Perfectly Imperfect Page 3

I slowly force myself to look at him. His green eyes are sparkling and full of excitement, and it’s impossible not to get lost in them. “A date?”

  “Yeah. Think about it. We can go to dinner, which will meet the requirement for the food. Then we can go dancing. We’ll finish the night with a stroll through town, which we can use to talk about everything else.”

  It’s a good idea—a really good idea—and I’m sure it will result in an A. But going on a fake date with Grayson in front of the class? Just thinking about that makes my stomach churn. And what will Cam think? Fake or not, something like this will hurt his feelings.

  “Well?” he asks.

  I nervously chew on the inside of my cheek. Getting an A in this class is so important. And it’s just a presentation. It doesn’t mean anything. After a moment, I nod. “I think it’s a really great idea.”

  “Awesome.” He smiles. “Any idea what place you want to choose?”

  I scrunch up my face. “I haven’t thought about it. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Hey, I came up with the presentation idea. Picking the place is up to you.”

  “Okay, I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow in class.”

  “Good.” He holds his hands up in a show of surrender. “Because if I have to do this whole thing on my own, I’m requesting a new partner.”

  I stare at him. Is he for real? We literally got the assignment thirty minutes ago. “Don’t worry. I’ll do my fair share.” There’s an edge to my tone, but I don’t care.

  “All right,” he says with a slow nod. “Well, here’s to a lucrative partnership, Belle the Bible Thumper.”

  I scowl. “My name’s Isabelle, and I’m not a Bible thumper.” Just because I go to church doesn’t mean I shove my beliefs down people’s throats. And so what if Grayson thinks I carry a Bible around with me? It was my brother’s most prized possession, and until two hours ago, I thought it was lost for good. Now that I have it back, I can’t stand the thought of not keeping it close to me.

  He’s silent for a moment, and I risk a glance at him. Head tilted, he narrows his eyes. “No one ever calls you Belle?”

  “Nope.” Not in a very long time, anyway, and I want to keep it that way.

  “Hmm.”

  “Do people call you Gray?” I ask.

  “Sometimes.” He shrugs. “Why? Is that what you want to call me?”

  “No. But if you’re going to insist on calling me Belle the Bible Thumper, I’m calling you the Motorcycle Maniac.”

  He flings his head back and laughs loudly, earning us a dirty look from the room monitor. Grayson cups his hand over his mouth, and despite my determination to dislike him, I find myself laughing right along with him. For the first time in longer than I can remember, the gaping, grief-filled hole in my chest and my absentee father and my drunk mother fade into the background, and I fully embrace the moment.

  “Okay, fair enough.” Grayson catches his breath, and everything comes rushing back to me. I can’t be this girl, the girl who laughs without a care, the girl who flirts with a dangerous boy, the girl who does anything outside what’s expected of her—there’s no room for that girl in my world.

  I’m Isabelle Carson. Straight A student dating the pastor’s son. Perfect daughter. Perfect friend. Respectable member of the church. Choir singer. This is who I was. This is who I shall—I must—remain.

  How are you, Isabelle?

  I’m fine. Perfectly fine.

  No one on the outside looking in could guess the truth.

  But I know.

  I lost everything the day my brother died, and now I’m barely keeping things together. But I have to. For myself. My parents. This lie of a life is all I have left.

  4

  GRAYSON

  WHEN STUDY HALL ENDS, Isabelle is out of the room before I can grab my backpack from the floor, and by the time I make it to the hallway, she’s gone. What is up with that girl? I check my schedule for my next class—Physics. At least it’s something I’m good at. I find the room easily enough and claim a seat in the back.

  A girl with curly brown hair and blue eyes stops next to my lab table. “Are you good in science?”

  “Uh, yeah? I guess.”

  “Good.” She sits next to me. “If I don’t pass this class, I don’t graduate, so I need a lab partner who knows what they’re doing.” She laughs, and it’s a melodic sound. Not quite as enticing as Isabelle’s laugh, but nice nonetheless. “You’re the new guy, right?”

  “Yup. That’s me. New Guy.” As much as I move around and have to switch schools, I should change my name to New Guy. It would be easier.

  “That’s not really your name, is it?” she asks, head tilted.

  “No…” I say, drawing out the word. Is she messing with me? This is a joke, right? “I’m Grayson.”

  “Oh.” Her confusion morphs into a bright smile. “I’m Brittany. You can call me Brit, though. Everyone does.”

  “You got it, Brit.” I give her a thumbs-up, and she blushes. She’s a pretty girl, but she’s no Isabelle. I hope Brit doesn’t think I’m rolling my eyes at her. It’s Isabelle. I barely know that girl, and I’m positive she hates me. So, why is she creeping into my thoughts like this?

  “So, make any friends yet?” Brit props her chin in one hand and drums her bright yellow fingernails against the lab table.

  “I’ve met one person so far. Isabelle Carson.”

  Brit straightens and scrunches up her face. “Oh, sweetie. No.” She shakes her head. “That girl is one freak out away from crazy town.”

  My first instinct is to defend Isabelle, but I really don’t know her. Not that I think she’s crazy, but Brit must know more about her than I do. All I want to do is learn about Isabelle, but I have a feeling Brit isn’t the most objective person when it comes to the topic of Isabelle Carson.

  “Trust me. Stick with me, and you’ll have the best senior year ever.”

  I flash her my best fake smile and give thanks for the final bell, which cuts off any further conversation. Class progresses quickly, and before I know it, the teacher is dismissing us.

  “What’s your next class?” Brit asks as we leave the room.

  “Geometry. You?”

  “English.” She frowns. “If you want, you’re welcome to sit with me and my friends during lunch.”

  I’m momentarily shocked by her invitation but quickly realize she’s saving me from the embarrassment of having to sit alone. I highly doubt Isabelle is going to save me a seat. “Thanks.”

  We part ways, and I take the four steps to the room next door.

  “I don’t know you,” says a short, plump man with a bald head and beady eyes. “You must be new.”

  “Yes, sir. Grayson Alexander.” The room is currently empty, and I worry that maybe I’m in the wrong class. “This is geometry, right?”

  The man rubs his hands over his head. “Yes. I’m Mr. Quail.”

  “Quail? Like the bird?” I start to laugh, but when he glares at me, I clamp my mouth shut.

  “Find a seat, Mr. Alexander.”

  Head down, I slink to the back of the room and slump behind a desk near the wall. I don’t know which first impression is worse—almost running over Isabelle, or calling my math teacher a bird. I really need to think before I speak.

  Despite the stern looks Mr. Quail sends my way, class speeds by, and when it’s over, I have at least an hour’s worth of homework. I check my schedule for my next class—Gym. I rush from the fourth floor all the way down to the bottom floor, where the gymnasium is located. Lakewood Valley High isn’t the biggest school I’ve ever attended, but it’s close. I’m going to have to take up jogging again so I can make it to my classes without huffing and puffing.

  Unlike other schools, gym here is not co-ed, save for a few units: swimming, hiking, cross-country skiing, and track. I can’t wait to get to the swimming unit, but I have to suffer through the other fitness units first. Hopefully, they won’t suck too bad. The moment I see my classma
tes, I realize how athletic they all are and how out of my league I am. This is going to suck so hard. Thankfully, because it’s the first day, we don’t have to actually do anything strenuous, and I can blend in against the wall for most of the period.

  “You’re the new guy, aren’t you?” asks a guy with shaggy brown hair as I’m leaving the locker room. He’s wearing board shorts and a T-shirt with a surfing logo across the chest. I remember seeing him in my gym class.

  “Yeah. Grayson.” I refrain from rolling my eyes at being called the new guy again.

  He sticks his hand out. “Vick Parker.”

  I shake his hand.

  “You headed to lunch now?” Vick asks.

  I nod. “If I can find the cafeteria.”

  He claps me on the back. “It’s this way.” He pushes through an unmarked door, which leads to a short hallway full of lockers. Turning a corner, he waves his arm to a glass-encased room full of tables. The cafeteria.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Food is this way.”

  He leads me around the outside of the room toward two smaller doors that are propped open. A small line has already formed. I grab a tray and get in line behind Vick. He piles silverware and napkins on his tray and moves down the line.

  “The sandwiches are always good,” he says, choosing a turkey and cheese on white bread. “Salads are decent, too, but avoid the hot foods. They’re usually not very hot, and the meat is questionable.”

  “Got it.” I pick a roast beef sandwich with lettuce and tomato and a bag of chips and set them on my tray as I follow Vick down the line.

  “All you’ll get in here is milk or water. If you want juice or pop, there’s a vending machine in the cafeteria.” He hands the lunch lady a ten, collects his change, and then waits for me to pay.

  The cafeteria is filling fast. I scan the room for Brittany, planning to accept her earlier invitation, but I don’t see her anywhere.

  “C’mon, you can sit with me.” Vick doesn’t wait for me to answer before he strides across the room, weaving in between chairs and tables. He doesn't even look back when he walks out the side door.

  I glance around, fully expecting to see a teacher chasing him and telling him to get back inside. But nothing happens. With no other options, I follow and catch up with him in a large, grassy courtyard.

  “Seniors are allowed to sit out here for lunch,” he says over his shoulder. “But once it starts snowing, we’re held hostage inside.”

  A huge tree marks the courtyard’s center. Decorative bricks surround the tree trunk and keep red mulch from spilling into the grass. A handful of round, concrete tables fill the space. Flowerbeds run the entire length of the building. It’s certainly much cheerier than the cafeteria.

  Vick sets his tray on a table, and that’s when I notice Isabelle sitting at the same table, deep in conversation with another girl. Score! I happily set down my tray and sit beside Vick. Isabelle doesn’t even notice me.

  “Hey, Vick,” the other guy at the table says. “Who’s your friend?”

  At that, Isabelle’s head snaps up. She narrows her eyes at me. “Grayson.” She nearly growls my name.

  “Isabelle,” I say politely. “I see we’ve ditched the nicknames already.”

  “Wait, you two know each other?” the guy asks, looking back and forth between us. The rest of the guys sitting at the table stop eating and watch our exchange.

  “We have a couple classes together,” I say.

  “This is the maniac who tried to run me over this morning,” Isabelle says to the guy.

  He shifts closer and puts his arm around her shoulders. “So, you’re the one who almost killed my girlfriend.”

  Girlfriend? Isabelle’s dating that guy? I should have known she has a boyfriend. “Yeah, she embellished the truth a little.” I slice a look in her direction. “I didn’t almost kill her. I didn’t even come close to her.”

  She opens her mouth to speak, but the guy cuts her off. “I’m Cam, by the way.”

  I don’t miss the nasty glare she shoots my way.

  “And that’s Hannah,” Vick says, nodding at the girl sitting next to Isabelle. “That’s Jake, Kyle, and Nolan.”

  “Hey.” I nod at each of them and then return my gaze to Cam, who is now pressing his lips to Isabelle’s temple. Well, any ideas I had about pursuing her are out of the question now.

  “Oh, Grayson, honey. Didn’t we already have this talk?” Brittany stops behind me. I twist around to look at her, and she shakes her head. “Don’t sit with the Jesus freaks. It’s social suicide.”

  “Go suck on a cactus, Brit,” Vick says.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Isabelle pull away from Cam and straighten. She’s staring daggers at Brit. Then, she lowers her gaze to me. “What’s it going to be, Grayson? You going to sit with us Bible thumpers? Or are you going to join Brittany’s harem?”

  Hannah tries to stifle a laugh, but she ends up spitting out a mouthful of water.

  “Isabelle,” Cam scolds.

  “Doesn’t your big, bad, all-knowing God say jealousy is a sin?” Brittany asks in a mocking tone. “Really, Belly. It’s not my fault Grayson likes me more.”

  “Pity isn’t friendship.”

  “Isabelle!” Cam says again, this time more sternly. His face is red—with anger or embarrassment, I’m not sure.

  I watch the exchange with morbid curiosity, wondering why there’s so much animosity between Isabelle and Brittany.

  Isabelle’s gaze meets mine again, challenging me. “Well?” she asks, lifting a single brow.

  “Well what?” I ask innocently. At this point, I can’t help but tease her. Call me a sucker, but I’m eager to see the same fiery snark I saw this morning in the hallway.

  “Who’re you sitting with? Us or her?” Isabelle slices a quick, dirty look at Brittany.

  I fight to hide my smile. “Be careful, Isabelle. I’m starting to think you might actually like me.”

  She laughs, surprised, and then quickly scowls. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.” She turns her attention back to Cam.

  I take a deep breath, knowing whatever choice I make, I’m drawing a line in the sand that will be impossible to cross. Organized religion and I don’t get along, and I swore to myself I’d never get wrapped up in church again—not after what happened with my mom. But if keeping that personal vow means turning my back on Isabelle and the sort-of friendship we have…

  “I think I’m going to sit here today, Brit. Thanks, though,” I say.

  Brit looks at me with disbelief, huffs, and then storms away.

  “Why did you do that?” Cam asks Isabelle as soon as Brittany is gone. “You’re above that level of pettiness.”

  “I know.” Isabelle sighs and hangs her head as if she’s ashamed of her behavior. “She just gets under my skin. I hate how she’s always making fun of us for our beliefs. And the way she calls me Belly. Ugh.”

  “I understand.” Cam strokes her hand. “But stooping to her level like that isn’t going to change anything. You just have to pray about it.”

  Vick, Hannah, and the others are silent witnesses, eating their lunches as if this is a normal, everyday occurrence. Maybe it is.

  “Personally, I think you did the right thing.” I open my bottle of water and swallow a mouthful.

  Isabelle looks up at me. “You do?”

  “Yup.” I twist the top back onto my water and set it on my tray. “If you don’t speak up, she’ll just keep doing it. There’s nothing wrong with standing up for yourself.”

  “Thanks,” she whispers. There’s a hint of a smile on her lips, but she looks down again.

  Cam drapes his arm across the back of her chair. “There are ways to stand up for yourself without name calling and hurling insults.”

  The tips of my ears burn with growing anger, and I clench my jaw. “And I’m sure there are ways to stand up for your girlfriend without letting someone make fun of her while you sit there and do nothing.” I
stand and grab my tray. “Thanks for letting me sit with you, Vick. I think I’ll try the inside scene for a bit.”

  What kind of guy allows someone to say such mean things to his girlfriend? Why didn’t Cam speak up? Instead of telling Brittany to knock it off, he yells at Isabelle for trying to defend herself? I dump my uneaten food into the trash, drop the tray onto a stack of trays, and head for my locker.

  And why does Isabelle let him tell her what to do like that? Why doesn’t she tell him to shut up? I know she’s got it in her—I’ve seen her wrath firsthand. Maybe she saves that snark and fire for people she doesn’t like.

  I shrug off thoughts of Isabelle. It doesn’t matter how I feel or what she does or doesn’t do. She’s got a boyfriend, and that means she’s off limits. I will not follow in my mother’s footsteps.

  5

  ISABELLE

  I SLOW DOWN TO MAKE the turn into my driveway, and like I’ve done every day for the past year, I pray my dad’s car is there. But just like every other day, it’s not, which means he’s working late. Again. I sit in my car for a few moments to gather my thoughts because once I step into the house, I’m going to be bombarded with chores.

  I take several deep, calming breaths. Mondays and Wednesdays are always the hardest. Tuesdays I’m home late because of youth group, and Thursdays I usually go home from school with Cam and have dinner with his family before choir practice. I take the keys from the ignition, toss them in my backpack, and get out of the car.

  “Isabelle!” My neighbor from across the street rushes toward me. “Isabelle, dear.”

  I plaster a smile on my face and slowly turn around. “Hi, Ms. Rhoades.”

  Her white hair is piled atop her head in some out-of-date hairstyle I’m positive was never cool, not even back in the 50s when it was popular.

  She flattens her palm over her chest and gasps for air like she just ran a marathon as opposed to simply crossing the street. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with your mother all day. Is she okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. She wasn’t feeling very well last night. I think she’s coming down with the flu. She’s probably been in bed most of the day.” I keep my voice steady so as not to alert her that I’m lying.