Perfect Perfection I've lived with the pretense of perfection for seventeen years. Give my room a cursory inspection, you'd think I have OCD. But it's only habit and not obsession that keeps it all orderly. Of course, I don't want to give the impression that it's all up to me. Most of the heavy labor is done by our housekeeper, Gwen. She's an imposing woman, not at all the type that most men would find attractive. Not even Conner, which is the point. My twin has a taste for older women. Before he got himself locked away, he chased after more than one. I should have told sooner about the one he caught, the one I happened to overhear him with, having a little afternoon fun. Okay, I know a psychologist would say, strictly speaking, he was prey, not predator. And in a way, I can't really blame him. Emily is simply stunning. Conner wasn't the only one who used to watch her go running by our house every morning. But, hello, she was his teacher. That fact alone should have been enough warning that things would not turn out well. I never would have expected Conner to attempt the coward's way out, though. Some consider suicide an act of honor. I seriously don't agree. But even if it were, you'd have to actually die. All Conner did was stain Mom's new white Berber carpet. They're replacing it now. Excerpted from Perfect by Ellen Hopkins All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
