No Such Thing as Perfect by Sarah Daltry Read Free Book Online Page A

but I hadn’t been told in advance what the penalty was for failure.
    “You look beautiful,” he told me.
    “So it was worth it?” I asked.
    “I’m sure you’ll make it worth it,” he said, his hands moving quickly over every part of me before my parents noticed.
    “Everyone in the living room for pictures,” my mother yelled and we followed, obedient.
    I stood with my boyfriend’s arm around me while my dad called me his princess and my mother said she was proud. Finally I had done something that she could stick in a frame and preserve.
    We took plenty of pictures, those cellulose storytellers we cling to when we want to believe the past was one way even though we know it wasn’t. The shiny lies only reveal what’s on the outside, what we can see, and the limitations of the senses tell a different truth. Derek smelled awful but the stench of weed that clung to his tux didn’t get captured by the camera. In the end, the pictures were perfect and they could be placed next to the ones from Jon’s Prom, all part of the façade. It didn’t matter that the night was anything but, because it’s only about what we allow ourselves to remember.

13.
    J oining the paper has been good, because it keeps me busy. When I’m not working on schoolwork or attending my sporadic Environmental Club meetings with Lyle, I’m in the newspaper office. I don’t know anything about music, but Kristen wasn’t kidding. They wanted a music reporter and that’s what I do. I open bins of CDs and take them back to my room and listen to them and try to write reviews, but it all sounds the same to me.
    “Hey, you, new girl.” My editor comes into the office as if we were already in the middle of a conversation. I save the inane review I’m writing, empty praise about some band who plays “Shoegaze,” whatever that means, and turn around.
    “Lily,” I remind her, but she knows.
    “Yeah, whatever. Listen, I need you to cover some crappy concert.”
    “Um, I don’t know,” I say. I’ve been to one concert ever, and it was a Christian folksinger who played at my church. “I really don’t belong in music,” I tell her, but I’ve told her and everyone else and despite the fact that the twelve people who read our paper know this as well, I’m still reviewing genres of music I didn’t know existed. I wish I could just interview a math professor or something.
    “It’s fine. They’re playing tonight,” she tells me. “The band from campus that I need you to do the story on is the first opener, so you don’t need to stay. Just take some pictures and get a quote from one of the band members and you’re free to go.”
    “Do you know who they are?”
    She rolls her eyes. “No. Some generic college band that will break up by next semester. But make them look good. Then they’ll pass out copies of the paper.”
    “Great,” I sigh and I get the address of the club.
    I go back to the dorm and change into something I figure is rock clubby, which means jeans and a black shirt, since I actually have no concept of what people wear to concerts.
    The “club” is actually an unfinished wood platform in the middle of a linoleum floor, some folding chairs, and a bar that could be outmatched by the one in my uncle’s rec room. There are a decent amount of people here, though, which I guess must mean one of the bands is pretty good. Then again, maybe people just go to clubs regardless of what’s happening.
    “Five dollars,” the guy at the door mumbles and holds out his hand. I show him my college ID, because my editor said she’d call ahead and get me on the list. The door guy looks at my ID and back at me. “Five dollars,” he repeats.
    “I’m supposed to be on some list,” I explain.
    “Does it look like I have a list?” It does not, as there is nothing but him and a stool out here.
    “No, but-”
    “It’s five dollars. Are you coming or going? There are people waiting.”
    I look behind me, but there isn’t anyone