Flawed / Perfect. Cecelia Ahern

it.

      I like to travel the world on holidays, but I intend to continue to live here after school. Art and I have talked about it. We want to study at the city university: me, mathematics; him, science. We have it all worked out. Juniper wants to leave as soon as she can, become a snowboard instructor in Switzerland by winter, a lifeguard in Portugal by summer, or something like that.

      Art says he likes going to the summit because it gives him perspective. He’s had a tough year. His mother passed away, and I think this place helps him rise above the worries on the ground, to look at them from a height, detached from his grief, which is lessening with the months. I, on the other hand, see it as a place where it is Art and me against the rest of the world. While the one million people sleep in the city below us, Art and I are together, and it makes our bond even stronger. It makes me feel invincible, alive. I know how the castle feels watching over everybody: untouchable.

      It is only over the past six months that I have felt this way about Art. We have been friends since we were twelve; when we started school together the teacher placed us beside each other on the first day. We hung out together in a group, me with the girls and him with the boys, yet we always found ourselves side by side. We would never have met up alone despite living across the road from each other. It was only a year ago, when his mum passed away, that Art suddenly began to seek me out, not caring about the others’ perception of us. We’d come here together and talk, him grieving and slowly coming to terms with his mum’s death; he watched her slowly die of cancer. And then the grieving gradually flickered out, stopped being the main reason for our meeting… and it became something else.

      The rush of butterflies when I saw him, the silly smile that would appear on my face at the very thought of him, the nervous bubbles in my stomach, the jolt of electricity when his skin brushed mine. Suddenly I cared about what I wore, what I said, how I looked. This didn’t go unnoticed, particularly by Juniper, who watched me each day as I obsessed over my reflection before I dashed out of the house. Art noticed, too, and then I stopped flustering over myself for a moment to notice it in him. We’ve been together for three months.

      I finally reach the summit, and seeing his shape lit by the moon turns me into jelly as usual. He is always early, always waiting for me, sitting on a blanket, his face a picture of perfect concentration as he gazes out on the sleeping city below. Perfect is a word I use a lot to describe Art or any moment with him.

      “Hello, early bird,” I say.

      He looks up, the sadness replaced with a smile. And do I see relief?

      “Hello, mouse. If you’re looking for your cheese, I ate it.”

      “Worms and cheese,” I say, sitting beside him on the blanket. “Yum.”

      We kiss.

      “This is yum,” he murmurs, pulling me closer for another, longer, more passionate kiss.

      I feel there is something different about him tonight. I pull away slowly and study his face, his eyes.

      “How about we make a deal to not talk about tonight?”

      “Good idea,” I sigh. “I have a headache just thinking about it.”

      He kisses my forehead and leaves his lips there. We’re both silent, lost in our thoughts, both obviously thinking about the sights and sounds of Angelina Tinder being dragged away. We can’t stay quiet for long. Art pulls away.

      “My dad …” He trails off, looking out at the tips of roofs and chimneys and I see his anguish over what happened tonight. Ever since his mum passed away I’ve seen it as my role to make him feel better, to get rid of the sadness. And despite my conflicted feelings about this evening, I need to pull it together for him.

      “Look, Juniper should not have spoken to him the way she did, but you know what Juniper is like. She needs to learn how to keep her trap shut. She’s just like my granddad.”

      “Juniper was only saying what she thought,” he says to my absolute surprise.

      “She shouldn’t be saying these things to him.”

      He smiles sadly. “Everything is so black and white to you, Celestine. We’re neighbours; we were in your dining room celebrating Earth Day, not his courtroom. And he must have known that was going to happen to Angelina tonight. I mean, why wouldn’t he at least tell her, if not us? They’re friends. At least she could have been ready and not dragged out like that in front of her family, her kids …”

      I’m surprised to hear this from him. Art has never spoken out about his dad. They’re buddies, a team, the only two left, a connection made stronger after his mum died. They’re survivors, or at least that’s how they act. The two who came out of her loss alive. I can see he is as confused about all this as I am.

      “He was following the rules,” I say simply, and I know it’s not good enough. It doesn’t feel good enough to me, but it’s the truth. “What happened to Angelina was horrible, but I don’t think you can blame your dad for that.”

      “No?” he asks, bitterness in his voice.

      “It’s his job. A Flawed being taken into custody happens almost every day somewhere in this country. Your dad is under pressure to maintain perfection. What would happen if he turned a blind eye to some and not to others?” I ask, airing some of my own thoughts. “I mean, what then? Judge Crevan on trial for being Flawed for missing a Flawed?”

      Art looks at me. “I never thought about it like that.”

      “Well, you should. Because he’s your dad. And he’s powerful. And some people adore him, practically worship him. And that makes it harder for you to have a dad like that, but that’s who you’ve got, and he loves you so much. And he’s one half of what made you, and that makes him a genius.”

      He smiles, takes my face in his hands, makes a disgusted face. “I don’t really want to think of his part in making me, thank you very much.”

      “Gross.” I laugh.

      “Black and white.”

      “All the way.” I smile, but my smile feels a bit wobbly, my footing not as sure as it was before. Convincing Art is easier than convincing myself.

      Art clears his throat. “I wasn’t going to do this until your birthday, but after tonight … I think you deserve it now more than ever.”

      He lifts his left leg and moves it beside me, pulling me in closer to him so that I am trapped between his thighs. Suddenly my uncertainty disappears and I am right where I want to be.

      “I got you this for your eighteenth birthday, but I want to give it to you now to let you know that despite everything else going on in the world, you are the one thing that makes sense to me. You are beautiful.” He runs his finger down my cheek, across my nose, over my lips. “You are clever, you are loyal.” He drops his hand and hands me a small velvet box.

      My hands are shaking so much I’m embarrassed. I open it and lift out the delicate silver chain, so fine I’m afraid I’ll break it. On the end is a symbol.

      “And you are perfect,” he whispers, and it sends a shiver running through me, and my skin breaks out in goose bumps.

      I examine the symbol, unable to believe what I see.

      “I had a man at Highland Castle make it for me specially. You know what it means?”

      I nod. “Circles are regarded as a symbol of perfection. All the radii bear a ratio of one to one to each other, showing there are no partial differences between them. They are proved to be in a state of harmony. Geometric harmony.”

      “Perfection,” he says again, softly. “It’s hard to get one up on the mathematician, you know.” He laughs. “I had to do a lot of research. I think my brain is still sore.”

      I laugh through my growing