Perfect - 02

  shredded and nothing

  you

  can do to put them back

  together again. Nothing you

  can

  do to stop bleeding anger,

  and even if you could, you don’t

  want

  to because anger feels better

  than the pain of losing

  someone.

  Been Asking Around

  About Conner. Not sure why

  I feel the need to know, but

  seeing him at the movies

  made me wonder what

  the hell is up with him.

  He looked healthy enough,

  as fit as I’ve ever seen him,

  in fact. And considering

  he was always an ace running

  back, that’s saying a lot.

  Nobody seems to know

  much for certain, but Bobby

  Duvall had an opinion.

  I think he tried to off himself.

  He’s probably been under

  lock and key, you know?

  Conner Sykes, loose in

  the head? Yep, that makes

  sense. But even if it’s true,

  why should I give a shit?

  I Guess I Don’t

  Unless it means Cara shares

  whatever craziness gene

  he’s carrying. I mean,

  maybe she’s just a little

  confused. Maybe she could

  get help for that, and then

  there’s still hope for us.

  But how do I find out

  for sure? And even if I do,

  how could I ever suggest

  to her that her brain chemistry

  might be in need of adjustment?

  Lots to consider. But not today.

  Spring break. No school.

  No game until Friday. Fresh

  powder on the mountain,

  I’m skiing. I’ve avoided it

  all season, worried about

  injuries. But what the fuck.

  Can’t live in fear of a fall.

  I Don’t Want To Ski Alone

  I called Kendra, but she’s busy

  having an operation. Fixing

  the little bump in her nose

  that makes her face unique.

  What’s with girls, always

  trying to fix stuff that doesn’t

  need fixing? Anyway, since

  she’s unavailable, I did

  the unthinkable and invited

  Duvall to come along. He’s

  annoying as hell, but a fair skier,

  and for some lame reason, girls

  are attracted to him. Can’t hurt

  to have him with me. Ski resorts

  are babe magnets. Maybe I’ll

  hook up with a Cara stand-in.

  Just something to play with

  until I win her back. Still have

  Viagra left. Hate to let those

  little blue pills go to waste.

  Rose Has Been Invaded

  “Shit. Check out the crowd. Lift

  lines are going to be impossible.

  We should ski the singles line.”

  I watch three curvy pairs of Lycra

  ski pants walk by as we put on

  our boots in the top parking

  lot. Uh, yeah, agrees Duvall.

  Easter week and all. Which

  means after next weekend

  this place is closing up shop.

  Spring break is traditionally

  the last week for Mt. Rose, no

  matter how much snow is left

  on the slopes. “Too bad. Skiing

  will be great for a month yet.”

  Yeah, well, it is baseball

  season. You ready or what?

  We clomp down a slippery

  road, skis over one shoulder.

  Wait in a forever line just to

  buy our lift tickets. Glad

  I’m not here for actual

  exercise, although

  standing in five-year-old

  ski boots is kind of a workout.

  Finally we’re good to go.

  “I haven’t skied all season.

  Lakeview good? I need

  to warm up.” Duvall gives me

  one of those whatever looks.

  Sure, dude. I’d rather ski with

  a girl anyway. He laughs, slips

  into his bindings, and trucks

  off toward the chair. And it takes

  until I’m snapped into my own

  skis to realize he just called

  me a girl. The little (literally)

  prick. Under my collar, a warm

  seep of irritation crawls

  up my neck, toward my face.

  From Here

  I can choose to go after him,

  show him how this particular

  “girl” could mess up a certain

  guy’s face. Or I can forget it.

  Try to remember how to ski.

  I push off down a gentle slope

  toward the high-speed chair

  where Duvall stands, looking

  put out. Do I have to wait for

  you all day, or will you pick this

  up eventually? He’s smiling.

  Kidding. But I want to smash

  his freaking dopey smirk right

  through the back of his skull.

  Deep breath. And another.

  My blood pressure lifts like

  mercury in a thermometer.

  Time to take a break from

  the ’roids. When this cycle is

  over, or I die of a heart attack.

  Even The Singles Line

  Is slow. By the time I slide

  my butt onto a chair beside

  three kids kicking snowboards,

  the bottoms of my feet hurt.

  Time for new boots. At least

  this is a fast chair. It sweeps up

  the mountain until… thud…

  it stops because of a problem

  above or below. To my right,

  the old, slow chair keeps on

  moving at a forty-five-degree

  angle toward a lower disembark

  point on the same run this one goes

  to. It crosses beneath us, and my

  ears catch the sound of familiar

  laughter. I scan the line of chairs.

  Cara? I think it’s her, buddied

  up with some girl. With a bump,

  the chair starts up again. Before

  I know it, I’m at the top, where

  Duvall stands off to one side.

  I ski right past him. “Coming?

  Or will I have to wait for you all

  day?” Down the short, semi-steep

  face, onto the flat trail that circles

  the resort, I reach for whatever

  speed I can, hoping to catch up

  to Cara. Duvall is right on my

  heels. Hey, man! What’s the hurry?

  Thought you wanted to warm up.

  I don’t even know why I want

  to see Cara. She’ll only piss

  me off. I’ve stopped by her

  house maybe a dozen times,

  but she won’t talk to me, except

  to keep repeating, It’s over, Sean.

  Just let it go. I can’t let it go.

  Can’t let her go. Sometimes

  I drive by her house, just to see

  if there is anyone there. Anyone else

  in her life but me. Sometimes

  I follow her, but the only place

  she ever goes is to rehearsals.

  I know she still loves me, even

  if she hasn’t forgiven me. Time.

  There she is, up ahead. God,

  she’s sleek as a dolphin,

  surfing snow. Who is that

  she’s boarding with? The two

  turn down the mountain, and

/>   by the time we reach the trail

  they took, the girls are out of

  sight. I stop at the cornice’s edge,

  breathing hard. Not sure I want

  to drop over this. It’s damn steep.

  Duvall, of course, is up for it.

  What are you waiting for?

  Banzai! I pause for a second

  or two. But what can I really do,

  but tail the guy through the trees?

  I’m Sure It Isn’t Pretty

  But I manage to stay on my

  feet and avoid running into

  any obstacles. There are lots.

  Trees. Stumps. Rocks. A few

  bushes, even, thinking it might

  be spring. Turn. Turn. Pause.

  Turn. Turn. Pause. I think

  I used to be better at this.

  Where the hell did Duvall

  go? He can’t be more talented

  at something than I am, can he?

  Because that just isn’t right.

  Of course, if I didn’t have

  to be so cautious, I could kick

  his ass, on or off skis. Since

  I don’t want broken bones

  right now, however, I’ll pick

  my way to the bottom of

  this pine tree slalom course.

  Finally it intersects a long

  beginner run where I can pick

  up enough speed to catch Duvall.

  It isn’t hard, considering he’s

  waiting for me at the fringe of

  a small stand of cedars. He waves

  rather frantically for me to join

  him. Check it out, he says,

  pointing into the trees. Jesus,

  O’Connell, you turned her, like,

  gay. What’s he talking about?

  I lift my goggles, look hard

  at where his finger is aimed.

  Two girls on snowboards…

  wait. What the fuck? It’s Cara,

  for sure. She’s with that girl, the one

  with spiky hair, now frosted

  blue. They are chest to chest,

  and they are kissing. Not just

  kissing like friends do. Kissing

  like people who are in love do.

  Andre

  People Who Are In Love

  Expect certain things.

  Time together, to learn

  all there is to know about

  each other. Falling in

  love

  can happen to complete

  strangers. Staying in love

  requires being best friends

  and

  that means accepting the person

  beneath the veneer. What

  complicates things is

  sex.

  Loveless, it’s easy. Insert

  Tab A into Slot B. Enjoy what

  happens naturally. But under

  love’s influence, the directions

  aren’t

  quite so straightforward.

  It is then, striving for perfection,

  you realize that all Slot Bs are not

  interchangeable.

  When It Comes To Sex

  I was kind of a late bloomer. Not that

  I didn’t know what it

  was, or think about maybe having it one

  day. At eleven or twelve, I started having

  all the problems young

  guys do, waking up sticky and sometimes

  turning into walking wood, wrong place,

  wrong time. Embarrassing

  stuff. My first actual encounter was with

  an Oakland girl—one of Gramps’s neighbors.

  She was a couple of years

  older than me. Every guy should have an older

  woman for his first. She taught me every

  move in the Big Book

  of Sex. Guess she liked playing teacher.

  I was fifteen. After that, I kind of got a taste

  for it, and let me just say,

  private school girls aren’t exactly all prudes.

  But none of them can come close to Jenna

  when it comes to

  doing the dirty. Part of it is because I love

  her, and love really does put a whole

  different spin on getting

  naked together. But Jenna knows more

  than that Oakland girl and my preppie

  lays all rolled up into one.

  Without carrying a single iota of shame.

  I have no idea where she learned what

  she knows. To tell

  the truth, I really don’t want the details.

  Enough to have her for my own, doing

  those things to me.

  Hopefully, we’ll be doing them tonight.

  This Afternoon, Though

  I’m helping Liana teach a dance workshop

  for a bunch of underprivileged

  kids. Some of them are really young—like four.

  First, I want you to see how the body

  is meant to move,

  Liana tells the group, who are sitting

  on the floor beneath the barre. Andre,

  will you please dance

  the jazz routine—the one to Coltrane.

  She fires up “While My Lady Sleeps,” superb

  classic sax from one

  of the greatest jazz musicians of all time.

  Beat comes first, and it remains steady under

  the sad song of the saxophone.

  The music closes around me, and I draw

  it inside, a flowing current that my muscles

  float upon. Contract. Release.

  I am the music, and the music is my body.

  And when it stops, I come out of the trance

  that is jazz dance. If there

  is a God, he listens to John Coltrane.

  The sound of clapping hands pulls me back

  into the studio. Lots of

  little hands. And some bigger ones too.

  Shantell has appeared, like a backlit cloud

  reflected on still

  water. The look on her face is hard to read.

  But then she smiles as Liana says, Okay,

  kids. Let’s break up into

  groups. Shantell, Andre, help divide them

  up, and each of you take a group of ten or so.

  Today is all about movement.

  Let the music tell you what to do, like Andre did.

  Awesome Day

  The kids are amazing, so eager to learn.

  I never thought about

  teaching before, but I really love working

  with them. It makes me feel like I’ve got

  something to give, and

  I’m sorry it has to end. Guess we all have

  places to go, though. There’s a chorus of

  thank yous as they leave,

  and when the studio has emptied, Shantell

  comes over. I really hate to say this, and

  have it go to your head

  and all, but you are an incredible dancer.

  How long have you been training? She

  waits for an answer

  she probably doesn’t want to hear.

  “A little over a year. I started after we

  moved here to Reno.”

  As I suspected, she reacts with a scowl.

  That’s it? What made you decide to take

  lessons, then? Did you,

  like, wake up from a dream, doing pliés?

  God she’s funny. “Not exactly. Actually,

  it was that TV show—

  So You Think You Can Dance. I’ve always

  liked street dancing. Used to do it some

  when we lived in the Bay

  Area. I saw this b-boy picking up ballroom

  and thought maybe if he could, I could.

  I found Liana online,

  and that was straight from heaven.

  She tapp
ed something inside me I might

  not ever have found

  without her. That’s my story. The end.”

  But She’s Not Quite Finished

  With me. So what are you going to do

  with all that talent?

  Go pro? You could, you know. There are—

  I stop her with a shake of my head. “No

  way my parents are

  going to let their only son make a living

  onstage some place. It was always just for

  fun. Dancers don’t make

  the kind of money I need to be comfortable.”

  Now she looks totally disgusted. Money?

  You can’t be serious.

  Dance isn’t about money. It’s about heart.

  If it isn’t, you damn well don’t deserve

  the gift God gave you.

  I can’t believe you’d let it go to waste!

  She jumps up, stomps across the hardwood

  floor. “Lots of talent goes

  to waste.” My voice is lost in her footsteps.

  Every Time

  I’m around her, I like her more. Not

  sure she could say

  the same thing about me. In fact, pretty

  sure not. Oh well. She doesn’t know

  my parents, or that I’m

  already a major disappointment to them.

  Wonder how they’d feel about me teaching.

  Other than the money thing.

  Because teaching isn’t about money either.

  As I start to head out, Liana gestures to

  me to come closer.

  Uh… I happened to overhear your

  conversation. Shantell is right, you know.

  You were destined to

  dance. If you try to ignore that, you’ll be

  completely miserable. A new TV dance show

  is holding auditions in L.A.

  next month. I hope you’ll consider trying out.

  Me? On TV?

  On the Jeopardy! College Championship,

  maybe. If I go to college,

  that is. But on a dance show? That would

  require letting the world know I dance. Which

  means letting my parents

  know I dance. Putting all that aside, however,

  that kind of competition is for real dancers,