Picture Imperfect 2

(A/N: I thought I'd let you know that I dislike this particular part of my story. I don't know why, but I just don't. I think my characters seem weak. Please, please, please tell me what you think is wrong with this chapter; I really need the help!

If you haven't read the prologue, here is the link:

Picture Imperfect  (13+) Where will the perfections and imperfections of life lead Alice? #796825 by ClearlyClayr

It's not too long, and it'll help you just get the gist of the story so far.)

~*~ Chapter One: Medusa in the Mirror ~*~

I felt a bit like the monster Medusa when I looked in the mirror most mornings, and the fifteenth of June was no exception. Medusa’s weakness was her own reflection, seeing herself for what she was, and that had brought forth her downfall. In that likeness, I was being brought down by my reflection, physical, mental, and intellectual alike. But it wasn’t like looking into a normal mirror, the way I saw myself; I could see beyond the makeup and fabricated smile. I knew that I would never be good enough, and in pretending to be, I was bringing forth my own downfall. I was being turned to stone.

My biggest weakness was my own mind, body, and soul. My biggest weakness was everything, especially the way I saw myself.

Yet the day went on like any other. I forced myself to ignore the Medusa in the mirror.

Once I survived the mornings, the freeway to the rest of my life was open, all traffic was cleared, and I could take the paved roads, instead of the gravel ones, down life’s path. There were other people there, in the other world that subsisted outside the walls of my home, a place where I could coexist with other human beings, and not feel a total blankness, a black hole, deep inside my heart.

And at the present moment, that otherworldly place was school. Anywhere that was far away from the dark recesses of my home was a surreal place, and anywhere my friends were was the place I liked to call my true home. So I guess one would have called me a hobo, my home moving from place to place. A home was more than a residence to me. It was supposed to be a place where people gathered, and loved one another. But it all seemed so far away, so I carried my true home in my soul.

Slightly outdated, the school at Ratchet, Minnesota, had seen better days. The fading pastel paints that graced the walls of the classroom had given the interior of the whole building a dull, drab feeling, almost as if they had seen a little too much in their days, and if they could talk, could probably tell the most interesting stories in town. The desks were full of engravings, which were mostly the customary foul language that all school desks seem to acquire over time. The hallways were quite clean, unless perchance you happened to glance at the lockers, which was nearly impossible to do, seeing as the each hallway seemed to consist entirely of lockers.

The lockers were mounted on both sides of the walls, which defeated the purpose of not looking at lockers as you walked, and were a rusty brown color. No one really knew if they were painted that way, or if the paint had turned that color over the years, but all we knew that no matter how much we decorated the inside, or no matter how many achievement posters were taped to the outside, there was no escaping the ugliness of the lockers.

And some days, I felt like a locker. Ugly, though things were covered up. And some lockers didn’t open, the way I didn’t open up all the time. So the lockers were kicked and pounded on, just as people pulverized my mental capacities, trying to crack open my soul, my emotions, and my mere existence.

Maybe we all feel a little like lockers, sometimes.

“Alice Detlef, are you daydreaming in class again?” A vivacious voice shattered my thoughts, as I found myself in the bleak reality that was English class, facing my best friend, Lynn Pinna. Her hands rested in a falsely stern manner on her trim hips, and though she tried her hardest to look unyielding, the way her lips curled into a large grin, revealing a mouth full of metal, took away from her commanding look. But most of all, the light flickering in her turquoise-blue eyes gave her away. “Thinking about a certain boy named Donovan Jakob, are we?”

I had to smile, and shake my head. “Nope,” I said rather absently. “Lockers.”

To any other person but Lynn, I would have sounded like a recent escapee of the insane asylum, revealing that I had been lost in the world of thought, thinking about lockers, of all things. But Lynn seemed to understand that even the most eccentric subjects, and furthermore, could make sense out of what was said about them.

“We’re all a little like lockers, I guess,” I confessed aloud, as Lynn twirled a strand of light brown hair in her fingers. “Abused, and covered up,” I finished, leaning back into my desk thoughtfully.

“But we’re all useful, and have many interesting stories to tell.” Lynn nodded, always the optimist.

“And what a magnificent use of similes and metaphors Alice and Lynn have kindly demonstrated for us!” An articulately perfect voice interrupted our conversation, and I immediately felt trouble downing upon us, as the form of Mrs. Ryder, the English teacher, materialized before us. “But unfortunately, it has nothing to do with Julius Caesar. If I need to tell you two to be quiet one more time, you’ll both have detentions for a week. Now—who can tell me why it was a mistake that Brutus neglected to kill Mark Antony…”

And from that point on, I was thrust forward back into the world of my musings and daydreaming, as Shakespeare’s words bounced off my skull, not penetrating the deep thoughts I had become absorbed in.

*

The bell rang, its sound echoing only for a few moments, due to the tumultuous noise that resonated throughout the school. The school day had come to a close, and seeing as how it was nearly the end of the school year, everyone acted as if they were being set free from the state penitentiary, screaming and yelling as the bell sounded its feeble cry. Like they were being pursued by death itself, students poured out of the building, without even stopping at their lockers.

Sometimes it was nice to sit back and revel in the chaotic surroundings, to stop and smell the roses, and let life go by at its own pace. So leaning against my locker, I watched the masses flock by. As people passed by me and bade me farewell, I didn’t even see their faces, or hear what their voices were really saying; I was basking in the glory of standing at my locker, lost in peaceful reveries, watching them all scurry out.

Or at least that was what I pretended to do. I knew that deep in my heart, I wasn’t really watching the other students flock out, or I wasn’t reveling in time, just pausing to enjoy life. I just didn’t want to go home, alone. In all honesty, I was waiting, and watching, for Donovan to appear out of thin air, and whisk me away, off to some fantasy land that was anywhere but here and now.

And the moment I saw him dragging his backpack down the hall, I felt as if I were being flown off to that wonderful land that was love, where all my worries and fears seemed to be carried away with the breeze from the school air conditioners, which was currently blowing hot air.

“Are you waiting for me?” I could hear Donovan’s voice echo slightly off the walls (and lockers) of the now-empty hallways, as he addressed me with a smile. I didn’t have to say anything in reply; the answer was apparent. “And it’s a good thing I’m not the one waiting for you. Ryder nearly gave you a detention!”

I had to laugh, and shake my head. “Shakespeare was boring the life out of me.”

Donovan smiled at me, and took one of my hands in his. “Let’s get outta here,” he said softly, leaning in towards me. I felt my heart beat faster, as he dangled a pair of car keys in front of my nose. “It’s a Friday, and we’re still standing in the school hallways… Honestly, Alice, I think you’re lost in Wonderland.”

With a quick snatch, I grabbed Donovan’s car keys, and rolled my eyes. “Oh, come on…” I could tell Donovan was inwardly feeling proud of himself for the comment, and I was in a tolerant mood; I didn’t feel like making fun of him in return. It seemed that everyone did enough of that anyway.

Walking down the hallway with Donovan at my side, I felt an aching inside my chest. Donovan was too tolerant of the comments that other people, mainly the guys he called his friends, threw at him. Even they seemed to enjoy having a good go at him on the occasion, when there was nothing better to do. Even his best friend, Neil Hagen, could be pretty harsh. The previous football season, Donovan had fumbled the ball, and left the other team’s path to victory clear in the playoffs. He never heard the end of it. But I was sure of one thing that he didn’t fumble, and that thing was my heart. It hurt me to see him take it all, and I knew that deep down, it had to bother him, though on the outside, he smiled, as if everything were perfect.

Tossing Donovan his keys, I gave his maroon Chevy a hard thump on the hood, and I could have sworn I heard the thing groan, as the hood resisted the pressure. At one point, I was sure it had been a decent car, but now it was evident that it had seen better days. With the fading maroon paint peeling in some places, and completely gone in other places (trying to clean it, Donovan accidentally pressure-washed the paint clean off the vehicle), and a duct-taped window, it wasn’t anyone’s dream car, that was certain.

But the inside was comfortable, worn in just perfectly. The dark red seats were sun-bleached, and had been sat in so many times that they were the more comfortable than the seats of my father’s brand-spanking-new Cadillac. A light essence of Donovan’s cologne graced the air, accompanied by the “New Car” scented air freshener. As I sunk into my seat and inhaled, I thought that I had found what Heaven smelled like.

And sitting next to me, in the driver’s seat, was the closest thing to Heaven I knew. Donovan pushed his blonde hair back, and settled into his seat, turning the key into the ignition, letting the engine purr. His blue eyes shone, as he pretended to admire the sound, leaning back in relaxation for a brief moment, before we took off out of the parking lot.

“Where did Lynn go today?” Donovan asked candidly, coming to a halt at a stop sign. “Where’s the next big party?” His voice had taken on a slightly worried tone. Lynn and Donovan came from opposite ends of the personality spectrum. Lynn was a wild child who had seen her fair share of parties, and let nothing bother her. She had a strong liking of alcohol, and tended to spend her weekends intoxicated. Donovan was a truly good kid, the kind that you bring home to meet your parents, and the kind that they instantly fell in love with.

But my parents had never taken the time to really meet Donovan. Nearly every day, Donovan was at my house, and the most my parents had ever said to him was, “Oh, you’re Donovan. Nice to meet you, but I have to run; business meeting.” Even at Prom, they hadn’t taken much time for him. All they said to us before we left was, and I quote, “You aren’t going to a hotel to screw each other. There will be no drinking or drugs. Have a nice night, kids.”

Hell, my parents wouldn’t have noticed if I’d brought the resident druggies from school home to meet them. There wasn’t much they did notice, and if they noticed anything at all, it was something you didn’t want noticed. By some means, they would give me hell, when someone told them that Mrs. Ryder nearly gave me detention. They would harass me for every grade that was lower than 100%, and everything above it went unnoticed.

I sighed. Lynn was the type of girl who was fun, and understanding. I could tell her anything, and trust her with my secrets, much as I could with Donovan, but Lynn had a definite wild streak to her, a certain fire inside. She spent her week at parties, and her weeknights ended at midnight, when she’d come home. And wherever Lynn went, there was alcohol by the gallon. It was a path that I didn’t often take, and Lynn respected that.

“I don’t know, actually,” I answered Donovan’s question, snapping back to reality, almost forgetting that he had spoken. “I was too busy wondering what you were doing this weekend, since I’m obviously doing nothing, and you’re obviously doing nothing…”

“And we can change that!” Donovan said cheerfully. Looking down his pointed nose at me, he wasn’t able to suppress a grin from ear-to-ear, and wasn’t able to stop a hand from traveling over to meet mine. I felt my heart melting like warm butter on a hot piece of toast as my fingers laced perfectly through his.

“There’s nothing going on at the Fortress, so we can make camp there for the weekend, or the day,” I shrugged. The Fortress was short for The Fortress of Evil, which is what I commonly referred to my house as. Most people called it the Fortress simply because it was massive; I called it the Fortress because, like a castle, it protected what was inside; it held so many awful memories and secrets, and protected them with beautiful decorations and fancy appliances.

“Sounds inviting,” he mused, pretending to contemplate if he liked the sound of the idea or not. “The prettiest girl in Ratchet,” he lowered his voice, and the hand that held mine tightened its grip; I had to lean in closer, even though we were in a moving vehicle. “And she’s mine for the weekend.”

I kissed his cheek, and leaned my head against Donovan’s arm, feeling perfectly content at that moment. Even as I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass windshield, the Medusa that peered back at me didn’t seem quite so frightening.