Perfect - 02 Page 7

  to use your workout equipment.” Why pay

  for a gym when the O’Connells have

  state-of-the-art stuff in their basement?

  Wade doesn’t hesitate. You can use

  it. But only if you let me watch. Pervert

  freshman. But, hey, what do I care

  if he gets off on watching me sweat?

  By The Time I Get There

  Wade has rounded up a friend. They follow me

  downstairs, stare as I program the elliptical

  to level five. Cardio first. Weights after.

  The guys stand there, gawking. Might as well

  give ’em a good show. I strip down to a sports

  bra and Lycra pants. “Can you turn on the TV,

  maybe find a music channel?” Wade obliges,

  and I climb on the machine, tune into the music,

  find my zone. Breathe in. Breathe out. Lose

  track of time. Push myself harder. Forget about

  freshman eyes and banter. Breathe deeper

  as sweat trickles turn to rivulets, carry away

  toxins. One tomato, two turkey slices. Fat.

  Breathe. Burn fat. Forget about the taunts

  of the mirror and too many hours tangled in sleep,

  deep woods perfume, and the arms of a ghost.

  Sean

  Arms

  Worked to the max.

  Pumped to capacity.

  Muscles bathing in lactic

  acid. Slow build to

  burning.

  Lift. Rest. Stretch.

  Push to the edge

  of “can’t,” knowing

  the only way to leave

  your mark

  is sheer devotion to

  the power of “can.”

  Focus. Empty every

  negative thought

  into

  a box labeled “not

  allowed.” Embrace

  the pain, now electric.

  Brand your name into

  the skin of history.

  Bulking Up

  I look in the mirror, like what

  I see—triceps building. Pecs,

  and flexors, too. The last,

  hugely important to sending

  a baseball over the fence.

  But it’s not just my upper

  body I work. Core muscles.

  Leg muscles. All must sync

  to become the best I can be,

  and the best hitter in Grizzlies

  history. Scratch that. Nevada

  state high school history.

  No lesser goal will do, and

  to help me attain it, I have

  resorted to help-in-a-bottle.

  No more over-the-counter stuff.

  No, this is the real steroidal

  deal, brought to me courtesy

  of Thailand, through a trusted

  source. It isn’t cheap. I had to

  dip into my savings account,

  but hey, what else is that

  money for, if not helping

  me get into college? Might

  be a warped way of looking

  at it, although any seriously

  ambitious athlete would

  probably understand.

  Yeah, I’m taking a chance,

  but not a big one because,

  despite what I told Bobby,

  tests for steroids are really

  expensive. Without solid

  suspicion, most coaches

  won’t ask for random ones.

  And my guess is that if

  a team is winning games

  by breaking home run

  records, most coaches

  will close their eyes.

  Case In Point

  Uncle Jeff, who is definitely

  closing his eyes, but whether

  it’s on purpose or just because,

  I really don’t know. Today

  we are in the basement, lifting

  together. He wants to be

  buff too. Take it easy, son.

  You can use the heavier weights

  for your legs, but don’t risk

  injuring your arm muscles.

  I know he means well, but it

  isn’t the first time he’s told

  me the very same thing. I’m

  not fricking stupid. But I say,

  “Okay, dude.” Three more reps.

  You know, push-ups are good

  for your baseball groove too.

  Did he really just say baseball

  groove? I nod and do another

  set while he starts in on squats.

  The fatherly advice is really

  starting to bug me, so when

  he asks about Cara, my face

  prickles irritation. But I say,

  “I think she’s mad at me.”

  Women. Give ’em an inch

  and they’ll want the whole

  yardstick.

  Huff. Puff. Did

  you get her something nice

  for Valentine’s Day, I hope?

  “Val—Shit. Is that today?”

  I forgot all about it. Well, at

  least it gives me the excuse

  to say, “I have to run into Reno.

  Thanks for the workout, Jeff.”

  Showered And Dressed

  I call Cara’s cell, half expecting

  her not to pick up. But she does.

  “Hey, you. It’s Friday. We’re going

  to get together tonight, right?

  You’re not mad, are you?”

  She is quiet for a few seconds.

  I’m not mad at you, Sean. But

  I’m busy tonight. It’s Galena’s

  last basketball game and

  I have to cheer, remember?

  “But it’s Valentine’s Day

  and I have something

  special for you.…” God,

  I’m such a liar. “Please?

  I know you’re going to love

  it.” Whatever “it” ends up

  being. She agrees to meet

  me after the game, but her

  voice is tinted with reluctance.

  Why, if she’s not mad at me?

  My Hand

  Is on the front doorknob,

  just starting to turn it, when

  Uncle Jeff comes down the hall

  from the kitchen. Wait. You

  might take a look at this.

  He hands me a shiny ad

  from Zales Jewelers.

  GIFTS FOR YOUR

  VALENTINE, it says

  at the top. FROM $39.99.

  They’re at Meadowood Mall.

  One word of advice, though.

  If you really think she’s mad

  at you, I’d spend more than

  thirty-nine ninety-nine.

  Then he really surprises

  me, handing me a crisp

  C-note. That’s the minimum

  necessary to make an angry

  woman not angry anymore.

  I stand, hundred between

  thumb and forefinger, not

  quite graspinn this sudden

  generosity. “But… why?”

  I try to give the money back.

  He shakes his head. I want

  you to have it. There’s more

  to life than baseball. Before

  you and Cara started dating,

  I was worried you’d never

  figure that out. I want you

  to succeed at your sport,

  but not at the expense of

  your happiness. She makes

  you happy. Make her happy too.

  I Want To Make Her Happy

  I really do. But I’m not

  sure jewelry is enough.

  Cara is a riddle with no

  evident clues. Sometimes

  she just fills the whole space

  around me with light. Other

  times, s
he covers me with

  shadow. And I’m not sure

  why. She’s beautiful. Talented.

  Brilliant. Rich. She has it all.

  I think about her all the way

  to the mall. Zales is crowded

  with last-minute shoppers

  like me. Mostly men. Trying

  to make their women happy.

  A glitter of diamond chips

  catches my eye. The old-

  fashioned necklace is three

  hundred dollars, and worth

  every dime if it makes her smile.

  It Is Past Ten

  By the time Cara is finished

  cheering. She exits the gym

  with Kendra and Shantell,

  all three looking pretty hot

  in their short black skirts.

  Comparing the three, Shantell

  is on the short side, round,

  big boobs. Kendra is the flip

  side of that—thin as a twig

  and almost as tall as I am.

  And Cara? Cara is perfect—

  all taut, muscular curves

  wrapped in kid-leather skin,

  with hair like waves of summer

  wheat and golden eyes that

  remind me of autumn leaves.

  I want to eat her up, keep

  her a part of me always.

  I wave, and she peels from

  the group, heads my way.

  A winter-clipped breeze

  blows through her sweat-

  dampened hair. She shivers,

  and when I open my arms,

  she leans into me gratefully.

  Thanks for being so patient,

  she says, head against my chest.

  I don’t know what’s wrong

  with me. She looks up, smiles,

  and the world rights itself,

  shimmers with her glow.

  “Ah, you know, we all get

  a little crazy sometimes.

  Anyway, tonight is about

  what’s right.” I find the red

  velvet box in my pocket.

  “I knew this was you as

  soon as I saw it. Happy

  Valentine’s Day. I love you,

  Cara.” So much it hurts.

  I Wait For Her

  To tell me she loves me, too.

  She doesn’t, but she does

  open the box, and when she

  sees the heart-shaped diamond

  pendant inside, she gasps.

  Oh, Sean. It’s beautiful, but

  you shouldn’t have spent so

  much.… I mean, I love it, but…

  But? I don’t like the sound

  of “but.” I take the necklace

  from her hands. “Turn around.”

  I wrap the chain gently around

  her neck, fumbling the clasp

  like a dork. “This isn’t even close

  to what I’d give you if I could.”

  Cara lifts onto her tiptoes,

  looks deep into my eyes.

  Thank you. And now she kisses

  me like I want to be kissed. So why

  does my body refuse to respond?

  Andre

  To Be Kissed

  Like they do in movies—

  glossy lips parting

  in bold invitation,

  hungry mouths

  meeting,

  igniting the blistering

  passion most can only

  dream of. To be kissed

  like they do in books,

  some exotic

  setting beguiling two

  ordinary people, bewitching

  them with its subtle

  perfumes until,

  stranger

  inextricably linked to

  stranger, their lives

  are forever changed.

  I am only kissed like this

  in dreams.

  Academically

  The Zephyr Academy is a fine school.

  Great, engaging

  teachers. All advanced placement classes,

  no more than twelve students to a classroom.

  You can’t ask

  for a better environment if you want to learn

  the things you need to get into an Ivy League

  college. (I gave up on

  that idea years ago, though I kept that decision

  to myself until I absolutely had to confess it.)

  As far as a thriving social

  scene goes, though… uh, there isn’t one.

  Oh, there are a couple of campus romances

  happening. But

  face it, two hundred sixteen kids, grades

  seven through twelve, most of them much

  more focused on

  academics than dating, the odds of hooking

  up with someone special here are slim.

  Probably why so many

  Zephyr students actually get into their chosen

  colleges. Easy to focus on your work.

  That’s not to say

  that there aren’t any cute girls here.

  There are a few, and yeah, I’ve had some

  casual sex with one

  or two. (Okay, maybe three.) But mostly

  I go looking elsewhere. Never expected

  to find someone

  in my mom’s office, waiting for her

  sister to get out of a pre-op counseling

  session. Jenna is a one-

  of-a-kind piece of… art. Kind of stuck

  on herself, but who isn’t? And yeah,

  I’m a couple of years

  older. Something to keep in mind.

  Still, I Don’t Plan

  To marry her. Don’t even know about

  getting in deep.

  Mostly, I like how we look together.

  Okay, and I like the way she smells.

  And the way she feels

  when she rubs up against me, purring.

  Hmm. I guess I like her. We’ve only gone

  out a couple of times.

  Tonight will be the third. I’m picking her

  up at four thirty. Reno, Friday night, if you

  want a decent restaurant,

  you get there early or wait for hours.

  Almost time to go, I notice Dad is home.

  I can hear his poor excuse

  for music leaking out from behind his office

  door. I should probably say hello. We don’t

  see much of each other

  lately. Two knocks. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

  He pulls his eyes away from his computer.

  Doing some research.

  He gives me a once-over. You going out?

  Like I always dress in a button-up shirt

  and leather jacket. But

  I say, “Yeah. Going to dinner and a game.”

  Now he looks at me as if he’s seeing

  a complete stranger.

  Really? You have a girlfriend or what?

  Or what. “She’s not really my girlfriend.

  We’ve been out a few

  times. But it’s not anything serious.”

  Why must he take such an interest in

  my uninteresting life?

  Oh yeah. Control. Tell me about her.

  I shrug. Give a brief description, omitting

  the age difference

  thing. Mention she goes to Galena.

  He absorbs the information. Blinks twice.

  Finally comments, Blond,

  huh? Which means, “So she’s white?”

  “Yes, Dad, she’s white. But don’t worry.

  Like I said, it’s not serious.

  Not even close. We’re just friends.”

  I know what he’s going to say, and he does.

  You really should date

  black girls. Are you ashamed of your race?

  He goes on to talk about artificial beauty

  standards, European

&
nbsp; versus African, etc. All stuff I’ve heard

  before. And more than once. But… “Look,

  Dad. It’s not like there

  are a whole lot of African Americans in Reno,

  anyway. Running into the exact right

  black girl won’t happen

  that easily. And this is just a date. Okay?”

  He Says Okay

  And we leave it there, though I could

  have said a whole

  lot more. Like how his own wife

  (my toffee-skinned mom) skews

  way toward the Anglo

  ideal. Like how she has made a fair

  amount of money altering the features

  of her African American

  sisters, all to make them more “beautiful.”

  Like, right, wrong, or who fucking cares,

  I happen to think

  Jenna is pretty and enjoy spending time

  with her. Like maybe tonight I might

  even kiss her, just to

  try it on for size. And if that works out,

  well, who knows how much further

  we might go? If she

  feels the same way about me, of course.

  On My Way To Jenna’s

  The conversation with Dad replays.

  If I were to be honest

  with myself, the truth is I have always

  been more attracted to girls who reflect

  the European standard.

  Not that there aren’t gorgeous black women.

  But the ones who I’d label beautiful are

  models—Tyra Banks,

  Naomi Campbell. Selita Ebanks. Tall.

  Thin. Long, straight hair. Fairer skinned.

  Am I wrong to feel

  this way? Does it make me a stereotype?

  Or does it in some weird way make me

  racist? If it does, would

  I be less racist if I were only attracted

  to black women? It’s hard enough to

  find someone you want

  to be with. Why worry about color at all?

  It’s A Little Before Five

  When we reach Red Lobster. Already

  the place is busy.