Disclaimer: C chappie #1.
Good Morning:
Perfect.
The adjective that best describes me is perfect.
Freshman year, the first day of school, our English teacher, Miss Andrews decided we would have an exercise. She told us to take out a sheet of notebook paper and a pen. She instructed us to place our names at the top of the paper, and that was it. Then she instructed us to give the paper to the person behind us, and for whoever's paper we had to write something positive about that person's appearance (considering we still didn't know one another yet).
Half of the class had attended Chilton El. with me. And the other half knew of the DuGrey name. So one at a time the entire class wrote adjectives to describe the person's paper they had. When the paper finally returned to me I tallied up the results to 12 perfects, and six synonyms of the word. I was surprised, even the guys thought I was perfect (except Jase, of course who wrote "he looks gay").
I was perfect . . . I am perfect.
I am an Adonis.
Rotating the stainless steel knob, the freefalling escape of water droplets stop, and I step out of the sparkling, tile shower.
Toweling myself dry, I look in the full length mirror.
I am perfect!
The image of a Greek god stood before me, uninhibited by dress. I am exactly what I was bred to be: tall, slim, and perfect. I stand at a respectable six feet, long legs, long limbs, long . . . My body is slim and sculpted, lean muscle defines my form, giving me the look of a man. My jaw is strong and flexes when I am upset, my cheekbones are high, my cheeks sunken, and my lips slightly full. My blond hair resembles a tousled mess. My blue eyes dance merrily against my skin, everything that a Greek god should project. I was even in the top five percent of our class.
But the most astounding thing about being perfect physically and mentally- is the flawed world that envelops me.
I haven't seen either of Them in three weeks. He left for Barcelona for a "business trip" and She was on a "Women' only" cruise around the Caribbean. They probably haven't seen hide nor hair of one another for about two months. Each one just missing one another, on "accident."
When They are away, none of their phone calls are directed towards me. They don't know what my life is about or what I do. They care about Their appearances, and me be damned.
I guess it hasn't occurred to Them I turned sixteen last Thursday. It hasn't crossed their minds that Janlen took me to get my drivers' license at the DMV and now I am a legal driver. All They care is that I didn't flunk out of high school or embarrass Them in public.
I guess it hasn't gotten back to Them about what happened at the party last week.
I guess parenting is supposed to be different when you've got money. Nannies are your parents. It's totally different from those WB 7th Heaven shows where He would stay home from His business trip just to take me to the DMV Himself, His company be damned. She would look at me with tears shining in Her eyes, sobbing about how Her little boy was growing up so fast. He would take me to the dealership when I passed my test and help me pick out the perfect, cherry red, 1975 Mustang with racer stripes running across the top. She would decorate my key ring so that there was a special place for my new car key. He would slap my shoulders to indicate how much He loved me without actually saying the words. She would ask to be the first girl to take a spin in my new car.
And later that night, He would help me fix my tie. She would smooth out my tux, and arrange the handkerchief just so. He would warn me against the gold digging whores. She would ruffle my hair. He would give me a final handshake before the first guests arrived (most likely Jase) and She would press a kiss to my cheek, leaving a red imprint behind (I bet hoping She'd ward off those son-stealing-sluts).
But the truth was, She's never touched me, neither has He. I never care one way or another if He'd held me and told me what He truly thought about me, but She was supposed to. She has instincts, maternal ones. Ones that make Her cling to Her children more than anyone else. Even if I couldn't have counted on Him, She is supposed to always be there for me no matter what . . . right?
Maybe She'd held me when I was born. Maybe She'd caressed my cheek, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and whispered Her "love" for me as She watched my sleepy face . . .
But that cannot be proven.
When I was seven and broke my leg on the soccer field, She managed to show up three hours later in the emergency room (He was on a "business trip"), but She couldn't even manage to brush my hair from my forehead as the doctor explained to Her that there would be no permanent scarring.
I never told Her, but I still have a tiny scar on the inside of my right knee. My war scar, I smile.
When Grandmother died and I broke down during the funeral, it wasn'tThem who had wrapped Their arms around my shaking shoulders and told me that They would take care of me. It wasn't She that wiped away my tears and told me how much she adored me. It wasn't Them that sat up with me for a whole week when I couldn't sleep.
According to Them, I was too old to be so dramatic . . . I was only eight.
But I'm perfect. . .
I brush away the remaining moisture with a towel and pull on a pair of boxers and a wife beater.
Pulling on a pair of khakis, a white button down shirt and a green sweater, I rush down the staircase where Fredrick waits at the front door to drop me off at Jase's house.
All I can think is:
Good morning.
TBC . . .
A/N: I hope you like this fic. I get that it's a little weird so far, but just like "Strawberry Fields" the actual dialogue begins next chapter.