Mr. Picture Perfect, page 33
Then she left me to sit there on my bed with my thoughts. It was unusual of me to let my mother’s words affect me so deeply, but I couldn’t help thinking about cookies burning in a classroom, about the sweetness of my dad as a teenager, to eat and enjoy the entirety of one of her charred disasters.
The character one must have, to stand up against mockery and laughter for the sake of someone else’s dignity, to show such valor for another person, to display such compassion …
Traits I recently found myself admiring in Cole.
I suddenly imagined Cole doing the exact same thing for me, tasting a cookie I had burned beyond recognition.
What if Cole was keeping an eye on me all of those years?
Secretly watching my back?
There was one time I lost my math book. I was devastated. But then in my next math class a day later, I found a math book sitting there on my desk waiting for me—except it wasn’t the one I had lost. It was a totally new copy. I always wondered where it came from. I decided it was the teacher who got me a new one.
Even though she denied it.
And didn’t know I was missing my book in the first place.
Could that have been him?
“No,” I decided right then, thinking aloud. “You’re reaching too far for an explanation. That’s why they call it ‘farfetched’.”
With that, I cuddled back up in bed and hugged my pillow to my chest, closing my eyes.
It was barely five minutes later that I found myself thinking about all the times in school I had finally gotten to the front of the snack bar at lunch, after having let so many people go ahead of me (or rather: not stopping them from pushing and cutting in front of me with their friends, as if I wasn’t even there), then hearing they were out of the treat I specifically wanted.
Only to discover that the lunch lady was asked to set one aside specifically for me. And it was paid for already.
And she was told not to mention who did it.
Every time I asked, every time it happened, she kept her lips sealed. I always wondered who was behind the kind gestures.
It’s ridiculous to think that it could possibly have been Cole all those times. The notion never even crossed my mind. Not once.
“No,” I decided, muffled by my pillow. “It wasn’t Cole. It was the snack bar lady herself. She took pity on me. That’s it. Now stop remembering these things and put it all behind you,” I instructed myself, then shut my eyes.
Ten seconds later, they snapped back open as I remembered my birthday junior year. I was certain everyone had forgotten it—only to open my locker after my last class of the day and discover a note falling out of it. I picked it up. “Happy Birthday, Noah!” it read, with tons of different-colored happy face stickers covering it. I thought it was the sweet and thoughtful girl with curly hair whose locker was near mine, but she knew nothing about it.
Could that have been—? “No,” I mumbled to myself, shutting up the mere idea. “That wasn’t him either.”
But each time I said it out loud, I believed it less.
Because I also remembered another time when I missed a day of school, then found notes stuffed in my locker from my classes.
And another time when I thought I left a notebook behind in my Spanish class, only to find it returned to my locker somehow.
Another time when I forgot my umbrella on a rainy day, then discovered one hooked to my locker after PE.
Another time when I fell asleep in the library studying, only to wake up with a mystery blanket gently placed over my back.
And another time when I …
And another when …
And also …
I pulled my pillow over my face. It couldn’t be true. Yet over and over my mind raced, and like a stack of folders on a desk in my mind, the memories tipped over and made a mess everywhere. Every unanswered question. Every seeming coincidence. All of my so-called strokes of luck and last-minute saves.
Could it really be true? Could he be the sole piece that solved every single unfinished puzzle in my childhood memory?
A perfect friend I never knew was there. A perfect companion.
My guardian angel watching over me.
It was you, Cole … It was you all along.
“We’ve got to go,” I told my parents.
They were in the middle of peacefully eating dinner. “What?” asked my mom calmly. “Go where?” asked my similarly calm dad, a bite of spaghetti perfectly coiled around his fork. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I’m awake now.” I turned to my mom and gave her a pointed look. “Wide awake.”
She seemed to sense the change in me. At once, she dropped her fork and stood up. “Get ready, Noah. Quickly. Elmer, put away the food and grab the keys. We’ve got an event to attend.”
He peered at each of us, clueless, blinking.
He was still blinking cluelessly as he drove us there. My mom kept urging him to go faster, but the country roads leading to the McPhersons’ were not well-lit, and the sun had long since fallen. “Better we get there in one piece than no piece at all,” said my dad as he steered the way—though he did begin to drive faster.
By the time we arrived at the pavilion, the event was already well underway. The ticket guy, however, became an unplanned obstacle. He stood there and insisted that it didn’t matter who I claimed I was—a newspaper guy, friend of one of the bachelors, or Superman. Without a ticket to the event, I would not be allowed inside. And besides, they were sold out and already turned away a dozen others on account of “complying with fire codes”. I pleaded with him for all of three minutes (which is an unforgivably long time when you’re in a hurry, by the way) before someone took notice of the situation: TJ himself. He strolled up to the entrance, apologized for the confusion, showed the ticket guy something on his phone, then brought me and my parents straight through.
“Goodness, I think Cole was a hair away from sending a search party out for you yesterday,” he teased as we made our way in. I thanked him graciously, and he said, “Hey, you and your parents can sit at my table. It’s in the middle, close-up, great view. My own parents aren’t even using their seats, busy backstage or mingling, I can’t keep up. Nadine was around here too someplace, but since Malcolm’s at home sick, she’s been running around with this sort of plastic, crazed smile on her face. I think she’s trying to assure everyone everything is running perfectly, despite all the mess-ups so far. Hey, don’t worry,” he said when I made a face. “It’s all still good. Cole’s in one piece. That’s all that matters, right?” He let out a chuckle. “So are you here to do what I think you’re here to do?”
I was so consumed by my nerves, I couldn’t even answer.
My eyes were glued to the stage as I wound through the tables and took my seat next to TJ. I felt like I was holding my breath. I recognized that they were in the middle of the interview section where the bachelors answered questions that Frankie asked them.
I arrived just in time.
Cole was next.
“So tell me,” said Frankie as he came up next to Cole and placed a hand cheerfully on his shoulder. “Our lovely Mr. Picture Perfect. My question for you is a rather simple one. Tell me, what does ‘perfection’ mean to you?”
Cole literally glowed on that stage in a white suit jacket with a stylish shirt underneath, giving him a pop idol vibe with a pinch of something indescribably cool and edgy. He looked like the cover model on a trendy magazine—the obvious work of local designer Lance Goodwin, whose work the paper had covered a number of times before. When Cole faced the crowd, he beamed with a kind of confidence that left me breathless.
“I think perfection is so relative,” answered Cole thoughtfully. “One person’s perfect is another person’s nightmare. You know, people seem to think Spruce is a picture perfect paradise tucked away in the heart of Texas, but it wasn’t always perfect. Just as recently as ten or fifteen years ago, I had friends who dealt with bullying, or with others who don’t understand gay people. We had to work on ourselves to make Spruce what it is. People must work together to create that perfection. It’s a project, you know what I mean? A collaborative effort that requires compromise, empathy, and resilience. People are like towns, too. We’ve gotta work to be good not only to ourselves, but to everyone in our lives. No matter what disappoints us about the world around us, or makes us mad, or gets us down, we’ve gotta do our part in putting good out there somehow. It’s not the result that I call perfection. It’s the effort. It’s trying. It’s the work … that’s what perfection means to me. It’s a well-intended overall good that’s greater than the sum of all those efforts.” He shrugged. “And if saving the world around you sounds like too much work for now, well, just a perfect cup of coffee in the morning can do you just as good, and I can recommend a barista or two in the area.”
The audience around me exploded into laughter and cheers of celebration for his answer.
I was too lost staring up at him on the stage to even applaud.
I think I was still trying to picture him as my silent guardian, watching me from other tables in the cafeteria, noticing me in the hallway walking by, paying attention, taking mental notes, feeling concern and secretly caring for me all of those years.
Seeing Cole up on that stage, shining like an angel, I suddenly realized it wasn’t so farfetched anymore.
Not farfetched at all.
All of those acts of kindness fit him perfectly.
“Do you want me to take you backstage?” asked TJ. “After this part? When they’re between acts?”
“No,” I said, feeling nervous at the idea. “I’ll see him after the whole thing. He needs to stay focused on the show.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Thanks, TJ.”
“It wouldn’t be a big deal. I mean, I literally live here, and my parents own this place, and … well, that’s fine.” He patted me on the shoulder reassuringly. “But if you change your mind, I will be right here ready to shove security guards aside for you. Okay, just kidding.” Then he went for a sip of his brightly-colored and tasty-looking beverage with an umbrella poking out of it.
I watched the show carry on to the talent portion. I was very moved when Dean King played the piano, getting the audience up on their feet as he made music with his fingers on those keys. It felt like he had a dozen hands, the way his song filled the pavilion. When he took his bow, the audience roared around me with such passion, it was obvious they had fallen in love with him over the course of the night. Nearby, I could see Tyrone King cheering on his uncle, his husband and their daughter next to him whistling. It was an especially impressive performance by Dean that deserved all of the praise it was receiving.
Anthony’s act, in contrast, was a series of awkward mishaps. The audience, as forgiving as they proved to be, stayed with him every step of the way, even shouting out encouragements to keep his spirits up, but the individual words of comfort seemed to fly over Anthony’s head, as he continued to look uncomfortable and miserable and ready to just disappear from everyone’s sight.
The audience’s words of comfort weren’t the only thing that flew over his head; I watched in fear as a misthrown toy hammer came back down from a great height and knocked him right in the nose. He staggered for a second, totally thrown off and blinking the confusion out of his eyes.
It wasn’t as much the actual mistake that caused me worry.
It was the blood that dripped from his forehead afterwards.
“Thanks,” he muttered at the audience when he finished, barely audible even through the amplification of the microphone. He didn’t seem to hear the one or two people shouting at him that he was bleeding—nor the laughter from those who likely thought it was all part of the act.
I knew it wasn’t.
And I knew Cole was about to see it.
Maybe I should take up TJ on that offer to slip backstage.
But as soon as I had the thought, Cole sauntered out from the wings, seeming completely relaxed and ready to perform, which caught me by surprise. I supposed it was just pure luck that Cole hadn’t seen or noticed Anthony’s wound.
When the speaker malfunctioned soon after his music began, leaving the stage silent and awkward, it came to me as no surprise that Cole would be brave enough to sing the song with no backing music at all. I was in an immediate trance along with the audience, all of us following him on this brave, daring adventure, navigating through the emotional lyrics of the song with no music. Each and every note rang out with sweeping passion. His voice drew me in like a dream, and until the last piece of melody left his lips, I was not once let go or abandoned.
It was just us again in that restaurant when we shared crepes on our first date.
His eyes upon me.
My eyes upon his—and a forkful of crepe in my mouth.
Even the amazed roar of the audience around me when the song ended could not break the spell Cole had cast over me with the beauty of that song.
“Goodness, I did not know that boy could sing so beautifully like that!” muttered my mother from behind. “He could join the Spruce Fellowship choir as their leading man!”
“Don’t say that around Burton,” I mumbled, thinking of his jealous, borderline narcissistic side.
“Oh, I certainly won’t,” agreed my mom, “but I will put a bug in Reverend Trey’s ear, you’d better bet I will.”
Soon after that, Frankie announced the start of the auction, which everyone had most eagerly been waiting for all night. Then, to my surprise, Cole was ushered right back onto the stage, despite everyone having expected Dean to go first instead, honoring the usual order.
I was on the edge of my seat, staring at Cole.
And I knew it instantly: he had seen Anthony’s wound.
He was not okay.
“TJ …” I said under my breath, watching Cole. “He’s … He’s …”
“What?” murmured TJ back, distracted.
Frankie carried on blithely with the auction, Cole hooked to his arm, face pale and slick with sweat, his eyes unfocussed.
“Cole isn’t right,” I said. “He’s about to faint.”
TJ found that strange and almost laughed. “Huh? What do you mean faint? Why?”
Spotlights snapped on, shining on the two final men left in the bidding war.
I only now realized one of them was Mae’s brother.
Not only was Cole on the verge of fainting onstage with no one noticing except for a completely helpless me who couldn’t do anything about it, but my own nightmare was playing out before my eyes.
It was Cole’s turn to be rescued.
He needed to be taken off of that stage.
He needed to be distracted from the nightmare that was quite likely playing out before his own eyes—a nightmare he didn’t understand, a nightmare born the day he came to my rescue, the first time, when we were just kids playing in his backyard.
What could I possibly do from down here?
How was I going to help Cole?
“$800 going once …!” called Frankie.
I felt my stomach drop. I pried my phone out of my pocket and thumbed through my apps. I opened my savings account. My phone lagged—loading, loading, loading …
“$800 going twice …!” rang out Frankie’s voice over the mic.
All around me, his voice boomed like drums.
Going twice … going twice … going twice …
The number flashed before my eyes.
How much would I need to keep for bills? How much could I afford to part with? How can I possibly quantify how much Cole is worth against my own life savings?
I performed a quick calculation.
Fingers of fear squeezed my throat shut as I parted my lips.
I choked, my voice failing me.
No. I wasn’t going to let fear rule me another second. I rose to my feet, startling TJ. Then I stood atop my chair as a gasp issued from my mother behind me, who muttered my name.
And then I proved to be stronger than the fear that squeezed at my throat as the words finally rang out: “$1,367, give or take!”
Seats all around me creaked as people turned to face me.
Surprised gasps.
Questioning murmurs.
Confusion.
Then there was a third spotlight—and it struck me like a big white lightning bolt, causing my face to twist and grimace against it, for a second making me look as if I just ate a lemon whole.
I think that about brings us up to present time.
Me, standing on a chair.
With a spotlight glaring on me like the sun at high noon and rendering me blind.
And a ton of faces and eyes and bodies turned toward me in various states of jaw dropping, wrinkled foreheads, and confusion.
It’s like my audition all over again.
A desperate attempt at being brave, defying my fear.
On the tiniest stage imaginable: the seat of a chair.
Except there’s no friendly face of Tamika in the audience in front of me like there was at the audition, nor the theatre teacher Ms. Joy. Just a bunch of strangers. And a lot of faces that read quite clearly “who the hell are you?” and “what are you doing invading the true love that is clearing happening with Cole and this really hot guy with a sister whose name we don’t know yet is Mae?”
But my attention is on none of them.
It’s on Cole, who only now zeroes his eyes onto me.
Seeing me.
Becoming aware that I’m here.
Then I watch a smile of relief spread over his face.
It’s more than I deserve, but it makes my heart burst.
I’ve succeeded, I think to myself, amazed at the power I just proved that I have. I’ve saved Cole from his own nightmare.
The next thing I know, Frankie makes a performance out of my bid. “Sounds like we’ve got ourselves a new contender! $1,367!” He gives the audience a funny look, bringing them in. “A bit of an odd number, but we’ll roll with it, right?”
“Uh, no we won’t,” argues Mae’s gorgeous brother. Is it weird that I call him that? I mean, I still don’t know his name, and it fits him annoyingly well. “That’s not even a correct bid.”
