You’re Perfect
By Sophia Krich-Brinton
I lean against the doorway, looking into the large room as envy bites into my heart. The usual group stands on the platform at the rear, their faces shining beneath the raw ceiling lights. Motivational posters peel from the beige wall, and the plastic chairs lined up on the linoleum floor are full, everyone singing along, some holding hands. I can’t see the audience’s faces, but they sit straight in this dingy room in the basement of the Community Hall as if they were filled with joy.
I want to feel that joy.
Closing my eyes, I hum along. I know the tune; it’s the same one they always end with, but all I hear is my own voice in my ears, slightly sharp, nasal with desperation.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” someone says from behind me.
Opening my eyes, I whirl around. A young woman stands there, her head tilted as she gazes at me. I’ve seen her before: she stands on the platform with the other leaders.
“Sorry.” I edge backward.
“Don’t go.” She smiles. Her teeth glint in the too-bright light. “Are you new here?”
“Kind of.” She doesn’t know how often I’ve stared through this door, wishing I was brave enough to join them. “I was just leaving.”
“Don’t leave.” She slips her arm through mine, the smooth fabric of her rose-patterned blouse snagging on my watch. She smells like vanilla and something else—rust? “It’s almost over, I’ll introduce you around.”
I consider pulling free of her gentle grip, backing away while making my excuses. I’m late for another thing. I can’t tonight. Maybe another time.
Or I could let her lead me inside.
Before I can make a decision, we’re through the doorway. The song has ended and people are getting to their feet. Some hug their neighbors while others meander toward the heavily-laden snack tables at the left of the door.
I’ve never seen this part. I always leave when the music ends.
“What’s your name?” the vanilla-scented woman asks, still hugging my arm.
“Beren.” My throat is dry. I cough.
“Beren? That’s lovely. I’m Serena.” She pulls me toward a tight-knit group in the center of the room, with others satelliting around them as if pulled by some unseen force.
These are the leaders. The ones who sing from the raised platform with expressions of pure happiness as if nothing bad exists in their world.
My feet stumble and slow.
“It’s okay,” Serena says, tugging me forward. “They’ll want to meet you. We love new people.”
“Do you have many?” I ask hoarsely.
She shrugs. “Not as many as we’d like, but people find us when they need us.” Now she stops and turns to me. “How did you find us?”
I flash to the night, three months ago, when I first saw them on the street. They were laughing together, their smiles wide and white, their arms interlocked. They’d seemed so comfortable together, as if none of them had any secrets, or if they did, they all knew them and had accepted and forgiven them.
I’d followed them here, keeping deep in the shadows and ducking my head when they looked in my direction. They seemed to welcome everyone, but I knew they wouldn’t want me. I watched people stream into the basement of the tall brick Community Hall, greeting each other with wide smiles as they took their seats, then the core group led them in the opening prayer.
It wasn’t like any prayer I’d ever heard, not that I had much experience. They’d talked about the beauty of being alive, how the stars above us see who we truly are, how there is no past or future, only the present. They’d recommended cooking delicious meals, playing music, spending time with friends.
I’d come back twice a week ever since.
“You know how it is,” I say, looking away.
“Yeah.” She laughs. “I do know. Sometimes the things we need just seem to find us. Like I found you, tonight.” She turns to the central group and calls out, “Hey, come meet Beren!”
They open like a flower, turning their eyes on me, smiles large as they take me in.
A tall man in the center steps forward. He has carefully shaped gray hair and a gray goatee, but he doesn’t seem old. He’s always in the center of everything.
“Beren,” he says. “Welcome. Did you catch the meeting?”
I shook my head. “Just the end.”
“Ah well.” He winks. “Maybe the next one?”
“Definitely the next one,” Serena pipes up.
“I’m Peter,” he says, extending his hand. “I led tonight’s meeting, but I’m not the leader. We’re all equal here.”
We shake hands while the others nod, smiling, their eyebrows slightly raised as if in anticipation.
At first, I cringe from their attention, but as hand after hand extends toward me, their smiles growing ever wider, I straighten. Is the anticipation on their faces because of meeting me?
Something quivers in my chest as they introduce themselves. Their wide eyes take in my every detail, from my snow-damp hair to my anxiety-bitten cuticles, but I don’t feel shamed by their scrutiny. Rather, it feels like they can see everything I am and accept me in spite of it. Or because of it.
“I’ll definitely be back on Thursday,” I promise.
Serena grins and pulls me close, her arm still through mine. “I’m so glad.”
“Bring your family and friends,” Peter urges. “The more, the merrier.”
* * *
I arrive too early on Thursday, so I wait in an awning across the street, collar raised against the chilly night wind, as people slowly filter in. When there’s a good number ahead of me, I cross the street.
“Beren!” Someone in a heavy coat and hat is waving at me from the community center’s entrance. It’s Serena, grinning as if she’s pleased I’ve come back. She’s so happy to see me, when she doesn’t even know me.
She won’t like you when she does.
My mother’s voice rang clear in my head, as if she were right here rather than decades dead.
Nobody will ever like you.
I ignore the voice and step forward. “Hi.”
“Come on, we’ll go in together.” Like before, she tucks her arm through my elbow and maneuvers me into the building, down the steps and through the hallway. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah.” Embarrassment heats my cheeks and neck. I should have asked a stranger, anything to avoid coming alone.
She senses my discomfort. “Hey, don’t worry about it. We like you just the way you are.”
In the meeting room, the core group is already there with people fanned out around them like dandelion fluff, all of them probably hoping to catch a word or a glance from the inner circle.
Serena marches me right up to them and announces my presence. “Beren’s back! She didn’t bring anyone.”
They turn to me as one, smiles blooming across every face as they echo my name.
“Beren’s back!”
“Welcome, Beren!”
Peter steps forward and clasps my hand in both of his. “So glad to see you. Please feel welcome to bring your friends and family. We’d love to have them.”
“I don’t—” I raise a shoulder and shake my head, my throat suddenly tight.
Serena tightens her hand on my arm. “It’s okay.”
Peter steps closer. “If you don’t have other people in your life, we can fill that gap.”
I nod, since I can’t form words.
“We’ll be your family.” Serena puts her head on my shoulder. “What’s your last name, Beren?”
I can’t breathe. If I tell her, she’ll look me up. She’ll know what I did.
“It’s okay.” Her hand is comforting on my arm. “We don’t need to know. Want to sing with us tonight?”
“Do you know the songs?” someone asks.
“Yes.” The brazen word slips out of my mouth, though my heart is still pounding. “I’d love to.”
I know the songs. I’ve sung them under my breath for months, as I log into my work meetings, as I order my groceries, on my way home from the meetings I’ve never been brave enough to join.
We step onto the raised platform, me edging into the back row behind Serena. She glances at me a few times as Peter lifts his guitar, smiling and nodding her encouragement. I’m nervous, second-guessing my presence here as the room fills. Then Peter lifts his guitar and strums a few quiet chords. Everyone’s eyes settle on us.
Peter starts the first song. All around me, people begin singing, their harmonies raising the hairs on my arms.
What if they hate my voice? I’d only ever sung to myself.
Nerves tremble through me. Maybe I’ll just mouth the words.
Serena reaches for my hand and squeezes my fingers in the rhythm of the music.
I let out a breath, open my mouth, and start to sing.
It feels like flying.
Like I could open my wings, leap off the nearest cliff, and glide around the planet.
* * *
Serena told me to come extra early to the Tuesday meeting. I’m almost jogging, I’m so full of energy.
As the community center comes into view, my chest filled with what feels like many small birds fluttering against my lungs. They’d welcome me again tonight. I could barely wait.
“Over here!” Across the street, Serena waves at me with both hands.
I look both ways, then hurry across the street. “Hey.”
“Hey!” She glances around the empty street. “Come with me.”
She leads me into the community center, but not down the usual steps to our basement meeting room. Instead, she opens a side door, and we walk into a dim corridor. The ceiling lights flicker above us, and grime lines the cracks in the tile walls.
“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Don’t make her dislike you.
She grins at me over her shoulder. “You’ll see, we’re almost there. We do this sometimes with new people. It’s a treat.”
A treat.
My heart thumps. They planned something for me. They thought about me.
At the end of the hallway, Serena opens a dingy door and stands aside so I can enter first. The entire inner circle is inside. They smile at me, their white teeth gleaming in the fluorescent light. The walls and floor shine, and in the center of the room is a medical-looking table.
“Welcome, Beren,” Peter says. He opens a palm toward the table, inviting me closer.
I approach, smiling tentatively at each face, and sit on the table, trying not to swing my legs like a child. I cross my ankles and feel awkward.
For a moment, nobody speaks. There’s an odd tension in the room, as if everyone’s waiting for—what?
“Um,” I try. “What should I do?”
Serena comes close and puts a hand on my knee. “Beren, we’re so happy to have you.”
Peter approaches from my right. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips moist.
“Beren,” he breathes. “Are you sure you don’t have family or friends you’d like to join us?”
I raise my shoulders. “I don’t have anyone. That’s why I’m—I’m so grateful you welcomed me.”
“Of course we did.” Serena has both hands on my knees now, pressing hard. “And we’re grateful to you, too.”
“We are,” the others say. “We are.” They’re standing so close to me, I can feel the humid heat of their bodies.
“Thanks.” I’m uncomfortable with them so near. I want to get off this table. I uncross my ankles and hope they’ll make space.
They don’t.
“Shh,” Serena whispers. Her mouth is so close to my face, I can smell the vanilla on her breath.
“Quiet now,” Peter murmurs. He’s leaning in, far too close.
“Um, I’m so sorry, I’m not into guys—” I begin, but Peter cuts me off.
“You don’t need to be sorry about anything. You’re one of us now.” His hand brushes my arm. His breath burns my neck.
I cringe away from his touch. “Stop, please. I don’t want this.”
“Not even from me?” Serena’s eyes are wide and so, so blue. She pushes my knees apart so she can stand between them and puts her hands on my shoulders.
I do want her. She sees it and smiles.
All around me, the others reach in, unbuttoning my shirt, pulling it off my shoulders. Serena’s the closest, with her body pressed against mine. I barely breathe as she kisses my cheek.
But her kiss is sharp and hot. I gasp as pain shoots into my skull.
“Wait—” My voice cuts off as Peter bites deep into my neck, tearing off what feels like a good chunk of my flesh.
White hot agony explodes through me. I thrash, screaming. Someone clamps a palm over my mouth.
“You are so sweet,” Peter says, his mouth full.
“You’re perfect,” Serena echoes, licking the blood from her chin.
With teeth bared, hands grasping, the rest of them close in.
Sophia Krich-Brinton (she/they) lives in Colorado with her partner, kids, and cats. They write weird stories at dawn when the world sleeps and the cats try to sit on their keyboard. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in HAD, B’K Magazine, Moss Puppy Mag, and more. When not writing, she boxes, plays the banjo, and goes backpacking. Find them at sophiakbrinton.com or on Twitter/Instagram at @sophiakb_writes
