Flawless by Lara Chapman Read Free Book Online Page A

my otherwise blemish-free legs.
    Somehow I think that’s a good indicator of where I’m headed … me suffering the battle wounds while Kristen rides the wave of triumph.
    I’ve just agreed to help my best friend catch the guy of my dreams.
    And people think I’m the smart one.

    By the time Mom gets home in the evening, I’m usually done with my homework and have started supper. Since it’s just the two of us, we stick to simple dishes with little or no cleanup: salads, sandwiches, takeout. Over the years, I’ve learned to be a pretty decent cook. I can follow a recipe like no other and have a basic understanding of how to cook different types of dishes. Our normal fare is low carb, low fat, and low taste; fish is a regular part of our health-conscious diet. Not exciting, I know, but it helps me keep my weight in check.
    But after a day like this one, I need some serious comfort food so I can spend a night wallowing in the sad state of my personal life. I just need one night, then I’ll be over it.
    I think.
    I put some skirt steak in the microwave for a quick defrost, then grab the flour, eggs, and milk. After pouring grease in the cast-iron skillet, I set the stove on high and focus on the batter for my favorite guilty pleasure: chicken-fried steak.
    The next half hour involves me multitasking over the heaping meal I’m determined to prepare. Peeling potatoes, frying steak, and tossing together a to-die-for salad is oddly therapeutic.
    When Mom glides through the door—and I do mean glide; she walks like she’s riding on air—I’m washing dishes.
    â€œHmmm …,” she says, entering the kitchen with an appreciative smile. “I know what that smell means.”
    â€œNo questions right now,” I say, holding my hands up to squelch the interrogation I know she’s about to launch. “Please. Let’s just eat.”
    Mom and I know each other well; too well, sometimes. I guess I’m pretty transparent; it’s not like I’ve ever intentionally kept something from her. Aside from the business about my nose, she’s pretty cool. She can be a little obsessive about things she cares about, like work and me. But she’s got a good heart and I know she loves me, which makes me luckier than a lot of kids I know.
    Mom knows that chicken-fried steak is like my personal SOS. I guess the last time I made this meal was when I found out my ranking in our class had slipped from second to third. That was two years ago and I’m happy to say I’ve since solidly regained my status as second in our class. The guy in first place has an IQ as high as Mount Everest and a social life that makes mine downright enviable. I’m not willing to sacrifice that much for first place.
    â€œOkay,” she says, giving me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. She kicks her high heels into the corner of the kitchen and grabs the plates and silverware.
    â€œThere’s bread in the oven, if you want to get that out,” I say, focusing on the task of transferring the potatoes to a serving dish. I know it seems silly to dirty another dish when we could just serve ourselves out of the pots, but Mom says it’s uncivilized. She also thinks it’s barbaric to eat any kind of sandwich without cutting it in half first.
    We quietly go about the task of getting dinner on the table and then making our plates.
    â€œRough day?” Mom asks.
    â€œMom,” I warn.
    â€œWell, look at this feast, Sarah. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out something’s bothering you.”
    Instead of answering, I chew my food, studying the remaining meat on my plate like it holds the secret to breaking the Da Vinci code.
    â€œSarah,” Mom says quietly, barely above a whisper. “Talk to me.”
    I drop the fork on my plate and turn in my chair. “I’m just frustrated.”
    â€œAbout?”
    Before answering, I try to decide if I