Present Perfect Read online

  Copyright © 2013 Alison G. Bailey

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1482772973

  ISBN-13: 978-1482772975

  Cover design by Robin Harper, Wicked By Design

  Interior book design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  Edited by Maria DeSouza

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Entry 1

  Entry 2

  Entry 3

  Entry 4

  Entry 5

  Entry 6

  Entry 7

  Entry 8

  Entry 9

  Entry 10

  Entry 11

  Entry 12

  Entry 13

  Entry 14

  Entry 15

  Entry 16

  Entry 17

  Entry 18

  Entry 19

  Entry 20

  Entry 21

  Entry 22

  Entry 23

  Entry 24

  Entry 25

  Entry 26

  Entry 27

  Entry 28

  Entry 29

  Entry 30

  Entry 31

  Entry 32

  Entry 33

  Entry 34

  Entry 35

  Entry 36

  Notes to Halle

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  To my mom, Helen, and the memory of my dad, Dreher. Thank you for giving me the strength of character, the ability to hope, and the invaluable gift of humor.

  If there’s no such thing as perfect then, why does the word exist? My parents never told me that I had to be perfect, at least I don’t remember them saying the word in regards to me, but somehow the need to be had seeped into my bloodstream and flowed through my entire body.

  Perfectionism was a sneaky bastard. I can’t remember a time when being a perfectionist wasn’t my main goal in life. It has always been a part of me. The people that are most important to me all appeared perfect in my eyes. My mom and dad have always been perfect parents. Emily, my older sister, has always been the perfect daughter and sister. She had it all, looks, intelligence, and talent.

  Beautiful doesn’t really describe Emily’s looks. Her face was a work of art, perfectly symmetrical. Her grey eyes were large and vibrant against her silky dark chocolate brown hair, which flowed over her tan shoulders and down her back. Her nose, was straight, perky, and hovered over a set of full lips. Her cheekbones couldn’t get any higher and her jaw was strong, but feminine. She took after my dad in the height department. Being tall and lean was a huge asset when she decided to start playing basketball and running track, both of which garnered her state championship trophies. Her name was a constant on the school’s honor roll and she took to ballet dancing like a duck to water.

  The only bad thing Emily had done was cast a perfect shadow that I had to live under, making my accomplishments pale in comparison, thus making my life miserable. My life didn’t appear miserable from the outside, but inside was a different story.

  I have always felt inadequate in all areas of my life. It’s difficult being the second born. People think that if you are the baby of the family then you have it made, constantly being doted on. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Being the baby or not, if you were born second you will always be second. It isn’t like my parents ever sat me down and said, “Amanda, you may as well get used to being second. Second is respectable. It isn’t a gold medal or giant trophy, but we all can’t be winners. That’s why they hand out ribbons for participation. And we all know you can’t have a winner without participants.”

  From the time I emerged from my mother’s womb, the comparisons to my sister began. On many occasions, most of them involving copious amounts of adult beverages, my mother would regale the family and friends who had gathered around her with the story of my horrific birth day.

  To begin with, I was late. My mother claimed she was in hard labor for twenty hours, during a snow storm, while my father pushed her uphill. I could never dispute the twenty hours of labor. However, I have looked up the weather report for my date of birth. It was a beautiful and clear spring day. As for the hill she had to be pushed up, we lived in Charleston, South Carolina, aka the “Lowcountry.” Charleston is so flat and low that if a drunken college student pisses on King Street, the entire downtown area floods.

  Mom would become more animated as she continued her story, telling the crowd that the pain was beyond excruciating even with medication. Apparently, during the process of my final exit from her vagina, she slapped two nurses, spit bile at my father, and kicked Dr. Berry in his berries.

  Emily’s birth, on the other hand, was a simple and peaceful affair. The way my mother described it, she was well rested and felt wonderful that day. The sun was shining, the flowers were blooming a plethora of vibrant colors, and the birds were chirping. In one rendition of the story, I heard a blue bird had landed on her finger singing Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah. Allegedly, on that perfect of most perfect days my mother had sneezed and out popped Emily- no muss, no fuss. So, even before I took my first breath, the comparison parade began and I was always the last float.

  “Amanda, you need to sit still and be good like Emily,” Dad would say.

  “Amanda, why on earth would you shove a peanut up your nose? Emily never did anything that ridiculous,” Mom said while she held my head back and shined a flashlight up my nose. Emily had bet me one dollar to see if a peanut would fit up my nose. I simply accepted the challenge.

  “Amanda, you need to let Emily help you with your homework. She made the honor roll again. Maybe you would if you let your sister help you,” Mom always suggested when our report cards came out. Mom suggested a lot of things to me.

  “Wow, you and Emily are sisters? She’s so pretty,” the popular girls at school would say, aka the bitches.

  “Amanda, when are your boobs going to get as big as Emily’s?” This was a favorite question of Trey McCarthy’s, a boy who lived down the street from me.

  Then there were the comparisons every year on the first day of school. The same comment came out of every teacher who had Emily in their class first.

  “Amanda Kelly? Oh yes, Emily Kelly’s little sister. Well, it’s great to have you in my class. I hope you are as good a student as your sister.”

  More baby pictures existed of Emily, and from the stories she’s told, her birthday parties as a toddler were more elaborate than mine had been. I completely understood. Emily was the first child and the first granddaughter on both sides. She had been a completely new experience for my family. By the time I had come along, Emily had been around here for four years. She had been shiny and new, and who didn’t prefer that over dull and secondhand?

  I love Emily. She has always been a great older sister. She would let me hang out with her and her friends, sometimes. She has stuck up for me. There had even been a few times when she took the blame for something I had done. She’s as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. It’s not her fault that she was born first and stole my thunder. It’s not her fault that she has been perfect at everything. I wanted to be perfect, too. I just couldn’t seem to get there. My parents have never told me I wasn’t
perfect. They just have never told me I was.But, I could tolerate living under the shadow of perfect Emily, because even though she had everything going for her, there was one thing she didn’t have, Noah Stewart. I had him.

  Noah had always been my best friend, my partner in crime, my protector, my soul mate, the love of my life. My everything. I may not have gotten all the beauty, intelligence or talent, but I got Noah Stewart, the one “perfect” thing I could claim as mine and I wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world.

  I’ve been unsure about many things in my life except that I have always loved him. Every single minute of every single day that I have been on this earth, my heart has belonged to him. It has never been a question, never a doubt. The love had taken on many different forms over the years, but it had always been a constant.

  There are experts on love who will tell you how to get it, keep it, and get over it. We’re led to believe love is complicated. It’s not the love that’s complicated. It’s all the crap that we attach to it and put in front of it that makes it difficult. If you’re smart, you’ll realize this before it’s too late and simplify.

  I was born on March 23, 1990 at 10:57 pm. Noah was born on March 23, 1990 at 10:58 pm. Other than the one minute that had separated our births, Noah and I have always been together. We had shared all of our firsts, first teeth, smile, and words. We started crawling at the same time and took our first steps together. There was no part of my life that didn’t include him.

  When Noah’s mom went back to work, my mom, being a stay-at-home mom, offered to take care of him while Mr. and Mrs. Stewart were at work. Mom had figured two babies were just as easy to take care of as one. In most situations, that wasn’t true. Two babies meant double the diapers, double the feedings, double the screaming, and double the headaches. But not with Noah and me. As long as we were together, we had been happy babies.

  He and I had become such an extension of each other. My mom said we had developed our own language, like twins did. To the average untrained ear, it had sounded like a bunch of gibberish, but Noah and I had understood exactly what we were saying. Our secret language continued as we got older.

  The connection we shared kept getting stronger as the years passed. Noah could read me like no one else could. He knew my thoughts, my moods, and my feelings, just like I knew his. As we got older, our instincts sharpened and we knew when the other was in need without a word passing between us.

  Even at the age of six, I knew I would look hideous in it. The moms of all my friends were wholeheartedly embracing the conveniences of modern day America, like store-bought Halloween costumes. In 1996, my mom decided it would be a wonderful childhood memory for me and Emily to have homemade costumes. I blame Martha Stewart one hundred percent for causing my mother’s temporary insanity. Mom didn’t have a crafty or artistic bone in her entire body.

  Emily wanted to be a princess. She had been taking ballet lessons since the age of five, so she had all the makings of a decent princess costume.

  Mom grabbed a couple of Emily’s light pink tutus and hot glued one on top of the other for the bottom of the gown. The top was made of one of Emily’s hot pink leotards. Mom drizzled hot glue all over it, and then, threw handfuls of glitter at it. She topped off her creation with a tiara made of foil and multicolored marbles as the royal jewels. Emily’s costume didn’t look too bad. If you throw enough glitter on something, people get distracted by the dazzle and don’t notice the ugly as much.

  I, on the other hand, wanted to be a cowgirl. A cowgirl costume was the easiest costume to put together. All that was needed was a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, a vest, a pair of boots, and a hat. Ta- da, cowgirl! No hot glue or glitter required. I had everything I needed except the most important item.

  Mom and I were at the store when I saw it. It was made of bright red felt, the brim was trimmed in white, and the word ‘cowgirl’ was stitched across the front. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My heart started to flutter.

  I grabbed the hat and ran up to my mom beaming with excitement. “Mom, look at it. Isn’t it the most perfect cowgirl hat you’ve ever seen?”

  “It’s a very nice hat, Amanda. Now go put it back. We’ve got more shopping to do,” she said while pushing the shopping cart down the aisle.

  The smile dropped off my face. I ran up behind her, clutching the hat against my chest. “But Mom, I need it.”

  “For what, sweetie?”

  “Um…for my Halloween costume,” Sarcasm flowed through each word, accompanied by a smirk, and an eye roll.

  “I’m making your costume this year, Amanda. You know that.” I followed behind her as she continued down the aisle, paying more attention to the items she was placing in the cart than me.

  “I want to be a cowgirl. It’s the easiest costume to make. I already have everything except the hat. I need this hat, Mom,” I pleaded.

  She glanced over her shoulder at me and asked, “Why do you want to be a cowgirl?”

  “Because cowgirls are cool,” I said.

  As if this wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Noah’s going to be a cool knight. I want to be a cool cowgirl and I will be if I have this hat. Please, Mom.”

  She stopped and squatted down in front of me, bringing us eye-to-eye, and said, “Sweetie, you are going to be the coolest kid trick or treating this year.”

  “So I can get the hat?” I felt the smile slowly crawl back across my face. I waited with great anticipation to hear the word, “yes” float past her lips.

  “No. Guess what you’re going to be for Halloween?” She smiled at me with her stormy blue grey eyes filled with excitement. Standing, she started looking through the shopping cart. When she turned back around she was holding the biggest bag of bright yellow feathers I had ever seen. I looked up at her, my face twisted in confusion. “You’re going to be Tweety Bird! Isn’t that going to be fun?”

  I was stunned. “I don’t want to be Tweety Bird. I want to be a cool cowgirl. Why can’t I be a cowgirl?” I whined.

  “Because I already have all the things I need to make Tweety,” she said, tossing the big bag of feathers back in the cart.

  “We could just put that stuff back, and you could get me this cool cowgirl hat.”

  “Amanda, you’re going to be Tweety Bird this year. Stop arguing with me. You need to try and be more like your sister. She never gives me any trouble. You can be a cowgirl next year. Now, go put the hat back.”

  With my shoulders slumped and my head lowered in defeat, I dragged my feet slowly as I made my way down the aisle to put the perfect cowgirl hat back on the shelf. “I don’t want to be stupid Tweety. I want to be a cowgirl. It’s my costume,” I grumbled.

  “Amanda, hurry up! We need to get going.”

  My mom was so obsessed with making the Tweety costume I had started to wonder if she thought I looked like a jaundiced bubble head with puffy cheeks and lips.

  The construction of the Tweety costume was a hell that no child should have to experience. Mom had found the instructions on how to make the costume in a magazine. Unfortunately, she didn’t know where she had put them, but she was positive she would be able to figure things out.

  I was standing in our family room dressed in a skin tight pale yellow leotard that Mom made me put on over shorts and a t-shirt. She walked into the room weighted down with an armful of supplies and dumped them out on to the floor beside me. “Whew! Ok, let’s get the show on the road,” she said, rubbing her palms together. I couldn’t believe how excited she was about this stupid bird costume.

  She began setting out her supplies, as I gasped for air, and said, “Mom?”

  “Hmmm…?”

  “This leotard’s too tight. I can’t breathe.” I gulped in as much oxygen as the vacuum packed garment would allow.

  “It has to be a little tight, Amanda. Otherwise the feathers will weight it down and make it sag. You don’t want to be a sagging Tweety do you?”

  “
I don’t want to be Tweety at all,” I muttered.

  “Enough of that. I don’t know why you’re being so difficult. Your sister didn’t complain about her costume.”

  “That’s because she gets to be a fairy princess like she wants to be.”

  “Let’s get started.”

  Mom pulled a few more things out of her tote bag, and then, walked over to the wall to plug in her hot glue gun. When she turned back around, the glue gun was pointed directly at me.

  My eyebrows immediately shot up, I could feel my eyeballs pop right out of their sockets as beads of sweat trickled down my neck. My voice was shaky when I asked, “You’re not going to shoot me with hot glue, are you? I promise I won’t say anything bad about Tweety ever again.”

  “Oh Amanda, you’re so dramatic. I’m not going to drip hot glue on you. I need to figure out where to place the feathers while you’re wearing the leotard.”

  She pulled out a huge roll of duct tape, started ripping off small pieces, and rolled them up. She then stuck them all over me. Taking handfuls of the bright yellow feathers, she began to shove them against my body. I tipped over a couple of times when she got a little over enthusiastic.

  After she helped me out of the torture chamber, I watched as she removed sections of feathers from the leotard, drizzled hot glue, and plastered them back on. Sighing deeply, I turned away, and went to my room. I couldn’t bear to watch any longer.

  Each time I walked by the feathered monstrosity my face crumpled up in disgust. Halloween was in one week. There wasn’t much time left. I needed help from an adult if I was going to have any chance of changing my mom’s mind about this bird suit.

  One night, before dinner, I found my dad alone in our family room sitting in his recliner watching the evening news. I leaned over the arm of the chair and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Daddy, can I ask you something?”