Perfect's Overrated

By Johnelle Rae

~Editor's Pick~

If image is everything, does what’s real even matter?

By senior year, wannabe chef Sutton “Mac” MacNabb should have learned how to read. Instead, school’s turned him into an expert on bad grades and girls. Mac’s impression of a guy who’s happy to be going nowhere in life is almost as flawless as his recipe for soufflé.

Merci Danielson has it all: beauty, brains, personality, and parents who are accomplished French chefs. But underneath Merci’s carefully-crafted public persona lies a disability, and self-doubt, that no one would ever suspect.

When school and a connection to cooking force Merci into Mac’s classes, his kitchen, and his life, the two seemingly polar opposites attract on a level much more real than either of their reputations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Nov 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9780369500908

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Published by Evernight Teen ® at Smashwords

www.evernightteen.com

Copyright© 2019 Johnelle Rae

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0090-8

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Melissa Hosack

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

For my family. Thank you for believing in me.

PERFECT’S OVERRATED

The Perfect Series, 1

Johnelle Rae

Copyright © 2019

Chapter One

Mac

Don’t take the easy way out. Mrs. Brite’s voice is quiet, but not so quiet I can’t hear it across the room.

Shit. She’s talking to me. Somehow, I just know it.

I hunch down over my history exam. The Battle of Trafalgar is typed big and bold across the top. I’d thought this was going to be an easy victory for me, but now I’m not so sure. The enemy’s got me in her sights.

It’s the first time Mrs. Brite’s singled me out. It’s the third time I’ve been in her classroom—the resource room—this week.

Don’t take the easy way out, she repeats.

Clearly, she’s noticed I’ve been circling random answers on the exam. Now she’s about to call me on it. She thinks I have no option but surrender.

Little does she know I’ve considered at least five emergency exit strategies before she even opens her mouth to speak again.

You’re welcome to come over here and join the others, she says pleasantly.

What? A de-escalation tactic?

Unexpected, but not unwelcome.

I watch as Mrs. Brite gestures to the table near her desk. Two of the regulars have been sitting there listening to her read the exam out loud. Adrienne’s a sad case who needs all the help she can get. She’s been in SPED almost as long as I have. I guess she has a shit home life. Or just a shit life, period. Wes, on the other hand, is here for the freebies. He’s smart enough to pass his classes on his own, but too damn lazy to try.

Losers like this crew—my crew—do the least amount possible to reach one common goal: graduation.

Mrs. Brite’s tapping foot lets me know that it’s time to make a responsible decision—play the good student and shuffle on over to join the others. I’ve gotta hand it to her. She understands the rules of engagement in a troubled-teen-versus-caring-teacher situation.

I hadn’t given it much thought, but the war paint she puts on is a nice touch, too. Today her eyes are rimmed in a dark burgundy shade. Her brows are colored black. She’s got something on her lips that makes them look paler than a Jane Doe’s.

An undead evil queen.

She could pull off the role no doubt. I feel my mouth turn up in a half smile as I imagine her stuffing a crown down over her long frizzy hair.

She must take my smile as a good sign. She’s already instructing Adrienne and Wes to move their chairs over and make room for me at their table.

I stand up and walk over to the trash can with my test.

The look on Mrs. Brite’s face goes from self-satisfied to shocked.

I laugh like the asshole that I am.

Don’t…

Mrs. Brite clamps her mouth shut at the sound of the long, slow, deliberate rip that splits my test in two.

I’ve sunk your battleship, I say, as I drop the remains of my test into the trash and walk out the door. Trafalgar’s just been won.

A crack of laughter—Wes’s—follows me, and through it I hear phone buttons being punched in. Extension 1500. Guidance. Mr. O’Riley or, as I like to think of him, Surfer Dude. The mixture of high and low beeps that connects any phone in the building to his office is a tune I know by heart. It’s the first time I’ve done it this school year, but it’s hardly the first time I’ve walked out of an exam.

If you can’t fix it, fuck it.

Those are my rules of engagement. And now Mrs. Brite’s aware.

I make my way past a set of restrooms and down toward the main hall. I’ve decided to head straight to Surfer Dude’s office. Why send him out on a school-wide manhunt before he’s even had lunch?

My timing is perfect. Surfer Dude’s just putting his phone back on its cradle when I open his door without knocking.

He breaks into a cheesy smile when he sees me. Mac! he says.

I don’t return his smile.

He clears his throat. I was just about to—

Release the hounds? I shrug and plop down into one of the two thinking chairs he keeps in his office. The first looks like a spider web stretched out over a metal frame. The second is shaped like a giant contact lens. It’s fuzzy and pink.

I choose the spider web. I figured I’d save you the trouble, I say. I relax back into the nylon bungee cords now embracing me.

Surfer Dude steeples his hands in front of him. What’s up?

He’s all business now. Despite the fact he’s wearing cargo shorts, UGG moccasins, and enough beaded bracelets to rival a junior high girl on the boardwalk.

I don’t have to tell Mr. O’Riley what’s up. Mrs. Brite’s already filled him in. But you gotta give the guy some credit for pretending like he cares.

I’m dropping history, I say. Can you print me out a new schedule?

Surfer Dude runs a hand through his longish bleached blond hair. I’m afraid that’s not possible, he says. As you know, you need four social studies credits to graduate. No pass, no diploma. It’s as simple as that. Is it just today’s test that’s got you down, or is there something else…?

Surfer Dude trails off when he realizes he’s let on that he already knows what’s up. He pauses for a second, then he shrugs and decides to roll with it. Look, I’m gonna level with you, son, he says, less businesslike and more coach-of-the-year now. Mrs. Brite told me that she offered to read the test aloud to you, and apparently that triggered this —he waves a hand in the air— this outburst.

I almost smile. He knows as well as I do that this isn’t an outburst.

So why don’t you do us all a favor, he goes on, yourself included, and go back to class, get the test over with, and move on? It’s week one. There are going to be a lot more history exams where that came from.

As if I wasn’t aware.

I hoist myself out of the spider web chair without a word. I ignore the fist Surfer Dude has lifted in hopes of getting a friendly bump from me, and I head back to class. I guess I’ll find out if Mrs. Brite is the type of teacher who’ll go the embarrassment route and read me the riot act in front of an audience, or the type who’ll just shrug off my act of defiance like it never happened.

I’m guessing she’s gonna be type numero uno when I find her waiting in the hallway outside her classroom door.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t lay into me.

Sit, she commands, and then follows me into the classroom and all the way to my seat. As if she can make sure I do what she says.

I look down at the ripped test that somehow has materialized back on my desk. I look at the red plastic tape dispenser in the shape of a high-heeled shoe that’s sitting next to it. And then I look back at Mrs. Brite like she’s a crazy person. I sit down at the desk and rip off a long piece of tape. Shit if I know what else to do.

I’d wash my hands after repairing that test if I were you, Mrs. Brite says. There were a bunch of used tissues in the trash can. I used a Sani-Wipe on my hands after I fished that thing out of there for you.

I don’t respond. She dug through the trash to rescue my test? That’s actually pretty … disgusting.

She takes a deep breath and removes a green gel pen from behind one of her ears. She taps the pen on my desk to get my attention. I don’t look up at her. But I guess she can sense I’m listening.

That was your free one, Mr. MacNabb, she says quietly. I trust we won’t have an issue like that again.

I nod my head, once. The tone of her voice tempts me to say Yes, Ma’am, and not in a dick way, either. In a sign-of-respect way.

I can’t help but raise my eyebrows at the prospect. This is me we’re talking about. I don’t have respect. Not for myself, not for my parents, not for the girls I date, and certainly not for my teachers.

I shake my head and go back to taping. A glance up at the wall clock tells me there’s only three minutes to go until the lunch bell rings. And hell, I can make this whole tape-surgery-on-my-test thing last three hours if I need to.

I break off a piece of tape and pretend to measure it against the test. I discover it’s too long. I twist my face into an Oh, my goodness! Oops! look in case anyone’s watching. Then I roll the tape into a ball between my fingers.

Mrs. Brite’s sharp voice actually makes me jump. Please don’t waste my tape, Mr. MacNabb. I bought that on Amazon.

Yeah, so?

I know I didn’t speak out loud, but I feel my ears burn anyway when she follows up, With my own money.

I glance at her. Is this lady for real?

Sorry, I mumble, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind. And then somehow, miraculously, I’m saved by the bell. I jump out of my seat like it’s on fire. I book it out of the classroom and make my way toward the cafeteria, Taco Friday (no, it doesn’t make sense), and with any luck Alecia Black’s hands on me while we eat.

She—Alecia—texted me this morning during homeroom. She doesn’t have to work tonight. She wants to hang out at my place after practice.

Alecia and I aren’t friends. For the past two years, hanging out with her at my place—or any place—has meant one thing. And as long as we can grab a table with a little privacy, that thing includes some lunchtime foreplay.

Bring it on, I think as I near the cafeteria. The smell of spicy beef and yeah, the thought of Alicia’s C-cups, have me looking forward to what’s always been the best thirty minutes of my school day.

Chapter Two

Merci

My father’s off-key rendition of Mercy Mercy Me welcomes me into the kitchen. It’s his favorite song, he claims, because Marvin Gaye croons my name countless times throughout the track.

It’s a typical morning at my house, even though today might be one of the most important days of my life. I can’t hold back a semi-nervous, semi-amused laugh as I take my usual seat at the table. Morning, Daddy.

He turns at the sound of my voice, grins, and busts a dance move that’s even worse than his singing. I’m not sure if he’s going for 1970’s Bee Gees smooth or the robot.

I erupt into giggles, pure amusement this time, and my dad takes an exaggerated bow.

Morning, Sweetie.

That’s all I’m able to get out of him before he goes back to singing.

Daddy, I say, a mock warning tone in my voice. Please don’t force me to do this…

To illustrate what this is, I reach both hands beneath the hair that frames my face, then watch as my father cracks up. I mean, he’s really busting a gut. As if we haven’t acted out this scene already, like a thousand times before.

That bad, huh? he asks, coming to stand next to me. Somehow a plate of blueberry pancakes has materialized in his hand. He sets the plate down in front of me and kisses the top of my head.

Yes, I say, wide-eyed, head bouncing up and down like a bobble head doll. That bad.

I take his splutters of indignation in stride, reach for a fork, and dig in.

And just about immediately following that, all thoughts of Marvin Gaye exit my head, stage left.

Oh my.

This stuff is good. I mean really, really good.

Sweet blueberry-y, buttery, maple syrup-y deliciousness bursts in my mouth and rolls over my tongue. I swallow only so I can take