Perfect - 02

  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,