Perfect - 02

  it has to stop. To tell you the truth,

  I’m afraid of him. I don’t know

  what else to do but file a report.”

  Dad stepped in. If the boy is stalking

  you, of course you must go to

  the authorities. These things can end

  badly. I have a friend on the force….

  He Made A Call

  His friend agreed my decision was

  the right one. It was the first time

  in a long time that I can remember

  one of my parents supporting me.

  Mom went back to composing her

  letter without another word. Later,

  she and Dad had a knock-down,

  drag-out argument. About Conner.

  About me. About cops on the doorstep

  and Mom’s reputation and if safety was

  an even trade-off for what the neighbors

  might think. About sexual orientation.

  What it means to me. Whether I am.

  How I could know. Who the hell is this

  Dani? What my coming out will mean

  to them. To coworkers. The bridge club.

  When things quieted, Mom took two

  Valium and went to bed, while Dad hit

  the scotch and watched TV. And

  because that letter was stuck in my head,

  I sneaked into Dad’s study and found

  it, finished, on his desk. What struck

  me first was Mom’s perfect cursive

  and how she cut right to the chase:

  Conner: Hope all is going

  well for you, and that your

  time in the outback has kept

  you fit. You must excel at your

  football tryouts. They expect

  you to fail. I’m sure, however,

  you’ll prove them very wrong.

  One small detail, which I’ll mention

  here: You have some makeup work

  to do to keep you on track

  for your graduation. If you

  pursue it diligently this summer,

  you won’t have to play catch-up

  in the fall. By the way, your father

  and I have sent applications

  to all the colleges on our list.

  All you have to do is maintain

  your GPA and, of course, score

  well on your entrance exams.

  Not really much more to say

  except to let you know Cara

  has already been accepted

  at Stanford. You can do as well.

  After all, you’re her twin. Mom.

  No Pressure There, Mom

  None at all. Why can’t she just be

  glad he survived and let him live

  the rest of his life on his own terms?

  Can’t she see how much he wants

  her approval? That 4.0 GPA never

  did come easily to Conner. Sports,

  yes. Schoolwork, no. But God

  forbid he excel at one and not

  the other. Mom still expects him to

  start college on time and keep scoring

  touchdowns, too? Perfection carries

  a steep price tag, at least it has for

  Conner. I hope he finds his way

  out sooner rather than later. I’m

  thrilled I’ve found mine, even if it has

  its own consequences to worry about.

  I’m struggling to take ownership

  of this new person I call me. But

  every day brings me closer. And

  I’m glad I got to know her at all.

  Who Knows Who I’d Be

  If I hadn’t met Dani. Probably

  still a Conner clone—striving too

  hard to please someone who can’t

  be satisfied. I’m blown away by

  how fate intervened when it did.

  Makes me wonder what else I have

  to look forward to, once I’m out

  from under my parents’ control.

  My cell buzzes. Incoming text from

  Private Number. Who could that be?

  Little teeth of suspicion gnaw at

  my stomach. He wouldn’t dare.

  It’s not from him. At least, I don’t

  think so. PLEASE STOP MESSING UP

  SEAN’S LIFE. GRADUATION IS ONLY

  A MONTH AWAY. THEN HE’S ALL SET

  FOR STANFORD. DROP CHARGES AND

  HE WON’T BOTHER YOU ANYMORE.

  Whoever it was wrote the one

  word I didn’t want to see: Stanford.

  Kendra

  I Didn’t Want To See

  The truth of things. That you

  never embraced me the same

  way that I embraced

  you.

  That when we lay laced

  together, satin yarn and leather

  cord, it was you who untied

  the knots. That when you

  told

  bedtime stories of love

  come unraveled, you were

  always warning

  me

  of impending unraveling.

  That the promises you wove

  into the fabric of us

  were nothing more than

  lies.

  Are All Relationships

  Destined to unravel? I hear stories about

  people who have been married for fifty or sixty

  years. But I’ve never met any. And if they

  do exist, what are they made of? The cliché

  answer is friendship. If that’s accurate,

  Mom and Patrick just might last a while.

  But Dad and Shiloh will come unwoven

  eventually. Jenna and Andre already have.

  That makes me a little sad, although if

  I am honest, I have to admit I was a lot jealous.

  Not because of his car or his house or

  his money, but because he really loved her.

  He called me the day after they broke up.

  I don’t know how much influence

  you have on your sister, but she needs help.

  She drinks every day. Not just a little.

  She doesn’t think she has a problem, but

  she does. And she won’t listen to me.

  He said that isn’t why he had to stop

  seeing her. And I believe that. You can’t

  stay with someone you love when they

  don’t care enough about you. Jenna doesn’t

  care much about anything. Not even

  herself. And I really don’t get that. On

  the surface, she is pure confidence.

  What is she hiding? What is she trying to

  prove? What is she trying to forget?

  How can I ask her any of those questions?

  She’d probably ask me the same

  questions. And I don’t have any answers.

  The Only Person

  Who has asked them is Shiloh. Like she

  has any right to. Like she really gives a damn.

  Today we are shopping for bridesmaid

  dresses. Jenna is supposed to be here too.

  Guess something better came up. It’s okay,

  says Shiloh. We can choose the dress,

  then find one in the right size for Jenna.

  I was thinking burgundy. What do think?

  I shrug. “Kind of dark for afternoon,

  especially in June. What about teal?”

  Nothing like flipping her entire color

  scheme. But hey, she asked my opinion.

  Hmm. Not big on teal. But you’re right

  about burgundy being dark. Maybe …

  black? She laughs. Just kidding. Unless

  you think it would work. Let’s look around.

  The first one that we both agree on

  is a strapless sheath in a floral design.

  “Très tropical,” I say. “Not even close


  to burgundy, though.” I pull a size two.

  Shiloh raises an eyebrow, but keeps

  her opinion to herself. Until I come out

  of the dressing room. Come over here

  to the mirror. Tell me what you see.

  “Uh … the dress is a little big

  in the bust, but the ruche helps that,

  and length is good….” It falls just

  above my knee, with a slit up the back.

  She puts one hand on each of my

  shoulders. Tell me about the girl

  inside the dress. What does she look

  like? How do you think I see her?

  Ambushed

  And just when I thought it was going

  so well. “Don’t tell me. She’s too thin.

  You might even call her ‘emaciated.’

  Obviously, she has an eating disorder.

  Auschwitz survivors look better

  than her. What’s wrong with her? Right?”

  Shiloh rubs my shoulders, and that feels

  good. She drops her voice very low. Not

  exactly. I see a girl who wants to present

  someone special to the world. Someone

  beautiful. The pinnacle of beauty. But

  she has lost her hold on reality. Real

  beauty isn’t thin. It isn’t size two, unless

  you happen to be four foot ten. What

  the world sees when they look at you

  is someone who believes self-worth

  is all about how she looks, and that

  very often means what she’s missing

  is love. Not someone else’s love. But

  love and respect for herself. Why

  don’t you love yourself, Kendra? You

  should. You are perfect, just as you are.

  “Shut up! What are you, a psychologist?

  I don’t need you to analyze me! Anyway,

  you aren’t exactly all innocent and

  everything. THIS IS YOUR FAULT.”

  Which isn’t totally true, but it does

  shut her up for a minute or two. Her head

  tilts sideways as if she can’t comprehend

  English. I’m sorry. What do you mean?

  “I mean you took Dad away from Jenna

  and me. Have a thing for married men?”

  Her Hands Fall Away

  From my shoulders. How can I want

  those hands back? The girl in the mirror

  looks drawn. Gaunt. Outside and in.

  Shiloh’s right about what the world must see

  when it looks at me. Oh, Kendra. I didn’t

  take him away. Please, understand

  that. I didn’t even know he was married

  until after your mom walked out, and

  she had every right to. By then, I was in

  love with him. Believed I could save him.

  I still believe that. But salvation will come

  easier if you and Jenna can find the strength

  to forgive him. He never meant to hurt you.

  You girls mean everything to him.

  “He never …? Oh yeah, he meant to hurt

  me. In fact, he used to fucking wail on me.”

  Ha! Said It

  And it had the exact effect I wanted.

  Disbelief. Shock. Dawning realization

  that the guy she fell in love with—

  my father—is so not the man she thinks

  he is. “Oh yeah. He’d come home

  drunk. Angry. Didn’t matter at what.

  Mom was good at disappearing.

  Not me. Jenna was too little. Too cute.

  Too much the daughter he really

  wanted. I was chubby. More butt to belt

  without doing real damage. That’s

  who you fell in love with. That’s what

  the world would have seen had

  it ever actually bothered to look.”

  For once, the mirror tells me that

  the girl looking back at me is skinny.

  The Skinny Girl Crumbles

  Tries to fall, but the woman behind

  her—only a moment ago her rival—

  gathers up the pieces of her, attempts to

  squash them back together. Oh, honey.

  I’m so sorry. Please try to believe

  your father is not that man anymore.

  I can’t tell you that he’s sober. He’s

  trying, but he backslides. Alcohol can

  be a monster. It’s an addiction, but it

  starts as learned behavior. He learned

  it as a boy, from the man who beat him.

  Abuse is a learned behavior too.

  “Sounds like an excuse to me.” On the far

  side of the mirror glass, the skinny girl

  stares back at me. And, safe in the refuge

  of a stranger’s arms, she disintegrates.

  People Are Starting To Gawk

  Not in a good way. I pull myself together.

  “I’m okay.” Not. My makeup is smeared

  and my hair’s a mess. “I like the dress.”

  Much cooler than I feel. “Not sure how

  it would look on Jenna.” They do have it

  in a ten, though. And where is she, anyway?

  I go back to change, and am still only half-

  way into my jeans when Shiloh knocks.

  Urgently. Hurry, honey, okay? We have

  to go. Right now. Leave the dress.

  The tone of her voice hustles me into

  my shoes. “What is it?” As soon as I unlatch

  the door, she takes my arm, rushes me

  toward the exit. Your mom tried to get

  hold of you, but couldn’t. Your cell

  must be dead. It’s Jenna….

  The Hospital Is Five Minutes Away

  Mom and Patrick meet us there. Mom

  is freaking out. I don’t understand.

  How could this happen? Oh, Patrick. She

  reminds me of the skinny girl falling

  to pieces. “What happened?” Neither

  of them will look at me. “Please. Tell me.”

  Patrick draws me to one side of the waiting

  room. We don’t have all the details yet.

  He sucks in a big breath of antiseptic air.

  Your sister was raped. And … hurt.

  We sit in a stiff row, waiting for details.

  Finally a doctor comes to give them. Raped.

  Beaten. Cut. Left to bleed out. Some

  good Samaritan jogging by saved her life.

  Broken bones. Stitches. And all because

  she asked the wrong guy to buy her booze.

  Sean

  Broken Bones

  Are preferable to broken

  dreams. A broken heart.

  A solid future smashed

  like porcelain into

  dust.

  How do you reconcile

  love that won’t let go

  with the overpowering

  resentment of being cast

  off,

  leftovers for scavengers?

  How do you scab over

  wounds that deep?

  Some believe faith can

  move

  a mountain. I say that’s

  not possible if it

  isn’t strong enough

  to build tomorrow

  on.

  You Could Power The World

  On anger. All you’d have to do

  is tap into a deep well of it,

  extract it, fill up your tanks.

  It’s clean burning, too. All

  except for a thin exhaust.

  Anger is fueling my days. It gets

  me up. Out the door to school.

  Reminds me that I need to pass

  my approaching finals. Have

  to maintain that GPA to stay

  on track for my scholarship, and

  I
will not give that up, Cara or

  no Cara. Restraining order or

  no restraining order. Stanford

  is a very big campus. She can

  figure out how to stay away

  from me. She’s done a pretty

  good job of it here at Galena.

  I’ve barely seen her at all

  since she got me locked up.

  Okay, other than the initial

  arrest and holding cell time,

  I didn’t go to jail. Uncle Jeff’s

  lawyer got me out on my own

  recognizance. And when I went

  to court, the judge gave me

  community service and

  warned me any behavior

  even vaguely resembling

  stalking would immediately

  land me in an actual jail cell.

  Some people might say I

  got lucky, drew the right

  judge. I say Cara deserves

  a little comeuppance for

  causing me sleepless nights

  and five days picking up

  trash along the Truckee River.

  But, as they say, revenge

  is a dish best tasted cold.

  Especially If I Want

  To keep playing baseball.

  The thing is, anger has also

  powered my bat. It’s all in

  the focus. Uncle Jeff showed

  me that. It’s okay to be mad,

  he told me. What you have

  to do is gather up all that

  anger, hold it right between

  your eyes, and when the ball

  releases, laser it. Your arms

  will follow.It took a time or

  two to get what he meant,

  but once it clicked, bam. I’ve

  put them over the fence