An Imperfect Circle

By R.J. Sable

A stand alone YA Romance and the first in the 'Contradictions' series.

"What do you do when the boy who rescues the last remnants of your soul rejects what’s left straight afterwards? You move on. That’s what you do. I’m not the sort of girl who sits on the sofa with a bucket of ice cream mourning over anything.
Especially not over a boy."

Sixteen year old Ellie Belrose has spent the last five years rebuilding her life after something she'd rather forget. She's finally getting somewhere but, when a figure from her past makes an unwanted reappearance in her life, she's forced to confront her demons.

Karl Carter is fascinated by Ellie the moment he sees her but he doesn't realise she's Elise. His Elise. He never forgot her and still isn't willing to - despite her insistence.

The two of them are stubborn, angry at the world, and sparks fly when they come together. Can they help each other move on from the past or will they drag each other back there?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.J. Sable
• Release date: Jan 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311355355

R.J. Sable

RJ Sable is an author from the UK. She is a lover of language of all kinds and has a degree in linguistics and phonetics. Unfortunately, despite her best efforts she is only fluent in English and Swedish after having lived in Sweden for three years. When she's not writing, RJ can be found with an impossibly large cup of tea, a crochet hook, and a mess of tangled yarn. Alternatively, she might be on her beloved racing bike "Mary" or mountain bike "Bumble" annoying car drivers throughout the midlands.

Book preview

Lists are things of beauty. They breed order, structure and simplicity. I have a list for everything and I live by my lists. Today’s list is folded up in my pocket in a perfectly formed circle. I mastered the art of the perfect circle years ago. Just like lists, circles are beautiful. One single line with no flaws. Each part of the circle is identical to the next. No part is ugly.

I wrap my fist around the perfect little circle in my pocket. I don’t need to take it out. I know exactly what it says.

Don’t make friends.

Don’t make any sentences longer than five words.

Don’t smile.

Don’t explain yourself. To anyone.

Most important. No matter what, don’t talk to HIM.

I know today’s list is a good one because it’s a round number. Circles are round. That’s perfect because I need a good list today of all days.

What do you do when the boy who rescues the last remnants of your soul rejects what’s left straight afterwards? You move on. That’s what you do. I’m not the sort of girl who sits on the sofa with a bucket of ice cream mourning over anything.

Especially not over a boy.

That’s the reason behind number five on today’s list. I’ve been to almost every school in the city. It’s not my fault they’ve all kicked me out. If they can’t accept who I am then that’s not my problem, it’s society’s. The last school in the city is his school. The only one I really wanted to avoid but I’m left with no choice.

My aunty had to call in a favour to get them to accept me and I only agreed because she and my mum begged incessantly until I gave in because I couldn’t listen to them whine any more.

My mum is dead set on me getting a proper education. I would have been perfectly happy to finish at sixteen with my mediocre grades. I know what I want to do with my life and I don’t need a piece of paper to let me do it.

I stop outside a little shop window and check my appearance a few hundred yards away from the establishment that will be my prison and torture chamber for the next two years.

My black and blue dreadlock wig is firmly in place, hiding my fiery mane of red hair. It’s not that I don’t like my hair – I fudging love it – but for some reason it makes people think I’m bubbly and approachable and that’s not what I’m going for.

My solid black contact lenses are both staying put and my thick white layer of foundation is holding perfectly without any unwanted creases or smudging. Bear would have a fit at the amount of animals that were maimed, tortured, and generally humiliated in the process of forming my anti-social mask.

Bear’s my ‘spirit uncle’. He’s a hippy but I love him so I put up with his quirks. I also put up with his hemp clothing, funky smelling teas, and herbal medicines.

It’s not really a problem. I’m used to it from my mum. She re-found herself after my life was saved and then ruined and I’ve been dealing with her new self ever since. Four long years. Not the longest years of my life so I shouldn’t complain. At least she’s alive and happy.

Certain that my mascara, eyeliner, and foundation will scare off anybody who might otherwise approach me, I trudge my muddy boots down the road towards the new school.

It’s the first day of the academic year and, even though most of the other students are in the same boat as I am, I get the honour of starting my morning off in the head master’s office.

I’m pleasantly surprised when I’m called in. I’m expecting a pudgy old guy with a sweat-stained shirt that’s seen better days and the haunted brow of a man who’s spent too much time with teenagers. What I get is a snappily dressed woman in a pencil skirt and her hair wrapped into a bun so tight that I’m wondering if her brain is hurting.

Miss Belrose, how lovely to meet you, Miss brain-strain greets me with a voice that’s too cheerful for the carefully kept woman she’s portraying.

I grunt in greeting because she doesn’t need to be my friend and, quite frankly, if she kicks me out, there’s nowhere left for mum to send me and I can go start my business now instead of in two years time.

Not a morning person, I see, she smiles with a hint of humour. I’m Ms Stoner, the headmistress.

I raise an eyebrow at her because I’m not sure if she’s joking.

Yes, that’s my real name, she chuckles to herself. I’m told it dates back to the twelfth century and implies my early ancestors were stone masons. Hardly relevant now, I’d say, but the explanation is usually necessary.

I pretend to ignore her and stare out of her window at the mass of teenagers who’ve gathered in the courtyard. I’m immensely thankful that this isn’t one of those schools that make the sixth form students wear uniforms. That’s some real medieval crap. Schools are meant to be moulding future generations and yet they force all their students to look the same. Solid grounds.

Have a seat, Miss Belrose, the Stoner urges.

When I just glare back and stay standing, she sits opposite me on a bright purple sofa rather than behind her neat and tidy desk. I know I’ve won so I take a seat on the armchair. I’ve made my point, there’s no need to stand for the rest of this ridiculous meeting.

I’m sure you’re nervous, starting at a new school, she starts.

I give her a condescending look because this isn’t my first rodeo. I can’t even remember how many times I’ve been sat in this situation before.

She ignores my condescension and continues. "But I also wanted to make sure we understood each other.

Here it comes. I’m a bad egg. She doesn’t want any trouble. She doesn’t want to see me in ripped black jeans and safety pin lined t-shirts any more. I saw this crap coming a mile away and it’s nothing I haven’t already heard.

I’ve seen your academic record and, I’ve got to say, I think you’ve been treated unfairly.

I barely stop myself from gawking at her because that’s not what I was expecting. I’m pretty fudging proud of myself for maintaining my stony glare throughout.

I know why you’ve been expelled from schools previously and it’s very admirable to want to protect the underdog but I hope that whilst you’re at our school, you’ll feel comfortable enough to talk to myself or another teacher if you witness somebody being bullied.

I grace her with an eye roll upon hearing this because she’s full of crap. They’re all the same, teachers. If I report somebody, all that they’re going to get is a tap on the wrist and a letter home to mummy while the person they’re torturing is left scarred inside and out. How fudging fair is that?

I know you don’t know us very well yet but we don’t want any of our students to suffer here. This is a place for creating knowledge, not victims.

I listen to her spiel with disinterest for a while longer and I know she can tell I don’t give a crap. Actions speak louder than words and I’ve not seen any action to judge her by yet.

Although the purple sofa has earned her a few points.

If you focus on your studies, you’ll be just fine here. I see you’ve chosen design & technology, business studies, mathematics, and art as your AS level subjects. An interesting combination. May I ask why you chose those subjects?

I hesitate slightly because this is the first time she’s required me to speak and I’m not about to ruin such a good list for the Stoner.

I like woodwork.

I see, she cocks her head at me like she’s trying to figure me out.

She can try all she likes. I’m an open book. I’m messed up, I know it, but at least I’m working on it. How many other people can say that?

I’d like to see some of your work one day, she smiles and starts rooting through some papers on her desk.

She’s not asking for permission so I don’t give it. I go back to staring out the window but the bell’s already gone so there’s nobody out there.

She hands me my timetable and a map. I’m sort of disappointed when I find another ginger waiting outside her office. I can tell by her nervous energy and the ridiculous glasses she’s wearing that she’s one of the geeky kids they use to show new students around.

Hi, you must be Elise. I’m Becky. I’m going to show you to class. You’ll love it here. It’s awesome. It’s big but you’ll find your way around in no time because all the buildings are alphabetical and the corridors all have signs on them and-

"My name is Ellie," I cut her off because the poor girl needs some oxygen. I make sure to load my voice with absolutely zero emotion because I’m not here to make friends and she seems the friendly type.

See, told you. Redheads.

She falters for a second and I almost feel guilty. Oh, right. Ellie. Sorry. Um, this way.

She turns and hurries down one of the helpfully numbered corridors and I follow a few feet behind admiring the polkadot skirt she’s wearing. The bright array of colours is hideous and clashes with every item of clothing she’s wearing but I like polkadots.

We have maths together first period and we share free periods as well. I can show you around and we can have lunch together if you’d like. I always eat lunch under the tree on the bottom field because it’s quieter. She seems to realise she’s rambling again and her blush matches her hair.

I almost feel bad for her because I don’t blush. Not that it matters. You wouldn’t be able to see it under my foundation anyway.

I don’t really eat lunch, I answer curtly. I don’t want to give this girl any hope that we’ll become besties and paint each other’s toenails.

Oh, she nibbles her bottom lip. I guess I shouldn’t either, hey? She gestures down to her curvy figure that almost matches my own and I scowl in response.

I fudging hate it when women don’t have any faith in their own bodies. We’re taught by magazines and misogynistic monkey nuts that we’re meant to look a certain way and it’s all crap. Beauty is internal and it’s only sick, twisted freaks that can’t see what’s not skin deep.

I know that better than any one.

Um, well, here we are, Becky offers, stopping outside what must be our maths class.

I nod curtly and follow her into the room. Sod’s law says the only two free seats are on the front row. Not only do I have to sit next to my wannabe BFF but I also have to have the teacher breathing down my neck for the next hour.

Great.

Chapter 2

I spend my first day making sure the teachers know my name is Ellie and not Elise, scanning every class for him, and following my rules to the letter. Becky seems to have gotten the message and has stopped following me around with a tragically hopeful expression on her face.

By the end of my last period, I’m pretty pleased that my first day has been uneventful and I’ve only eaten three of the stash of Wagon Wheels I always have with me.

I decide to use the bathroom before I leave because I don’t want to go home at the same time as everyone else. My appearance usually works great at keeping people away but it has the unfortunate side effect of drawing a lot of attention. Something I didn’t really factor into my plan.

I’ve got no problem with the closed-minded idiots who’ve been calling me ‘goth girl’ and ‘grebo’ all day. One girl even referred to me as the spawn of Ozzy. I might get that as a tattoo one day. However, if someone attacks me then I’m going to defend myself and I don’t want to risk getting into a fight on the first day and having to see the crestfallen expression on my mum’s face when I get home.

I thought I’d picked a relatively quiet bathroom but I realise I’m mistaken as I sit quietly in my stall reading the graffiti on the door. A squabble of girls talk about all things inconsequential and I pull my feet up off the floor and hope they don’t know I’m in here so I won’t have to talk to anyone.

I’m going to call him tonight, a squeaky, strained voice tells her friend.

Shouldn’t you wait for him to call you? Her nasal friend replies.

I hear the door open and close once more and for a second I think they’ve left but they carry on talking so I figure somebody else must have come in.

No, it’s been a week and I’m sure he wants another taste by now, squeaky continues as if nobody has come in. I’m pretty sure I recognise her voice from my art class. I think her name is Stacy, which means her nasal friend is Annie.

Did you go all the way? Annie asks eagerly.

I hear giggling and have to force myself not to vomit.

"He’s so big, Stacy coos. I thought I was going to split in two."

Really?

Yeah, felt amazing. He knew what he was doing as well. He did that thing that you said Jenny said that her boyfriend does, Stacy gloats.

The thing with his tongue? Annie asks in awe.

I guess Stacy must be nodding because I hear more giggling before somebody flushes the toilet, probably the person that came in. I bet she’s as uncomfortable with this sickening gossip as I am.

You should be careful, Stace. Those boys have a reputation, Annie warns.

I know but he was different with me. He told me I was amazing, Stacey gloats.

There’s another round of pathetic giggling before a tap turns on and off.

Bet you’ve never seen a dick as big as Ian Carter’s have you, Becky? Stacey sneers.

My stomach turns uncomfortably cold for several reasons. Firstly, Stacey’s voice just got bitchy. Secondly, I don’t want that to be sweet little rambling Becky they’re talking to. And thirdly, Ian is his brother.

Of course she hasn’t, Annie laughs viciously. I doubt she even knows what a real cock looks like.

I hear Becky mumble something back and I cringe because it is the Becky I’ve met and I’m praying to a God I don’t believe in that her answer wasn’t I’ve seen them in my biology text book.

Alan Fitzgerald said you were a frigid bitch. You wouldn’t even give him a hand job. You’re probably still a virgin, aren’t you? Stacey spits the word out like it’s some sort of contagious disease.

The list in my pocket goes forgotten as I burst out the stall ready to jump to the defence of the girl I just met. At the back of my mind, I’m vaguely aware that I’m messing everything up but it’s too late. My buttons have been pushed.

So what if she is? I growl at the blonde gutter worm whose knickers probably do most of their work as ankle warmers.

What’s it to you, freak? Annie intervenes.

Maybe she’s a dyke and has a thing for gingers, Stacy giggles, eyeing my clothes with disdain.

For a split second, I’m happy that someone has come to this conclusion. I have absolutely no interest in boys so let them assume I’m gay.

What’s wrong with being a virgin? I snarl, advancing on them and ignoring their attacks on me. Saving yourself is nothing to be ashamed of. Virginity is something to be cherished, not wasted. It’s better than being an easy target who spreads her legs for every guy who has his junk in a different hole each weekend.

The two blondes open their mouths to spew out more insults but I know it’s best to be on the offensive in situations like this so I pull out one of the earth mother charms Bear made for me and start muttering low under my breath and trying to look as evil as possible. I’ve perfected this talent over the past few months and I know the blackout contact lenses help.

The two Barbies look horrified that I’m casting evil spells on them and scatter from the room, shouting a few insults on their way out but looking appropriately scared. I know they’ll be keeping their distance for a little while but I expect a round of vicious rumours in retaliation. I’ve heard it all before. I’m a Satan worshiping half-demon who had sex with an evil spirit and is carrying his evil spawn.

Yawn.

At least there’s a scrap of truth in there.

That was Elvish! Becky exclaims excitedly, clapping her hands together once we’re alone.

What? I grunt, feigning ignorance because her eyes are so wide and happy. Like she just watched me pull a baby from a burning car rather than scare off two vapid cows.

What you said to them. It’s from Lord of The Rings. Elvish! She squeals.

I shrug because she’s right and I’m no liar. My mum and Bear say lying tarnishes the soul and I’m trying to cleanse mine. It’s a slow process but I know I’ll get there eventually.

"That was so awesome!"

I’m half listening and half mentally running through my list. I’m pretty sure I just made a friend. It wasn’t my intention but this girl obviously needs one. I also used more than five words to defend her and damn if I’m not doing my best at fighting off a smile because Becky is so cute bouncing up and down excitedly.

In the end, I let the smile out, along with acceptance that I’m about to explain myself and ruin point four on the list. At least five is safe.

I love Galadriel, I admit.

Me too! Becky squeals, grabbing my hand and leading me out of the bathroom.

I’m not a big fan of handholding. In fact, I hate it. But Becky’s so sweet and I don’t want to offend her any more than I already have. She rambles on about ‘Lord of The Rings’ and I actually pay attention because she’s obviously read the books and I appreciate that. A movie could never do Tolkien’s creative genius justice.

I don’t know where Becky’s going but so far she’s walking in the right direction for me, right towards the bus stop that will take me home so I just let her lead the way. Normally, I’d stay behind after school and do any coursework in the library but I haven’t got anything from my lessons so far.

Thank you so much for what you did back there, Becky looks at me in earnest, her appreciation written all over her face.

It was nothing, I shrug awkwardly.

Did you mean what you said? She prompts bashfully. About being a… a virgin.

I nod and keep my feet moving forwards. This conversation is far too intimate for me and I only just met the girl.

So you’re a virgin too? She asks hopefully.

I shake my head and clench my teeth. I can see it out the corner of my eye. That disappointed expression on her face when she starts to think I’m full of crap. She’s processing the information and now she thinks I’m a self-righteous cow who doesn’t practice what she preaches.

My mum’s boyfriend raped me when I was a kid, I tell her bluntly. If I had my virginity, I’d save it for somebody who meant something to me. It should never ever be taken away and it should never be given to somebody who won’t appreciate it for the honour that it is.

I load my words with meaning and hope it’s enough for Becky to understand how important it is that she understands me. Too many girls open their legs too easily, hoping it’ll land them their dream man. That’s not the way it works, ladies.

Oh my God! That’s awful. I’m so sorry, Ellie. I didn’t mean to- Becky word vomits. She looks so upset that I actually feel a little guilty for not approaching it with a little more care. I swear she’s about to cry.

It’s fine, Becky, I smile, saving her from the awkward rambling that I know is coming. I was a kid. It wasn’t my fault. I know that. It was horrible but it’s over and I’ve moved on. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad or pity me. Don’t do that. I just don’t do secrets. Holding stuff inside can be poison. It can tarnish your insides. And I’m tarnished enough already. I don’t need more internal graffiti because the stuff takes years to scrub off.

I watch as Becky takes a deep breath and purses her lips as if trying to hold it in. I’m ready for another verbal assault but she catches me off guard by throwing her arms around my neck for what can only be described as a hug that’s as much an assault on the body as her colour clashing outfit is on the eyes.

Hugs are another thing I’m not fond of. I just don’t see the point.

You’re amazing, you know that? Becky whispers into my fake dreads. You’re just yourself and I love it. You should be proud of who you are.

I crack my second smile of the day and thank her for the beautiful words by returning the hug. I’m not saying I hugged her tightly but she got both arms round her and that’s more than anyone else has gotten in years so she should be grateful.

It’s so easy to throw around ugly words that hurt people but truly beautiful words, spoken without selfish motives, are something that should never be taken for granted. If someone gives you a compliment like that, you take it and hold it in your heart because one day you might need those words of kindness.

You’re not so bad yourself, I smirk at her, pulling away because I’m a hug novice and those things are awkward.

She blushes again and my smirk broadens because I like her and I don’t care that I wasn’t after friends.

Where are you headed? She asks, reclaiming my hand and practically skipping forwards.

Bus stop, I reply, trying to decide if I should have put a stop to the hand holding straight away because it doesn’t seem to be growing on me.

Oh? She prompts.

Normanton, I reply on a grimace. I know what people think about the area. So I live in a council house, who cares? Our house may be small but it’s full of warmth and I feel safe there.

You know you could have gotten the school bus, right? Becky offers helpfully.

I nod, smiling because she didn’t even react when I told her and I had her down as a rich kid. Rich people are usually the first ones to turn up their noses at people from Normanton. I don’t do so well on school busses. I don’t bother elaborating. My appearance should say it all. Kids on school busses are always far too fired up because the school day’s out and they tend to be far too eager to start something.

Becky nods like she understands but I see a flicker of confusion on her face and I’m thankful that she’s never had to ride on one of the council funded school busses.

I volunteer at the library, she explains, pointing in the general direction of the building.

I nod and stifle a smirk. She’s like the advert for the perfect child. She’s the girl they’re singing about in the nursery rhyme: sugar and spice and all things nice. She’s practically a powerpuff girl. What was the redhead called? Blossom. I grin because it suits Becky perfectly.

I’m about to let her in on her new nickname but our forward travel is halted by a scuffle blocking our path.

Becky takes in a sharp breath as we absorb the sight in front of us. My breathing stops completely because four of those aggressive stances are far too familiar to me, even after all this time.

Chapter 3

It’s the Carters! Becky whispers excitedly but the explanation is unnecessary.

As always, the oldest – Ian – seems to be leading the pack as the identical twins, Rick and Danny, hold a smaller boy pinned to the red brick wall of the building behind him.

I purposely ignore him and focus on his brothers and their friend. He has his back turned to me anyway but I know it’s him. He was my best friend for five years; I’d recognise his back anywhere, even if it seems a lot bulkier now than it was five years ago.

Got something to say? Ian, smirks at the poor kid they’re teaming up on.

Seriously? What the hell are they doing? There are five of them against one kid. The boy isn’t lacking in the bulk department but it’s still not fair.

The victim shakes his head, eyes darting round in panic. It’s obvious he’s terrified and I don’t blame him. I’ve watched those boys play fighting, roughhousing, and scrapping for real plenty of times. Clearly they’ve developed mean streaks along with a crap load of muscle since I knew them.

No? Ian snorts, his smirk firmly in place.

I’m pushing back all the gossip I heard from Stacy because there was a time when Ian was like a brother to me and now that I’ve seen him again, the mental image of his junk is not what I need associated with him.

The task is made easier because, whether they know who I am or not, I’m not about to watch some kid get picked on by five meatheads. I jerk forwards, ready to tell them what despicable dung beetles they are, but Becky Blossom grabs my arm and shakes her head, motioning for me to watch.

I frown in confusion but Becky doesn’t seem the type to watch somebody get bullied and she doesn’t look worried. I must be missing something and I don’t want to make a judgement before I know all the facts.

Think this is fair, tough guy? The voice that haunts my dreams prompts.

I close my eyes tight and work through one of my breathing exercises. I’m stronger than this. I’m not freaking out in front of anybody. Especially not him.

My priorities have changed and I start towards the kerb, ready to cross to the other side of the road and avoid this. Unfortunately Becky Blossom has other ideas and she’s holding my hand with an iron grip. I’m thinking my nickname might have been more perfect than I could have imagined because the strength she’s holding me with has to be down to Chemical X. She’s watching them with big, wide eyes like she’s just watched Superman take down Harold Shipman.

Clearly he does, Ian takes a step closer to the kid and winks at his younger brother.

It’s only five on one, a twin snickers. I couldn’t tell you which one. They’re both wearing school uniform and have their hair gelled up. I swear to the Earth mother, every strand of their hair is identical. I could tell them apart when they were kids because I spent so much time with them but that won’t be happening any time soon so they’ll remain a singular entity for me.

I disregard the twinge of sadness at that thought. I came to terms with losing them when I lost him.

That’s much better odds than you and your mates gave a year seven, the other twin adds.

You gave him a black eye as well, the guy stood next to him grins with an obviously aggressive edge. He looks more charged up than the others do.

I take a closer look at him. Unlike the Carters, he has hair which is so dark it’s almost black. His eyes are a rich dark brown, but they’re filled with a burning hate that I can see even from a good few feet away. There’s something about him that’s familiar but I can’t place it.

I don’t spend too long thinking about it because the guy moves closer to him and I don’t want to look at him so I focus my attention back on Ian and his victim. I watch as he pulls his fist back and aims it towards the kid’s stomach.

The blow lands and the kid doubles over. I clench my teeth and start towards him again but then I catch sight of the kid cowering behind the rest. His nose has been bleeding and his eye is already starting to swell up. The poor kid is tiny compared to the one Ian just punched. Just a one-on-one the fight between the two of them would be unfair.

I catch Ian wink at the twins who release the offender just as Ian takes a second swing at him. The blow glances and I get the feeling it was intentional as the bully makes a run for it. The Carters don’t bother chasing after him; they know they’ve made their point.

The door of a small shop a few houses away opens and two smaller figures appear.