Escaping Perfect by Emma Harrison Page B

fan creaked lazily, bleating out a constant waltzlike rhythm.
    But it was mine, all mine. Mine-all-mine. Mine-all-mine, I thought to the beat.
    I flopped back on the bed, covered my face with the balled-up blanket, and squealed into it. Yes, there were still ten million things to figure out, but for the moment I decided to revel in the fact that I was free. I was finally, finally free.
    After a few indulgent minutes of lazing around in the bloodied shirt I’d put back on before bed, I realized I was too excited to sleep in. Plus I had made a date to go shopping for new clothes with Fiona at ten. I pushed myself up and stretched, then dropped to the floor to start my usual morning routine—fifteen minutes of meditation, followed by a full twenty minutes of tai chi. (Friday was a tai chi day. The other six days of the week I alternated between tae kwon do and karate.) Sitting with legs crossed on the hard floor, I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind, but it was next to impossible. Too much had happened in the past couple of days. The funeral, the paparazzi, my mom’s speech, my escape, a new haircut, a new identity, a new job, Fionaand Duncan and Britta and Jasper. Jasper, Jasper, Jasper.
    Just thinking about the way he’d looked at me last night made me itch for a cold shower.
    There was a clatter out in the common area, and I heard Britta curse under her breath. My eyes flew open. Why was she up so early? And what was she doing out there? For the first time in my life I had a roommate, and I had no clue what I was supposed to do. If I opened the door, would she think she’d woken me up? Did she want to be alone? Or would it be rude if I didn’t say good morning?
    I sat there, frozen by indecision, until a flash of indignation shoved me to my feet. I was not totally socially incompetent. I was just going to go out there and say hi. This was my life now. I had to take part in it.
    My hand was on the doorknob when I realized I was wearing nothing but my underwear and a white button-down that looked like it had been lifted from a crime scene. I quickly changed back into Fiona’s clothes and walked out. Britta was in the small, open kitchen area, dumping coffee into an ancient-looking coffeemaker. She wore unflattering khakis and a white polo shirt, her hair pulled back in a conservative bun. Gone were the fake glasses, the dark lipstick, and the Band-Aids. For a second I wasn’t even entirely sure it was her.
    â€œUm, hey,” I said.
    She looked over at me. “Coffee?”
    â€œSure.”
    I slowly padded toward the kitchen, taking in the rest of the apartment, which I hadn’t seen much of in the pitch-black exhaustion of last night. The living room was actually quite large, with high ceilings and three long windows looking out over Main Street. Each of these was hung with a sheer, red, flowered curtain drawn aside to let in the light. There were two mismatched couches—one brown plaid, the other white with pink stripes—and a large-screen TV that was so new and sleek it looked out of place with the thrown-together décor. There was some workout gear piled in the corner: a BOSU, several hand weights, a couple of kettlebells, and a yoga mat, all of it collecting dust. Along the far wall—the one that backed what I assumed was Britta’s bedroom on the other side of the apartment—were five huge bookcases all packed to the gills with books. More piles of books were stacked in front of them, some listing precariously.
    â€œWow. You must really like to read,” I said.
    â€œI have a book blog too,” Britta said, yawning. She stood with one hand on either side of the coffeemaker’s base, as if holding on to it was keeping her upright, and stared at the dripping brown liquid.
    â€œYeah? What kinds of books?” I asked.
    â€œMystery, mostly.”
    She didn’t elaborate. Fiona was right: Britta was a girl of few words. I clicked my teeth