Page 32 of Perfect Boy

“And why is that?”

I suck in a breath through my nose, blowing it out through my mouth. It’s an attempt to calm myself down, but it doesn’t work. At all.

“I came to the United States with a fake visa. And…somehow…it got me in.”

Her eyebrows pull together. “I…I just don’t understand. Why would you do that? Why not just get a real one? Why risk your entire future when you had to know you’d be caught eventually?”

I need to say the words. To open up and explain why I would do such an awful, stupid thing. It’s the only way she’ll see me as a human being. But, goddamn it, the words don’t come easy. There’s nothing I hate more in this world than feeling vulnerable. And sharing my secrets with her, telling her my past…that’s exactly how I’ll feel.

Naked. Vulnerable. Pathetic.

“I couldn’t go get an actual visa,” I finally say. My voice so low that I barely hear myself. “I have criminal charges that prevent me from being able to.”

Forget my cheeks being red. No, my entire face is on fire. Admitting this to anyone would be humiliating. But my boss? The freaking lady who gave me a job so I could afford to buy a car? Keep my cell phone on? Send my sister a phone and a little cash for her birthday? I could do all of that because of this lady. And now, I’m sitting before her, telling her that I’m a criminal.

“What charges, Ryann?” she asks, her voice soft. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

As much as I don’t want to tell her, I know I have to. I don’t want her to look at me like a thug or someone who just did bad things for no good reason. I always had my reasons even if that still doesn’t make it right.

“One is from stealing a few packages of ramen noodles, a loaf of bread, and some peanut butter when I was thirteen.” I look down at the floor again, my fingernails digging into the flesh of my palm. “My sister was five at the time. We were so broke. And she was so hungry.” I stop, wiping the back of my hand over my eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do. She needed to eat.”

“Ryann, I’m so sorry,” she says before stopping. “You said charges. Are there more?”

I reach up, mindlessly raking my hand through my hair. I try to not let my brain travel back to the day I’m about to explain, but it’s hard.

“When I was sixteen, my mom’s boyfriend at the time was beating the crap out of her. That wasn’t anything unusual.” I laugh sadly as thick tears gather in my eyes, blurring my vision. “She really knew how to pick ’em.” I exhale quickly, wiping my cheeks. “But this time…I really thought he was going to kill her. He just wouldn’t stop. And then…he was screaming that my sister and I were next. Me? I could take it. My sister? She was still little. Too little. And young.”

My mind goes to that day, and I remember peeking out of my and Riley’s bedroom. I had given her my headphones and some music to distract her months before this. I was tired of her having to listen to the same bullshit down the hall every night. But when I peered out, my mom’s body was so weak. So…battered.

“The thing about him that I didn’t know was, he was a police officer. He had connections. Lots and lots of connections.” I look at her to find her eyes staring straight at me. “I grabbed a fifteen-pound weight that I had in my room for lifting, ran out of my bedroom, and hit him with it. Right in the back of his head.” I’m crying harder now. Completely out of control. “He almost died. And I had to call an ambulance.” My body rocks as I think back to the day. “Spent six months in juvenile hall and got more red flags on my record.”

I remember thinking he was dead. The feeling settling in my stomach that I had physically killed someone. And that for the rest of my life, I would be a murderer.

That’s when the panic attacks began, though I don’t know why it wasn’t sooner, given how many times I had watched my mom get the shit beaten out of her.

She’s quiet. Too quiet. And I know it’s because my stupid, miserable story has gone and made her feel bad. That’s not why I told her. I told her because I needed her to know that I’m not just an awful person, going around and stealing things and beating the shit out of people. I had my reasons.

“Ryann, I am so sorry.” She grabs a tissue and hands it to me before taking a second and blotting her own tears. “This isn’t fair. You have to know that.”

I shrug. “Life isn’t fair. But no one believed that it wasn’t my fault then. They certainly won’t now. Now that I’ve lied to get here. Forged my way into this country.” I sniffle. “Officials will be alerted, and I’ll be deported.”

“You don’t know that!” she scolds me like I’m a little kid. “You need to fight. And explain everything to them. They are going to understand, Ryann. Just have some faith, okay?”

God bless her because she really does believe that it’s as simple as just telling my sad, pathetic story and getting a visa handed to me. Life doesn’t work that way.

Before I can answer, she sighs, looking up at the ceiling before her eyes find mine again. “The man who did the audit was extremely nice. He said typically, when he finds something like this, within a few weeks, you can expect to hear from someone that they’ve discovered you’re here illegally. And then, because of the process, another few weeks for deportation.”

I nod somberly before standing up. “So, what? Am I done working here then?”

“To my understanding, until you’ve been legally found guilty, you’ve done nothing wrong. So, until they tell me otherwise, you’ve got your job.” She shrugs. “When someone gets charged with theft, they aren’t guilty until proven so. So, I’m treating this the same way. Deal?”

“Deal,” I mutter.

She stands, giving me the smallest smile. “Besides, you’re one of my best dancers and favorite employees. I’m not ready to lose you just yet.”

Coming from behind her desk, she throws her arms around me and pulls me against her. “It’s going to be okay, Ry. I know it.”

I don’t answer because, honestly, I don’t think it is going to be okay. I think it’s going to be the opposite.

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