Perfect - 02

by Ellen Hopkins

  Check messages. Find a voice

  mail from Cara, who wants

  to get together. For the first

  time today, everything’s bomb.

  Andre Marcus Kane III

  Bomb

  Give most girls a way

  to describe me, that’s what

  they’d say—that Andre

  Marcus Kane the third is

  bomb.

  I struggle daily to maintain

  the pretense. Why must it be

  expected—no, demanded—of

  me

  to surpass my ancestors’

  achievements? Why

  can’t I just be a regular

  seventeen-year-old, trying to

  make

  sense of life? But my path

  has been preordained,

  without anyone even asking

  me

  what I want. Nobody seems

  to care that with every push

  to live up to their expectations,

  my own dreams

  vaporize.

  Don’t Get Me Wrong

  I do understand my parents wanting only

  the best for me.

  Am one hundred percent tuned to the concept

  that life is a hell of a lot more enjoyable

  with a fast-flowing

  stream of money carrying you along.

  I like driving a pricey car, wearing

  clothes that feel

  like they want to be next to my skin.

  I love not having to be a living, breathing

  stereotype because

  of my color. Anytime I happen to think

  about it, I am grateful to my grandparents

  for their vision. Grateful

  to my mom for her smarts, to my dad

  for his bald ambition and, yes, greed.

  Not to mention

  his unreal intuition. But I’m sick of being

  pushed to follow in his footsteps. Real

  estate speculation?

  Investment banking? Neither interests me.

  Too much at risk, and when you lose,

  you lose major.

  I much prefer winning, even if it’s winning

  small. I think more like my grandfather.

  Andre Marcus Kane Sr.

  embraced the color of his skin, refused

  to let it straitjacket him. He grew up in

  the urban California

  nightmare called Oakland, with its rutted

  asphalt and crumbling cement and frozen

  dreams, all within

  sight of sprawling hillside mansions.

  I’d look up at those houses, he told

  me more than once,

  and think to myself, no reason why

  that can’t be me, living up there. No

  reason at all, except

  getting sucked down into the swamp.

  Meaning welfare or the drug trade

  or even the tired

  belief that sports were the only way out.

  I guessed I wanted a big ol’ house on

  the hill more than just

  about anything. And I knew my brain

  was the way to get it. Oh, what a brain!

  My gramps started inventing

  things in elementary school. Won awards

  for his off-the-wall inventions in high

  school, and a full

  scholarship to Cal-Poly. He could have

  gone on to postgrad anywhere, except

  just about then he fell

  hard for my grandmother, Grace, a Kriol

  beauty from Belize. Never saw any girl

  could match her, before

  or since, he claims. God sent her to me.

  Maybe. Who else would have encouraged

  Gramps’s crazy ideas?

  Telephones that didn’t need wires?

  Computers, in every American home?

  Ambitious goals,

  especially in the sixties, when color TV

  was about as technological as most people

  got. But if Andre Kane

  believed it would come to pass, then so did

  his new wife, Grace. Gramps led the charge

  into the Silicon Valley.

  He got his house on the hill. And then some.

  Gramps’s Obese Bank Account

  Came with taxes and bills. His kids—two

  boys and a girl—came

  with private school tuitions. Dad was oldest,

  and so came programmed with the Eldest Son

  Syndrome—a classic

  overachiever, hell-bent on making his own

  mark on the world, and a bigger one than

  his father’s. Andre

  Marcus Kane Jr. had more than drive going

  for him. He had luck, eerie foresight, and

  brilliant timing. Right

  out of college, Dad became an investment

  banker, banking heavily on his own

  investments. His stock

  portfolio thrived. And somehow, he knew

  to dump everything right before the last

  time the market crashed.

  So when things started to look iffy again,

  he went looking for other investments.

  Lending is too easy

  these days, I heard him tell Mom. You

  can’t keep giving those loans away.

  Adjustable rate mortgages

  are going to bring this country down.

  Which explains why we deserted the Golden

  State in favor of the Silver

  State some eighteen months ago. Dad keeps

  pouncing on the distressed properties that

  pop up regularly.

  Plus, cost of living is lower here, and that

  includes my tuition at Zephyr Academy,

  the finest college

  prep school in northern Nevada. I don’t

  miss California too much, except for seeing

  Gramps and Grandma

  Grace. That, and the street dance scene.

  Dad Might Be Sympathetic

  To my missing my grandparents, but

  dance is not even

  a small blip on his radar. I mean, it would

  not jibe with his plans for my future.

  It’s an ongoing rant.

  Mom, who’s generally more focused on

  where to nip and how to tuck her patients,

  only brings it up once

  in a while. Dad is more pragmatic, and

  broaches the subject regularly, especially

  with graduation in

  plain sight. Did you decide about school?

  I’ve had positive responses from two

  California colleges.

  Either would be okay, I guess. “Not yet.”

  Stop procrastinating. Where do you see

  yourself next year? Because

  it won’t be here. Time for a viable plan.

  Dorm or a homeless shelter? Nice choice.

  Thanks, Dad. My plan

  is art school, a frivolous career in graphic

  design. I’m still waiting to hear back from

  my top choice—the San

  Francisco Art Institute. But when I told

  Dad that, he freaked. Apparently, “art”

  plus “San Francisco” can

  only mean one thing. You’re not serious!

  He actually yelled, all his well-cultivated

  self-control out the

  window. What are you? A homosexual?

  It might have been funny, except for

  the way he looked at me—

  like hinging on my answer was worthiness

  of the Kane surname. I shook my head,

  agreed to rethink my future,

  wishing I could confess that my real dream

  isn’t art. It’s dance. My parents have no idea.

  No one does, except

  my instru
ctor, who gives me private lessons.

  Ballet. Modern. Some ballroom. But I love jazz

  most of all, and Liana

  says I’ve got real talent. I don’t know about

  that, but I do know that dance lifts me

  above the mundane.

  Grounds me with the certainty that I am

  good at something. Connects me to the place

  inside where I find passion.

  Meaning beyond possessions. Pride, divorced

  from my last name. But how can I confess

  that to my father?

  He thinks a career in art will make me a gay

  loser. If I told him I wanted to be a dancer,

  it would erase any

  doubt in his mind that’s exactly what I am.

  As For My Mom

  She mostly cares about wasted tuition. Art?

  You might as well go to

  public school. What’s the point of spending

  all this money to insure you have a quality

  education only to have you

  squander it on an indulgent flight of fancy?

  Funny, considering indulgent flights of fancy

  bring in a good portion

  of her income as a plastic surgeon. Today,

  snow plummeting from the silver sky,

  Dr. Kane is working in

  her home office. I can hear her, purring

  to a patient on the phone. I understand and

  your concerns are justified.

  Like all cosmetic surgery, liposuction can

  have side effects. But you are a perfect

  candidate.… Mom will

  talk that lady into letting her suck the fat

  from the woman’s gut, butt, or thighs, a shortcut

  to perfection. Damn

  the bills. You’ll be the finest woman standing

  in the bankruptcy line. Your plastic surgeon

  doesn’t care, either.

  She gets payment in full up front. Which helps

  pay for her ambitionless kid’s unappreciated

  tuition. No classes today,

  though. Today, even the snowplow drivers

  are staying inside; at least I haven’t heard one

  go by. It’s a good day

  to hang out at home. But I’ve got other plans

  and a stellar all-wheel-drive Audi Quattro.

  Mom’s still on the phone,

  convincing. I call out anyway, “See you later.”

  Her voice falls quiet, so I know she must

  have heard me. But

  she doesn’t bother to say good-bye.

  Cara

  Don’t Bother

  Me with promises. Vows

  are cheaply manufactured,

  come with no guarantees.

  Don’t bother to say you

  love

  me. The word is indefinable.

  Joy to some, heartbreak

  to others, depending on

  circumstance. There

  is

  evidence that the emotion

  can make a person live longer,

  evidence it can kill you early.

  I think it’s akin to

  a deadly

  disease. Or at least some

  exotic fever. Catch it, and

  you’d better, quick, swallow

  some medication to use as a

  weapon

  against the fire ravaging

  body and soul.

  New Running Shoes

  Are the best thing in the world,

  at least once you get them broken

  in. The Nikes are good to go, if

  only we could get a few days

  of decent weather. I can run in

  the gym, but inhaling sweat

  fumes is so not my thing.

  I can swim indoors—don’t mind

  that a bit. But I’m craving a long

  run outside in the diamond air,

  in a downpour of brittle morning

  sun. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Feet drumming pavement. Leg

  muscles flex, long then short.

  Slip into the zone where time

  disappears and no one expects

  pace or performance. No one can

  catch me. No one to stop me. No score

  to keep. No measure but my own.

  When I run, I am almost free.

  But Today The Roads Are Icy

  So I won’t run, and I’ll try not

  to think about freedom. It only

  frustrates me because I sincerely

  doubt I’ll ever know what it means

  to live autonomously. I will

  forever walk beneath an umbrella

  of expectation. Mom and Dad

  have a plan for me and won’t talk

  about alternatives. My teachers

  have faith in me and know I’ll go far.

  My so-called friends mostly hang

  out to see if my status will rub off

  on them. Only Sean doesn’t really

  ask anything special of me, except

  to decorate his arm like a favorite

  piece of jewelry. Oh, he claims

  that he’s in love with me. If I knew

  what love was, I might be able to

  judge the depth of his feelings. But

  for now, it’s enough to have a stable

  relationship with one of the most

  popular guys at school. No matter

  that he doesn’t make my heart pitter-

  patter faster. Maybe I’m a ventricle

  short. Despite that, he’s the closest

  thing to a best friend I have.

  Marriages have survived long

  term on less. Not that I’m planning

  to get married any time soon. Who

  needs that kind of misery? All I have

  to do is look around to know it’s not

  for me. Still, it’s nice having a steady

  someone to hang out with. Sean

  is adventurous. Fun. Good-looking

  in a jock kind of way. And you know,

  everyone expects the perfect girl

  to go out with the perfect guy.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned

  from Mom, it’s that appearances are

  everything. Sean and I look great together.

  You Might Even Say

  We look normal. Looks can deceive.

  We’ve both had our share of emotional

  trauma, though mine stems from

  parents who really don’t care about

  me, while Sean doesn’t have parents

  at all. His mom died giving birth to

  his little brother, Wade. His dad followed

  her four years ago, fried in a fiery bus

  crash. Half of his football team died

  with him. He would have been forty-five

  today. Sean’s making his annual

  pilgrimage to the cemetery, and I’m

  going along. Here comes his jock-

  worthy GMC pickup. It was a gift from

  his uncle Jeff, who will never quite

  measure up, no matter how hard he tries.

  Sean idolized his father. He pulls into

  the driveway, and even from here I can

  see sadness in the forward tilt of his

  shoulders. It’s a memory-shadowed day.

  The Sean Who Stops

  And gets out to open the passenger

  door for me is subdued. Hey, you.

  It comes out a throaty whisper.

  He kisses me, and the kiss is quiet too.

  Sean helps me up into the cab. It over-

  flows flowers. I haven’t seen so much

  color in months. “Where did you find

  such a big variety this time of year?”

  He gives me a tepid smile. I had to

  go to five grocery stores and Wal-Mart.


  Stupid, I know. They’ll freeze first

  thing. It’s supposed to snow tonight.

  “Well, at least it’s nice right now.”

  Nice, meaning thirty degrees, partly

  cloudy, not much wind. Some would

  call that inclement. But Sean agrees

  with my assessment. Yes, it is. Let’s

  go before something nasty blows in.

  As we drive toward the city, I notice

  there isn’t one rose in these dozens

  of flowers. Lilies and asters, tulips,

  carnations, sunflowers and mums,

  but… “You couldn’t find roses in all

  those stores?” Sean drums the steering

  wheel with one hand, musing.

  Finally he says, My mom loved

  roses. She grew them everywhere

  in our yard, and when she died,

  Dad went kind of crazy and

  tore them all out. I can’t even

  look at a rose without thinking

  about that day. I was so afraid

  he’d flipped out for good and

  I would lose him, too. He kept

  saying he’d replant them in

  her memory. Never happened.

  February Doesn’t Seem

  To be a big month for mourning.

  Maybe it’s too cold to die?

  Wow. Too cold to die. Wonder

  if that’s why Conner’s still alive.

  Okay. That’s dumb. I know people

  die in February. But obviously,

  their loved ones don’t come to say

  hi in dead of winter. The cemetery

  is—uh—dead. No one here but

  Sean and me. Which makes it

  exponentially creepy, even in

  daylight. The only time I’ve been

  to a graveyard was for my grand-

  father’s burial. Dad said the old

  jerk deserved to go early. Who

  knows? I had one bad experience

  with him. Of course, it was the only

  time I actually met him. So, yeah.

  Anyway, I’ve never shared any

  of that with Sean yet. And this

  is probably not the right time