Perfect - 02

  “The eating thing is a problem.

  But as far as the job, you should be happy

  for her. It’s her dream, and she’s worked hard

  to accomplish it, right?”

  I still hadn’t—haven’t—mentioned my own

  dream, and my decision to pursue it. I started

  to do that one time, but when

  she cut me off to talk about Kendra’s probable

  anorexia, somehow the subject of dance just

  didn’t seem important.

  It wouldn’t have been to her, anyway.

  My supporting her sister pissed Jenna off.

  I’m sick of her always

  getting the stuff she wants. All because of

  her looks? She hasn’t worked hard. All she

  does is starve herself. And

  my mom doesn’t even care about that. That’s

  messed up. No one notices me. Not even when

  I got good grades. That was

  “expected.” But get bad ones, everyone freaks.

  Still trying to be the voice of reason,

  I dared say, “You know

  insurance rates go down when you get

  good grades. If your parents are paying

  for your insurance, isn’t

  it fair to expect you to step up and get them?”

  Mistake. Why are you taking everyone

  else’s side? It came

  out a whine. I thought you’d understand.

  “Jenna, I do understand. I just think

  you’re standing a little

  too close to have a clear perspective.”

  Bigger mistake. You are just like my dad.

  Always saying you love

  me, but not meaning it enough to prove it.

  “Me? Like your dad?” I snorted. “Yeah, right.

  You mean I’m an overt bigot,

  semi-misogynistic, and an overbearing prick?”

  Biggest Mistake Of All

  To my complete surprise, she jumped

  straight to his defense.

  I don’t even know what half that stuff means.

  Okay, that one time you met him, he wasn’t

  very nice. But before Mom

  left him, he was my daddy. Sometimes he

  was kind of mean, but never to me. After

  we moved in with Patrick,

  that was when he got nasty. I don’t know

  why he decided to take it out on Kendra and

  me. Not like we told Mom to go.

  But he acted like it was our fault. Then, even

  more to my surprise, she hauled off and

  started to cry. Which shifted

  everything back on me, and somehow elicited

  my apology. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Please

  don’t cry. Everything will

  be all right.” But I’m wondering if it will.

  I’m Also Wondering

  If the reason she can’t accept the idea

  of her dad’s wedding

  is a simple case of jealousy. She wants

  his love. He’s focusing it all on Shiloh.

  Jenna says they’re talking

  about having a baby before too long, too.

  I can see why she feels left behind.

  Maybe even discarded.

  Is that why she refuses to accept my love

  and return it? Afraid that love doesn’t

  last? Doesn’t really exist?

  Afraid if her own father can withdraw

  his love (or at least the manifestation

  of his love), that maybe

  she somehow isn’t worthy of the emotion?

  I’ve tried so hard to break through

  her enamel, reach the clay

  beneath, mold it into a viable relationship.

  But a relationship needs more than one

  person to be involved

  in it. My own parents are anything but

  perfect. They hold high expectations for

  me, and for each other.

  But there is nurturing within the boundaries

  of our family. I don’t know if they are in love

  anymore. But they love each

  other, and I have no doubt that they love me.

  So maybe my lesson here is to learn from

  my musings and trust

  that my family’s love will sustain my dream.

  I’m not quite ready to out myself as a dancer

  yet. But I have to consider

  doing it very soon. Because the more I think

  about Shantell’s tirade, the more I realize that

  while dance hasn’t always

  been my heart, it’s starting to feel that way now.

  So Today, I Will Tell Jenna

  I’m taking her to a big jazz festival

  on the Riverwalk. God,

  I hope she likes jazz better than she liked

  the ballet. At least it’s outside, with lots

  of places to walk and sit

  beside the Truckee River. The weather

  is warming, as if it understands that May

  is approaching. Jenna,

  of course, dresses for the sun-lathered day

  in teeny shorts and a tight little T-shirt, which

  leaks cleavage from a low

  scoop. For the millionth time, I think how

  beautiful she really is. Every other guy will

  think so too. I really wish

  I didn’t have to share her with them all.

  At least she seems to have forgiven me

  for our last time together.

  The Riverwalk is crowded, and, locked

  thigh to thigh, we worm our way through

  the throng. “What kind

  of jazz do you like best?” Please have

  something positive to say. Is there more

  than one kind? She smiles

  at some college-age guys who overtly ogle

  her scoop. All three are slurping beers. Do

  you think they’d buy me

  one? Like she doesn’t know the answer.

  “I think they’d probably all give you theirs

  if you keep flirting like

  that.” Irritation is obvious in my voice.

  Really? I’m going to go ask them. As an

  experiment. Be right back.

  And off she goes, without waiting for me to

  tell her no effing way. I can only watch

  as she slinks up to them,

  acting for all the world like she wants to

  join their pack. One of them turns and looks

  at me. I shrug, and he smiles.

  In under five minutes, she returns, holding

  two almost-full cups of beer. You were

  right. God, you’re smart.

  Here. One’s for you. She offers a beer.

  “No, thanks. I’m not much into brew.”

  I really don’t like an alcohol

  buzz, something she still hasn’t noticed.

  But even if I were, I’d want to stay sober.

  “You didn’t give them

  your number, did you?” It’s a joke. But

  her answer isn’t. No, of course not. But

  one of them gave me

  his. “Just in case,” he said. She gulps

  down one of the beers in three long pulls.

  Good stuff. Okay, now

  tell me about the different kinds of jazz.

  At Least She Remembered The Jazz

  I lead her to an open spot on the concrete

  stairs. “I’ll tell you about

  jazz in a minute,” I say, watching her start

  on the second beer. Thank God she’s sipping

  this one. She already looks

  a little unsteady. “But first, there’s something

  I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while

  now….” She tenses, and

  her eyes go kind of panicky, an
d I realize

  how that might have sounded. “No, no. It has

  nothing to do with you.

  It’s about me, and what I’ve been doing….”

  She slams down half the beer. “It’s all good,

  Jenna. I just want you

  to know….” I talk about Liana. About dance.

  Dreams. She smiles and nods and when

  I finish, she says, Cool.

  Be right back. I’m gonna hustle more beer.

  Cara

  Dreams

  Has it only been weeks

  since we met? How can

  such a short span of time

  connect

  two people so completely?

  Before, I would have sworn

  new love this deep could

  only be hallucinatory

  fantasy,

  imagination incarnate.

  Someone no one else

  could see to spend your

  heart-weary nights

  with.

  Then you appear in my life,

  full-color illustration, ink

  lifted off pages of my Big

  Book of Fairy Tales, and into

  reality.

  My Big Book of Fairy Tales

  Takes up a wide chunk of bookshelf

  on my bedroom wall. It was the first

  big book I read on my own. I always

  had a thirst for words, though Mom

  was not the one who quenched it.

  That was Sandra, our au pair

  when Conner and I were little.

  She was a star in those very dark

  nights when Mom didn’t understand

  her postpartum mood swings could

  be regulated chemically. She cut us

  early from her apron strings. Sandra

  was our mommy substitute, and

  she was very good at her job. When

  she left to get married, I cried. Next

  came Sherrie, who went too far

  with Dad. And after her, Leona,

  who went way beyond all things

  proper with Conner, aged twelve.

  Her fall from grace led to her early

  demise when a fight with her grown-

  up boyfriend sent her driving, head-

  first, into a wall. No happily ever after

  for Leona. We went without a governess.

  Mom took over as mother, compelling

  us toward the same kind of perfection

  her own parents demanded of her.

  It came more easily to me. Poor

  Conner fielded the brunt of her

  rages, along with Dad, who steadily

  withdrew. From her. From us. From

  time to time, I return to the pages

  of My Big Book of Fairy Tales, as if

  by doing so, I might rediscover

  a few short memories of childhood

  happiness. A star in the night, perhaps.

  Saturday Morning, Late April

  Usually the house would be still

  as a crypt. But not today. I’m called

  downstairs to the dining room, where

  Mom and Dad have slipped into

  earnest conversation. Sit down, says

  Mom. You know Conner is coming

  home for a short visit today. There

  are a few things to keep in mind,

  according to Dr. Starr. She asked

  that we please not quiz him about

  life in Aspen Springs. As you might

  imagine, there is a confidentiality

  issue. No questions about therapy,

  or any of the people he knows there.

  Above all, we are not to ask why

  he chose to attempt suicide.

  Her expression seems to demand

  an answer. But what is the question?

  Does she believe I’d argue? “Okay.”

  I look at Dad, but his resolute jaw

  and rail-rigid spine reveal zero

  emotion. I remember an afternoon

  many years ago, when he tried to set

  aside his devotion to work long

  enough to play with Conner and

  me. It was a board game—Risk—

  and what I recall most clearly was

  how he struggled not to overwhelm

  his children with adult strategy.

  Not easy for a man whose entire

  existence is centered around winning.

  Dad has always hated to lose. Yet

  Conner won twice that particular

  day. Not sure if it was luck, or if

  Dad held back, but the look in our

  father’s eyes was half pride, half fury.

  Mom Goes To Get Her Coat

  Sweeps past us, down the hall.

  I should be back in an hour.

  I hear the garage door open. Wait

  until I’m pretty sure she’s gone.

  Dad has immersed himself in the Wall

  Street Journal. I interrupt him anyway.

  “Someone asked about Conner the other

  day. She saw him at the movies, I guess,

  with some other Aspen Springs kids,

  and maybe one of his doctors. I didn’t

  know how much to tell her. Is there

  a particular story I should be giving?”

  Dad looks up from his paper. Our

  eyes connect, and I find sadness

  in his. I don’t suppose you could tell

  people to mind their own business,

  huh? A few weeks, you’ll graduate.

  Move on. Move away. Then it really

  won’t matter much what your friends

  have to say about Conner, will it?

  He doesn’t get it. “She was his

  girlfriend, Dad. She’s worried about

  him, and I don’t blame her. It’s like

  he vanished without an explanation.”

  Just tell her he’s rehabilitating.

  Getting better every day. No one

  knows how badly he was injured,

  so that’s all you need to say.

  Better not mention she already

  knows a lot more. Let him ramble

  in his fantasy forest in total denial.

  It’s a gamble, but so is chancing

  the truth. Kendra will probably

  keep her mouth shut. She has so far.

  Is it Conner’s reputation she doesn’t

  want to mar? Or is it her own?

  Not Much More To Say

  I excuse myself, return to my room.

  Try not to think about anything or

  anyone except Dani. I wish I was

  with her instead of waiting for reunion

  with someone I barely know anymore.

  After a while, the sound of Mom’s Lexus

  lifts toward my window. She has pulled

  around in front of the house, as if

  planning a quick getaway. Past the glass

  and two stories below, my brother gets

  out of the car. I watch as he turns

  to look toward where Emily lived.

  He won’t find her there. Or anywhere

  close by. Even from here, I can see

  him processing the filtering information.

  She. Isn’t. There. Downstairs, I hear

  Mom hissing for him to please come

  inside. That woman doesn’t live there

  anymore. Did you think she would?

  Did he believe Mom would forgive her?

  Conner responds with rage. Why

  wouldn’t she, Mother? What the hell

  did you do? Enough. I turn up my music

  so I don’t have to hear her tell him

  what he doesn’t want to know—

  that she is, and always will be, in

  control of all of our lives. Unless

  we get away. Run away. Fly away.

  The Loud Exchange
>
  Between Mom and Conner rises

  above my music. I start to turn it up

  even more, when my cell signals

  a new text message. Dani! I rush

  to see what she has to tell me. Only

  it’s not from Dani at all. It’s from Kendra.

  THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT THIS.

  GOT IT FROM AUBREE. SHE GOT IT FROM SEAN.

  What? I click on the photo link. Oh God.

  No! How? Sean, what have you done?

  You bastard! You are stalking me!

  In bold letters, the caption says slut.

  I’m not, and neither is she, despite

  how Dani and I look. On her bed.

  In her mauve and sage room. Me,

  with my sweater up over my head.

  The rest of me is stripped to skin.

  My mouth is in a perfect O, as I give

  myself to Dani’s lips, below my belly

  button and in between my opened

  legs. And tiny spot of glare or no,

  the camera caught everything. As if that

  isn’t enough, another text. Another

  photo, this when she has pulled my

  sweater all the way off, ducked

  to kiss the inside of my knee, leaving

  my most intimate places, plus my face,

  for the camera to see—and capture.

  Kendra Got the Pic

  From Aubree. That means it has

  been passed around. Who knows

  how far it’s gone? God, it might

  be on YouTube by now. I think

  about searching it, but how? He

  wouldn’t use my name, would he?

  I guess I should be thankful for “slut.”

  I text Dani. CHECK THIS OUT. GET BACK

  TO ME. I wait. Wait. Where is she?

  I need to go downstairs. Should say

  hello to Conner. But I need more

  to hear back from her. Way more.

  At last, my cell buzzes. HOLY SHIT.

  WHO DID THIS? WAIT, I CAN GUESS.

  LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE OUT NOW. JUST

  BTW SEXTING IS ILLEGAL, YOU KNOW.