Cecelia Ahern - Flawed

I wouldn’t think that a visit to the Flawed could be seen as aiding, though I know that one minute in his arms would save me completely. Even though I’d tell anyone who’d listen that I know there’s no hope for me and Art now, deep down, it still makes sense to me. It could still happen. It would just mean his taking a stand against his father once and for all, and it could be me and him against most of the world.

I scroll to his name in my mobile phone and press call. I know what will happen, the same thing that has happened for the last couple of days. It goes straight to voice mail. But I listen to the sound of his voice, jovial and always close to laughter, a cheeky look on his face, and then I hang up.

Downstairs I hear Ewan get a firm talking-to, a going-over of the rules.

I pretend to sleep and feel both Mom and Dad kiss me good night. I hear them go to bed. Talking in low voices and then nothing.

And exactly what I was anticipating happens next. I hear Juniper sneaking out.

THIRTY

I STAND NAKED in front of the mirror, my dressings removed. I hate what I see. My tears fall as my eyes run over the scars on my skin. They have taken away ownership over myself, and they have made me theirs. I want to rip the brandings from my skin. I look away from the mirror. I will never look at myself again. I will never let anyone else see my naked body. Not friends. Not a man. No one.

* * *

School is many different things to different people. It makes Juniper nervous, I know that. School is something she worries about constantly from the minute she goes to bed at night to the moment she returns home. She feels uncomfortable, restricted, maybe out of her depth. She can’t wait for it all to be over so she can get on with what she considers the more important parts of her life. She worries about homework, about getting answers wrong in class, about her exams, and about what to wear. Her worrying isn’t because she’s lazy and doesn’t try or that she’s not clever. She’s smart. She is constantly working. She constantly talks about studying, trying on outfits, laying out clothes, starting again. She has one close friend, and they are glued to each other as they walk around the halls, heads together, sticking to themselves. They don’t want anybody else, they don’t need anybody else. They just want to get through it and be done with it.

For me, school is solid. I like going. I feel comfortable there. I look forward to each day. I don’t have any fears about it. I work hard but not so hard that I get bogged down or overly stressed. My teachers like me, and I like them. I don’t give them any trouble. I have a great group of friends. Six of us, three girls and three guys including me and Art, and one of which is Marlena, who spoke for me at the Guild. We have fun. We are neither nerdy nor jocks. We might be remembered, we might not. We just are.

But for the first time in my life, I am experiencing what Juniper must feel every morning. I debate long and hard over what to wear. Everything in my wardrobe represents carefree to me, bought and worn by someone who blended in and had nothing to hide. I am not that person anymore.

I stare at the three outfits Mom has helped me to assemble. None of them feels like a place for me to hide in.

According to the rules, outside my home, my temple and hand must not be concealed. I must not hide my Flaws. Nothing can obviously be done about the sole of my foot. But when I am home, I have a list of clothing preferences now. My braids must stay down to hide my branded right temple. My sleeves must be long enough for me to hide the brand on my right hand. The neckline must be high to hide my seared chest. The sole of my foot and my spine will be okay unless I’m on the beach or in swim class, and I cannot wear flip-flops. I have a checklist of places on my body that I want to hide. I hate my body.

I look across the hall at Juniper’s room.

I knock on her door.

“Hi,” she answers, surprised. She looks tired, and I wonder where she’s been going at night. There has been a funny mood between us lately, and I don’t feel close enough to ask her this. Mostly because I think she’d lie.

“I need something to wear,” I say, conscious that when I talk, my tongue feels oversized in my mouth and I sound like my friend Lisa after she got her tongue pierced. Though my speech is a lot clearer than it was days ago, when I felt like it would barely move.

“You want my clothes?” she asks, confused.

“None of my stuff is right.”

“Oh. Right. Sure. Um. Come in.” She opens her door wider, and I see the bomb site, her clothes are scattered everywhere. “I couldn’t decide, either.”

I feel like snapping at her that, clearly, this is for very different reasons, but I don’t. I swallow it. I swallow it all. My eyes survey the mess. I know what I’m looking for and see it immediately.

“Thanks,” I say, backing out.

“Are you sure?” She eyes the items in my hands. “I’ve other stuff you might like.”

“No, this is fine, thanks.”

I go back to my room and try it on. When it’s on, I look in the mirror and start to cry. Black long-sleeved cotton top, high neck. Black skinny jeans. Black boots. I look like Juniper.

But the outfit isn’t complete.

I slide the red F armband up my arm, removing the sticky tape from one side to secure it tightly to the fabric. It’s supposed to be tight.

Like a second skin.

THIRTY-ONE

PRINCIPAL HAMILTON’S ROMAN blinds are closed because not far from his office the media are camped at the entrance to Grace O’Malley secondary school. A staff member had tipped them off that today would be my first day back. They had pushed cameras up against the darkened glass of Dad’s Jeep so hard that I thought they’d crack the panes. Dad had to crawl through them; he could barely see where he was driving. Inside, I felt terrified, claustrophobic, suffocated by so many eyes on me, wondering how my merely sitting there would be twisted and analyzed. Juniper had stared straight ahead, not flinching, not moving, as though she hadn’t even noticed. And by the looks of it, they’ve also been making Principal Hamilton’s life a living hell. His face has broken into a rash, running down his wobbly neck into his shirt. Broken capillaries are even more exaggerated on his bulbous nose.

I had never had a conversation with Principal Hamilton before, had never had any cause to, but today a meeting has been called to discuss me. Present are my mathematics teacher, Ms. Dockery, and my civics teacher, Mr. Browne. Ms. Dockery gives me a nervous smile when I sit down. Mr. Browne doesn’t even look at me. I fight the urge to pounce on them and shout in a strange animal noise, pretending to put a Flawed curse on them all. That would really scare them.

Mr. Hamilton looks hassled as he tries to organize himself for the meeting and the phone rings yet again.

“Susan, I said hold the calls, please.” He listens. “No, I will not be holding a press conference. No, I have already discussed this with the Parents Association and the board.” He sighs. “I will not make a statement, either.” He hangs up.

“Mr. Hamilton,” my dad begins. “I understand you are under a great deal of pressure. We all are, and we want this to run as smoothly as possible for everybody involved. I believe there is another entrance to the school that Celestine could use. One that would allow her to come and go without receiving the treatment she received this morning. She is no longer in Highland Castle. The ruling is over. She shouldn’t be subjected to this in her own school.”

“I hear you, Mr. North, and, personally, I agree.”

Mr. Browne objects, and Mr. Hamilton throws him a look. “I take the view that all students should be treated equally, and that is the philosophy I have handed down to all the teachers here.”