an eating disorder. I know exactly what
I eat and exactly how to burn it off. That
sounds like order to me, not disorder.
You’re too thin. Says who? Not Xavier.
Not the big photogs. Not even my mom.
My real mom. Not some phony wannabe.
I will be here for you. Yeah, right.
Not like I want her to be. Definitely not
like I asked her to be. She means nothing
to me. Why should I mean anything to her?
Glad I didn’t mention the rhinoplasty.
I’m sure she would have had something
to say about that, too. It’s scheduled
for Monday. I’m getting a little nervous.
Andre’s mom has been very sweet.
Don’t worry. I’ve performed hundreds,
with very few complications. You’ll be
just fine. You don’t smoke, do you?
Didn’t think so, but needed to make
sure. Smoking increases the risk of
bleeding. Alcohol, too. I can tell you
don’t drink. You’re much too slender.
Slender. Not thin or skinny. Or anorexic.
I’m Online
Reading real-life nose job stories
when I get an instant message from
Bobby. HEY. ARE YOU ON FACEBOOK? GET
THAT WAY. CHECK OUT SEAN’S PAGE.
Bobby hardly ever IMs me. RIGHT NOW!
Something’s definitely up. Oh, wow.
I can’t believe Cara broke up with Sean.
Neither can half the senior class. Glad
I’m not her. They’re chopping her into
little pieces: … IS A SLUT ANYWAY
…ALWAYS WAS FULL OF IT
…NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU
And now: …SERIOUS COMMITMENT ISSUES
YEAH, MUST RUN IN THE FAMILY.
That last one from Aubree. Obviously
referring to Conner and me. People
really should mind their own business.
Except, of course, Sean made it pretty
much everyone’s business. Before I
become an obvious topic of conversation,
however, I think I’ll speak up and let
them know I’m lurking here. HEY, SEAN,
I type. SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT YOU AND
CARA. CALL ME IF YOU NEED TO TALK, OKAY?
I sign off. Get the heck out of there
before I see any more comments I can’t
stomach. For some stupid reason, now
I feel hungry. Freaking stress. A small
shot of sugar should do the trick. One
Jolly Rancher. Watermelon. Twenty-three
point three calories. If I go for a bike ride,
I can treat myself to three. Game on.
Closing In
On April, less than a week away, winter
wants to hang on this year. Late afternoon,
it will be cold once the sun nose-dives
behind the mountain. Glad I wore sweats,
even though they make me look like Blimp
Girl. I’ll ride back roads. Tires pumped up,
I start on flat ground. Have to warm up a little
before heading uphill. It’s been a while since
I pedaled anything, and even in high gear,
my legs start to burn fairly quickly. I like
the burn, like the way my muscles feel
when they contract. I should do this more.
The last time I went bike riding was with
Conner. It was summer, and his tanned legs
were sensational to watch, pumping pedals.
The morning was hot, and once in a while
he would pour water over his head. His long
hair dripped, catching sun, creating a halo.
God, I loved him so much, and the memory
is a new razor blade. Too sharp to feel its slice.
Flat streets segue to a mild incline. I bear
down on the pedals. My breathing shallows.
Pant. Pant. I think of Conner again, how
we stopped our bikes beneath the big trees
at the park. Walked them into the heart
of the woods, rested them against old pines,
nestled ourselves into the thick needle bed.
The breeze stirred gently, scenting the air
with superheated evergreen. Conner pushed
me back into the cushioned earth, and when
he kissed me, it stole my breath away. Like
now. Pant. Pant. We panted then. Together.
The Hill Grows Steeper
And the memory grows deeper with
every breath I pull into my lungs.
For the first time ever, the love we
made was unhurried. It’s good slow,
he said. Do you like it this way? I did
but wondered just when he’d decided
that, and how. Still, I didn’t dare ask
him. Instead I just let him. And when
he finished, he stayed very close to me,
tracing one finger in circles on my skin.
Don’t lose any more weight, he said.
Don’t you want to look like a woman?
That surprised me too. “I thought
you’d like me better this way.”
He shook his head, rustling the needles.
Don’t believe the hype. Curves are hot.
To The West
The sun hides behind shadowed granite
cliffs. But despite the noticeable drop
in temperature, sweat soaks into the fleece
beneath my arms, and my hair dampens.
Suddenly I am starving, every calorie
taken in today completely expended.
My heart quakes, stuttering in my chest.
Time to turn around. Head home. Downhill.
As I swing the bike across the yellow line,
I feel my face go white, as if the saw-slice
of memory has opened my head, let blood.
My stomach, empty, heaves nothingness.
I begin to shiver. My arms start to shake
and I lose control of the handlebars.
Buzzing. Horrible buzzing. My hands
grab for the brakes. Too late. I’m falling…
Through The Fog
Fog? Where did that come from? No
matter, it’s here, and the only thing
that makes it lift is pain. Jolts of pain.
In my right arm. Right leg. Right side
of my head. I try to move—have to.
I’m in the street. I think. Must move.
But some strange weight holds me
in place. Don’t move. Hands test
my body. Conner? No. That was last
summer. My eyes work hard to focus.
The hands belong to a lady. Don’t know
her. I don’t feel any broken bones, but
you could have a concussion. Stay right
there. I’ll call 9-1-1. But as soon as she lets
go, I manage a sitting position. “I’m okay.
Please. Can you just take me home?”
Sean
I’m Okay
Everything I’ve believed
in, smashed into the mud.
All I’ve worked toward,
pulverized into dust. But
I’m
okay. Who wanted all that,
anyway? Who needed
an unobstructed road to
a tidy little future, when
really
the fun is in breaking trail
toward some unknown
destination? Any sane person
would say you should
not
put every shred of hope
in one human being, especially
not a girl. The perfect girl,
no longer mine. But, hey, I’m
br />
okay.
Wounded
And I don’t even know what
the fuck happened. Everything
was going perfectly. Graduating
with a high B average? Check.
Playing top-flight baseball?
Check. Offered a scholarship
to play Cardinal ball? Check.
Accepted into Stanford, an
almost impossible goal
to realize? Check. Best of
all, after waiting for a year,
after finding a way to make
sure performance would
not be an issue, being right
there with Cara, both of us
naked and hot and ready
to go, finally having sex
with the girl I love more
than life, only to be accused
of rape? Check. And check!!
I Thought She Was Over It
When she finally called.
Believed she’d forgiven
me. How could I have
been so wrong? About
everything. I thought she
loved me, too. How could
I have given my heart to
someone still-frozen?
Looking back, I see that she
never felt about me the way
I felt about her. Talk about
one-sided affection. What in
God’s name do I do now?
Turn down Stanford? I could
have gone east to school.
Some place far, far away
from Cara. No, damn it.
After all I went through
to get in there, I’m going to
Stanford. With or without Cara.
At Least She Didn’t
Publicly accuse me of rape.
Tomorrow will be a week
since that night, and not
one word has surfaced.
All things considered,
I figured she might, if only
to save face. Reputation
is pretty much everything
to Cara Sykes. And her
standing with the in crowd
has plummeted. Bitch isn’t
the only one who has friends
in high places. In fact, as
of today, she doesn’t have
much in the way of friends.
Period. Maybe I went a little
crazy, posting on Facebook
and stuff. I kind of thought
she might jump in and defend
herself. But no. Not a word.
That pisses me off more than
anything. The fucking silence.
The least she could do is tell
me what the hell happened.
She owes me that much.
The worst thing is, she’s all
I can think about. School?
What’s that? Oh yeah, that
place I used to go where
I actually became somebody
once I started dating Cara.
Homework? Whatever.
I’ll do enough to graduate,
but why work harder than
I have to? Baseball? Now,
that’s a problem of sorts.
I’ve accomplished what
I set out to do, for sure.
But it bothers me that my bat
has grown as cold as Cara.
On One Hand
It doesn’t really matter.
On the other hand, there
are records at stake. I should
be number one in the league.
And if I get it back together,
I can still grab that title.
I have to kick this butt-
rod pitcher’s ass. I need
to remember just who
the hell Sean O’Connell
is, with or without his girl.
I watch the windup, try
to read the signals. Think
about Cara, throwing off
her shirt that night. Strike!
What? Wait. I didn’t even
see the ball. Goddamn
it. No! The pitcher leers—
leers! Screw you, dude.
I’ve got your ticket. I wait
for it… mind wandering
to Chad’s sofa, and smooth
skin perfumed with desire.
And she’s saying yes, touch
me there, all wet.… Strike two.
Damn it all, O’Connell,
concentrate. That fricking
pitcher is a goon. I swear
if I don’t hit him this time…
he pulls back from his windup.
Trying to make me lose it
again. No effing way, jerk.
He comes set, draws back.
It’s a sinker for sure. A fast-
ball is too big of a risk. He
lets go of the ball. Here it
comes. Fast. And straight.
And I swing right through.
And the goddamn umpire
dares, Strike three. You’re out.
And I Know I’m Out
I am so fucking out. And
I know the umpire is totally
right, but at this particular
moment, I couldn’t give
a damn about right or wrong.
I want to feel better. So I wheel
to my right, catch hold of
his mask, pull his ugly face
right up into mine, and
I say, “You got it wrong.”
Behind his face guard,
his eyes go wide. Are you
questioning my call? Because
I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Let go of me, son. I mean now.
And I know I really need
to stop myself, but I can’t
seem to manage it. “I’m not
your fucking son, you piece
of…” And now all I can see
is Cara, telling me I have
just raped her. And all
I want to do is shake
her. And a scarlet haze
lifts over my eyes. I hate
her. I love her. O’Connell!
Stop! It’s Coach Torrance.
And I shake my head, and
the red veil falls, and I am
horrified to see I’ve been
shaking the ump, like I
wanted to shake Cara.
Oh my God. “What’s
wrong with me?” I say it
aloud, with a cracked black
pepper voice. And I’m sorry.
Oh, yes, I’m sorry. But it’s
too late for sorry. I am out
of the game. No hits. No
runs. Just another strikeout.
I Hit The Locker Room
Strip down. Shower. Realize
suddenly that this stupid stunt
could very well end my baseball
career. Not many coaches
want to deal with players
who go off the deep end and
try to kill the umpire over
a called third strike. Or anything
else, for that matter. What
came over me? I turn the water
cool, let it flow over my head,
chill my brain. A phrase floats
up from some subconscious
sea. “’Roid rage.” Maybe it
fits, but I don’t think so. No,
this was all about Cara. Why
can’t I just let her go? And
now—fuck, fuck, fuck—
I’m crying. Tears spill,
mixing with shower splash.
My legs start to shake,
and I let them slip out
from under me. I scoot
back against the cool tile,
let the waterfall rush over
me. And this is how Uncle
Jeff finds me. Are you okay?
Obviously not. Kind of blew
it out there, huh? Do you want
to talk about what’s going on?
I do. But I can’t. I look up
at him through the streaming
water. “Just a lot of pressure
lately is all.” I get up, turn
off the shower. Reach for
a towel. Not sure that excuse
is good enough to fix what
just happened. Beyond
your likely league suspension,
that ump could press charges.
I Know All That
But though my first instinct
is to say so, I also know
that Uncle Jeff wants to
help. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.
Do you think it’s fixable?”
He shrugs. I could maybe
pull some strings. But I need
to know what’s happening
with you. Anything else you
can tell me? He turns his head
as I start to dress. Anger
flares again, but only for
a second. He isn’t my dad.
But he’s the closest thing
I’ve got. “There’s some stuff
with Cara.” True. “We’re
trying to work through
it.…” Not exactly true. Yet.
“It’s been a rough week.”
And looking to get rougher.
Andre
Not Exactly True
That skin hate is dead.
There will never be color
blindness in a culture of
fear.
But when you live afraid
of your neighbor, the monster
you should most walk
in terror of
thrives.
It starts as a little thing,
small enough to burrow
into your pores, take up
excruciating residence
in
the dark recesses of your brain.
Its name is paranoia,
and it spreads like an oil