Perfect - 02

  other people ever catch a glimpse of.

  Did he show that boy to the ambulance

  drivers who took him to the hospital, or

  to the doctors and nurses who dug the bullet

  out of his chest? Sewed him up. Saved

  his life. I want to see him, but Cara says Saint

  Mary’s won’t allow visitors. Bet he doesn’t

  want them—scared he might look helpless.

  What He Doesn’t Get

  Is that everyone gets scared. I used

  to get sick to my stomach every day

  before school. Reading, writing,

  and arithmetic? Not my best things.

  I just knew some genius bully

  was going to make major fun of me.

  Then I figured out Rule Number One

  of the Popularity Game—looks trump

  brains every time. While it might be

  nice to have both, I’ll settle for what

  I’ve got. College isn’t a major goal.

  Don’t need it to model. Everyone says

  I have what it takes to do runway.

  I don’t think I do yet. But I will.

  My Mom Has Groomed Me

  For modeling for years, ever since

  she entered me in my very first baby

  beauty pageant. I wasn’t even one yet.

  Couldn’t walk, but already had a killer

  smile. Mom dressed me up in pink swirls

  and paraded me down that runway herself.

  We went home with a tiara. Next thing

  you know, I had an impressive portfolio

  and a dozen more rhinestone crowns.

  Soon, my cute cherub face was smiling

  for diaper ads and shampoo commercials.

  Once I could toddle, the trend continued,

  with pricey gowns and big-girl makeup

  and hair that made me look years older.

  Then I did catalogue shots—wearing

  the latest JC Penney and Sears fashions.

  All through grade school, weekends

  centered around pageants. And after

  school, instead of homework, I studied

  ballet and tap and gymnastics. Plus

  the coaching in poise, and prepping

  for interviews. Oh yes, and cozying up

  to sponsors, who helped pay for outfits

  and entry fees. Mom ended up leaving

  Daddy for one of them—an orthodontist

  with a client list full of beauty queen

  hopefuls. Patrick is my stepdad now,

  and he’s still paying our way in. I took

  a year off while he straightened my teeth.

  Braces and pageants don’t mix. It was

  right about then that the mirror started

  showing me flaws. When you’re younger,

  a bump in the nose and a few extra

  pounds don’t mean much. But now they do.

  The Rhinoplasty

  Is already scheduled for spring break.

  A week to heal the swelling and bruising

  that come with nose jobs. Scared?

  Yeah. Statistically, I should be just fine.

  But there are always those annoying

  what-ifs. What if it doesn’t work?

  What if it makes things worse? Or,

  best of all, what if I have a bad reaction

  to the anesthesia and fricking die?

  The plastic surgeon comes highly

  recommended—she and Patrick went

  to college together. Not sure how that

  makes her better than anyone else,

  but Patrick’s paying for the surgery,

  so it’s all good. If it turns out the doc

  rocks, I’ll use her again for my boob job.

  Patrick Won’t Pay For That

  In fact, he gave me a totally embarrassing

  lecture. First of all, for a young lady your age,

  I’d say the good Lord gave you just enough

  in that department.… That, while trying not

  to stare at my 34Bs. And my guess is you

  haven’t finished developing yet.… At that

  point, Mom jumped in to agree. I didn’t

  fill all the way out until my twenties.

  Not till after I had you and Jenna.

  Not till after breastfeeding two babies.

  But here’s the deal. I don’t plan on

  babies or breast milk augmentation.

  Doesn’t matter. Once I hit eighteen,

  my pageant winnings will be all mine

  to spend, and I will have the D cups I need

  to kick ass in the cutthroat world of fashion.

  What’s Irritating

  Is that Jenna, who just turned sixteen,

  is well on her way to D cups already.

  Of course, though she’s three inches

  shorter, she’s fifteen pounds heavier,

  and happy to stay that way. Jenna takes

  after Daddy. Both her looks and her lack

  of ambition. I watch her, tucked under

  a quilt on the window seat, reading.

  She seems blissfully unaware of the snow

  crawling up the glass behind her. For some

  stupid reason, that really bugs me. “Hey.

  You gonna get dressed sometime today?”

  Jenna’s eyes roll up over the rim

  of her book. What’s it to you, anyway?

  “I’m not shoveling all by myself.

  Patrick said to keep the walk clean.”

  She shrugs. What’s the use in doing it

  now? It’s just going to get covered again.

  True enough. But it wouldn’t hurt

  her to do it twice. “It’s good exercise.”

  The book drops a couple of inches.

  Enough to expose Jenna’s mean-edged

  smile. Maybe you should do it all,

  then. You’re looking a little flabby.

  I could fast-pitch an insult back

  at her. But she’s expecting that.

  I’ll try a slow curveball instead.

  “Really? Then I guess I’ll take

  my own advice. Wouldn’t want

  you to have a heart attack, anyway.”

  Her face flares, jaw to ear tips.

  She lifts her book to cover it up.

  I Didn’t React Badly

  Because I know she was just being

  rude. I do carry extra poundage.

  But she doesn’t think so, and neither

  does anyone else. Even the scale

  keeps trying to tell me one hundred

  twenty-two pounds isn’t too much

  for my five-foot-ten-inch framework.

  But that stinking mirror doesn’t lie.

  Every time I walk by, it shouts out,

  Hey. Chub. When are you going to lose

  those fifteen pounds of ugly-ass flab?

  Do you want to stay size four forever?

  Between dance and cheer, I get plenty

  of exercise, so I know my real enemy

  is food. But calories won’t conquer

  me. They are one thing I can control.

  And Just Maybe

  If I can control them, make myself

  thin as I need to be, the rest of my life

  will turn right again. Maybe, if I can make

  Daddy proud enough, he’ll come see me cheer

  or watch me vie for Miss Teen Nevada.

  Maybe, if I can make Mom really look

  at me, she’ll have something to think

  about besides Patrick. Maybe, when

  I’m a size two, a talent scout will

  take an interest in me. And maybe,

  when Conner gets out, he’ll decide

  I’m the one he wants, after all. Maybe.

  So I’ll count every calorie. Train even harder.

  Fight for buff. And maybe I’ll ask Sean


  about that steroid I read about—

  the weight loss phenom of the stars.

  Sean Terrence O’Connell

  Buff

  Don’t like that word.

  Not tough enough to describe

  a weight-sculpted body.

  “Built”

  is better. Like a builder

  frames a house,

  constructing its skeleton

  two-by-four

  by

  two-by-four, a real

  athlete shapes himself

  muscle group by muscle

  group, ignoring the

  pain.

  Focused completely on

  the gain. It can’t happen

  overnight. It takes hours

  every single day

  and

  no one can force you to

  do it. Becoming the best

  takes a shitload of inborn

  drive.

  Drive

  That’s what it takes to reach

  the top, and that is where

  I’ve set my sights. Second

  best means you lose. Period.

  I will be the best damn first

  baseman ever in the league.

  My dad was a total baseball

  freak (weird, considering

  he coached football), and

  when I was a kid, he went

  on and on about McGwire

  being the first-base king.

  I grew up wanting to be

  first-base royalty. T-ball,

  then years of Little League,

  gave me the skills I need.

  But earning that crown

  demands more than skill.

  What it requires are arms

  like Mark McGwire’s.

  I Play Football, Too

  Kind of a tribute. (Hey, Dad.

  Hope they let you watch

  football in heaven!) But, while

  I’m an okay safety,

  my real talent is at the bat.

  I’ll use it to get into Stanford.

  The school’s got a great

  program. But even if

  it didn’t, it would be

  at the top of my university

  wish list because Cara will

  go there, I’m sure. She says

  it isn’t a lock, but that’s bull.

  Her parents are both alumni,

  and her father has plenty of

  pull. Money. And connections.

  Uncle Jeff has connections too,

  and there will be Stanford

  scouts at some random (or

  maybe not so) game. I have

  to play brilliantly every time.

  Our first game is in three weeks.

  Snow or no snow, we have to

  practice. And on a day like

  today, no school and all snow,

  I’m grateful for the weight

  room Uncle Jeff put together here

  at home. His home. My home

  since Dad died, and my kid

  brother, Wade’s, home too. Our

  big brother, Chad, lives in Reno.

  No slick roads to brave, just

  steep stairs, I grab my iPod, head

  first to the kitchen for a power

  bar and amino drink, plus a

  handy-dandy anabolic booster.

  Over-the-counter for now,

  just in case our preseason

  pee test includes a steroid

  screen. Gotta play it smart

  or end up busted, à la McGwire.

  All Pumped Up

  And ready to lift, I’m on

  my way to our makeshift

  gym when the doorbell

  rings. Who the hell would

  be out on a day like this?

  I peek through the peephole.

  Duvall, all frosted white.

  Guess I should see what

  he wants. I crack the door.

  “Hey, Bobby. What’s up?”

  The pissant pushes past me.

  Dude. It’s, like, dumping

  out there. He shakes off

  like a dog, dropping snow

  to melt on the entrance tile.

  “Uh, yeah, I can see that.…”

  Fricking dweeb. He just

  stands there, and his stupid-

  ass grin is pissing me off.

  “I was just about to go lift, so…”

  Cool, dude. Can I watch?

  Been wanting to improve

  my technique. He wants

  more than that, but since

  he’s not saying what, I don’t

  know how to respond

  except, “Uh, yeah. I guess

  so.” Hope the guy isn’t gay.

  I don’t think he is. I mean,

  we’ve shared locker rooms

  for years. Bobby plays

  first-string shortstop

  and second-string kicker.

  I never noticed him look

  funny at the other guys.

  But for sure, if I even

  think he’s checking

  me out, he’ll be one

  sorry fucker. My blood

  pressure surges. Swells.

  My Face Flushes Hot

  I move quickly past

  Bobby so he doesn’t see

  it and think I’m blushing,

  or hear my heart drilling

  into my chest, into my ears.

  It’s the supplements

  and their thermogenic

  rush through my veins.

  But Bobby doesn’t know

  that. And he doesn’t need to.

  He follows me down

  the stairs, humming

  some weird-ass song.

  “What are you singing?”

  And why is he singing it?

  Zeppelin, dude. Don’t

  you know “Black Dog”?

  Hey, hey, Mama, hmmm

  hmmm hmmm hmmm hm.

  Radical. Robert Plant rocks.

  If He Says So

  Personally, I prefer metal,

  especially the death variety.

  I pop my iPod into a docking

  station, queue up Kataklysm,

  Nile, Six Feet Under.

  Turn it up. Loud. Something

  about the frantic rhythm

  encourages pumping of iron.

  Start with lighter dumbbells,

  to warm up the muscles before

  really working them. I can

  do a dozen easy reps while

  still conversing, so I nudge

  Bobby. “Coach Torrance

  taught you this stuff, right?”

  Bobby shrugs his narrow

  shoulders. Well, yeah, kind of.

  But look at you, and then

  look at me. I must be doing

  something wrong, you know?

  I choose heavier barbells

  before letting myself move

  to the weight machine.

  I love the way my muscles

  start to burn. “It’s not just

  correct form that makes

  it happen, you know. It

  takes dedication. Hours

  and hours of hard fucking

  work. Total commitment.”

  Bobby shakes his head.

  Takes more than that.

  Besides… He watches

  me fight for another rep.

  I don’t want to work

  that hard. There’s an easier

  way. He waits to see if

  I bite. When I don’t, he says,

  I was hoping you could help

  me out with some ’roids.

  I Could Do That

  I’ve got an easy source.

  I could probably even

  make a few bucks on

  the deal. But I don’t like

  how the guy just assumes

  it’s possible, let alone that

  I will sco
re them for him.

  It’s not like we’re best

  friends or anything. If he

  gets busted, I’m def going

  down right along with him.

  “Uh, you know it’s pretty

  much a sure bet we’ll get

  tested in the next few weeks.

  The stuff you can get over

  the counter works. Do

  you have a GNC gold

  card?” Hint. Hint. Huff.

  Lift. “That’s what I use,

  and with the card it’s not

  too pricey.” A hell of

  a lot cheaper than

  the real deal, but

  I don’t add that part.

  If he can’t figure that out

  all by himself, he’s even

  stupider than I thought.

  Barbells accomplished,

  I move over to the weight

  machine, waiting for him

  to respond. Just about

  the time I think he’s been

  struck mute, he says,

  Guess you’re right about

  the piss test. But after that,

  I still want the good shit.

  I know you’ve got a line

  on them. Get me some,

  I’ll make it worth your

  trouble. How about it?

  Anger Pricks

  Like static, sharp and electric

  and urging me toward rage.

  My biceps and quads already

  burn, and now my brain feels

  on fire too. And just as I decide

  to let myself blow, the door

  at the top of the stairs opens.

  Sean! yells Aunt Mo. Your cell

  is ringing. And please turn

  down that god-awful music.

  I abandon the weight bench,

  turn off my iPod. “Come on.”

  Bobby heels up the stairs.

  (Good dog.) I point toward

  the front door. “See ya, dude.”

  I locate my now-silent phone.