Perfect. Part 1

Perfect.

Ellen Hopkins.

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, h.e.l.lo, 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 cla.s.s 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 c.h.i.n.k in her fourteen-carat armor, he'd have capitalized on it.

Not her friends. (I think the term misrepresents the relations.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+t 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. G.o.d, 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 G.o.d.

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 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 cliche?) Pretty as an angel. (Can you see them?) Pretty as a b.u.t.terfly. (But isn't that really just a glam bug?) Cliche, 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 other people ever catch a glimpse of.

Did he show that boy to the ambulance drivers who took him to the hospital, or to the doctors and nurses who dug the bullet out of his chest? Sewed him up. Saved his life. I want to see him, but Cara says Saint Mary's won't allow visitors. Bet he doesn't want them-scared he might look helpless.

What He Doesn't Get Is that everyone gets scared. I used to get sick to my stomach every day before school. Reading, writing, and arithmetic? Not my best things.

I just knew some genius bully was going to make major fun of me.

Then I figured out Rule Number One of the Popularity Game-looks trump brains every time. While it might be nice to have both, I'll settle for what I've got. College isn't a major goal.

Don't need it to model. Everyone says I have what it takes to do runway.

I don't think I do yet. But I will.

My Mom Has Groomed Me For modeling for years, ever since she entered me in my very first baby beauty pageant. I wasn't even one yet.

Couldn't walk, but already had a killer smile. Mom dressed me up in pink swirls and paraded me down that runway herself.

We went home with a tiara. Next thing you know, I had an impressive portfolio and a dozen more rhinestone crowns.

Soon, my cute cherub face was smiling for diaper ads and shampoo commercials.

Once I could toddle, the trend continued, with pricey gowns and big-girl makeup and hair that made me look years older.

Then I did catalogue shots-wearing the latest JC Penney and Sears fas.h.i.+ons.

All through grade school, weekends centered around pageants. And after school, instead of homework, I studied ballet and tap and gymnastics. Plus the coaching in poise, and prepping for interviews. Oh yes, and cozying up to sponsors, who helped pay for outfits and entry fees. Mom ended up leaving Daddy for one of them-an orthodontist with a client list full of beauty queen hopefuls. Patrick is my stepdad now, and he's still paying our way in. I took a year off while he straightened my teeth.

Braces and pageants don't mix. It was right about then that the mirror started showing me flaws. When you're younger, a b.u.mp in the nose and a few extra pounds don't mean much. But now they do.

The Rhinoplasty Is already scheduled for spring break.

A week to heal the swelling and bruising that come with nose jobs. Scared?