Perfectly Faulted

Chapter 2

Hi everyone! On the right is a picture of Skyla...

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It was a long day. Ms. Darton, our biology teacher, told us that we will have a test the day after tomorrow, and Mrs. Flomer, our annoying math teacher, scheduled us an exam on the same day. I'm not worried about the tests because I know I'll do very well, as I always do. I hate to brag about my grades; I usually don't mention them at all. A small group of Stylettes hate me because of them, and I sometimes wish I was just an average student with average grades. Unfortunately, that isn't the case, and today, when they caught sight of my 100% on the physics test, they didn't hesitate to confront me in the hallway.

"Feeling good about yourself? Better keep up the grades, huh? Well go and have fun studying, dork!" They yanked my bag out of my arms and took out two textbooks, shoving them into my hands as hard as they could and throwing the bag on the floor. I stumbled backwards and fell into the crowd of other students, nearly getting my hand stepped on by an oblivious boy. And then Evan was there, helping me up and yelling at the girls to stop.

"Look, Andrea," she said to the girl who had yelled at me a few minutes earlier. "Skye is smart. She studies. You girls should quit attacking her for that, just because you're a bunch of people who don't know the meaning of studying. You should really look up to her, 'cause one day, you're going to be called stupid while Skye will have an amazing life ahead of her. So just stop, because let me just tell you this: you're not cool."

The girls turned from us, flipping their blond ponytails and strutting away in their expensive jeans. "Thanks," I said to Evan quietly.

"No problem! But seriously, though, those girls are idiots."

"Yeah..." I guess that to be as popular as they are, you have to be pretty stupid, I thought.

Now I'm walking home, thinking of the events of the day and staring at my black Converse that shuffle below me, kicking small rocks across the road. The graveyard is to my left, and I decide to go in. The gate is open, and I walk around the stones for a bit before settling myself down in front of one, where I place a bouquet of flowers that I bought at the store. I hope you like these, Mom. I know you love roses. She passed away three years ago, while I was still in middle school. Cancer. Dad had been holding her hand all night. I walk a bit further and settle myself down under a weeping willow tree. Its flexible, thin branches blow in the October breeze, and I take out my journal to write a bit. This is the spot I have been going to for about two years now, whenever I need to get something off of my mind.

About half an hour later, I decide to walk home. I arrive at the front steps, and look up at the house. It is a grayish blue, and the old wooden door has faded. The steps are cracked on the sides, and I climb up to ring the doorbell. My father answers the door. He opens it and smiles, a tired smile that has grown sadder over the years. He works from home, but he suffers from terrible depression, although he tries hard to hide it. His boss, who he meets with regularly, puts too much pressure on him, which is difficult to handle. He is often on the computer past two in the morning. I hug him, knowing that after Mom's death, everything has gotten much harder for him. It's just me and him here, so sometimes, when he does not have the energy to do much, I do my best to take care of him, cook and clean the way Mom used to. 

Today, I just climb up the creaky stairs to my room, where I will start my homework. I walk up to the mirror to look at myself. I see blue eyes, mid-length jet black hair, bangs that nearly cover my right eye. I'm small, and some make fun of my height. I have long fingers though, from years of playing the guitar. It's an acoustic guitar, and I often take it out to strum chords from my favorite songs. I'm wearing a t-shirt with my favorite band's logo on it and tight jeans with pockets that sag because of my hands always being in them. I wear eyeliner, but just a bit to make my eyes stand out. They are a feature that I love about myself. I have long eyelashes, and I love the color of my eyes. They come from my Mom, while the black hair comes from my Dad's side. 

I stare at my reflection, thinking about what happened today. Tomorrow, things might get better. Maybe. Evan, who lives very close by, would walk to school with me, as she always does, and we would talk. Yes, I hoped that things would get better.

I listen silently to Dad, bustling around in the kitchen, smelling the aroma of tomato sauce. I look down then at my wrists, covered with quotes that I love written in black pen. One of them is by the actress Angelina Jolie, which says: "We come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly." Thats how I wished someone would see me--a person who loves me for who I am, with all of my faults, my flaws and my mistakes. Someone who would say to me that I am not perfect, but that I am perfect to them. Perfectly faulted. That's what I am.