Perfect - 02
Ellen Hopkins
Also by Ellen Hopkins
Crank
Burned
Impulse
Glass
Identical
Tricks
Fallout
Margaret K. McElderry Books
MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Ellen Hopkins
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
MARGARETK. MCELDERRY BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Book edited by Emma D. Dryden
Book design by Mike Rosamilia
The text for this book is set in Trade Gothic Condensed No. 18.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hopkins, Ellen.
Perfect / Ellen Hopkins.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4169-8324-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4424-2357-2 (eBook)
[1. Novels in verse. 2. Self-esteem—Fiction. 3. Perfectionism (Personality trait)—Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 5. Family life—Nevada—Fiction. 6. Nevada—Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.5.H67Per 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010037543
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1: Cara Sierra Sykes
Chapter 2: Kendra Melody Mathieson
Chapter 3: Sean Terrence O’Connell
Chapter 4: Andre Marcus Kane III
Chapter 5: Cara
Chapter 6: Kendra
Chapter 7: Sean
Chapter 8: Andre
Chapter 9: Cara
Chapter 10: Kendra
Chapter 11: Sean
Chapter 12: Andre
Chapter 13: Cara
Chapter 14: Kendra
Chapter 15: Sean
Chapter 16: Andre
Chapter 17: Cara
Chapter 18: Kendra
Chapter 19: Sean
Chapter 20: Andre
Chapter 21: Cara
Chapter 22: Kendra
Chapter 23: Sean
Chapter 24: Andre
Chapter 25: Cara
Chapter 26: Kendra
Chapter 27: Sean
Chapter 28: Andre
Chapter 29: Cara
Chapter 30: Kendra
Chapter 31: Sean
Chapter 32: Andre
Chapter 33: Cara
Chapter 34: Kendra
Chapter 35: Sean
Chapter 36: Andre
Chapter 37: Cara
Chapter 38: Kendra
Chapter 39: Sean
Chapter 40: Andre
Chapter 41: Cara
Chapter 42: Kendra
Chapter 43: Sean
Chapter 44: Andre
Chapter 45: Cara
Chapter 46: Kendra
Chapter 47: Sean
Chapter 48: Andre
Chapter 49: Cara
Chapter 50: Kendra
Chapter 51: Sean
Chapter 52: Andre
Chapter 53: Cara
Chapter 54: Kendra
Chapter 55: Sean
Chapter 56: Andre
Chapter 57: Cara
Author’s Note
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This ebook is best read at the smallest font setting on your device.
This book is dedicated to every person who has ever looked into a mirror and thought, “I’m not good enough.”
With special thanks to all the people who have convinced me I am good enough. To my mom and dad, who encouraged my talents; and to the teachers who honed those gifts. To my husband, who gathered me in, and to my children, who taught me patience. To my cadre of friends who prop me up when I need it. To Ash Canyon Poets, who helped grow my poetry, and SCBWI, which showed me the way.
To my agent, Laura Rennert, and the Andrea Brown Literary Agency. To my editor and friend, Emma Dryden. To the whole crew at Simon & Schuster who help my books be the best they can be. To teachers and librarians, who share my books with their kids. And, finally, to my readers, who keep faith in me.
Acknowledgments
I must acknowledge the dozens of readers who shared personal stories about eating disorders, beauty pageant experiences, and steroid use. These stories informed the characters in this book, who wouldn’t be as real as they are without them. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
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 waves
of silvery clouds sweep over the crest
of the Sierra, open their obese
bellies, and release foot upon foot
of crisp new powder. The ski
resorts would be happy, except
the roads are so hard to travel
that people are staying home.
So it kind of boggles the mind
that three guys are laying carpet
in the living room. Just goes to
show the power of money. In less
than an hour, the stain Conner left
on the hardwood will be a ghost.
The Stain
That Conner left on our lives will
not vanish as easily. I don’t care
about Mom and her birds.
Their estimation of my brother
doesn’t bother me at all. Neither
do I worry about Dad and
what his lobbyist buddies think.
His political clout has not diminished.
As twins go, Conner and I don’t share
a deep affection, but we do have
a nine-months-in-the-same-womb
connection. Not to mention
a crowd of mutual friends. God,
I’ll never forget going to school
the day after that ugly scene.
The plan was to sever the gossip
grapevine from the start with
an obvious explanation—
accident. Mom’s orders were
clear. Conner’s reputation
was to be protected at all costs.
When I arrived, the rumors
had already started, thanks
to our neighbor, Bobby Duvall.
Conner Sykes got hurt.
Conner Sykes was shot.
Conner Sykes is in the hospital.
Is Conner Sykes, like, dead?
I fielded every single question
with the agreed fabrication.
But eventually, I was forced to
concede that, though his wounds
would heal, he was not coming
back to school right away.
Conner Sykes wasn’t dead.
But he wasn’t exactly “okay.”
When People Ask
How he’s doing now, I have
no idea what to say except for,
“Better.” I don’t know if that’s
true, or what goes on in a place
like Aspen Springs, not that any-
one knows he’s there, thank God.
He has dropped off most people’s
radar, although that’s kind of odd.
Before he took this unbelievable
turn, Conner was top rung on our
social ladder. But with his crash
and burn no longer news of the day,
all but a gossipy few have quit
<
br /> trying to fill in the blanks.
One exception is Kendra, who
for some idiotic reason still
loves him and keeps asking about
him, despite the horrible way he
dumped her. Kendra may be pretty,
but she’s not especially bright.
Kendra Melody Mathieson
Pretty
That’s what I am, I guess.
I mean, people have been telling
me that’s what I am since
I was two. Maybe younger.
Pretty
as a picture. (Who wants
to be a cliché?) Pretty as
an angel. (Can you see them?)
Pretty as a butterfly. (But
isn’t
that really just a glam bug?)
Cliché, invisible, or insectlike,
I grew up knowing I was
pretty and believing everything
good
about me had to do with how
I looked. The mirror was my best
friend. Until it started telling
me I wasn’t really pretty
enough.
Pale Beauty
That’s what my mom calls the gift
she gave me, through genetics.
We are Scandinavian willows,
with vanilla hair and glacier blue
eyes and bone china skin. Two
hours in the sun turns me the color
of ripe watermelon. When I lead
cheers at football games, it is wearing
SPF 60 sunblock. Gross. Basketball
season is better, but I’ll be glad
when it’s over. Between dance lessons
and vocal training and helping out
at the food bank (all grooming for Miss
Teen Nevada), I barely have time for
homework, let alone fun. At least
staying busy mostly keeps my mind
off Conner. I wish I could forget
about him, but that’s not possible.
I tumbled hard for that guy. Gave him
all of me. I thought we had something
special. He even let me see the scared
little boy inside him, the one not many
