Perfect - 02

  in public with one he was

  doing, anyway. Would he?

  Maybe she was the girl’s

  mom. But then, who was

  the girl? And the guy?

  And Why Do I Care?

  I get a Coke and Kendra goes

  for diet. No surprise. I spring

  for a big tub of popcorn.

  “Butter?” Kendra shakes

  her head, but when she isn’t

  paying attention, I ask for

  it anyway. Hey, I’m buying.

  Kendra keeps looking toward

  the corridor Conner disappeared

  into. Hoping he’ll materialize.

  The attendant points us

  down the opposite hallway.

  Kendra goes first. I watch

  her walk, all spindly like

  an aspen sapling wobbling

  in the wind. She is model

  pretty. And death-camp thin.

  Don’t guess she’d appreciate

  me telling her that. None

  of my business anyway.

  The previews have already

  started by the time we get

  inside. We find our seats

  in the semi-dark, stumbling

  up the stairs to the very back,

  tripping over purses and feet.

  Scary Movie 666 is pretty

  much like all the other

  Scary Movies, except with

  more devil stuff. Entertaining

  enough, for crap. Kendra,

  who wanted to see this

  dumb movie, might be

  staring at the screen, but

  she doesn’t react to the funny

  parts, doesn’t jump when

  she should. And she hasn’t

  touched the popcorn. Glad

  I got butter. And I’m also

  glad this isn’t a real date.

  We Sit Watching

  The credits roll. People filter

  past us, down the stairs, out

  the doors. And still we sit

  here. The popcorn bucket

  is less than half full, thanks

  completely to me. “You sure

  you don’t want a little? Hate

  for good popcorn to go to

  waste.” Not that it was really

  that good. Kind of stale, in fact.

  Kendra shakes her head. No

  thanks. I’m not really hungry.

  Anyway, we’re supposed to

  have a family dinner tonight.

  That usually means lots of carbs.

  I can’t help myself. “You could

  probably use a few carbs. But

  I know what you mean. Aunt

  Mo is big on the pasta, and

  I’m a protein kind of guy.”

  She lets the carbs remark go

  on by. You look great. Beefed

  up a lot. Which reminds me,

  do you know anything about

  Clen? She’s talking Clenbuterol.

  “Uh. It’s a steroid, right? Why

  would I know anything about

  that, other than the stuff I’ve

  read about people using it for

  weight loss? You’re not thinking

  about using it, right? Because

  if you lost any more weight,

  you’d flat not even be here.

  Jesus, Kendra.” I’m not sure

  her body could handle Clen.

  She ignores everything I just

  said. It would help me gain

  muscle, though, right? Then

  maybe I could eat more

  without putting on poundage.

  Point Taken

  I tell her I’ll look into it for

  her. I’ve got to visit Chad

  for a refill myself. I probably

  should take some time off,

  but what the hell? I need

  something to get my bat hot

  again. One more cycle and

  I can lay off for a while.

  When the lights come up,

  we get to our feet. Kendra

  moves about like a tortoise.

  I bet a little food could

  help her walk faster.

  But when we start down

  the hall, she keeps looking

  around, and I realize she’s

  being deliberately slow,

  hoping for another glimpse

  of Conner. Damn, she’s got

  it bad for him. Stupid girl.

  Andre

  A Glimpse

  Of greatness should inspire

  the desire to attain greatness

  too. So why, then, do

  I

  mostly feel intimidated

  by my father, whose success

  I covet? Is it because I

  am afraid

  to attempt, and fail?

  Or do I somehow find

  comfort in failure?

  To

  face a competitor and lose

  is expected sometimes.

  No shame. But if I

  take

  a shot at a personal best

  and come up short, it means

  maybe I’m delusional to take

  a chance

  on myself.

  Breakfast This Morning

  Was unusual. Dad, Mom, and me, all

  at the same table.

  It was orchestrated, the two of them

  double-teaming me. You graduate in nine

  weeks, said Mom. What

  course have you decided to embark upon?

  Okay, just semantically, the sentence

  irritated me. “Are you talking

  ‘course,’ as in course of study, or ‘course,’

  as in a river’s course, or the course of my life?”

  I wasn’t trying to be

  snotty. Well, not really snotty. But go figure,

  she took it that way. And Dad was already

  mad at me for refusing

  to plan the trip to California to look at schools.

  I do not understand your attitude, he said.

  Don’t you realize your

  entire future is at stake? Stupid questions

  don’t really demand answers. I didn’t

  say anything, which

  made every inch of skin above his too-

  tight collar turn the color of a boiled

  lobster. Are you being

  deliberately obnoxious? That made

  me laugh. “Not deliberately, Dad. I can’t

  help it. I was born

  this way. I think it must be genetic.”

  Mom scowled. I figured I probably

  shouldn’t mention

  the web of facial lines that created.

  Would you please be serious? she said.

  Have you even thought

  about what you’ll do after graduation?

  “Of course I’ve thought about it. How

  could I not? Dad’s been

  on me for months. I told him what I want

  to do, but he says art won’t pay the bills.

  In fact, he thinks it

  makes me gay.…” Mom flinched.

  “Okay, I’m not gay. And to tell you the truth,

  design is a compromise.

  I…” I had said too much. I backpedaled

  quickly. “Gramps always said if you do what

  you love, the money will

  follow. Worked for him. It will work for me.

  I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing

  something that makes me

  miserable. Not even if it means drowning

  in money.” Suddenly it got very difficult

  to choke down my

  soggy cereal. “Look. I promise I’ll be okay,

  no matter what. Cheer up. Maybe I’m just a late

  bloomer, and there’s a mercenary

  lurking somewhere deep inside me aft
er all.”

  It Wasn’t That Funny

  But it did make both of them smile long

  enough for me to

  escape. What I didn’t tell them, and have

  no idea how I will, is that I’m thinking about

  taking a semester or two off

  school. There’s a theater conservatory

  I might look into. Or maybe I’ll get a job,

  an apartment. Chill

  for a year or so, until I figure out exactly

  what it is I want to do. Become. God,

  the harder they push me

  to “become” something, the more I want to

  dig in my heels and just be whatever it is

  I am. And what I am right

  now is once again running late. I’ve got tickets

  for the ballet tonight. Thought I’d surprise

  Jenna. I told her to dress

  up. Hope she listened. And I hope she’s ready.

  She Isn’t, Of Course

  I call her as I pull into the driveway.

  More and more, I try to

  avoid relating to either one of her parents.

  “Hey. Ready to go? You wore a nice

  dress, right?” I hear

  muffled voices in the near background.

  I’ll be out in a minute, she huffs. Then,

  to the muffled voices,

  Can I please go now? Andre is waiting

  for me! Garbled responses. I promise.

  I don’t know… Wait…

  And to me, What time will I be home?

  The performance starts at eight. Two hours

  makes ten o’clock. “Around

  eleven, I guess.” Suddenly they care?

  It is another several minutes before she exits

  the house, teetering down

  the walk in some extremely tall—and hot—heels.

  She shimmies into the car, pushes down

  into the cush leather.

  God. Unbelievable. Let’s go, before Patrick

  changes his mind and makes me stay home.

  I back out of the driveway,

  noticing the length of her almost nonexistent

  skirt. “Wow. Short dress.” Hope her top

  is covered better. Can’t tell

  because of her jacket, but my guess is, no.

  I’m afraid she’ll draw more attention than

  the ballerinas. That’s my girl.

  I’m almost used to it. “So, what’s going on?”

  She pulls a familiar flask from her pocket.

  Takes a long drink. I love

  peppermint schnapps. Her voice is husky,

  slow. Want some? I decline, and she takes

  a drink for me. For some

  asinine reason, Patrick decided he needed

  to play Daddy tonight. He called a family

  meeting. First, he accused

  Kendra and me of stealing Mom’s Xanax.

  Then he said there are new house rules

  about going out, and

  how they want to know who we’re going

  with, where we’re going, and when we’ll

  be home. I bet he starts

  checking out our rooms and stuff too.

  Considering she’s sitting here, sucking down

  alcohol, maybe he’s got

  a point. “Did you take your mom’s Xanax?”

  Maybe a couple, she admits. Just to get me

  through the wedding

  stuff. Who knew Mom’d actually keep track?

  The Girl Has No Shame

  It’s one of her better qualities. But it also

  makes me worry about

  her. And us. “Xanax is expensive. Why

  wouldn’t she keep track? But the bigger

  question is, did you take one

  tonight? Xanax and schnapps don’t mix well.”

  How would you know? I kind of like

  the way they mix.

  She laughs. In fact, they mix perfectly.

  This is going to be an interesting evening.

  “Jenna, please be careful.

  People die every day from drug interactions.…”

  She flips. Don’t worry about me! I am

  completely in control.

  Anyway, why do you care what I do?

  “Because I love you, goddamn it. You’re

  supposed to worry

  about people you love. Don’t you get it?”

  She Does Not Respond

  For a long while. Finally she says, I don’t

  believe in love. Not sure

  it really exists, but even if it does for some

  people, it won’t for me. She is serious.

  Then she lightens up.

  But, hey, if you think you love me, cool.

  My turn not to know what to say. I exit

  the freeway, thread

  through a maze of side streets, park a few

  blocks away from the theater. We get out

  of the car, and I go around,

  take Jenna into my arms. “I do love you.

  Not always sure why. But you are unique.

  Exceptional, in so many

  ways. Why do you think love will never

  come to you? It already has.” I kiss her,

  as sweetly as I know how,

  hoping she will believe love has found her.

  Finally She Wiggles Free

  No acknowledgment. No reciprocal

  declaration. Just,

  Okay. Where are we going, anyway?

  It’s so Jenna, I can’t even get mad.

  “The San Francisco Ballet

  is in town. Ready to soak up some culture?”

  The ballet? Are you kidding? Her inflection

  gives away nothing. Surprise?

  Disgust? Nothing ventured, nothing gained,

  I guess. She takes my arm, struts toward

  the theater, drawing

  the usual stares from passersby, and a catcall

  from some derelict-looking guy. Luckily,

  we don’t have to walk

  all that far. But then, when we get inside

  and she takes off her jacket, my worst

  fears are confirmed.

  Her V-necked top hides nothing. She pulls

  every eye, and not just the guys’. Our seats

  are in the balcony, front row.

  Great view. Jenna actually seems excited

  to be here. It’s a special performance

  of The Little Mermaid.

  I figured the story would be familiar

  enough to make the dance enjoyable

  for Jenna. But, not quite

  forty minutes into the program, I look

  over to find Jenna asleep. Xanax and

  alcohol. A knockout

  combination. She rouses when the lights

  come up for intermission. Guess I dozed

  off. Sorry. But this stuff

  is just so boring. You don’t like it, do you?

  Why did I expect anything different?

  “Actually, I don’t like it.

  I love it. Sorry you don’t feel the same way.”

  Cara

  Did I Expect

  To

  learn something new,

  walking the same old

  avenues? Did I believe I’d

  find

  surprises under the pillow

  my head rests on every

  night—an extension of

  myself?

  Change doesn’t come

  without invitation.

  You won’t discover it

  in

  routine. And you won’t

  create an all-new and

  better you if you wait for

  someone else

  to give you permission.

  Transformation begins—

  and ends—inside of you.

  Transformation

  Isn’t easy when most of the people


  in your life think you’re already

  perfect, and want you to stay just

  how they see you. Try to begin

  a new phase, you’d better expect

  push-back. Try to create a whole

  new you, your friend list will shrink

  considerably. I don’t have any friends

  left at all, and that’s before anyone

  knows about Dani and me. I’m so

  happy that school is almost over.

  Once it is, I’ll be free of the pressure

  to be someone other than who I am.

  Not sure how I’ll come out to my

  parents, or if that’s what I should

  even do. Is there a proper time to tell

  your relatives that you’re a lesbian?

  Easier to let them guess than to

  stand up on a soapbox, loudly

  confess that, hey, guys just don’t do it

  for me. At least Dad has Conner

  to carry on the Sykes family name.

  Thank God that was not legitimately

  up to me. And speaking of God,

  hope he’s okay with me being here

  at worship on Easter Sunday. One

  thing good about Lutherans—most

  of them don’t ostracize gay people.

  Gay. Lesbian. Words. That did not

  apply to me until recently. Or did

  they? Do you have to admit you’re

  a lesbian before you are one? Dani

  says no. I can’t think about her now.

  Here. In church. Can I? God, I think

  I love her. Is that wrong? Or is that me,

  only a footnote to your master plan?

  Easter

  Is a mad celebration. Imagine

  if the story is true. Resurrection.

  The ultimate transformation. Son

  of man, risen in glory to take his place

  at the right hand of God. Okay, that’s

  the preached-from-the-pulpit version.

  But in the historical context, it’s even

  better. Some guy—a street person

  with a resonant message—in turn

  wows crowds, then somehow angers

  them enough to want him dead.