other people ever catch a glimpse of.
Did he show that boy to the ambulance
drivers who took him to the hospital, or
to the doctors and nurses who dug the bullet
out of his chest? Sewed him up. Saved
his life. I want to see him, but Cara says Saint
Mary’s won’t allow visitors. Bet he doesn’t
want them—scared he might look helpless.
What He Doesn’t Get
Is that everyone gets scared. I used
to get sick to my stomach every day
before school. Reading, writing,
and arithmetic? Not my best things.
I just knew some genius bully
was going to make major fun of me.
Then I figured out Rule Number One
of the Popularity Game—looks trump
brains every time. While it might be
nice to have both, I’ll settle for what
I’ve got. College isn’t a major goal.
Don’t need it to model. Everyone says
I have what it takes to do runway.
I don’t think I do yet. But I will.
My Mom Has Groomed Me
For modeling for years, ever since
she entered me in my very first baby
beauty pageant. I wasn’t even one yet.
Couldn’t walk, but already had a killer
smile. Mom dressed me up in pink swirls
and paraded me down that runway herself.
We went home with a tiara. Next thing
you know, I had an impressive portfolio
and a dozen more rhinestone crowns.
Soon, my cute cherub face was smiling
for diaper ads and shampoo commercials.
Once I could toddle, the trend continued,
with pricey gowns and big-girl makeup
and hair that made me look years older.
Then I did catalogue shots—wearing
the latest JC Penney and Sears fashions.
All through grade school, weekends
centered around pageants. And after
school, instead of homework, I studied
ballet and tap and gymnastics. Plus
the coaching in poise, and prepping
for interviews. Oh yes, and cozying up
to sponsors, who helped pay for outfits
and entry fees. Mom ended up leaving
Daddy for one of them—an orthodontist
with a client list full of beauty queen
hopefuls. Patrick is my stepdad now,
and he’s still paying our way in. I took
a year off while he straightened my teeth.
Braces and pageants don’t mix. It was
right about then that the mirror started
showing me flaws. When you’re younger,
a bump in the nose and a few extra
pounds don’t mean much. But now they do.
The Rhinoplasty
Is already scheduled for spring break.
A week to heal the swelling and bruising
that come with nose jobs. Scared?
Yeah. Statistically, I should be just fine.
But there are always those annoying
what-ifs. What if it doesn’t work?
What if it makes things worse? Or,
best of all, what if I have a bad reaction
to the anesthesia and fricking die?
The plastic surgeon comes highly
recommended—she and Patrick went
to college together. Not sure how that
makes her better than anyone else,
but Patrick’s paying for the surgery,
so it’s all good. If it turns out the doc
rocks, I’ll use her again for my boob job.
Patrick Won’t Pay For That
In fact, he gave me a totally embarrassing
lecture. First of all, for a young lady your age,
I’d say the good Lord gave you just enough
in that department.… That, while trying not
to stare at my 34Bs. And my guess is you
haven’t finished developing yet.… At that
point, Mom jumped in to agree. I didn’t
fill all the way out until my twenties.
Not till after I had you and Jenna.
Not till after breastfeeding two babies.
But here’s the deal. I don’t plan on
babies or breast milk augmentation.
Doesn’t matter. Once I hit eighteen,
my pageant winnings will be all mine
to spend, and I will have the D cups I need
to kick ass in the cutthroat world of fashion.
What’s Irritating
Is that Jenna, who just turned sixteen,
is well on her way to D cups already.
Of course, though she’s three inches
shorter, she’s fifteen pounds heavier,
and happy to stay that way. Jenna takes
after Daddy. Both her looks and her lack
of ambition. I watch her, tucked under
a quilt on the window seat, reading.
She seems blissfully unaware of the snow
crawling up the glass behind her. For some
stupid reason, that really bugs me. “Hey.
You gonna get dressed sometime today?”
Jenna’s eyes roll up over the rim
of her book. What’s it to you, anyway?
“I’m not shoveling all by myself.
Patrick said to keep the walk clean.”
She shrugs. What’s the use in doing it
now? It’s just going to get covered again.
True enough. But it wouldn’t hurt
her to do it twice. “It’s good exercise.”
The book drops a couple of inches.
Enough to expose Jenna’s mean-edged
smile. Maybe you should do it all,
then. You’re looking a little flabby.
I could fast-pitch an insult back
at her. But she’s expecting that.
I’ll try a slow curveball instead.
“Really? Then I guess I’ll take
my own advice. Wouldn’t want
you to have a heart attack, anyway.”
Her face flares, jaw to ear tips.
She lifts her book to cover it up.
I Didn’t React Badly
Because I know she was just being
rude. I do carry extra poundage.
But she doesn’t think so, and neither
does anyone else. Even the scale
keeps trying to tell me one hundred
twenty-two pounds isn’t too much
for my five-foot-ten-inch framework.
But that stinking mirror doesn’t lie.
Every time I walk by, it shouts out,
Hey. Chub. When are you going to lose
those fifteen pounds of ugly-ass flab?
Do you want to stay size four forever?
Between dance and cheer, I get plenty
of exercise, so I know my real enemy
is food. But calories won’t conquer
me. They are one thing I can control.
And Just Maybe
If I can control them, make myself
thin as I need to be, the rest of my life
will turn right again. Maybe, if I can make
Daddy proud enough, he’ll come see me cheer
or watch me vie for Miss Teen Nevada.
Maybe, if I can make Mom really look
at me, she’ll have something to think
about besides Patrick. Maybe, when
I’m a size two, a talent scout will
take an interest in me. And maybe,
when Conner gets out, he’ll decide
I’m the one he wants, after all. Maybe.
So I’ll count every calorie. Train even harder.
Fight for buff. And maybe I’ll ask Sean
about that steroid I read about—
the weight loss phenom of the stars.
Sean Terrence O’Connell
Buff
Don’t like that word.
Not tough enough to describe
a weight-sculpted body.
“Built”
is better. Like a builder
frames a house,
constructing its skeleton
two-by-four
by
two-by-four, a real
athlete shapes himself
muscle group by muscle
group, ignoring the
pain.
Focused completely on
the gain. It can’t happen
overnight. It takes hours
every single day
and
no one can force you to
do it. Becoming the best
takes a shitload of inborn
drive.
Drive
That’s what it takes to reach
the top, and that is where
I’ve set my sights. Second
best means you lose. Period.
I will be the best damn first
baseman ever in the league.
My dad was a total baseball
freak (weird, considering
he coached football), and
when I was a kid, he went
on and on about McGwire
being the first-base king.
I grew up wanting to be
first-base royalty. T-ball,
then years of Little League,
gave me the skills I need.
But earning that crown
demands more than skill.
What it requires are arms
like Mark McGwire’s.
I Play Football, Too
Kind of a tribute. (Hey, Dad.
Hope they let you watch
football in heaven!) But, while
I’m an okay safety,
my real talent is at the bat.
I’ll use it to get into Stanford.
The school’s got a great
program. But even if
it didn’t, it would be
at the top of my university
wish list because Cara will
go there, I’m sure. She says
it isn’t a lock, but that’s bull.
Her parents are both alumni,
and her father has plenty of
pull. Money. And connections.
Uncle Jeff has connections too,
and there will be Stanford
scouts at some random (or
maybe not so) game. I have
to play brilliantly every time.
Our first game is in three weeks.
Snow or no snow, we have to
practice. And on a day like
today, no school and all snow,
I’m grateful for the weight
room Uncle Jeff put together here
at home. His home. My home
since Dad died, and my kid
brother, Wade’s, home too. Our
big brother, Chad, lives in Reno.
No slick roads to brave, just
steep stairs, I grab my iPod, head
first to the kitchen for a power
bar and amino drink, plus a
handy-dandy anabolic booster.
Over-the-counter for now,
just in case our preseason
pee test includes a steroid
screen. Gotta play it smart
or end up busted, à la McGwire.
All Pumped Up
And ready to lift, I’m on
my way to our makeshift
gym when the doorbell
rings. Who the hell would
be out on a day like this?
I peek through the peephole.
Duvall, all frosted white.
Guess I should see what
he wants. I crack the door.
“Hey, Bobby. What’s up?”
The pissant pushes past me.
Dude. It’s, like, dumping
out there. He shakes off
like a dog, dropping snow
to melt on the entrance tile.
“Uh, yeah, I can see that.…”
Fricking dweeb. He just
stands there, and his stupid-
ass grin is pissing me off.
“I was just about to go lift, so…”
Cool, dude. Can I watch?
Been wanting to improve
my technique. He wants
more than that, but since
he’s not saying what, I don’t
know how to respond
except, “Uh, yeah. I guess
so.” Hope the guy isn’t gay.
I don’t think he is. I mean,
we’ve shared locker rooms
for years. Bobby plays
first-string shortstop
and second-string kicker.
I never noticed him look
funny at the other guys.
But for sure, if I even
think he’s checking
me out, he’ll be one
sorry fucker. My blood
pressure surges. Swells.
My Face Flushes Hot
I move quickly past
Bobby so he doesn’t see
it and think I’m blushing,
or hear my heart drilling
into my chest, into my ears.
It’s the supplements
and their thermogenic
rush through my veins.
But Bobby doesn’t know
that. And he doesn’t need to.
He follows me down
the stairs, humming
some weird-ass song.
“What are you singing?”
And why is he singing it?
Zeppelin, dude. Don’t
you know “Black Dog”?
Hey, hey, Mama, hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm hm.
Radical. Robert Plant rocks.
If He Says So
Personally, I prefer metal,
especially the death variety.
I pop my iPod into a docking
station, queue up Kataklysm,
Nile, Six Feet Under.
Turn it up. Loud. Something
about the frantic rhythm
encourages pumping of iron.
Start with lighter dumbbells,
to warm up the muscles before
really working them. I can
do a dozen easy reps while
still conversing, so I nudge
Bobby. “Coach Torrance
taught you this stuff, right?”
Bobby shrugs his narrow
shoulders. Well, yeah, kind of.
But look at you, and then
look at me. I must be doing
something wrong, you know?
I choose heavier barbells
before letting myself move
to the weight machine.
I love the way my muscles
start to burn. “It’s not just
correct form that makes
it happen, you know. It
takes dedication. Hours
and hours of hard fucking
work. Total commitment.”
Bobby shakes his head.
Takes more than that.
Besides… He watches
me fight for another rep.
I don’t want to work
that hard. There’s an easier
way. He waits to see if
I bite. When I don’t, he says,
I was hoping you could help
me out with some ’roids.
I Could Do That
I’ve got an easy source.
I could probably even
make a few bucks on
the deal. But I don’t like
how the guy just assumes
it’s possible, let alone that
I will sco
re them for him.
It’s not like we’re best
friends or anything. If he
gets busted, I’m def going
down right along with him.
“Uh, you know it’s pretty
much a sure bet we’ll get
tested in the next few weeks.
The stuff you can get over
the counter works. Do
you have a GNC gold
card?” Hint. Hint. Huff.
Lift. “That’s what I use,
and with the card it’s not
too pricey.” A hell of
a lot cheaper than
the real deal, but
I don’t add that part.
If he can’t figure that out
all by himself, he’s even
stupider than I thought.
Barbells accomplished,
I move over to the weight
machine, waiting for him
to respond. Just about
the time I think he’s been
struck mute, he says,
Guess you’re right about
the piss test. But after that,
I still want the good shit.
I know you’ve got a line
on them. Get me some,
I’ll make it worth your
trouble. How about it?
Anger Pricks
Like static, sharp and electric
and urging me toward rage.
My biceps and quads already
burn, and now my brain feels
on fire too. And just as I decide
to let myself blow, the door
at the top of the stairs opens.
Sean! yells Aunt Mo. Your cell
is ringing. And please turn
down that god-awful music.
I abandon the weight bench,
turn off my iPod. “Come on.”
Bobby heels up the stairs.
(Good dog.) I point toward
the front door. “See ya, dude.”
I locate my now-silent phone.
Perfect - 02 Page 2
