Perfect - 02 Read online

  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.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  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