Perfect - 02

  There’s a twenty-minute wait. We sit

  in the lobby, people-watching. And

  I’m pretty sure we’re

  being people-watched too. Funny,

  two hours ago, I wouldn’t have felt

  nearly as self-conscious

  as I do right now. Jenna intuits it.

  Are you okay? You’re awfully quiet.

  Doesn’t she notice

  the way people are staring? Then again,

  considering how luscious she looks,

  perfect little legs peeking

  out from under a way-short skirt, and

  dream girl breasts gloved sweetly by

  a quite tight sweater,

  they are probably not seeing me at all.

  Jenna reaches for my hand, reminding

  me that she asked

  a question. Her fingers thread mine,

  a checkered weave. “Sorry. Just thinking

  about some stuff my dad

  said earlier. It’s not important.” Not

  nearly as important as how her skin

  feels, sea glass smooth

  in the palm of my hand. Or the way

  her gardenia-scented hair reminds me

  of California summer.

  Nothing my dad ever says is important.

  Not that he bothers to say much to me

  anymore. She goes on about

  her parents’ divorce, beauty pageants,

  orthodontia—oh, and did I know her stepdad

  and my parents went to

  college together? News to me. Weird connection.

  Maybe Fate Does Exist

  I’ve never much believed in it before.

  But now I wonder if

  some things are just meant to be.

  If so, I should probably quit over-

  thinking everything.

  Jenna orders lobster raviolis, Caesar

  salad, dares to ask the waiter for cabernet.

  His dubious expression

  makes her say, Doesn’t hurt to ask, does it?

  God, she is ballsy. “Do you drink much

  cabernet at home?”

  I expect her to answer in the negative,

  or maybe with a joke. But, no. Probably

  more than I ought to.

  Mom always has an open bottle around.

  She and Patrick are connoisseurs. The last

  two syllables are hissed.

  And now I know a lot more about Jenna.

  After Dinner

  Walking to my car beneath a sift of new snow,

  I slide my arm around

  her shoulder, and she tucks herself into

  the warmth of my jacket, one slender arm

  snaking my waist. Very good.

  This feels the way it should. The Quattro

  is parked out behind the building. We stop

  beneath a muted streetlight,

  and I turn her so she faces me, her sweater

  soft and warm against my thin cotton shirt.

  I look down into eager eyes.

  “Have you ever kissed a black guy before?”

  Who, you? You’re black? I never noticed.

  And are you saying

  you want to kiss me? She doesn’t wait,

  but tilts her chin and parts her lips, a quick

  flick of her tongue inviting

  me in. Our first kiss isn’t uncertain. It’s smoking.

  Cara

  Not Uncertain

  About the fabric of me.

  My skin is unblemished,

  kept that way by some

  amazing dermatologist

  who

  discovered the secret of

  “zit-free” somewhere deep

  in the Amazon jungle.

  I’m sure that my hair

  is

  enviable—a burnished

  bronze waterfall. What

  I’m more than a little

  vague about is

  the stranger

  who keeps insisting

  she is the real me—

  and that if I would allow

  her to take up residence

  inside

  this flawless shell,

  I will finally come to terms

  with who I was born to be.

  I’m Not Sure Who I Am

  Not sure who I want to be,

  or if I have any choice at all.

  Maybe I’m two people.

  God, maybe I’m many.

  Does that make me a freak?

  Do I belong in Aspen Springs,

  finger-painting scenes from

  my childhood, right along with

  my messed-up brother? Now

  there’s a great family snapshot.

  Twin number one: a warped sex

  addict, filled with enough self-hate

  to try and end it all. Twin number

  two: unclear about her sexuality.

  In love (?) with a guy. In lust (!)

  with a girl. I have zero doubt

  about the lust. As for the love,

  I believed it was real. But how

  can I want to touch someone

  else if love is what I truly feel

  for Sean? We’ve been together

  almost a year, have plans

  to continue seeing each other

  postgraduation. In fact, I know

  his college plans revolve around

  me. For the most part, he’s kind.

  Supportive. Not once has he ever

  tried to force me to give him more

  than hot make-out sessions. Sex

  is something that, up until now,

  I haven’t felt ready for. But without

  it, how can I possibly answer

  the question grating the inside

  of me—scraping till I’m raw. Lust?

  Love? Are they mutually exclusive?

  Absent sex, how will I know?

  Maybe I’ll Find Out Tonight

  Sean and I are going out after

  his exhibition game. I’m getting ready

  to go watch him play when I hear

  a familiar name spill from behind

  Mom’s half-open bedroom door.

  …don’t care about legalities,

  Mrs. Sanders, and I’m certain

  the school board won’t either.

  Not to mention the press, and if

  you refuse to see my side of things,

  that’s where I’m going next. Anyway,

  I’m sure you could use a fresh start.

  You won’t find a teaching position

  in this city again. I think the best

  option for everyone involved is for you

  to move on. The smell of Mom’s drink,

  acrid and telltale strong for so early

  in the day, hangs like incense in

  the air leaking from her room. I hurry

  away from it and down the hall.

  Poor Emily. Against the furious

  force of my mother, she is powerless—

  flotsam riding a whitewater

  course impossible to divert.

  No wonder my father offers gauze-

  thin excuses to not come home.

  Lately, he’s almost nonexistent.

  Something to do with Conner?

  Surely I’m not the only one lifting

  a backbreaking load of guilt.

  Or maybe they really don’t care.

  Me? Sometimes I think I might implode

  from the pressure. But implosion

  is not what’s expected of me.

  Everyone I know would totally

  freak if they even suspected I have

  splintered, alone in my room.

  I never reveal that Cara. That girl—

  frail and choking back secrets—

  is the Cara I am determined to conceal.

  Bundled Up

  Against the flecks of snow,

  flu
ttering from the sky, I sit in

  the sparsely populated bleachers,

  watch Sean belt a long fly

  ball to center, where it sinks

  into the fielder’s glove. Sixth

  inning. No heroics so far today.

  He gives the catcher a little shove

  as he turns toward the dugout.

  The catcher springs to his feet,

  gets in Sean’s face. What the fuck?

  Before they can beat each other

  bloody, the umpire steps in,

  issues a reprimand. Sean smiles

  and looks up at me with searching

  eyes, as if to ask, Understand?

  I shrug. Frustration is evident

  in the taut slope of his shoulders.

  But there’s also a copper-hot seethe

  of anger I hope he never directs at me.

  I Have To Admit

  It’s not the first time I’ve seen

  a hint of someone… hateful

  lurking behind nice guy Sean.

  Is he flint, waiting for a flick

  of steel to spark some inner

  grenade? He never used to be

  this way, at least never in front

  of me. When did his temper surface?

  I notice it now in the way

  he attacks the ball, charging

  grounders, slamming them home.

  I see it in how he smacks base

  runners, tries to intimidate them

  wide. This isn’t about winning.

  It’s about conquering, and when

  he errs, there’s more than pride

  on the line. Bottom of the ninth,

  two-all tie. One out, Sean comes

  up to bat. Please let him hit!

  “Come on, baby,” I shout.

  “Piece of cake.” First pitch,

  he tenses, swings way out ahead.

  Easy. Easy. Thwap! He bloops

  one over the shortstop’s head,

  an ugly hit, but whatever. Grant

  Blakemore takes two quick strikes,

  and Sean’s chancy lead pays off

  when he steals second. That makes

  the pitcher pissy. He throws

  hard and inside, nicks Grant’s leg,

  sends him limping on over to first.

  Our coach plays a wild card,

  sends Bobby Duvall up to bat.

  He fouls off the first three pitches.

  Perfect. Perfect loser, that is. But on

  the fourth, he must see the fastball

  coming. He squares, slams a solid

  hit into right field. Sean scores,

  he and Bobby co-heroes this time.

  It will be a good night after all.

  It Starts Out Great

  Sean is famished, so we go out

  for pizza. I pick at one piece

  while he polishes off four.

  Are you sick or something? he asks.

  “No. I just like watching you

  eat.” Not really a lie. I like how

  he tears each bite almost daintily,

  wiping tendrils of hot, gooey cheese

  with a napkin before they can drip

  down the front of his clean denim

  shirt. I like the way he’s careful

  to keep his food unseen behind

  closed lips. Sexy lips. Full. Soft,

  for a guy. I like how his arm muscles

  flex when he reaches for another

  slice. I like the charm of his smile.

  I like knowing he loves me.

  There’s something safe in that,

  and yet, beneath pepperoni and onion,

  he wears a thin scent of danger.

  Danger Scent Is Somehow Attractive

  I follow it to Sean’s truck, its big

  chrome bumper leering through

  a delicate veil of snow. I climb

  up inside, determined to gain

  some understanding. I need

  to know if this is where I belong.

  At this moment, it feels very right.

  I scoot close to him. “Let’s go.”

  He looks at me with confusion-

  clouded eyes. Go? You mean

  home? I thought we’d hang out

  a little or something. No?

  I run my hand along the meaty

  muscle of his thigh. Wow. All

  that lifting paying off. “Can we

  go someplace private?” I sigh,

  and implicit in the soft exhale

  is something I’ve never offered

  before. Sean does not fail

  to notice. Really? He hesitates,

  then starts the truck and heads up

  the highway toward Virginia City.

  Thank God it has stopped snowing.

  My fingers play with the pendant

  Sean gave me, sliding it back

  and forth along the chain, the motion

  sensuous. The road snakes south,

  then north, ultimately taking us east,

  and I wonder if life is like that. Go

  one way, then another, to end up

  someplace else. Finally Sean pulls

  into a turnout overlooking city lights.

  “Beautiful.” I lift up on my knees,

  turn to face him, kiss him as if this

  might be our last kiss—intention clear

  in the race of my heart and the way

  my tongue tangos over his. He pulls

  back. Wait. Are you sure? In answer,

  I squirm free of my sweater. Now, that’s

  beautiful. His lips move over me,

  wet and rough and punctuated

  by sharp nips of teeth. He lays me

  back across the seat and his thumb

  runs along the waistband of my jeans.

  Danger scent envelopes me. You

  are ready, aren’t you? He fumbles

  at my waistband and I hurry

  the unbuttoning, desire a steady

  thrumming, like rain upon

  tin. Strangely, I’m not afraid.

  Sean is a hot salt rub, friction

  against my skin, and it all feels

  good. Right. I reach for his belt,

  want to touch what’s below his belly

  button. Except… it isn’t how it should

  be. Sean rolls away. Goddamn it. No!

  Stunned, tears spatter my cheeks.

  “What’s wrong? What did I do?”

  Hands shaking on the steering

  wheel, Sean whispers, It wasn’t you.

  Kendra

  It Wasn’t Me

  That’s what you said—

  it wasn’t me who sent

  you running, spinning

  into someone else’s arms.

  No,

  it had nothing to do with

  me. So why do I think

  if I had only been thin

  as rays of dawning sun

  it

  all would have worked

  out differently? Flawless,

  you needed a girl without

  imperfections, and that

  wasn’t

  the troll who lives in

  the room beyond

  the looking glass. No,

  your perfect girl wasn’t

  me.

  An Ugly Rumor

  Has surfaced, scum rising to stink

  up the hallways at school. I get it

  from Bobby Duvall. Did you hear

  about Mrs. Sanders? His tongue, I swear,

  lolls to one side, like a summer-tired

  dog. She and Conner were… you know.

  “What are you talking about, Bobby?”

  But I see the story in his eyes, and in

  how some of the other kids passing

  by stare, then quickly look away.

  Kali Benson told me. She was in

  the office and heard Jerkwad Taylor

&
nbsp; talking to the superintendent. Looks like

  we’ll have subs for the rest of the year.

  I want to scream that it’s a lie. But

  certainty plunks into my empty stomach.

  Of course it’s true. Conner trashed me

  for a teacher. A woman twice his age.

  I don’t see what all the hype is about,

  you know? I mean, she didn’t, like, force

  herself on him. Ask me, he was a lucky

  son of a bitch. She’s a fucking babe.

  I smoke him with my eyes. “Shut up,

  Bobby. The whole thing is totally vile.”

  Blood whistles in my ears, and my face

  drains, cold. The mirror would tell me it’s

  the color of chalk. I reach one shaky hand

  inside my locker, grab a small bag of dry-roasted

  almonds. I take five, chew them one

  at a time, seven calories each. Thirty-five total.

  I’m starving. Haven’t eaten since breakfast,

  yesterday. So why is it so hard to swallow?

  Distracted

  Light-headed. Irritated by the stupid

  gurgling in my stomach. Five almonds

  will not get me through PE, which means

  I have to eat lunch or risk passing out. Good

  thing I brought a salad. Lettuce. Red cabbage.

  Half a carrot, grated. No dressing. Forty-three

  calories, all negative. Now, to find a private

  place to eat. I can’t handle the swarm of voices.

  Every time I let my ears pick up conversation,

  hey hear the same snippets: Mrs. Sanders.

  Conner Sykes. Sex. Sex. Sex. Goddamn him.

  He told me he loved me. I loved—love—

  him, too, so I said okay. Did he love me?

  Did he love her, too? Did she love him?

  Love is supposed to take the “wrong”

  out of making love. Was any of “us” right?

  Too Icy

  To run outside, we’re doing laps

  around the gym. The wood is slick

  and hard, but I like how my legs feel,

  pounding against it. Some of the girls