Perfectly Flawed Page 18

  “My friends have dates,” Harley responds bitterly, putting the emphasis on friends and I get the instant feeling that I’ve done my friends wrong. I could spend that night hanging with Harley instead of attempting to dance with Ryder while he parades me around on his arm like I’m some sort of ornament or trophy.

  “I’ll ditch mine,” I tell her, seriously. Her eyes brighten at the mere mention of my ditching Ryder, something she doesn’t normally do. “We can go together,” I offer quietly hoping that Kennie doesn’t hear me. She’d object to that plan instantly.

  “You’re not ditching Ryder,” Kennie balks from her side of the store, the shock obvious in her voice. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear as she stares at me, nearly shooting daggers with her eyes. “He’d be so heartbroken.”

  Ryder? Heartbroken? That’s a laugh.

  “I don’t really want to go,” Harley mumbles half-heartedly. I can tell she’s lying. There’s something about her eyes, the color is less vibrant, and she keeps looking down to the floor. “I think I’ll just take up your tradition. Carrie must be watched by someone during the night of a school dance.”

  “Don’t forget the ice cream,” I point out, less hoping that she’ll choose my usual—Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey—mostly playing along to make her believe I believe her lie.

  “I still think you should go,” Kennie cuts in as she walks up to us, her arms loaded down with—I predicted correctly!—blue dresses. All of them. From sky blue to baby blue to navy to teal. Just the sight makes me happy I already suffered through this process with Jamie and bought my dress last weekend.

  “You’re trying to convert me to your kind,” Harley shifts her eyes, building up her titanium armor and hiding behind her sarcasm. “It won’t work, I tell you!” She launches her arm in the air before playfully ducking behind the nearest dress rack. Kennie and I burst into laughter as Harley falls over, taking the rack of dresses with her. A loud, shattering crash echoes throughout the seemingly empty store.

  A few people that work in the store poke their heads up from what they’re doing to see if we’re being problematic or if we need their help finding anything, then they go back to what they were doing, ignoring us as if we were not their problem.

  Which we aren’t.

  By Friday—the day of the big Homecoming football game—it’s established that Kennie and Duke were going to the dance together. He promised to drive over from school for her, Kennie even made Homecoming court as Junior Princess, leaving Alexia as Princess Nominee. Harley decided that she was going to spend Saturday night indulging in my typical tradition. Jamie was bragging about the dress she bought, how beautiful it was, how much skin and cleavage it revealed, and Marcus was bragging—to the entire school I might add—about the hotel room he rented and how awesome his night was going to be.

  Me? I was still going to the dance with Ryder, Homecoming King, I discovered after I repeatedly played Pachelbel’s Canon during the big reveal. He bought a matching tie, vest, and cummerbund—I still don’t know what the hell that is—like Jamie said he would, and I was a little—okay, a lot—excited to wear my dress.

  After the spirit week filled with ridiculous and outrageous dress up days that basically meant the girls could dress as slutty as they wanted and the guys could ogle them without fear of being slapped, I felt that I could handle anything.

  Or mostly anything.

  “Hello, there.” Ryder caught me at my locker, like he hadn’t been doing it after his last class, which was two doors away from my locker, so not a huge inconvenience, for the last few weeks.

  “Hi.” I smile—a genuine smile—when I see him, and he leans down, like I expected, kissing my cheek quickly before leaning away to try and help me with my books. Because I’m stubborn, I don’t let him.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asks, his hand sliding down the sleeve of my black jacket—in honor of class color day. Yes, I’m decked out in all black and there is a black lipstick kiss print on my cheek from Kennie. He pulls my hand to his after I close my locker and twist the dial.

  “Homework,” I answer truthfully, it’s what I did every night, even Fridays. I’m the nerdy girl that does homework on Friday nights; I’ll admit it.

  “Boring,” Ryder whines. “It’s Friday,” he tells me as if I forgot what day of the week it is. For a moment, he starts singing Rebecca Black’s Friday, getting the song permanently stuck in my head. “The big football game is tonight.”

  I look to him as he leads me through the halls in his football jersey.

  “What’s your point?” I ask as he leads me past his fellow teammates, amidst their whoops and hollers, leading me into the school parking lot toward his car.

  “Well, since we’re going to the dance together,” he begins, leaning against the side of his car, pulling me closer to him. “I thought that we could go to a party after the game. We’re going to win,” he states, cocking his head to side. “No doubt about that, and I know the celebrations are going to be wild.”

  More reason for me to stay home, far away from typical high school stereotypes.

  “I think I’ll pass,” I tell him, watching his face fall like I just broke his spirit, broke his heart, like my being there’s the most important thing in the world.

  It’s just a party, I want to tell him, nothing for you to get your knickers in a twist about.

  “Why?” he asks, tugging my hand closer to his chest, placing it against his heart. I can feel the light thump-thump, thump-thump of his heart.

  “Because of the last time you took me to a party,” I point out, kind of a fool me once type of situation. I don’t want to be the fool again. “I spent the night standing in the corner while people dry-humped and dry-heaved around me.” The image replays in my mind. “That’s not how I want to spend my Friday night. And,” I hastily add, “I’m not a high school football fan.”

  “Please,” he begs quietly, lightly kissing my hand. “Pretty please, I’ll do anything to make you go to my game.”

  That makes me laugh. And snort.

  I know that he only wants me at that game just to watch him in action.

  Boring!

  But wait. He has ways of getting what he wants. He’s a fan of cruel and unusual torture techniques.

  “Don’t tell me you’ll start singing again.” I try not to, but I laugh louder with the thought of him singing to me again.

  “If that’s what it takes,” he tells me completely serious, almost like a promise. “Don’t think that you can hide out in the library, even that has a sound system.”

  Damn.

  I’m not sure why, but that makes me laugh harder and I find myself leaning closer to him, like my body wants to be near his. I can smell his cologne, woodsy and strong, and it’s almost comforting, almost a scent that I don’t mind, but it’s vaguely familiar at the same time. Something that I’ve smelled, been around, before. I just can’t place it. And it’s revolting.

  A shiver runs down my spine and the hair on the back of my necks stands. He’s watching this. He’s watching me. I know when I turn around, my eyes will connect with the familiar chocolate gaze that I’ve been staring into for as long as I can remember.

  Before I can stop myself, I look to the other side of the parking lot, connecting with the familiar eyes that I’ve tried to avoid for weeks, now. Deep chocolate brown and staring at me. Zephyr hasn’t so much as looked at me since our fight that, to be honest, I still haven’t the slightest idea what it was about. Now he’s staring at me like he’s about to lose me. He’s already lost me. And the anger is still there, deep within, and he can’t hide it from me.

  The look in his eyes forces my mouth to speak without my knowing it.

  “Fine,” I sputter out, eyes still locked with the boy across the lot. “I’ll go to the party with you.” Yep, that wasn’t really me. I’m possessed by my fury.

  “And the football game,” he presses, placing his finger on my chin to turn my gaze back to him, dis
connecting my eyes from Zephyr’s.

  I don’t want to look away.

  “I’ll go if Harley goes with me.” My only qualification, the only thing I need. That means I’m not going to the game because there’s no way in hell that Harley would go. She’d only be there if Corey Taylor himself decided to sign the National Anthem.

  “The more the merrier.” Ryder smiles wide. He’s happy that there’s some tiny sliver of hope for me to see him in action, some chance that he’d convert me to a football fan. Turning, he spots Harley—also decked out completely in black, complete with two kiss prints on her cheeks—walking toward her car at the far end of the lot. He chases her down, like, fast. The movement reminds me of a lion on the hunt.

  Soon, after some serious begging and promises, both Harley and I are going to the game, much to her chagrin. I might need to take up drinking just to get through it.

  Six

  “I hate you,” Harley repeatedly mutters as we climb the cement steps to the top row of the high school stadium bleachers. I can see her breath, thin and wispy, puff out like a personal cloud with every admonishment. Like every typical October night in the Pacific Northwest, it’s cold enough to see your breath when you speak but not cold enough that it’d snow. Though this is Western Washington, while we may wake up with frost on our windows, threatening Mother Nature herself with every scrape against the window until it’s clear enough to drive, rarely do we wake up with snow on the ground. It’s most likely rain, pouring or drizzling, of which we venture through sans umbrella because those, as is understood by the locals, are for tourists.

  “No you don’t,” I reply between chattering teeth, fighting to keep them locked tight. I’m wearing more layers than I thought were possible to cover my body and I’m still freezing. I should have brought a blanket, or two, or three, or a personal heater. No, what I should have done is bought hand warmers, enough hand warmers to build a suit, and just shove them into my clothes and shoes. That would work, right?

  We take our seats on the top level of the metal bleachers, the only open place to sit, and suddenly, we’re surrounded and immersed in a sea of red and black. Goody, goody gum drops. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday night.

  At least Harley and I are far enough from other students that we won’t look so weird in our jeans and heavy jackets, not bothering with the school colors. Well, we’re still wearing our outfits from class color day; no one can see them beneath the jackets. However, I am wearing a red-and-black-striped knit slouchy beanie, should that count.

  It probably doesn’t.

  Instantly, Harley speaks. “My ass is frozen to a metal bleacher.” She clamps on to my arm, gripping tightly despite her gloves, for warmth. “I’m pretty sure that I hate you.” Her teeth are chattering. I believe her now. “A lot.”

  That last remark makes me giggle; puffing the air out in front of me in a white wisp.

  “Think of how Kennie feels right now.” I find Kennie standing in front of our section wearing her skimpy uniform, and point to her, leading Harley’s eyes to the blonde bouncing up and down in cheer. “She’s flaunting her naughty parts to the entire school and faculty.”

  “She’s used to wearing minimal clothing,” Harley starts. “I’m covered head to foot in thick wool and I’ve already lost feeling in my toes.” She stamps her feet trying to move blood to her lower extremities, annoying the couple sitting in front of us. They turn back, shooting her a look that can only be described using knife-like gestures.

  I wrap my arm around her shoulders, a side hug, trying to steal some of her warmth if I can. “I still appreciate you,” I tell her.

  She looks to me, her brown eyes narrowed. “Shut up,” she jokingly snaps, catching the attention of a parent in front of us with two small children. Harley doesn’t notice, and she wouldn’t care if she did.

  Okay, she would. She’s not that heartless.

  After we wait a bit, shivering, the teams run through a banner held up by the squad and onto the field. Our section bursts and jumps when our football team runs out, letting them know we’re here to support them, or they are, I should say. I’m just here because someone begged me—someone nearly forced Harley and me.

  Two girls from the jazz choir sing the national anthem. “Do you understand football?” I ask Harley through the music. “At all?” Maybe one of us has a clue what the hell is going on.

  “Not in the slightest,” she replies quickly, a little tremble in her voice alerting me to her chill.

  That makes two of us, then. “We’ll be in the dark together,” I tell her, as happily as a freezing-me can.

  The game starts and things happen that I don’t understand. I see the ball soar through the air, I see the other team take it from us before we can catch it—I hear the word interception blare through the air. I watch a few people get tackled to the ground, hard, some brutally. However, I’m certain no one has scored. A quick check of the scoreboard proves I’m right.

  0-0.

  “I’m bored,” Harley mumbles after twenty minutes.

  “You and me both, sister,” I reply. The one thing we should have, but didn’t grab, is an iPod or two. This game definitely needs some metal.

  I point down to Kennie as she dances and claps in front of the fence separating the field from the bleachers. Harley nods an understanding, and soon, we’re clomping down the steps, heading down to see the cheerleader after she flips and tumbles through the air.

  After she lands, her smile brightens when she sees us. She charges over, fixing the tie in her hair. “I still can’t believe you both came,” Kennie exclaims as she makes a show of reaching for her labeled red water bottle.

  “Neither can I,” Harley replies with annoyance, shooting me an angry glare.

  “Kennie!” Alexia yells authoritatively from the other end of the line of scantily clad girls. “Get your ass back in formation.”

  Kennie shakes her water bottle, buying her a little time before she rolls her eyes in frustration. “I’ll see you at half time,” she tells us after she takes a swig from the bottle. She grabs her pom poms, rustling them for our benefit, and wanders back to her line.

  I turn to Harley. “When is halftime?” she asks me.

  I shrug my shoulders. I haven’t a clue. We wait at the fence until it’s halftime, which is sooner than we thought. The boys run into the locker rooms, leaving the field bare and empty with little clumps of dirt floating around.

  Kennie joins Harley and me on the lower bleachers, beneath the band section, while people hit the concessions stands seeking their greasy food fix.

  “You here for Ryder?” Kennie nods in my direction, playing with the cap to her water bottle—screwing it, unscrewing it, repeat—keeping her hands busy, attempting to keep warm as she sits down. She’s normally bouncing around the field, generating enough heat in such little clothing. Now she sits in front of us in her jacket and sweatpants, trying to keep warm as she talks to us.

  “We’re heading to a party afterward,” I tell her, though I already know she’s going to be there, at whatever party Ryder takes us to. “I don’t know why?” I tell her honestly.

  She knows I’m not a party girl—I’ve never been a party girl. I prefer silence to drunken loudness, I prefer to be alone rather than within the swarm of my peers trying to fit the stereotype.

  Kennie stifles a giggle, like I just made a joke. “Because we’re winning,” she tells me. I look to the scoreboard, and sure enough, when I wasn’t looking, we started winning: 21-0. As if I actually cared. “We’re going to win, this team sucks, and he wants to show you off as his girlfriend.” Kennie shrugs taking a drink from her water bottle.

  That catches my attention. Even Harley perks up. She abandons her phone, sliding it back into the pocket of her coat.

  “Who said I was his girlfriend?” I ask quickly, cutting Kennie off before she can start a new rant about a different topic. I exchange a fast glance with Harley. She heard the offending word girlfriend like
I had.

  “He does,” Kennie answers, not noticing the problem. “It’s so cute,” she tells us, gushing as if she were looking at a box of puppies for sale. This is the Kennie I know; I’m surprised that we’re friends sometimes.

  “You’re sticky sweet, you know that,” Harley tells her, the disgust and sarcasm clear in her voice.

  Our friend doesn’t notice.

  Kennie beams. “I look on the bright side, Debbie Downer,” she jokes. Though, she’s not lying about looking on the bright side, Kennie truly believes in the power of positive thinking. She once told me when I first met her that if I believed in the best in people, if I overlooked how they treated me, if I just tried to get to know them and, in return, they got to know me, that everything would be great in my life. Maybe even better than great.

  Needless to say, we didn’t share the same opinion.

  And I let her know that instantly. This bit of information is no different.

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” I quickly spill out, clarifying how I believed my relationship with Ryder to be. Completely platonic. They, as my friends, should know that automatically. I don’t want them to think that I’d willingly be, uh… exclusive with someone like Ryder Harrison. At least, not without telling them and listening to the pros from Kennie and the cons from Harley. Oh, the cons Harley would think of. “I’m a girl that’s his friend, but that’s it.” I need to make this clear, make them understand, at least Kennie, and remedy what Ryder has been saying.

  Instantly, I feel my cheeks heat from anger, but the coldness hides it very well. My face is already red from the low temperatures.

  “Are you mad about this?” Kennie asks hesitantly. Her lined blue eyes look to me curiously, somehow saying subtly that I should be happy about this. If Ryder was my boyfriend that means that I’d no longer be the girl whose father tried to kill her. I’d no longer be the daughter of murderer, I’d no longer have scars on my back, I’d no longer have people whispering behind my back. I’d no longer be the freak.

  But how can I answer her question?