Imperfectly Perfect

Eight

"Where are we going?"
"Not saying."
I'm in Alex's car. I drove mine to his house where I left it and now he's taking me on some adventure. I kind of feel giddy to be honest. Yesterday was the only other time I missed practice and this was the first time I actually wanted to and did it on purpose. I'm not even a big fan of running.
I look around Alex's car. Plastic bottles and candy wrappers litter the ground. A car freshener dangles from the mirror which makes his car smell like freshly cut grass which I enjoy. A duffle bag lies on his backseat.
"Do you play a sport?" I ask.
"Used to box, now I just use that bag for the gym."
"Why did you quit?"
"I don't like to call it quitting, I prefer saying accepting fate. You see at first I loved it, but as time went on I found myself no longer being so enthusiastic and I wasn't making much progress. Then after a year I got my first concussion, wasn't a good experience. Six months later I broke my wrist. Then after my wrist healed I tried to go back only to end up with another concussion. By then it was a while since I got excited about tournaments or anything boxing related, so I excepted my fate."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah I miss it sometimes and I kind of wonder why I just stopped loving it, but there has to be a reason and maybe I just haven't found it yet."
"I hope you do."
"Me too. Me too."
"Can I ask you something?" I look at him and I feel my cheeks blush from my awkwardness.
"Sure," he glances at me, "is it how do you prevent blushing? Cuz you so that a lot."
"No," I lightly slap him on the arm, "it's serious. Do you...have you ever wondered who you are? I mean like when you do something people don't like sometimes they say 'this isn't you' or 'this isn't the Annabelle I know' and it's like well who am I? You know? Like how am I supposed to act? What am I meant to do? Who am I truly because I feel like everyone is influenced by the people they're around and it makes me wonder, who am I? What parts of me are truly me because I feel like I was just influenced and I don't know who I really am."
He stays silent for a minute, processing my anxiety. "Well I know how you feel. I thought I was meant to be a boxer, but it turned out I wasn't. I only live here because of my parents. I've only tried alcohol because of my friends. So I get the 'who am I?' Because I feel the exact same way. Although I think you think about it too much. Maybe that's part of the true you. You're an over thinker."
"I think you're right."
"You think too much, it's going to kill you. You need to relax, clear your mind. Maybe you need to get high."
"Hey, drugs don't clear your mind they cloud them it's not the same."
"Alright, alright don't worry I don't have any on me."
"How old are you?" I ask.
"Sixteen, junior."
"Sixteen, sophomore."
"I know."
"How?"
"I've asked about you."
"Asked who?"
"People?"
"What did they say?"
"Your grade, age, that you do track, how you're in a bunch of advanced class, super smart, too worried about school, pretty, hot nerd, over thinker... Stuff like that.
"Someone really said I was an over thinker?"
"I just threw that in." he laughs.
"Wait someone called me a hot nerd? Should I feel flattered or insulted?"
"Flattered. Hot nerds are...hot."
"Hmm."
"I agree with all of it."
"Thanks?"
"Anytime." he grins and pulls into a parking lot, "Well we're here."