened to the radio these days—Movin’ 92.5, I think. I haven’t listened to that since fifth grade. That was the last time I had my own portable stereo.

  Ryder opens my door again and holds out his hand for me to take when we get there. I don’t want to but I do because that’s the only way I’m getting out of his car easily. He even pulls out my chair for me when we make it to the table.

  Who is this dude?

  During dinner, we talk about school and classes. There’s really nothing else to discuss unless I want to talk about football… which I don’t.

  “Four AP classes, damn,” he says between bites, or between his shoveling food down his gullet. We just got the food and he’s halfway done with his spaghetti. I’ve had one bite from my plate.

  “I like a challenge,” I tell him as I push my food around my plate. It doesn’t even look appetizing.

  “That’s the understatement of the year,” he says with a full mouth. I gag when he isn’t looking. There’s nothing more disgusting than someone talking with their mouth full of food.

  Can I call Zephyr to come and get me yet?

  Is there a Get Out Of Jail Free card I can cash in?

  I need a savior or something right now.

  Turns out, he never took an AP class a day in his life, he never really wanted to. Guffaw, I am shocked. He thought that they would jeopardize his playing sports so he’s been playing everything safe throughout high school, never once overachieving academically, only getting the bare minimum required to play football in the fall and baseball in the spring. To tell you the truth, it sounded pathetic. I could not go through life just being average. I have a mind—I might as well use it.

  “Have you applied to any good colleges yet?” I ask, searching for something, anything, to make me feel like I’m talking to someone with even the tiniest blip of intelligence. Who knows, perhaps he has his sights set on an Ivy League school. I doubt it, but it would make for a good conversation. It’d make for some type of conversation that I could participate in.

  “It’s only September,” he answers through what remains of his spaghetti. His look calls me stupid and I want to slap him.

  But I suck it up and try to soldier on.

  “Oh, yeah,” I answer as I rub my forehead. I can feel the start of a migraine throbbing behind my eyes. I remove my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose to try to relieve it; it doesn’t work. Damn. The migraine, I know, will only get worse throughout the night—as long as I’m with Ryder.

  I guess he doesn’t really care about early acceptance, it’s a stupid thought but one that makes me cringe when I remember what type of guy I’m on a date with. One that doesn’t apply himself to anything but sports.

  “I already have some schools interested in me.” He takes a drink from his ice water and leans back in his chair. This is the one thing he’s excited to tell me. “Louisville, South Carolina, West Virginia, UCLA.”

  “All great schools.” From what I’ve heard, I would never want to go to any of them. I was hoping I was Ivy League material. Forget that, I am Ivy League material. But those are good schools for him.

  “I think so.” He nods his head to my faux-compliment, proud of himself for appealing to the smart girl. “Any place that I can play ball, you know? Football or baseball.”

  No, I don’t know, I’ve never played a sport before.

  “And when I say interest, I mean it—some great baseball programs and some awesome football programs.” Ryder smiles as I look past him to the front door with longing. “I don’t think it’ll be hard for me to go anywhere, get in anywhere, after high school.”

  Of course not, not for you and your golden arm, I want to tell him and just be the sarcastic bitch I was born to be. Instead, I continue to fake a smile and act interested in… him. Why am I even doing this to myself? This discussion is nauseating, it doesn’t help that my fettuccini alfredo has more cream than cheese, and the cream looks more like curdled milk, or the salad had more wilting greens than a dying garden.

  “Enjoying dinner?” he asks, his face split in an amused grin as he watches me choke down bites of my pasta. A few noodles are undercooked and hard. There’s nothing more appetizing than crunchy pasta.

  “Yeah, this is great,” I lie, taking a bite of too-creamy-not-cheesy alfredo and wash it down with the too-flat soda.

  Was that mocking?

  “I was thinking,” he starts. I didn’t know that you knew how to think. “After this lovely meal, that we could hit up a party.”

  My head snaps up so fast that a curl slaps me in the face. A party? A party with other people from our school? Witnesses? Have you ever seen me at a party before, you pretentious, supercilious pretty boy? I want to shout this at him but I bite my tongue.

  “A party where?” I ask instead, worried about whatever that means for me.

  “It’s a cheer party.” Even better. “So one of their houses.” Ryder shrugs his shoulders, leaning back in his chair to get comfortable as I struggle through the rest of my dinner. I’m ready to push it aside and be finished with it, even if it offends him or anyone else in the restaurant.

  In fact, I do.

  “Cool,” I mutter, hiding my eye roll with my hands as I rub my forehead.

  But I’m not excited about this party. I don’t get along with cheerleaders. Or jocks. Or normal high schoolers for that matter. Surely, Ryder has noticed this little part of me.

  At least Kennie will be there. She’s a cheerleader. She frequents these things; she’s even tried to drag me to a few.

  ***

  After we finish dinner—he finished, I passed on mine—I try to pay for my half of the bill but he won’t let me. I’m a little relieved that I’m not wasting any money on this pathetic attempt at a meal, a sad excuse for dinner. Whoever the chef was tonight should be fired. And shot. He speeds us to a street in Brier and soon we’re standing in Jennifer Lange’s monster of house. Her parents are out of town for the week thus the party is here.

  Pictures of Jennifer and her younger sister, who is a freshman at school with us, cover the walls. And I don’t mean tiny little Polaroids; I’m talking giant portraits of them that take up entire walls. I think a few are painted.

  “HEY!” Kennie squeals as she drunkenly emerges from the crowd, stumbling forward before wrapping her arms around my body in a tight hug. Naturally, my body stiffens from the contact and I mentally count—making it to seven—until she lets go and backs away. “I didn’t know you’d be here, silly.” She playfully hits my arm, the movement sloshing the beer about in her red cup. I can smell the alcohol pouring from her in a thick sickening wave. How much has this pixie had to drink, man?

  “Neither did I,” I yell back, hoping she can hear me over the booming music. I think the song is by One Direction. What’s even sadder—I know I’m right about that.

  Someone large and looming walks by, claps Ryder on the back, smiles at me, and leaves.

  Uh… okay, hi.

  “I’m going to get us something to drink,” Ryder yells, watching his friend disappear into the pulsing crowd.

  “Whatever,” I say to myself as he leaves, watching him vanish amid his kind, before turning back to my drunk friend. She’s using the wall to stay standing as she takes a long drink from the cup in her hand. I fight the urge to take the cup away from her and tell her that she’s cut off but she’ll only be angry at me so I let her do her thing and I pretend I don’t notice her swaying.

  Kennie suddenly stands up, her face breaking into a large smile as spots another girl from the squad. This must excite her because she charges after the in
nocent girl, squealing like a pig on helium, and wraps her arms around the other girl in another tight hug. I don’t know her name but she must be as drunk as Kennie or she doesn’t care because she returns the hug with gusto.

  I don’t belong here. I’m certainly not dressed for this. Girls are wandering around in minimal clothing, revealing parts of their body they might want to keep secret. The cheerleaders—you can spot all of them like Oompa Loompas—are wearing different colored bikini tops and short jean shorts. Kennie’s bikini top is blue with white polka dots. The guys are shirtless—some really shouldn’t be—and hitting on any girl that passes by them. Some even stop to hit on me but other than that, no one pays me any attention, something I like, and I blend in against the wall.

  “What are you doing here?” I can see her sneer before I turn to look at her.

  Slowly, I turn, bracing myself for her look of haughty derision.

  There, in all her made up glory, she stands. Or snarls.

  Alexia Cavanaugh.

  And I never thought it possible, but my night just got worse.

  Yay me.

  Like her mindless horde of followers—sadly, that includes Kennie tonight—she’s wearing a yellow triangle bikini top covered in black polka dots and dark jean short shorts. Her dyed blonde hair—which judging by her roots, is in desperate need of a touch up—is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. Little tendrils fall around her face, framing it perfectly. Her gray eyes, heavy lined in black liner—her failed attempt at the smoky eye look—trail me up and down, disgust clear on her caked face.

  I want to punch her. My hand eagerly itched to punch her.

  And that’s just from sight. She hasn’t really said or done anything to me… yet.

  “I’m here with Ryder,” I tell her, standing my ground, crossing my arms and backing away from the wall I was leaning against as I watched the party grow progressively dumber and drunker.

  The wall makes me look weak. I am not weak. Now now.

  “Oh,” she begins quietly, her eyes searching around the room—for Ryder, perhaps?—but they land back on me filled to the lash with hatred. “I heard about that,” she tells me, scowling at the thought that I could date her ex-boyfriend. “I don’t see what he sees in you.”