Imperfections by Bradley Somer

finger-combed my hair a little, avoiding the divot the haemangioma had left in my skull once it had disappeared.
    â€œThis is important, you know.” She wouldn’t make eye contact with me; her gaze wandered every part of me but my eyes. She was tearing me down and rebuilding me.
    â€œI know,” I said.
    She contemplated me for a moment. “I don’t know if you really do.”
    There was a pause where I wondered if she would tell me or if I would remain ignorant.
    â€œGood people win, they deserve to,” Mother continued. “Good people do well in life and I want you to do well. This is so important, it’s your first big test.” Her eyes began to well up. “This is an early test as to how you are going to do, how your life will turn out. I think I have raised a good little boy who will turn into a good man. A man who will succeed, who will be happy. I want you to be good at life because I lo…” Her chin dimpled and her lip wiggled. She forced a smile through her emotion.
    My chest felt like it was going to explode. In eight years, those first eight of my life, I had never experienced such love from her. I felt that I was responsible for her happiness and at that moment she was happy with me. I felt I had already succeeded. I felt what she was about to say before becoming so choked with emotion. I truly felt it. She loved me and I loved her in return.
    She sighed an uneven breath. “…because I longed for this so much. I have put so much into this. I have sacrificed… make it worth my while. Win this contest.” Her hand flew in front of her mouth and she darted out from behind the curtain. It flapped as she ran past and I stood there confused.
    Mother did not accompany me to the stage for the talent portion of the show. I didn’t see her as I made my way through the corrals alone to stand behind the Bee Girl, in line to get on the stage with ten other Little Misters and Little Misses. I didn’t see her from where I peeked through the curtains from backstage, my stomach in a knot, wanting someone to tell me this would all be okay. I didn’t see her as I moonwalked my way through Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” doing the monster dance we had practised and pulling it off flawlessly.
    I looked for her.
    I looked to where I had seen Leonard and Auntie Maggie earlier in the show. I could only peek occasionally while I was onstage.
    She didn’t meet me when I exited through the curtain offstage.
    â€œThat was great.”
    Those words weren’t from my mother. They were from the Bee Girl.
    â€œWho’re you looking for?” Bee Girl asked my swivelling head and darting eyes.
    â€œHave you seen my mother?” I asked her.
    Where was I supposed to go next?
    What was I supposed to do?
    Where were my normal clothes?  
    Was I abandoned there to be forever dressed like Mike?
    Tears of panic welled up and there was the tingling in my sinuses that I always felt before I cried.
    â€œI haven’t seen her,” Bee Girl said. She saw my distress and reached out to touch my arm.
    â€œNeither have I,” I huffed, “for quite a while.”
    My eyes searched the corral. It was empty of children and mothers and was filling up with folding tables covered by red and white checkered plastic table cloths. The show was reaching its end and the cook-off was setting up. Old ladies were plugging giant, floral-patterned Crock-Pots of chili into extension cords that snaked through the hay. Some already stirred bubbling vats and cackled to their neighbours, giving the occasional hungry glance to the children gathering behind the stage. Chunks of meat and beans glistened under the sweaty lids of those cauldrons. Gnarled fingers grasped wooden spoons, bringing spicy grease to withered lips, a vile taste test by pasty tongued hags.
    I watched a tongue slip out of a woman’s mouth and wet her lips, all the while she watched me. I