Not Exactly Perfect

By Emma Sohan

May is a slut. She is starting a new school where no one knows her, with the goal of changing. May grows emotionally across the arc of the book, but she is also thrown into a class called "Critical Thinking", so she grows cognitively. That class is one of several repeating motifs, including that her father has a parallel problem with occasional binge drinking.

This is written in what I call Simple Phrase Grammar. The character of May could not be created without it; scenes, and emotional reactions could not be adroitly described without it. Exploring this book should be required reading for writers and grammarians.

This takes a stab at differences between males and females, especially in her advice to girls at the school for how to attract a guy they like.

This is not pornographic. Details of a sex scene are described as needed, and she does sometimes try to be erotic.

Pain : I'm walking in a crowd in the hallway, a hand rubs my butt, someone laughs. I turn around to see who did it, all the guys are smirking, all the girls are looking at me with contempt, everyone thinks I deserved that, I don't know who's guilty, someone behind me whispers "trash", I whirl around, I can't tell who said that either.
Insight: When I try to be a better person, it's easier on the people who have to live with me.
Love: We sit, two broken people, finding a tiny grace in each other's hug.
Humor: Sending a guy a subtle signal is like flossing with Kleenex.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Sohan
• Release date: Aug 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005551513

Emma Sohan

I write fiction, usually Y/A. I also write about punctuation and grammar, usually useful advice for writers but also rewriting the foundations of grammar.

Book preview

Not Exactly Perfect

Published by Emma Sohan at Smashwords

Copyright 2021 Emma Sohan

Revised. Original published as I'm Not Exactly Perfect.

Sunday Night, January 31

Dear God, thank you for letting me have this new start. Could you please change me? I don't want to ruin my life again.

Chapter 1: A Not-Exactly-Perfect Start

Monday, February 1

Walking into my first class in this school, tense, anxious, worried, it's 11th grade American History. Approaching the teacher, handing him my schedule, he's male, about 42, he quickly reads it. Welcome to Ferndale High School, May. And welcome to our class. I'm Mr. Stanton.

He hands my schedule back to me, his hand accidentally brushing against mine, he doesn't notice, so he's happily married. Taking an empty seat, getting curious stares for a few seconds, then everyone ignores me.

Listening to American History, it's like watching a boring movie for the third time, except the movie is impossibly long. Trying to pay attention, trying to be good.

Any potential friends here?

Looking around . . . everyone's still ignoring me, except one guy on the other side of the classroom, he's one-by-one staring at every girl in the class, including me. So I'm a female body to him. I'm used to that.

Mr. Stanton: Jeremy, pay attention.

His name is Jeremy. I'm not high on his list, even though I'm a new female body. From who he's staring at most -- and where he's staring -- he likes buxom. I'm short and thin, but I don't need to be high on his list, I don't even need to be on his list -- because I'm making a new start.

Yeah. I am.

His momentary attention feels good, it stops the feeling that I'm not important, that I don't exist, but I focus on President Jackson and banking. Could Mr. Stanton have chosen a less interesting topic?

Every girl in the room turns around to look at the guy asking a question, so he must be a Mountain. I look back too, yep, rugged good looks and confidence. Mountains have lots of choices, so he's probably too difficult for me to take. I'm used to that -- I long ago learned who I was and who I could get. Anyway, I'm not having sex with anyone, I changed last night, now I'm a new person.

Why does he care about banks? Don't people just use their credit cards?

Jeremy eventually becomes bored with me, no surprise, around the 10th stare I stopped being a new girl to the reptilian part of his brain. Not a problem, I'm not hurt, I'm not buxom, I know that.

No, it is a problem -- now everyone's ignoring me. And I have no idea what Mr. Stanton is talking about, and my pride is hurt. Being a female body, being a female to his male, that's the only thing I'm good at.

I run my hand up the inside of my thigh, softly caressing it. Gentle. Slow. Heroin to Jeremy's reptilian brain.

No one calls me beautiful, I'm not winning any beauty contests, on the scale from 1 to 10 I'm a 6. Jeremy is now staring at me, of course. My face is even, just not sexy. I need higher cheekbones. I have a small nose that would be adorably cute if it wasn't quite so round. Jeremy's staring at me. Jutting my breasts. But 6 is usually good enough for me to get a guy to fuck me. I'm really good at what I do.

Now I'm at the top of Jeremy's stare-at list. I am female -- I exist. That makes me smile, enigmatically I hope. He's about 6 foot 2 inches, gangling, bony face, big hands, hands that don't look clumsy, hands that would be good at building things . . . hands that could . . . I'm daydreaming . . . hands that could make me feel . . .

Making myself stop -- stop daydreaming, stop teasing Jeremy. Focusing on President Jackson, who treated the Native Americans horribly. Who was he trying to impress with that?

Math. The guys check me out, I'm only a 6, then everyone ignores me, I don't exist.

Study Hall. They talk to each other, they already have friends, the guys check me out, that doesn't last long, they lose interest in me.

Lunch. At my old school, every girl hated me, but I could sit at any guy table I wanted. Here . . . expecting . . . sigh, I don't know what I was expecting. Hoping for some miracle, somehow having someone to sit with.

No miracle.

No tables are completely empty, so I sit at a large and mostly-empty table in the middle of the cafeteria, a small clique of girls across from me, occasionally looking at me, then looking annoyed because I'm at their table -- like I'm doing something wrong -- but I have to sit someplace. Sigh, I didn't have to switch schools to get mean looks from females.

Eating lunch by myself in a crowded cafeteria is bad for my digestion. I imagine sitting at a picnic table, near a lake, in the warm sun. Trying to relax and be happy. I'm not the sinner here, not yet, trying to feel okay about myself, it's not easy.

Critical Thinking? Double checking my schedule. It says my class is Critical Thinking. What's that? Why is this happening to me? This can't be a prank, no one would pay enough attention to me for that.

Showing the teacher my schedule, she's young, she's the first teacher to actually look at me and see me, this is the first time today I felt like a real person with feelings. She gives my schedule back, smiles nicely at me, then refocuses on the class and looks stressed. I sit down.

On the board, where our homework assignment is supposed to be, is

Do not weep; do not wax indignant. Understand.

-- Spinoza

That's supposed to make sense? It doesn't.

Welcome to our class, May. I'm Mrs. Neal. We always begin our class with a discussion of a quote. Maybe you could start us off today. Would you like to share your impression of this?

Spinoza. Cool name. But that's not her question. I read the quote again, it still makes no sense. Wondering why she's asking me instead of someone else. I'm new, it doesn't seem fair.

Reading it once more, carefully, hopelessly, still having no idea what it means. Now wishing I was invisible. That we should try to live life to its fullest.

Mrs. Neal startles, turns back to the board, rereads the quote, seeing if my answer makes any sense. I'm praying it did, not much hope though, and she still isn't smiling, so it didn't. Again no miracle -- my debut as a Ferndale student is a failure.

But I didn't ask to take this class. I don't even know what it is.

Mrs. Neal smiling at me, trying to make my answer not seem so bad. Very interesting, May. Does anyone else have an impression? James, what do you see?

Studying Mrs. Neal while a meaningless discussion swirls around me. She's so serious, trying so hard, too hard. She didn't criticize my stupid answer.

Standing in the door, lingering after, wanting to spend time with someone who paid attention to me. She looks at me, friendly, my turn to talk, me needing to ask something or else look stupid. What's Critical Thinking?

Good question, May. This class teaches you to develop and apply your critical thinking skills, towards important issues in society, for yourself, and interpersonally.

Thanks. I'm not asking what that means. Ducking my head, leaving. She was no doubt the smart girl who got alienated in high school.

Walking into the house after school, ah shit, I forgot about Father's Wife, I never expected her to be waiting for me, an ambush, isn't she supposed to be working? I have to live with her and my dad so I can go to Ferndale.

She gives me a big smile. Hi May. How was your day? I made cookies for you. Offering me just-baked cookies arranged neatly a tray. Trying way too hard.

I stare blankly at the tray. Cookies? The worst cliche. A cosmic joke. My day was dreary. Great first day, Frieda. No thanks on the cookies, I don't eat junk food.

Her face dropping. Feeling her disappointment, that hurts me a lot, but it's not my job to make her happy, I'm the child here, and I don't want any cookies.

Sigh, I can't deal with guilt. But chocolate is never junk food. I have to take at least one.

A smile returning to her face, me taking a cookie, now she's happy but I'm not, I'm starting to get angry, I'm faced once again with It's not fair, I wanted just once today to say What an unexpected pleasure!

My Mom can be tough to get along with, but I just argue with her or whatever, and she's always a real person. Frieda seems more like a puppy, greeting me after school, hoping I'll pay attention to her. Is that what men want in a wife? Ugh, not thinking about it, not a teenager problem.

Going upstairs to my room. Doing my daily exercises, using up 20 minutes.

Now what? I'm lost. At Clarkson when I lived with my Mom, at least one boy would want sex with me after school. Now there's no one. Wanting to change, it's supposed to be good that there's no one, trying to appreciate my loneliness, but I can't, and . . . I still don't know what to do. This is a new problem for me.

I don't like talking on the phone, I can't see the people. I'm supposed to do homework. With a heavy sense of irony, I sit down and do homework. New start. It feels like an out-of-body experience.

In English, we're reading Poe. Any guy can act Goth or crazy or psycho or whatever and he's just trying to get attention, but Poe is the really creepy guy you should never have sex with.

American History is – no surprise – boring. Reading as much as I can, stopping only when I can't pay attention. I can't do any more homework. It's too boring. Masturbating.

Nothing.

Still trying . . . still nothing. Boring.

It's so frustrating, I look at my fingers, they're my friends, they don't need a condom, they won't tell anyone, and they can do a minivan-full of amazing things. Except excite me. At Clarkson I easily filled that gap in my life, literally too, but I'm here and trying to change.

I can change. Yes!

Doing math! I get through about half the problems! I'll be able to get them right on a test, I hope, that's a sure C and maybe a B-.

Then I cannot possibly do any more homework. I start a movie. Bad mistake. The shirtless hero is really hot. His friend is hot, even the bad guy is hot. Now I'm excited. Getting my coat, my purse, heading out the door, I'M GOING OUT, FRIEDA.

She calls back from the kitchen, sounding distressed, You can't go out, May. It's night, in a new city for you. When your father comes home, we are eating dinner together.

NOT NEGOTIABLE, FRIEDA, and I'm out the door.

I drive to the local mall. Wandering, checking out the guys, pretending to shop, buying some dinner at the food court. Normally I would be swarmed by guys recognizing me and trying to get sex, but no one here knows me. It's like school, I'm invisible, so I avoid sex simply by not making the first move. Trying to remember the last time I went to the mall by myself and didn't have sex. Probably before I was a slut.

It's boring. It's peaceful. It's a lot more interesting than being home alone.

Driving home, proud of myself, maybe even liking myself, a different feeling. I like it.

Getting home, my Dad, in the den, sitting in his easy chair, reading the newspaper. I interrupt: Knock knock.

He looks up at me and smiles big. Who's there? He puts down his paper and I crawl into his lap.

May. I'm important to someone. Mmmmm. He puts his arm around me. Liking me. Actually, loving me. An unexplainable miracle. I lean my head on his shoulder, feeling five years old, it's wonderful. I missed this so much after he left my Mom.

May who?

May, The Virgin.

Him laughing, appreciating my answer, holding me tight. How's it going, May The Virgin? Honest answer. He's serious, this is very important to him.

"I went all day without having sex with anyone, Dad. But it's hard to change. And even if I change on the outside, I don't know if I'm changing on the inside."

You're a beautiful girl on the inside, May. Easier not to hate myself when he likes me. And changing on the outside is good. No one likes me being a slut, even the two people who love me.

Don't get a lot of hopes, Dad. It helped that I didn't know anybody. No offers all day.

Quietly, That's the plan, May. New start. You can do it.

Wanting to believe him, not really succeeding, but liking that he believes in me. We sit contentedly for a while, then he suggests, More about your day?

According to all of the books and movies, I'm supposed to get bullied or at least teased my first day. Didn't happen. The popular kids ignored me. He nods and listens. Some seemingly nerdy or otherwise unpopular girl is supposed to eat lunch with me and become my best friend. Didn't happen. The unpopular kids ignored me too.

You ate lunch alone?

Yep. Not my fault, but it's embarrassing. He winces, then hugs me softly. Empathy.

Did anyone talk to you?

Nope. That hurt too. Another squeeze from him in support. I didn't alienate anyone. None of the teachers hate me. None of them are impressed by me. Nothing. It was a blank, empty day. Normal classes teaching the normal boring things. Except Critical Thinking, which was totally strange.

Was that hard on you?

Yeah. I think. "But it was peaceful too. No one hated me, no one even called me names. I wasn't harassed. So it was a lot better than Clarkson. Anyway, my goal is kind of not to get attention."

You can still make friends, May. It's the sex we want to avoid.

I know, Dad. But making friends with guys is a slippery slope.

He tickles me playfully. Cliche point. I lose a point because I used a cliche. My Dad is a newspaper writer, well, internet writer now.

Thinking about how to say the same thing without using a cliche. Making friends with guys is like jumping out of an airplane – just one step can go a lot further than you think.

He laughs. Good one, May! I happily return the cliche point.

And I don't have a parachute.

He loses his smile, he knows my problem, he doesn't have answers either. What about female friends?

sigh. I don't understand females. And they always hate me. I can't even imagine them being friends. I didn't even think about that possibility for a friend.

"It's a new school, May. Things can be different. They will be different. Trust me."

Hoping he's right. Sitting for a while longer, then starting to fidget, and our time's up.

Dad: Are you ever going to forgive me for leaving your Mother?

Smiling at him. How can I not love my own father? Nope. Nonnegotiable. Giving him a kiss on the cheek, so he knows I'm teasing, then I stand.

Frieda waited dinner for me. I don't have the heart to say I already ate at the mall -- I know where that guilt trip ends. Trying to eat again, faking enjoyment. What I love about my Mom is that I can just be myself. When she doesn't like it, we argue or something, but there's never any pretending. I miss her already.

I don't go to sleep easily when I'm horny. Trying to relax, trying to calm down. Thinking about my day, to distract myself. Thinking about my classes, like American History, with poor Jeremy staring at every girl, his hands, large and graceful hands, holding things gently, touching things softly, snaking down my pants . . .

Not working. Getting up, taking out my math, doing some more homework. Finishing it, math, I actually finish my math homework! My new life – chaste, pure, and a side effect is becoming a good student.

But I'm still horny. Reading more American History, then finally falling asleep.

Tuesday, February 2

Getting up in time to fix myself breakfast, but . . . Frieda made me breakfast (!) -- a ham and cheese omelet, with toast and orange juice. Trying to remember the last time I had anything but cereal for breakfast. Maybe never. Remembering the last time Mom fixed me breakfast before school, it was the last day of 6th grade, an important day for her.

Not wanting a heavy breakfast, eating just cereal is fine. But tell Frieda no? Easier to bring a new puppy back to the animal shelter. Frieda is trying so hard, it hurts to see. Wow, this is a lot of food. But it looks great. Thanks, Frieda.

Just eat what you wish, May. She nods and smiles. I know it is important to start the day with a good breakfast.

Sitting, eating some. I can't eat this much food. I take a few bites and add, But you're a really good cook. She is, this breakfast is delicious.

Thank you, May. It is nice to spend this morning time together. What do you have planned for today?

This time is nice for her? It's just breakfast. She can't possibly like me, she doesn't even know me. And I'm not very likable. Not much. Another blank day. Trying to think of something more to say to her . . . nothing comes to mind.

Walking to school, suddenly wondering Did she fix me breakfast yesterday? I didn't even look in the kitchen yesterday. I couldn't eat breakfast before the first day at a new school, she had to know that, right?

Frieda, so nice, so friendly, just makes me feel guilty. It's hard living with her.

I shouldn't want Jeremy's attention.

Yeah.

Listening to Mr. Stanton, trying to focus on him, what he's saying, Jeremy mostly staring at the buxom girls in class, me being back near the bottom of his list. Where I want to be, even though it's hard to go all day without any happiness.

I have no idea what a manifest destiny is.

Sitting up straight, showing my breasts, pretending to pay attention. Brushing my hand through my hair. I have beautiful hair, black with brown highlights, long with loose curls.

Doing a strip tease without the strip.

Using my body to get what I want. Slouching, pointing my toes, watching Jeremy out of the corner of my eye,

He shifts his chair so he can see me better. I study my fingernails casually.

Being first. Mr. Stanton yells at Jeremy for not paying attention.

Smiling like I thought of a joke. Softly stroking my arm, pretending to itch my thigh, craning my neck, getting Jeremy's total attention, getting excited.

Mr. Stanton yells at Jeremy again. I win, Mr. Stanton can't compete with hormones.

After class, oh oh, Jeremy coming up to me, showing me a big smile, he's standing close, I could touch his chest or arm, his closeness excites me. Hi. You're new here, right? I'm Jeremy. Welcome to Ferndale High. He's the first student in the whole school to talk to me. I smile at him, wanting him, finally feeling comfortable, knowing what to do --

PANIC!

Running, fleeing, escaping, stopping at a locker, turning away from everyone, catching my breath, trying to calm down, I will not be the school slut. Please, God, please. I want to like myself. I want my dad to be happy. I don't want people hating me like at Clarkson. Please, no Jeremy.

Lunch. Sitting at the same table. The small clique ignoring me completely, no dirty stares, not even looking at me, I'm already an expected part of the Ferndale cafeteria landscaping. Progress, I guess. Eating a peaceful lunch, sitting in the sun, by my lake.

Mrs. Neal, I like her, no calling on me today, my answer yesterday scared her I guess. I miss some attention -- but I can't understand today's quote either, so I'm happy to just watch.

Jake, sitting to my left, the Class Clown. Do not get me started on Class Clowns. Mark, two rows behind me and to my left, the Nice Guy. I try not to have sex with Nice Guys, they deserve better than me, I want to let them stay nice. No Easy Lays in this class, but Larry and Phillip wouldn't be that much work. No Mountain either, but Joseph and Alexander are good Listers.

Frieda and cookies after school. Again. Double fudge chocolate. I said I liked chocolate, now I'm stuck with it. I should have insisted I don't eat cookies, except I couldn't.

Doing my exercises. Now what? Doing my homework. Again! Two straight days! Being proud of myself.

Now what? I could . . . I don't know . . . something . . .

I'm so horny I can't think.

Driving for about 15 minutes, finding a bar, parking, putting on extra makeup to look older. Walking in. I can be here legally, as long as I don't order alcohol.

Sitting at a table by myself, the waitress comes, I order an orange juice. Giving her a good tip, I might need her on my side. As Spinoza said, if you're gonna break some rules, make some friends first.

I just love the name Spinoza, I might have sex with him just for having that name. And being famous of course.

Sitting by myself for 15 minutes, not too long, finally a guy wanders over to me. Around 31 years old, about 5' 10'', not bad looking, in a suit, but he took off his tie, he's relaxing here after work. Hi, I'm Barry. Can I buy you a drink? Making his voice sound a little lower than it normally is.

May. My name is May, just like the month. Making my voice more upbeat than it usually is. I have a drink. You can keep me company though. I gesture for him to sit, he's happy because he's in the game, he sits across from me.

Barry: Waiting for a friend? The first thing he needs to know. I can't remember how many times I've filled out this questionnaire.

Nah, just trying to chill. Thanks for joining me. Hey, want me to tell your fortune?

Ah, sure. I guess. You can do that?

I can do it. Might not be right. I flash him a big smile. Give me your hand. Offering me his hand, me holding it firmly, looking carefully at the lines like they're actually important. Physical contact. That's power. Liking the feel of his hand in mine, warm, strong. Knowing that he let me touch him, knowing I can take him.

"Oh! This line means you're going to have a long life. I trace the line, slowly, gently, and look him in the eye. You have to eat right, though. We smile together. I look down at his hand, trace another random line, And this line means you're going to be rich."

I softly rub his hand. This line here says you're going to get a new car. But I can't tell when.

Me: "Ah, this line's the best. It says you're going to meet a tall dark stranger. Oops, short dark stranger. Looking down at my chest, he knows exactly who the short dark stranger is. Slowly, lingeringly, giving him his hand back. Do I get any applause?" Barry claps quietly, I stand and bow, I hope I'm showing cleavage, that's where he's stares, he's hoping too.

Him doing everything I said. Us, outside the cliches, outside the rules.

Me: Ugh, I did horrible on my Calc 102 test today. Complete F, I'm sure. I stayed up late working, waitressing, I didn't get to study at all, and I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open during the test. He nods sympathetically. Like Spinoza said, if you're going to lie