Cara’s parents’ unrealistic expectations have already sent her twin brother Conner spiraling toward suicide. For her, perfect means rejecting their ideals to take a chance on a new kind of love. Kendra covets the perfect face and body—no matter what surgeries and drugs she needs to get there. To score his perfect home run—on the field and off—Sean will sacrifice more than he can ever win back. And Andre realizes that to follow his heart and achieve his perfect performance, he’ll be living a life his ancestors would never have understood.

Everyone wants to be perfect, but when perfection loses its meaning, how far will you go? What would you give up to be perfect?

A riveting and startling companion to the bestselling Impulse, Ellen Hopkins's Perfect exposes the harsh truths about what it takes to grow up and grow into our own skins, our own selves.< "This page-turner pulls no emotional punches."< "Hopkins sticks to the signature style that has made her books bestsellers, blending verse poetry with controversial topics . . . to intrigue her fans and recruit new ones."< "This companion to Impulse can stand alone, but packs considerably more punch when read contiguously as intended. . . . Hopkins’s legions of fans will no doubt devour Perfect and welcome the return of the characters they learned to love in Impulse."

< "Hopkins addresses teens’ struggle with unrealistic expectations in gut-wrenching free verse."< "At its nucleus, four teenagers are grappling with insecurities that become exacerbated when loved ones turn up the heat. . . . The unrestricted access Hopkins employs is formidable: parents, siblings, love interests, and outliers all thrust frank judgment on the characters. It is how Cara, Sean, Kendra, and Andre react that encourages readers’ emotional attachments. Her writing conveys teenage quandaries with all of the intended consequences, as the verse style only serves to shock as the events unfold."<

Cara Sierra Sykes

Perfect?

How

do you define a word without

concrete meaning? To each

his own, the saying goes, so

why

push to attain an ideal

state of being that no two

random people will agree is

where

you want to be? Faultless.

Finished. Incomparable. People

can never be these, and anyway,

when

did creating a flawless facade

become a more vital goal

than learning to love the person

who

lives inside your skin?

The outside belongs to others.

Only you should decide for you—

what

is 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.

Mom Stands There Watching

The men work, laying mint

green carpeting over clean beige

padding. Thick. Lush. Camouflage.

I sit on the top stair, unseen.

Invisible. Silent. I might as well

not even be here at all. And

that’s all right. At least I don’t

have to worry that she will focus

her anger on me. Instead she blasts

it toward the carpet guys. Idiots!

You’re scratching the patina!

Her hiss is like a cobra’s spit.

I might w Read Less