Perfect - Softcover

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Ellen Hopkins is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of numerous young adult novels, as well as the adult novels such as Triangles, Collateral, and Love Lies Beneath. She lives with her family in Carson City, Nevada, where she has founded Ventana Sierra, a nonprofit youth housing and resource initiative. Follow her on Twitter at @EllenHopkinsLit.

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Cara Sierra Sykes

Perfect?

How

do you define a word without

concrete meaning? To each

his own, the saying goes, so

why

push to attain an ideal

state of being that no two

random people will agree is

where

you want to be? Faultless.

Finished. Incomparable. People

can never be these, and anyway,

when

did creating a flawless facade

become a more vital goal

than learning to love the person

who

lives inside your skin?

The outside belongs to others.

Only you should decide for you—

what

is perfect.

Perfection

I’ve lived with the pretense

of perfection for seventeen

years. Give my room a cursory

inspection, you’d think I have OCD.

But it’s only habit and not

obsession that keeps it all orderly.

Of course, I don’t want to give

the impression that it’s all up to me.

Most of the heavy labor is done by

our housekeeper, Gwen. She’s an

imposing woman, not at all the type

that most men would find attractive.

Not even Conner, which is the point.

My twin has a taste for older

women. Before he got himself

locked away, he chased after more

than one. I should have told sooner

about the one he caught, the one

I happened to overhear him with,

having a little afternoon fun.

Okay, I know a psychologist

would say, strictly speaking,

he was prey, not predator.

And in a way, I can’t really

blame him. Emily is simply

stunning. Conner wasn’t the only

one who used to watch her go

running by our house every

morning. But, hello, she was

his teacher. That fact alone

should have been enough warning

that things would not turn out well.

I never would have expected

Conner to attempt the coward’s way

out, though. Some consider suicide

an act of honor. I seriously don’t agree.

But even if it were, you’d have to

actually die. All Conner did was

stain Mom’s new white Berber

carpet. They’re replacing it now.

Mom Stands There Watching

The men work, laying mint

green carpeting over clean beige

padding. Thick. Lush. Camouflage.

I sit on the top stair, unseen.

Invisible. Silent. I might as well

not even be here at all. And

that’s all right. At least I don’t

have to worry that she will focus

her anger on me. Instead she blasts

it toward the carpet guys. Idiots!

You’re scratching the patina!

Her hiss is like a cobra’s spit.

I might want to expose that wood

one day. I can’t if it’s marred.

But she never will. That oak

has been irreparably scarred

by gunpowder-tainted

blood. And even more by

the intent behind the bullet.

Sprawled on the floor,

Conner wanted to die.

Mom and Dad don’t think

so. In fact, for once they agree

on something besides how bad

their stock portfolios looked

last year. Both of them believe

Conner only wanted attention.

But he was way past hoping

for that, at least the positive

kind. No, Conner was tired

of the pressure. Sick of trying

to find the equation that would

lighten the weight of expectations

not his own. Listening to Mom

tell skilled laborers how to do

their job is almost enough to make

me empathize. The more she goes

on, the more I’m sure the carpet

guys understand. There is no

possible way to satisfy our mother.

I Guess In A Way

I have to give Conner a little

credit. I mean, by putting the gun

to his chest, he made an overt,

if obscene, statement—

I will no longer force myself

inside your prefab boxes. I’d much

rather check out of here than let

you decide the rest of my life.

“You,” meaning Mom and Dad.

The pressure they exert individually

is immense. As a team, it’s almost

impossible to measure up

to their elevated criteria. I have done

my best, pushed myself to the limit.

To get into Stanford, I have had to

ace every test, stand out as a leader

(junior class pres, student council),

excel in sports, serve as a mentor,

take command of extracurricular

pursuits—cheerleading, honor choir,

theater. All around dating Sean.

Sometimes I just want a solo vacation.

Hanging out on a beach, submitting

to the temptation of sand, sun, salt

water, sans UV protection. Who

cares what damage they might

inflict on my skin? Nice dream.

But what would my mother say?

I can hear her now. Don’t be

ridiculous. Who in their right

mind would invite melanoma

and premature aging?

When I look at her, I have

to admit her beauty regime

is working. It’s as if by sheer

force of will she won’t permit

wrinkles to etch her suede

complexion. But I know, deep

down, she is afraid of time. Once

in a while, I see fear in her eyes.

That Fear Isn’t Something

Most people notice. Not Dad,

who’s hardly ever home, and even

when he is, doesn’t really look

at Mom. Or me. Not Conner,

because if he had even once seen

that chink in her fourteen-carat

armor, he’d have capitalized on it.

Not her friends. (I think the term

misrepresents the relationship,

at least if loyalty figures into

what it means to be a friend.)

Book club. Bridge club. Gym

spinners. She maintains a flock

of them. That’s what they remind

me of. Beautiful, pampered birds,

plumage-proud, but blind

to what they drop their shit on.

And the scary thing is, I’m

on a fast track to that same

aviary. Unless I find my wings.

I Won’t Fly Today

Too much to do, despite the snow,

which made all local schools close

their doors. What a winter! Usually,

I love watching the white stuff fall.

But after a month with only short

respites, I keep hoping for a critical

blue sky. Instead, amazing...