Better than Perfect

By Tricia Drammeh

The best things in life are the least expected.

Twenty-three-year-old Karlie has few friends, no boyfriend, and no plans to graduate from college anytime in the immediate future. She spends her free time hanging out with her elderly next door neighbor, daydreaming but never doing anything to escape the endless cycle of predictability. When Karlie’s world is invaded by two surly twins bound for criminal court, a too-good-to-be-true love interest, and a cute cop who keeps showing up at the most inopportune moments, Karlie can either fight against the changes in her life, or embrace them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tricia Drammeh
• Release date: Feb 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370592418

Tricia Drammeh

Tricia Drammeh is a wife and mother of four children who lives in New Hampshire. Her published works include The Fifth Circle, The Seance, Better than Perfect, and the Spellbringers series. She is currently working on her ninth novel. When Tricia isn't writing, she can be found hanging out with her dog, devouring books, or drinking record-breaking amounts of coffee.

Book preview

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Chapter One

Sunlight assaults me the moment I open the front door. At eight AM, it’s already eighty degrees in the shade. I seriously contemplate skipping class and going back to bed, but my neighbor’s cheerful voice pulls me down the porch steps and into the driveway.

Good morning, Karlie. Marita waves cheerfully before bending down to pick up her newspaper. The front of her pink, floral robe gapes open and I avert my eyes. It’s way too early to be subjected to an old-lady flashing.

I toss my backpack into the passenger seat of my Honda before replying, Hi, Marita. How are you this morning?

Good. Guess what? In pink, plush slippers, she patters across the thin strip of lawn between her driveway and mine. The boys are coming next week. I’m so excited. I’ve been saving my quarters for months.

Marita saves her quarters all year long in anticipation of her grandchildren’s summer visit. It’s likely the surly teens I saw last summer have outgrown the arcade, but in Marita’s mind, the black-clad, pierced twin boys are still the chubby toddlers who once traipsed across this very lawn, cavorting in the sprinklers.

That’s great. I try to infuse my response with enthusiasm.

I’m surprised by the sudden jealousy that burbles to the surface. Marita has something to break the monotony of her structured life, but I have very little to look forward to. Just another semester, another class, another list of assignments leading to an eventual grade. College is starting to get old—actually, it got old a long time ago, but I’m not ready to move on. I’m not ready to get a new job, and so I continue to enroll semester after semester, changing my major every time I get close to graduation.

After another five minutes of small talk, I ease away from my elderly neighbor and into my car. With a sigh, I back out of the driveway and head toward the interstate. I twist the knob on the radio and music floods the car. Behind the wheel of my silver four-door sedan, I’m no longer Karlie the college student, Karlie the orphan, Karlie the waitress. I’m Karlie, future rock star, future award-winning novelist, and future world traveler.

The future me is way more interesting than the real me—the me who remains firmly stuck in the past, knee deep in the tragedy of my parents’ death. The plane crash that took them from me was their first exercise in excitement—and the last time I truly took my dreams seriously. The moment of risk taking that ultimately ended their lives forever stalled mine, leaving me adrift in a going nowhere existence.

My sister Mandy sometimes tells me I need therapy to help me move on, which is easy for her to say. She has a husband and two rambunctious children who keep her constantly engaged and busy. Change is her only constant, but for me, consistency is my best friend. I still live in the house my parents left to Mandy and me, despite my sister’s periodic threats to sell it. I still attend classes at OSU. I still work at the same job.

I’ve been in limbo for three years, and though I occasionally make noise about making major changes, my life is stagnant. One of these days, something will happen, or someone will come along who will get me moving once again. Mandy says it’s up to me to make things happen, but she doesn’t get it. Moving forward isn’t easy when you’re stuck in the past.

*****

Summer semester is low key. It’s almost like a vacation, but in a classroom setting. The professors dress casually, and the scents of swimming pools, suntan lotion, and summertime fill the classroom—the smells of fun. Not my sort of fun, though. My idea of fun does not include sweltering in the heat, immersing myself in water that strangers have been swimming in, or slathering myself in coconut-smelling oil. What is my idea of fun? I have no clue.

I take a seat in the back of Abnormal Psychology and rummage through my backpack, pulling out my textbook. Of all the classes I’ve taken, this one is my favorite. We study all the ways the human mind can turn against you—the worst case scenarios. As opposed to previous Psychology classes, this particular class makes me feel normal. I don’t feel as if any of the disorders we’ve studied apply to me, so it’s rather uplifting. I’ve analyzed myself enough over the past three years, so it’s nice to enjoy the class without recognizing symptoms in myself.

The guy who sits a couple of rows in front of me catches my eye when he slides into his seat. Striking with styled, medium brown hair with a tinge of red, brooding hazel eyes and pale skin, he reminds me of the hero from one of my favorite vampire novels. Dating a vampire would certainly shake things up in my otherwise boring life, but since it’s a sunny day and his skin isn’t sparkling or smoldering, I’m assuming he’s a typical moody college student rather than a member of the stylish undead. Still, it’s nice to fantasize. He really would make a great vampire.

The professor calls roll, a ritual he performs sporadically. Most professors don’t worry about attendance; students either pass their exams or they fail. I zone out while an eternity of names are called. With the last name ‘Smith,’ I’m always one of the last on any attendance list.

Here, the hot guy in front of me replies. Was that a hint of an accent? British or Australian?

Ugh. I didn’t catch his name. What the heck is his name? After two weeks of sitting in this classroom, I still haven’t managed to find out his name. I could ask, but then he might think I’m hitting on him. One of these days, I’ll figure it out.

Smith, Karlie.

Here, I say.

The Vampire glances over his shoulder and catches my gaze again. A small smile curves the corners of his lips before he turns to face the front of the room. A few minutes later, he glances over his shoulder at me again. Bizarre. I can’t think of a single reason why he might be interested in me. His style is expensively casual while mine screams discount rack. His hair sticks up in trendy, stylized spikes, while my dark tresses are usually scraped back into a scraggly pony tail.

Back to reality, Karlie. This guy isn’t interested. Why would he be? I’m an orphaned waitress who should have graduated a year ago. What would I possibly have to offer an extremely hot, well-dressed member of the opposite sex? Not a lot.

I try to focus on the lecture, but I keep thinking about The Vampire, wondering what he’d think about me if he ever discovered my nickname for him. He’d probably decide I was crazier than some of the case studies we’ve read about in our text. Yeah, better to keep my fantasies to myself.

When class is over, I pack up my belongings. My phone rings and I answer it as I walk toward the parking lot.

Hello?

Karlie? It’s Marita. Can you come over later if you have a chance? I’m trying to get the room ready for the boys and I can’t lift the mattresses…

You shouldn’t be lifting anything, I say. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.

I don’t want to make you late for work…

I’m off today. I’ve got all day.

Oh, good. We’ll have ice cream sundaes after we’ve finished. It’ll be fun, just us girls.

Okay, it’s a date, I say before I stash my phone in my pocket.

My name is Karlie Smith. I’m a twenty-three year old professional college student. And I have a date with my elderly neighbor. Way to go, Karlie. You’re living the dream.

Chapter Two

Boom.

My windows vibrate and a pulsating beat rattles my teeth. What the hell is that? Periodic shrieking startles me each time I begin to drift back to sleep. After several minutes, I can’t take it any longer. I pad barefoot to the window overlooking the usually quiet street below, and see flashing strobe lights coming closer.

A police car rounds the corner and pulls into Marita’s driveway. The side-mirror spotlight beams toward her front door. Two officers step out of their car and trek up the front walkway. Grabbing a t-shirt to throw on over my thin camisole, I slide on a pair of flip-flops, speed down the staircase, and throw open my front door. Deafening music fills the night air. Two police officers are standing on Marita’s front porch as I jog across the lawn.

What happened? I ask when one of the officers turns his attention toward me.

We’ve had several noise complaints, he replies, swiping his hand over his sweaty brow. Do you know the people who live here?

Of course. I’ve lived next to Mrs. Daniels all my life.

Does anyone else live here?

Just her twin grandsons. Well, they’re only visiting. That’s probably who’s playing the loud music. Um, yeah. Like Marita would be blasting screamo music.

We’ve knocked several times and no one is answering.

They probably can’t hear over the music, I say. Oops. I didn’t mean to sound like a smart ass. Mrs. Daniels doesn’t hear as well as she used to, and she takes a lot of medicine which tends to make her drowsy. I have a spare key if you want me to go in and wake her up.

If it isn’t too much trouble, ma’am, the second officer says. He looks young, no older than twenty-three or twenty-four. I’d hate to have to break down her door for a noise complaint. He smiles.

Be right back. I dash across the lawn to my house. When I return with the key, the officers step aside and I unlock the door.

I motion for them to follow me into the house. Music shakes the foundations of the home. Marita? Cole? Connor?

Obviously they can’t hear my hesitant summons over the loud music. I can’t believe Marita is able to sleep. I walk toward the stairs and when I reach the foot of the staircase, I put up one finger, signaling for the police officers to wait. The young officer nods in agreement.

Marita? Boys? I yell when I reach the top of the staircase. I’m starting to regret having told the officers about the spare key. What will the boys think when I knock on their bedroom door? What will Marita think when I invade her room and wake her up?

I creep toward the twins’ bedroom. Just a few days ago, Marita and I had changed the superhero sheets to ones with graphic designs more fitting for two young men. We replaced the curtains, gave the room a thorough cleaning, and installed a stereo she found at a garage sale. I bet she’ll end up regretting that particular purchase.

The bedroom door is closed, so I pound on it, calling out the twins’ names. Hazy smoke wafts into the hallway when the door opens. I can’t tell the difference between the brothers, but one of the twins greets me, his eyes red-rimmed and shocked. The other twin is lounging on his bed, and when he sees me, his eyes widen and he turns to face the wall, hiding something from my view.

"Why are you here?" the twin in the doorway asks.

I let the police in. They want to talk to you, I shout.

The music stops suddenly, shrouding the house in silence. The surly expression slides off his face and is replaced by terror. Are you serious? he asks.

Do I look like I enjoy playing pranks in the middle of the night? Yes, I’m serious. Do you want to wake your grandma, or do you want me to do it?

Do we have to? Can’t you just tell the cops we’ll keep the music down?

Red hot rage floods my veins. Is he joking? "No. I can’t tell them anything. They want to talk to the owner of the house and the owner of the loud, obnoxious music that’s awakened half the neighbors."

Can you wake her up? he asks.

Fine, but you’d better get both your butts downstairs, or those officers will come up here after you, I threaten.

The twin on the bed mutters obscenities, while door-greeter-twin waves his hands back and forth, presumably in an attempt to disperse the stale, smoky air. I turn away and walk down the hallway, passing the bedroom that used to belong to the Daniels’ only daughter, the mother of the two loathsome twins. She never visits for any longer than it takes to dump off her sons. At the end of the hall, I pause outside the master bedroom and knock hesitantly, softly calling, Marita? It’s Karlie. Can I come in?

No answer.

I twist the knob, push the door open, and poke my head inside. There’s no movement in the four-poster bed which Marita has occupied alone since her husband’s death nine years ago. I tiptoe in, calling her name softly. When I reach her bed, a soft snore erupts through her gaping mouth.

Marita? Wake up.

Nothing.

Marita? There’s a bit of an emergency… Marita?

After a moment, the twins thunder down the steps to the front hall of doom where the police officers await. It’s time for me to take an aggressive approach to waking Marita.

I speak loudly, shaking Marita’s frail shoulders. She jerks awake, sucking in a deep breath. Startled, I stagger back a step accidentally knocking her alarm clock from her nightstand with a clatter.

Marita jolts into a sitting position, her mouth agape with confusion when it finally registers that I’m in her room. She reaches up with both hands to extract something from each of her ears. Ear plugs? No wonder she hadn’t heard the mind-splitting music.

Sorry. I’m so sorry to come into your house, but there’s… a problem. The police…they’re downstairs… the twins, um, it seems their music was too loud and some of the neighbors complained.

The police? Oh, my. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she slides her feet into her slippers.

They knocked, but you didn’t hear them, I guess. So I offered to come in and get you. Sorry. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t know what else to do…

That’s okay, honey. You did the right thing. I guess those doggone earplugs work a little too well. She reaches for the robe draped across the footstool at the end of her bed. Do you think I have time to put in my teeth?

The police are downstairs waiting. I don’t think they’ll care about your teeth.

You’re probably right, she agrees, leading the way out of her bedroom.

Deep voices grow louder as we descend the staircase. The older police officer is lecturing while the twins shift their feet and avoid eye contact.

Officers? I’m Marita Daniels.

The officers’ attention moves from the twins to her. I stand in the background, uncomfortable and tired, but reluctant to walk past the hulking men still blocking the doorway.

Ma’am, the younger officer says, as I’ve explained to your grandsons, our city has a noise ordinance which they have violated. As the owner of the home, you are responsible for ensuring that your guests adhere to our laws.

Yes, Officer. I’m sorry. I had my earplugs in and didn’t realize…it won’t happen again. Will you be giving me a ticket?

No, ma’am, but if it happens again, you might be subject to a fine.

Okay. Thank you, Officer. Boys, you need to thank these nice police officers for letting us off so easily. Tomorrow you can apologize to the neighbors.

The boys mumble insincere thanks. As the officers turn away, both twins roll their eyes. They jog up the stairs as soon as the police officers are gone.

I’m sorry you were involved in this. Marita’s voice warbles.

It’s okay. That’s what neighbors are for. Look at all the times you helped me.

Those boys. She sighs and her shoulders slump. They haven’t had it easy.

In my opinion, the twins make it hard on themselves. If they cut their hair and remove a few piercings, people might perceive them differently.

They haven’t had much guidance. Sharron got divorced again and she has to work so much…

I understand, I say, though I really don’t. I hug her and step outside into the now quiet night. A cool breeze catches the tendrils of hair that have escaped my ponytail. I shiver as I let myself into my house.

For a long time, I lay in bed wide awake, a feeling of foreboding making my body tense and leaving my mind unsettled. Sharron Daniels, the mother of the twins, had been everything my sister and I aspired to be. As a teenager, she was beautiful, intelligent, and popular. I was six years old when Sharron quit college to go to California to start her acting career. She was nineteen with a movie-star tan and blonde hair that waved down to her waist. She said she was going to be a star and Mandy and I believed her.

For years, Marita told us tales of Sharron’s adventures in California—the secondary roles in B movies, her newest job waiting tables just to make ends meet, the glamorous people she met at parties. Mr. Daniels rolled his eyes and grumbled. When Mandy and I fantasized about one day going to California to become stars ourselves, my mom said that becoming a star wasn’t as easy as it seemed. Mandy said that was okay because Sharron could help us.

Every year at Christmastime, Sharron came home to visit for a week. Every year, she looked more stylish and beautiful than the year before. The year I turned ten, Sharron came home looking different. Sharron usually wore a short skirt and sleeveless top when she arrived, regardless of how cold it was in Ohio, but that year she was covered from head to kneecap in a bulky, dark overcoat. Sharron usually traipsed around the neighborhood visiting all her old haunts and was constantly coming and going. But that year, the only time I saw her was when her father brought her home from the airport and when they left again a week later for her return flight.

It was unclear whether or not Sharron had ever married the father of the twins, but she had certainly been married numerous times to an assortment of men. So her last marriage ended in divorce? It was hardly surprising, but sad nonetheless.

I feel a twinge of pity toward the twins whose lives have once again been thrown into turmoil. Then I remember their sullen expressions, eye-rolling, and blatant disregard for their grandmother and her neighbors, and decide that perhaps the twins might be responsible for some of the turmoil in their young lives.

Chapter Three

We had our first exam in Abnormal Psychology last week, and now it’s the moment of truth. Professor Giddeon is calling our names one by one so we can receive our graded papers. With bated breath, I’m paying close attention to this cattle call, hoping I’ll finally find out The Vampire’s name.

Kevin Phillips.

The Vampire raises his hand and Professor Giddeon hands him his paper.

Kevin? I’m disappointed. Kevin isn’t a very vampirific name. It isn’t trendy, exotic, or even foreign-sounding. It doesn’t suit his gorgeous accent at all.

When Professor Giddeon calls my name and gives me my graded paper, Kevin turns around and smiles at me. He lifts his brow as if to ask whether or not I aced my test. I glance at the paper. I scored an eighty-five percent. Decent grade, but not the best. When I lift my gaze, Kevin is still staring at me. I shrug and offer a crooked smile, hoping my gesture is an appropriate response to his implied question.

Honestly, I’m disappointed in my grade. I blame Kevin. He distracts me. Not just in the classroom, but all the time. I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s juvenile and embarrassing, but I’m sort of obsessed.

Each night when I fluff my pillow and wriggle under the covers, I imagine different scenarios, all of them resulting in eventual marriage and/or immortality. Sometimes Kevin’s a vampire; other times, he’s just a rich, hot, enigmatic guy who completely transforms my life from mediocrity to fame, fortune, and glamour. You know. Not that I expect much out of a relationship.

Now that I know Kevin’s name, I can stop referring to him as The Vampire. I might even be able to get past my childish, ridiculous infatuation. Actually, I damn well better get past this hopeless obsession. I plan to get an A in this class, and thanks to this exam grade, I’ve got some catching up to do.

Several minutes later, Kevin turns around to smile at me. I give him a hard stare before looking away. Sorry, Kevin, but if it’s between you and my GPA, I’ll pick my grades every time. After all, I’ve been in college for five years. That might not mean much to the four-year-plan, average student, but I’m a professional.

*****

Mandy’s husband Dave turned thirty-five last week, so I’m swinging by their house to give him a birthday card. When I arrive, belated wishes and lame