Cecelia Ahern - Flawed

“All the Crevan media.”

She pauses. “Yes. I’d like us to do an interview first, and I propose something new. A series of televised interviews as we follow you around and film your life as it is now.”

“A reality show?”

“If you want to call it that. I prefer documentary.”

“Because you’re a hard-hitting journalist and all.”

She pauses to take the insult. “I’m interested in people. Intrigued by what makes them tick. Interestingly, with you”—her eyes run over me—“I can’t quite figure that out. I’d like to find out.”

“I don’t want to be followed around by a camera. My dad is a TV editor. I know exactly how you can make me look: whatever way you want. If I have to do the newspaper interview, then I’ll do it, but that’s all.”

She’s clearly disappointed by this, but there’s nothing she can do about it. “Okay. It will be a series of meetings, not just one sitting. I want in-depth. I want to understand you, Celestine, really get to know you.”

I half-laugh.

“I amuse you?”

“You work for Crevan. Do you think I’m stupid enough to think that you want to understand me? That anything you have to say about me will be favorable? That anything I actually say will make it into your articles?”

“You’re an interesting case, Celestine.”

“I’m a person. Not a case.”

“Friend of Judge Crevan, honors A student, a perfect good girl. You’re an unlikely candidate for this situation. People want to know about you.”

“Me and Angelina Tinder. Funny, isn’t it, two Flawed on one street within the span of two days? Such a coincidence.”

Something flashes in her eyes. Something different. A doubt of some kind, but then she resumes normal play.

“Euthanasia is frowned upon by our society,” she says, defending the Guild’s ruling on Angelina Tinder.

“So is compassion. I helped an old man to a seat.”

Then I realize I just gave her a headline. She’s thrilled.

“You see, Celestine.” She grins, moving forward in her chair. “It’s comments like that that are making people pay extra attention to you. You’re refreshing. For one so young.”

“I’m not trying to be anything.”

She looks momentarily confused and then looks around quickly before changing her tone, as though she shouldn’t be telling me this. I’m on the edge, trying to analyze her tactics. “Enya Sleepwell was at your trial every day.”

I look at her for more. I have no idea whom she’s talking about.

“You do know who she is,” she says patronizingly.

“No,” I sigh. “I have no idea who that is. Was that the old woman who spat at me? Or the young woman who threw a cabbage at me? Or perhaps it was the lady in the third row who ate an entire bag of Pick n’ Mix on my Naming Day.”

She frowns. “She’s in the news a lot these days. You haven’t heard of her?”

“I don’t watch the news.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’re in it every day.”

“Well, then, why would I watch it? I know what I’m doing every day.”

She gives me a small smile. “Your parents don’t talk to you about what’s happening? About what’s being said out there?”

“It’s not important what’s being said about me. I don’t need to hear it. I can’t control it and I can’t change it.”

She looks confused, then checks the door to make sure it’s closed. “I mean, you seriously … you don’t know this? Enya Sleepwell is in the Vital Party. You must know who they are. They picked up a lot of seats in the last election. They’re the fastest-growing party in Parliament.”

I shake my head. “I don’t follow politics. I’m seventeen. All of my friends couldn’t care less about it, either. We’re not even allowed to vote until we’re eighteen.”

She looks at me in surprise, studying me as if she can’t believe a word I’m saying, trying to figure me out. “Well, politics is following you, Celestine.”

I mock her by looking behind me to check. I realize I’ve replaced monosyllabic answers with sarcasm, but it’s far more rewarding.

“So you didn’t work with Enya Sleepwell? Meet with her? Before the incident on the bus?”

“What? No!” I reply.

“Some people think you were trying to be a hero,” she says. “That you still see yourself as a hero, that you’re perhaps above everybody else. That your apparent selfless act does not make you Flawed, or at least that it puts you on a different level from the other Flawed. I think you wanted to be different, stand out, were tired of being in the middle of the road, normal girl, boring girl, abider of rules.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from snapping at her, which is what she wants.

“Do you think you’re a hero, Celestine?”

I sigh. “If I was such a hero, that old man would be alive now. Nobody seems to be considering the fact that a man is dead. A man died because an entire bus full of people failed to help him. Do I think I’m a hero? No. I failed.”

She frowns, slightly confused. “But you succeeded in raising your issue to a higher platform. Everybody is now talking about the ‘aiding a Flawed’ rule. An overwhelming number of people want it stricken from the rules.”

I’m surprised to hear this. If it’s gotten rid of, will that mean I’m not Flawed anymore? How can they undo my scars? They can’t. Never.

She looks at her watch, then at me eagerly. “When can we meet again?”

I shrug. “I’m here every day after school. Don’t plan on going anywhere.”

“A popular girl like you? I’m sure you have plenty of offers. I heard you were offered a perfume deal.”

I snort. “What, Eau de Flawed? Who would be bothered to buy that, and why on earth would I want that? You really don’t know anything about me at all, do you?”

“I just wanted to introduce myself today. Let’s meet again tomorrow,” she says eagerly, picking up her briefcase. “If you’re not the boring teenager who was fed up with her life and did something as a cry for attention, then I suggest you talk to me or that will be my story.” She holds out her left hand this time. I reluctantly reach out and shake it with my unbranded hand.

I stay in my seat, fuming, thinking back over our conversation. “By the way, I don’t have five brands.”

She freezes at the door, pivots ever so delicately on her peach pumps.

“Pardon?”

“You said I am the most Flawed person in history, with five brands. Crevan gave me six.”

THIRTY-THREE

PIA IS STILL staring at me. She hasn’t blinked once. I know the press hasn’t reported my sixth brand for some reason, which surprises me. I assumed Crevan would want the whole world to know. If she doesn’t know, she can’t print it. And while Pia’s not knowing gives me comfort, I also want her to know that she doesn’t know everything, that even her basic knowledge of me is wrong. She tried to put me out when I walked in. I’ll put her out when she leaves. If Crevan has lied to her, her little, solid world will be rocked, and I want to see the look on her face for my own gratification. Saying it is worth it for the reaction.

“He what?” she says, shocked, her cool demeanor completely gone. “In court, he distinctly said five.”

I make a decision whether to continue. It will probably come out sometime anyway, better that it’s from me. And even if she prints it, it’s true. Crevan can’t blame me for that. My heart pounds as I say it aloud. “He came to me in the Branding Chamber. He asked me to repent. I wouldn’t. So he ordered a sixth on my spine. Without anesthetic. Said I was Flawed to the very backbone.” I decide not to mention that it was him who branded me. Best to save my revelations.