Flawed / Perfect

I nod, barely hearing what he’s saying. I’m so excited about the letter, wanting him to leave so I can rip it open straight away and see Art’s words.

“But just think about this, love: Do you think your friend Bosco will let you go near Art when you get out of here? Even if you’re not Flawed? I’d think twice about that if I were you. Prepare yourself. Nothing will go back to being exactly as it was before.”

I have thought about that, in the deepest, darkest corners of my mind, but as Art is the only thing keeping me going, thinking about losing him would tip me over the edge.

“You tell the truth in court today, Celestine. And if they tell you that you are Flawed, then you wear that like a badge of honour. Look at what these papers are saying! You are in a position to make a change. You already felt that yourself. You went with your gut, with what felt right, and you have inspired people.”

“Inspired?” Tears fill my eyes. “An old woman spat at me yesterday, Granddad. A nice, decent old woman.”

“Well, then there was nothing decent about her. The people who want change are just begging you to be their girl. Don’t let the Guild wrap you up in their bloody red wings and make you think you’re one of them. You’re not, and you never will be. Seize the moment, Celestine, and say it. Give a voice to those who are silenced.”

His eyes are shining with excitement, filled with tears, filled with hope that his granddaughter can be this person he so wants me to be.

“I’m not like you and Juniper, Granddad,” I say sadly, feeling defeated. “This isn’t who I am. I follow rules, I like logic, I solve problems. I don’t speak out of turn on things I know nothing about. I don’t want to stand out. I want to fit in. I don’t want to be a poster girl for anything.”

“Oh, but you already are, Celestine. The tide is changing, and whether you wear the branding of the Flawed or you walk out of here a free woman, you’ll never be the same girl you were. They’ll be watching you, all of them, and who would you prefer they watch? You or the girl you’re pretending to be?”

Hi, Perfect Girl,

I hope you’re okay in there. I can’t believe they didn’t let you come home, but Dad says he’s doing everything he can for you. I want to be there for you, but I’m not allowed. Too much press, etc. Hope you understand, but I’m watching you on TV all the time. You look hot. I hope you’re wearing the anklet. You’ll always be perfect to me. Do whatever Dad and Berry Boy say, and we’ll be back on the summit before you know it.

I’m on your side.

Love always,

Art

P.S. What did the elephant say to the naked man?

How do you breathe through something so small?

I giggle and fold the letter into a tiny square and tuck it into my pocket. Love always! Love always!! Okay, it wasn’t I love you, but it’s close, isn’t it? Is it the same?

I don’t look at Carrick in the next cell, who’s lying on his bed with his back to everyone, no doubt hating me even more than he already did. Art’s words have given me hope that when I get out of here, there is a future for me and him. I hold on to that thought. I feel lifted, like I’ve been connected to the real world and this whole Flawed thing is a misunderstanding easily fixed. I didn’t even notice Mum and Mr Berry enter the cell; and when I look up, I realise it’s time.

“Green,” Mum says, displaying the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. “The colour of nature, youth, spring and hope.”

The dress is not entirely green. It contains the most beautiful scene, a picture of green leaves, flowers, exotic birds, a canvas of nature, of natural beautiful things.

“It’s also the colour of envy,” Mr Berry says, adjusting his green silk tie. “And that’s what we’ll be – the envy of every Flawed person in the country,” he says with a grin. “For today is the day, dear Celestine, that you will walk away from here exactly as you walked in.”

I find it a bad analogy. I will never be the same again. But maybe he wasn’t mistaken. I will be as judged when I leave as I was when I walked in. Granddad’s right. It will never end.

Before I leave the cell, I look at Carrick for something, a response of any kind. He is up from his bed now and his eyes run over my dress. I feel naked under his stare, but I can’t move.

He nods at me. A goodbye, a good luck, I don’t know, but it’s not angry. I nod back. I take a mental picture of him, knowing it’s the last time I’ll ever see him as our lives go in two very different directions.

Dad, Mum, me and Mr Berry, flanked on either side by Bark and Tina, stare at the closed double doors ahead of us. Something is going on, because Bark and Tina are holding riot shields, which seems to unsettle Mr Berry. He checks his green tie at least five times. They all know something apart from me. As soon as the doors open, I see that the security and crowd have doubled since yesterday, as have the media. The crowds are being held back by barricades, and security wear helmets and hold blood-red riot shields in their leather-gloved hands. The sound from the crowd is unbearable. I can’t make out anything anyone is saying, but if you could trap anger in a jar, this is what you would hear each time you twisted the lid.

A can of something goes flying before us and emits steam. Security bundle around it, and we all quicken our step. Mum shows no sign of wobbling today; her head and chin are up. And as much as I want to keep my eyes down, she forces me to follow suit. If I can’t feel it inside, then I at least want to appear as strong as her. Today there are people shouting at me for being Flawed, and there are people shouting at me for hating the Flawed. The only thing they have in common is that they detest me and are here to see me branded Flawed and Ousted from society. Nobody comes here to offer support; it’s merely to vent frustration, to use me as a punching bag. I don’t know how Bosco and Pia’s media campaign is going in persuading people to think I’m the Guild’s hero, but judging by the reaction today, somebody is losing: me.

Despite my terror, I look around. Maybe if I can put faces to the sounds, it will make me feel better. I see Pia Wang reporting from her raised platform, in her perfect clothes, with her perfect hair, even more doll-like in reality. A familiar woman with a pixie cut nods at me again respectfully, just as she did yesterday. A strange-looking man at the barricades blows a kiss at me. There is something familiar about him, but I’m sure I have never seen him before. He has a beard and long hair, hippie-like, but he seems too youthful to have such growth on his face. He wears a childish, elephant-shaped woolen hat. The large, floppy, oversized elephant ears cover his ears, and a trunk protrudes from his head. It is a bizarre thing to see on a man his age, as well as at this time of year, when it’s not cold. As I near him, I study him more, and he winks. It’s the blue eyes that give him away. Art. I knew he’d find a way to come. I almost stall in my tracks, but Mum and Mr Berry keep me moving. I think of the elephant joke in Art’s note and know that the hat is a reference to that and that he’s trying to cheer me up. It’s not something that’s going to make me laugh in this situation, but it lifts my spirits. I try hard not to smile, though.

“Celestine! Pia Wang from News 24,” she calls. The camera is on me, the red light on. “We’re live. Can you wave to the people at home?”

“Smile,” Mr Berry says through his teeth, and I lift my face to the camera on the raised platform and give a small wave with a tiny smile. I don’t want to look like I’m enjoying this.

Like yesterday, there are plenty more flying objects, though the riot shields do a good job of blocking most of it. Still, some manage to splatter my dress, but Mum is prepared this time. As soon as we step inside, she whips out wipes and cleaning products, and I am once again immaculate. Once inside, it’s clear that we are all shaken. Mr Berry asks for a glass of water and takes a moment to compose himself. Mum rushes to the bathroom.

Dad takes me aside.

“No matter what happens today, sweetheart, you know I’m proud of you. No matter what, I will love you,” he says with urgency.

“Thanks, Dad.”

He looks around, seems strained, unsure of whether to say something or not.

“Dad, tell me,” I say, voice low.

“I haven’t said much during all this. Your mum said it was better I don’t, but I think I need to. It’s just that … I don’t want you to think that because of what I do, it means that you can’t … that you can’t use your own voice. You understand?” He looks at me intensely. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days. His eyes are bloodshot. “Bob took a stand at work, he wanted to use his own voice and … well, he was punished for that. Angelina was punished because of him. It was a warning to us all. I will defend you no matter what, Celestine. I have no problem with that. I’ll tell whatever news story Crevan tells me to do, because that’s my job and I try to protect Summer, you, Juniper and Ewan, but don’t be me. You do what you have to do.”

Now? He says this to me now? Angelina Tinder was branded because Bob wanted to speak out? And yet, as soon as he said it, I know that I knew it already, somewhere deep down, somewhere I was afraid to say it out loud.

I swallow hard and nod, almost afraid of the intensity of his look, by his grip on my arm. I know Dad is trying to be helpful, but I can’t help but still feel confused as to what he thinks I should do. The plan was always to lie.

To not be deemed Flawed, I must betray the old man on the bus.

To be true to myself, I will be deemed Flawed.

I stand in the corridor, mind reeling.

I am seventeen years old, and though I have fought with my parents about my being more responsible than they give me credit for, I am not ready for this decision. I enter the courtroom, my mind far from clear, my focussed plan now a blur in my mind. I don’t even know what the right thing is any more. Me, who is always so sure. My black and white is now fuzzy and grey.

I scan the room for Art. Even though I know we have just left him in disguise outside, I still remain hopeful he has entered through the public entrance. When I look at the back of the courtroom, I can’t believe what I see. Carrick is standing at the back of the courtroom, his cap on low over his face, arms folded, shoulders up as if he’s a bodyguard watching the door. Our eyes meet, but neither of us reacts. He even stands with the Flawed at the back as though he already is one. I’m beyond moved by his presence, and my eyes fill. I wonder if he has chosen to watch my trial or if they are making him, just as they forced us to listen to that man being branded. And if they are making him, then a lesson is about to be taught in order for him to learn. Either he is supporting me or they want to scare him.

Granddad grins broadly at me and gives me a thumbs-up. Juniper sits beside him, looking tiny and terrified. She gives me a small smile. I’m glad she’s here. My mind is at peace with her being ashamed of me at least.

The trial begins by listening to the first of my character witnesses, Marlena, my friend since I was eight years old. She is nervous, but she is loyal, telling stories of how I have always been mindful of correct behaviour, even when around those who aren’t. I think she sums me up well: logical, loyal, fun, but always staying within the rules. It is the first time in two days that I recognise myself in somebody else’s description of me, and I’m glad of the general description of my being considered boring for a teenager.

“Ms Ponta, is it your belief that Celestine North’s character is Flawed?” Bosco asks.

She looks at me, and there are tears in her eyes, but she speaks firmly, “No, not at all.”

“Thank you, Ms Ponta.”

Dad speaks on behalf of him and Mum. He talks about how he took me to work with him when I was younger, to the TV station, and how I had to be removed from the editing suite because I wanted everything to be perfect and I kept pointing out imperfections and continuity issues. “Celestine is a logical child. She is a mathematician; she scores top marks in her class; she wants to study at the School of Mathematics at Highland City University; and her December results show that she is on course to receive far above the required points. She is a very bright young woman, a pleasure to have as a daughter. She likes things to be in their rightful place; she takes problems and, using theorems, solves them. She follows rules.”

I smile at Dad. This is me.

Judge Sanchez looks at Dad, with her bright red lipstick visible from the moon, and smiles, a sneaky look on her face. “Indeed, Mr North, but I’d like to quote Kaplansky when he talked about mathematics: ‘The most interesting moments are not where something is proved but where a new concept is involved.’ Mathematics takes basic concepts, but these varying applications have led to a number of abstract theories. Is this the kind of mind your daughter has, Mr North? The mind that creates new theories, new concepts, takes risks and goes against the grain?”

Dad thinks about this and looks at me. “No.” He pauses. “I would never have said that Celestine was the type of person to go against the grain. Never.”

I understand what he’s saying. To go against the grain in this circumstance is to go against myself. I have never been the type of person not to do what I believe. He’s telling me to follow my heart.

Judge Sanchez smiles and hears the same thing I heard. “And what about now, Mr North?” she says in her honey, dulcet tones. “Our children have the ability to take us by surprise. They change when we haven’t noticed.”

Dad looks at me and almost views me as if seeing me for the first time. I wonder what on earth he is going to say.

Bosco interrupts, annoyed. “What Judge Sanchez is asking, Mr North, is is it your belief that your daughter Celestine North’s character is Flawed?”

Dad turns back to face him. “No, sir. Under no circumstances is my daughter Flawed,” he says, working hard to keep the anger out of his voice when I know he just wants to jump up and scream and shout and punch whoever is closest.

“Thank you, Mr North.”

Then Margaret and Fiona have their moment of glory. When I hear their testimony, it sounds like they’re talking about somebody else. That’s not me. I was never that brave. But then I also hear a group of clowns speaking completely illogically. What they are saying about the rules of the Flawed and us no longer makes sense to me. They only confirm to me that I was right to do what I did on the bus, if not doing it would mean I was one of them.

Mr Berry’s act is not like a performance, as I thought it would be, like in the movies, bringing on the razzle-dazzle, sashaying around the floor as though he’s dancing. He is perfectly normal and straightforward, and for that he is even more credible. But he is quick, and he is sharp, and he picks up on tones and nuances and pauses quicker than I believe even Juniper would. The women are dubious about him but can’t help liking him. He is charming and interested in them; he is not – yet – calling them liars. He shares with them the theory that Bosco created, that I was trying to protect the people on the bus from the Flawed man.

They mull it over.

The first lady, Margaret, concedes that it’s possible; the second, Fiona, with the crutches, is adamant that it was not so.

“I don’t care what story the defence are trying to push,” Fiona says. “They can’t brainwash me. I know what I saw. That girl –” she points her cane at me – “helped that Flawed man to his seat.”

The public erupts at her accusation, and a few members of the media rush out to make their reports.

Bosco announces that the CCTV in use on the bus at the time of the event, when seized by the Guild, was, unfortunately, deemed ineffective and cannot be considered as proof. I have no doubt this is Bosco managing to twist things in my favour and hold back the proof that could destroy me. Bosco announces that we must take into account it is merely the view of the people on the bus and not something we can witness ourselves. I suppose being able to witness my act themselves would be more damaging to me, at least they can make their own decision on whether to believe the witnesses or not. I’m thankful for his deception.

It occurs to me, as everyone speaks of the old man, that I don’t even know his name. I never asked and it has never been mentioned, like it isn’t important. The case revolves around him, and yet he is brushed aside as though he is nothing. I don’t want to ask Mr Berry. I don’t want it to seem like I’m pitying the man, like I have sympathy for a Flawed. I need Mr Berry to believe in me more than anyone ever has.

As the proceedings finally break for lunch, I quickly turn to my granddad before I’m taken away. “Can you get information to me about the old man?” I whisper in his ear. He nods, face intense, and I know he won’t let me down.

Everyone goes back to their lives after my entertainment, and the reporters continue their reports outside. I’m thankful we can wait in a room near the court so that I don’t have to cross the courtyard again.

I sit with my parents, Juniper and Mr Berry in the waiting room, picking at charcuterie and crackers, feeling sick from the hunger and unable to eat at the same time. I appreciate everybody’s company, but I don’t speak. I am happy to be away from all the noise, away from the unwanted attention, without having to worry about every part of me being analysed: my facial expressions, my reactions, how I sit, how I walk. I can just be.

Tina enters the room and hands me an envelope, and I know it’s from Granddad. He hasn’t let me down. Unaware of who it’s from, Mr Berry and Mum eye it like it’s a grenade, and when I read its contents, I feel like it might as well be.

What I learn from Granddad’s note is this: Clayton Byrne, the old man on the bus, was the CEO of Beacon Publishing. With a degree from the prestigious Humming University – he studied English literature. He met his wife in college and married her when they were twenty-six. They have four children. He became CEO of Beacon Publishing when he was forty-two years old and at the time was praised for his leadership skills, his ingenuity and his ability to take the company forward. He took risks, all of which paid off apart from one. Because of his failure, due to risk-taking, he was forced to resign from his position and, as a signal to all future employees of the company, was brought to the Guild and found to be Flawed. For making bad judgements in business, he received a brand on his temple, and because he lied about it to his colleagues and tried to cover his tracks, his tongue was also seared. His wife passed away two years ago, and he is suffering from emphysema. He had left the house that day without his oxygen.

Finally, I take the stand. The room is bursting with people. I see Carrick standing at the back, arms folded, beside the woman with the pixie cut who nodded at me in the courtyard. Juniper is in the front row beside Granddad. Granddad looks at me, and I nod, letting him know I received his envelope. There is still no sign of Art, though thinking he could be outside, in disguise, is better than nothing.

“We know the story of what happened on the bus,” Judge Sanchez says, beginning it all. “We’ve heard it repeated time and time again in this court over the past two days, and we could spend another two days listening to the testimonies of the other thirty people on the bus who witnessed the same thing. Your representative, Mr Berry, has kindly told us that you have waived that and accepted what they saw, and the court appreciates your understanding and respect of our time, so we will not ask you to tell us again what happened. We also understand that the only difference between your story and theirs is that they say you were helping the old man, and you say you were trying to get rid of him. And where the majority saw you as helping the man to his seat, you say he sat himself? Is this true?”

I take a deep breath.

Suddenly there is an outbreak of noise and protest within the courtroom. Four people, two women and two men, are standing and shouting, punching their fists in the air, pointing their fingers at me. They shout a single word.

“Liar.”

They shout it over and over again.

“Liar. Liar. Liar.”

“Order.” Bosco bangs the gavel. “Order.”

“If you do not silence yourselves, you will be removed from the court,” Judge Sanchez says, raising her voice.

Three of them stop shouting and sit, but one woman continues. “Our dad did nothing wrong! Our dad followed all the rules! You are a liar, Celestine North! You should be ashamed; you should be disgusted with yourself!”

The guards make their way over to her; and as soon as they lay their hands on her, the other three jump up to defend her, their sister. I’m so close to calling out I’m so sorry to Clayton Byrne’s children, but my mouth goes dry and my heart beats manically.

“It is not right what you are doing,” one son shouts, glaring at me.

“You will be reminded to stay quiet,” Judge Sanchez says. “If you have one more outburst, you will be removed from the court.”

The four of them go silent and sit down. One daughter starts crying and is comforted by the other.

My heart starts to palpitate; my breathing is irregular. All eyes are on me, judging me, thinking these things of me. All this to prove that I am not Flawed, and by doing so I feel less than perfect. It feels wrong.

“Okay, Celestine?” Mr Berry watches me intently.

My eyes dart around the room as I tally the people I am letting down: Granddad; Juniper; Dad; even Carrick at the back, who must know by now I’m lying; and the woman with the pixie cut who nodded at me with respect both days. Art, who is waiting for me somewhere outside, who told me to do exactly what Mr Berry said. Myself. The people I will actually let down if I admit to being Flawed is far fewer.

“Can my client have a drink of water?” Mr Berry asks.

My mind races as I see him pouring a glass of water and bringing it to me. I take a sip, my mind still racing, and suddenly I notice that Mr Berry is trying to get my attention. The judges are talking to me and I haven’t been listening.

“I’m sorry, pardon?” I ask, coming back into the room.

“I said, what possessed you, Celestine? It’s a simple question, isn’t it?” Judge Sanchez is looking at me over the rim of her red-framed glasses, which match her lipstick.

It is the question my mum asked, that countless others asked. What possessed me? I never had an answer for them, but now I do. It’s not the answer I rehearsed with Mr Berry, but they are the only words my mouth will allow me to say.

“He reminded me of my granddad,” I say, and it’s as though there is no air in the room. Not a sound. I see Carrick stand more alert. I can now see his eyes, which were hidden beneath the cap. He’s looking right at me. Something about having his eyes on me makes me feel stronger.

“The old man, his name is Clayton Byrne,” I say closely into the microphone, the first time his name has been said. “When Clayton got on the bus, I thought he was my granddad.” I think about how I felt then as he started coughing. “He was coughing, and I thought he was going to die. I didn’t care if he was Flawed; I just saw a person, a human being, who reminded me of my granddad, who no one was helping. So to answer your question, as to what possessed me … the answer is, compassion. And logic. He didn’t take a seat, I helped him into it. At the time,” I address everybody now, willing them to understand, “it felt like the perfectly right thing to do.”