No Such Thing as Perfect Read Free Page A

taking my attention away from Lyle and Kristen.
    “English.” I wait for the comments and questions. Oh, so you want to be a teacher? What good is English? Really – you must like reading, then? My mother’s voice won’t get out of my mind. I’ve been through the conversations for almost two years now; there is nothing worthwhile about living in make-believe. However, when I finally got on campus for orientation and was asked to officially declare a major, her voice screaming about practicality didn’t stop me from writing the word on the paper. And once it was written, it had to be true.
    “Oh my God, I know,” one of the girls says. “I already have two papers due and two books to read. What’s that about? I thought English was supposed to be easy.”
    I shrug. “I don’t mind. I like reading. I just figure I’ll try to get the work done before doing anything else, though.”
    Everyone starts talking at once about their classes, which professors are insane, how much work they do or don’t have, where there might be parties this weekend, and it’s noisy and chaotic. I finish my pasta and no one notices when I gather my stuff and head out. The sun has already set and the walk back to my dorm is quiet.
    I’m supposed to call Derek when I get in, and I wish I knew what to say. I want to tell him that today was great, that I’m already loving college, that I have the same confidence everyone around me seems to have. Again, I wonder if I should’ve gone to the same school as him, but we had countless conversations about what was best for my future. I know it’s true, that I’ll be better off here, but I feel like I’m just waiting to screw up. It’s hard to think about the future when you can’t get over the past.

4.
    A ll of the other kids were running through the field, chocolate smeared onto their clothes, desperate for more eggs. Jon was fighting with a boy from the next town over, but I couldn’t hear what they were arguing about. It was probably candy anyway. No one seemed to notice or care. I thought about joining the rest of the kids, but my dress was pure white and the black patent leather Mary Janes had just been polished.
    “You should go join them,” my dad encouraged. “I hear the golden egg this year is extra special.”
    For nine years, my parents had brought Jon and me to the church Easter egg hunt in town. It was one of my earliest memories, even though I only remembered the last few. Jon, at eleven, cared less about the eggs than he did about the competition. I liked the eggs; I had spent the last week helping my mom color and design them for the hunt. For each egg you turned in, you were given a piece of chocolate, but it was only the golden egg that mattered.
    “I’ll get dirty,” I told him.
    “That’s okay. Live a little.” He laughed and I might have listened. I might have gone on and crawled through the grass, but my mom appeared before I could move.
    “Lily, your bow is coming loose,” she snapped, pulling me by the ponytail backwards on the picnic bench. “How do you manage to cause such a mess all the time?”
    “You should let her participate,” my dad said to my mom.
    “I did. She helped me make the eggs.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    My mother finished straightening and tightening my bow and turned me to face her. “Is that what you want? Do you want to run around in the dirt like an animal?” I shook my head. She looked at my father. “You shouldn’t encourage her.”
    “Jon’s out there thinking he’s in the Old West, ready to have a high noon showdown over a Snickers, but poor Lily-” he started.
    “I don’t want to play, Dad. It’s okay. My dress is too pretty. We still have to go out for dinner,” I reminded him. I knew my mom would be devastated if I ruined my outfit before dinner.
    “It’s not like it’s mud wrestling,” he mumbled, but he stopped pushing.
    Kayla, one of the girls from my reading class, was wearing a pretty dark blue