Guess I Don’t Look
As old as I feel. When I get into Xavier’s
Caddie, he nods. Perfect. You’ve got
exactly the look this guy’s going to want.
He punches the gas pedal like he’s mad
at the car. Cadillacs sure are smooth.
So what happened with the nose job?
Not that I’m unhappy. You couldn’t even
try out for this job if your face was all
bruised and swollen. I’ve seen a few
girls post-op. It’s not a pretty sight.
Not sure how much to tell him, although
Xavier almost always takes my side.
Might as well fess up. “The anesthesiologist
decided I was too thin to risk knocking me out.”
He turns toward me, seriously taking
his eyes off the road. Really. I think you
look positively the way you should.
Did he know you’re a model?
“It was a she. And yes, she knew.
She and Dr. Kane tried to convince
Mom that I’m anorexic. Patrick even
threatened to have me locked up unless
I start eating more. But don’t worry.
I’m okay. Everything’s under control.”
I’m not worried about you, doll.
But play the game. The last thing
we want for you is treatment. They’ll
plump you up like a little piglet.
“I’ll have to wait for summer to do
the rhinoplasty now.” And I might have to
find a different plastic surgeon. Maybe
I’ll get my boobs done at the same time.
Apparently, This Audition
Is happening in a concierge suite
at the Atlantis, one of the most upscale
hotel casinos in Reno. As Xavier parks,
he reminds me to use my attributes to our
advantage. Like your sister. You know,
fifteen, going on thirty. Look sweet.
Talk dirty, and let him talk dirty if he feels
like it. In fact, I want you to do anything—
everything—he asks of you. Even if it makes
you uncomfortable. Are you up for that?
Uncomfortable? That’s what I am right
now. “I’m not sure exactly what you’re asking.”
Okay, here’s the deal. This gig can set us
up in a big way. It could take your career
to a whole new level. We’re talking high-
fashion runway, and not just buyers’ shows.
You’ve worked really hard to attain
the right look. But lots of girls do.
Now, you need an edge, something to
guarantee that Gilles will choose you.
I want you to be very, very nice to him.
Understand? The sacrifice is minuscule.
Oh my God. I do understand. “You’re
saying I should have sex with him?”
Xavier grins. Only if he asks you to.
Look, it’s not unheard-of in this business.
Oh, I’ve heard of it, and not only
in the colorful world of modeling, but
also behind the scenes at pageants,
big and small. But I’ve never once
thought about using my body
to win a crown. Or a runway gig.
I’m Thinking About It Now
Thinking about it all the way across
the parking lot, through the big glass
doors, along the marble floors, into
the elevator. Sex in exchange for cash
makes you a whore. What does sex
in exchange for a shortcut to your dreams
make you? Is there any difference?
Then again, what about sex in exchange
for love? Some people fall in lust well
before they ever fall in love, but it isn’t
impossible for love to trail sex.
My little sister, as Xavier noticed, uses
her body to get what she wants.
Is my moral compass any truer?
Why even worry about it? This Gilles
guy might be gay for all I know, more
interested in Xavier than me. Ha.
Wonder if Xavier would give the guy
head if it meant landing the gig. He knocks,
and I can’t tell from the first glance if the guy
who comes to the door is gay or not.
Come in. Come in. His obvious appraisal
(of me, not Xavier) makes my stomach
lurch. You must be Kendra. Xavier, you were
so right. She is a knockout. Come in.
(If he says that again, I am so leaving.)
Let’s talk. He slips an arm around
my waist, herds me toward a big sofa.
I glance over my shoulder at Xavier, who
gives an A-OK sign. I do not feel A-OK.
I feel halfway nauseous. And totally
set up. Gilles sits me on the sofa. Let me
show you my new line, Teen In-Style. He opens
a big photo album, flips through the pages.
Tell me what you think. Do you like this one?
He is very close. His leg pushes against mine.
One hand lights on my knee. The fashion
he shows me is smart. The idea is to market
to teens who don’t have unlimited budgets,
who want clothing that makes a statement.
His hand makes a statement, starting a slow
crawl up my leg. Teens who are innocent, yet
bold. It reaches my inner thigh. Girls who
want to look exactly like you.…
I could protest. Should protest. Xavier
should protest. But when I glance at him,
he is smiling. Fingers play at the thin strip
of fabric between my legs. And I let them.
Sean
A Thin Strip
Divides a healthy dose
of self-esteem from
a fatal overdose of conceit.
Vanity.
It’s a high-wire act
requiring exceptional balance.
Complete control.
Straddling that tightrope
invites
a bone-smashing fall,
death the preferable outcome.
Irreversible brain damage
incites
force-feeding pity parties,
everyone wondering if you sleep
in paradise or fight for
stability in a maelstrom of
insanity.
Caught In A Maelstrom
Of jealousy and anger. That’s me.
It’s a static in my brain. A crimson
lens I’m looking through, and it
all makes my head pound like meat
getting tenderized with a mallet.
Why did the bitch lead me on?
I watch her come out of her house,
walk quickly to her car. Does she
suspect I’m here? If she drives by,
she’ll know for sure. But she turns
the other way, taking the back
road toward town. To her. She’s
going to her, says a voice. Follow
her. I don’t look for the source.
No matter how many times
I’ve searched, I can’t seem to
find him. But for the past
week or two, he’s been
talking a lot. I’ve learned to
do what he says. Or my head
hurts even worse. Cara’s
little red Saab is easy to
spot. I maintain a decent
distance so she doesn’t
see my truck in her mirrors.
Yeah, but don’t let her get too
far ahead, or you’ll lose her.
I turn u
p the radio. That won’t
work, idiot. I’m louder than
the music and you know it.
He was practically shouting that
time. I turn the radio back down.
Open the window. A sharp stab
of air attacks my cheek, but it feels
good. Great. My skin is fevered.
“You have to stop distracting
me,” I tell the voice. Some
people would say it’s crazy,
talking to someone you can’t see.
But mostly he’s decent company.
Cara Weaves
Through an asphalt maze. Right.
Left. Left. Into an old southwest
Reno neighborhood, where houses
are brick and river rock, with
covered porches and splintered
sidewalks. She drives slowly,
as if looking for an address.
Maybe I’m wrong. Surely she
knows where the blue-haired
girl lives. You’re not wrong.
She pulls against the curb
a couple of blocks ahead.
I find a place to park, watch
her go to the door of a small
house. Some man answers,
steps back to let her in. A man?
She’s here to see a man? No.
It’s the girl’s father.Duh.
Maybe the voice is the voice
of reason. Oh yes, I’m reasonable.
I sit, waiting. Not sure what for.
Hope the people who live in
the house I’m parked in front
of don’t think I’m scoping out
the place. Last thing I need in
my life are cops. After a little
while, blue-haired-girl’s front
door opens again. The man
comes out, lugging a set of golf
clubs. He carries them to an aged
SUV parked in the circular
driveway. And off he goes.
Golf, huh? He’ll be gone for
a while. Think he knows
what the girls will be up to?
What Will The Girls Be Up To?
I really, really want to know.
Guesswork and imagination
are so unfulfilling. Frustrating.
Come on. You know what girls
do. You’ve seen it in magazines.
Movies, too. Remember that night
with Cara. It was a girl-on-girl
scene that got her all turned on.
Hey, maybe it’s your fault. Maybe
you helped flip her gay. How ironic.
No. Not me, and not the movie.
Gayness comes built in, right?
That’s what everyone says.
Yeah, everyone who’s gay. You
don’t really believe that, right?
“Goddamn! Would you just shut
the fuck up? I can’t think straight.”
Nope. All you can think is homo.
God. Cara might be in there,
with that girl, doing … what?
Are they naked right now?
Playing naked lez games?
No way to know for sure.
Ever heard of windows? You
know, those glass things you
can look through to see what’s
on the other side? Just be careful
in case Mrs. Golf Dude is at
home. And you might not want
to let any of the neighbors see.
Windows Are Made To Look Through
Other than the cars zipping by
faster than they probably should,
the street seems quiet enough.
I get out of the truck, don’t lock
the doors, in case I need to leave
in a hurry. What is that noise?
High power lines? My ears
don’t like the thrumming.
I try to look like I belong on
this sidewalk, like I have a legit
purpose for walking along it.
But the winter-bared trees
seem to be the only things
that know I’m here. Not too
worried about fooling them.
I slow as I approach the house.
Glance around, trying not to
look like I’m glancing around.
The front door is flanked by
windows, shades drawn.
Shouldn’t peek in the front
windows, anyway. I veer
into the unfenced side yard.
It’s screened from the neighbors’
view by a tall evergreen hedge.
Two white-framed windows
break up the red brick. I draw
back, against the wall. Listen.
Yeah, listen to that. Lord, what
are those two doing to each other?
From behind the first window
come the sounds of nasty girls.
Check it out. Come on. Hurry,
would you? Don’t worry. They’re
looking at each other, not at you.
I duck under the window, then
cautiously lift my face to the glass.
The voice was right. They are way
too into each other—literally—
to notice me. The head of the bed
is toward the wall opposite me.
Blue Hair is on top (of course),
which has Cara’s feet pointed
toward me. But even if she wanted
to look at the window, she couldn’t.
Her sweater is pulled up over
her face. The rest of her
beautiful body is bared,
and opened to Blue Hair’s
mouth. Tongue. Fingers.
No fair! That should be me!
Watching is torture. But I can’t
turn away. Cara moans, and
I want her to moan for me.
Me! And then she screams.
I Love You
That’s what she screams, only
not for me. The thrumming
swells into the sound of a billion
crickets rubbing their legs.
And, Viagra or no, I am hard.
Quick! Your cell. Come on!
I don’t get it until he says,
The camera. A picture is worth
a thousand words, remember?
And two thousand screams.
My cell. Right. I locate it,
fumble to find the camera setting.
No flash. Hold it right up against
the glass so it doesn’t glare. Zoom
it in. Perfect. Now get out of here.
I Don’t Bother With Stealth
On the way back to the truck.
In my pocket, the camera bumps
against my groin. The boner
is gone, a sticky glaze left
as a reminder inside my boxers.
Sick. I am sick, right? I start
for home, in a fairly straight
line on well-traveled roads.
A picture is worth two thousand
screams. It’s her turn to squirm.
I see Cara squirming. Building.
Hear Blue Hair tell her yes, now.
I am seeing through red lenses again.
Don’t get mad, dude. Get even.
You can wreck her. Simple upload.
Yes, now.
Wreck her.
Get even.
Andre
Even Now
After so much time nearly
inseparable, connected by
experiences and emotion,
she
can shut me out. Turn
away, as if our investment
in each other
doesn’t
carry weight beyond
the moment. Is it possible
that she doesn’t really
know
how much I n
eed her?
Can’t hear truth when I tell
her how much she means to
me,
that she has changed the way
I look at life, at the future?
Does she even care
at all?
Some Things You Can’t Fix
For someone you love, no matter how
much you want to.
I can’t make Jenna’s sister stop being a star.
I can’t change last quarter’s report card
so her parents will let
her get her driver’s license. I can’t insist
her father stop being a racist jerk. And there
is absolutely nothing I can
do about his upcoming wedding. All I can
do is be available to listen, and maybe offer
comments to help her process
the disappointments in her life. Not that she
would call them that. She thinks she’s handling
them just fine, rising above
them, as it were. But I seriously disagree.
She’s Disintegrating
The fracture occurred a while ago. I noticed
the fissure last week,
after her sister landed a major modeling job.
I can’t believe it. The guy loved her. He made
her a spokesmodel for this
major new teen fashion line. Not that most of
us are skinny enough to wear it and look half
decent. God. It’s big bucks.
National exposure. It’s all Kendra can talk
about, and it’s making me sick. Then there’s
Mom, who keeps saying,
“All our hard work is finally paying off.”
Our hard work? She hasn’t even noticed
that Kendra isn’t eating
again. Or maybe she’s just overlooking it.
She went on longer. And all I could say was,