Perfect - 02

by Ellen Hopkins

  jog slowly, doing their best not to breathe

  hard. Slugs. I sprint by them, spraying sweat.

  Comments follow me: Ooh. Disgusting.

  What’s she trying to prove? Stupid

  cheerleaders think they’re special.

  If she gets any skinnier, she’ll blow

  away in a good, stiff wind. And then,

  She used to go out with Conner Sykes.…

  I run even faster, before the rest catches

  up to me. I glance at the big clock on the wall.

  Thank God. The period is almost over.

  Thank God I can leave when we’re through.

  Picking My Way

  To my car, trying not to slip on

  the snow-frosted parking lot, I am

  almost there when I spot Cara,

  working her way to Sean’s truck,

  parked in the row behind. “Wait!” I yell,

  picking up my pace, even if it means

  falling flat on my butt—something

  I just barely avoid. “I need to talk to you.”

  The scarlet flush of her face tells

  me she knows what I have to say.

  I’m sorry, Kendra. This was a bad

  way for you to find out. Zero denial.

  Not at all what I expected. Still, I have

  to know. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She stands, a hand on each hip, little

  in the way of compassion in her eyes.

  I couldn’t. Her voice is sharp as new

  nails. But even if I could, I wouldn’t have.

  You’d been hurt enough already. I’m

  sorry you had to find out. That anybody did.

  “Me too. How is he doing? Do you

  know? Have you talked to him?”

  She shakes her head. He’s still not

  allowed phone calls. And my parents

  don’t want to discuss him with me.

  Or each other, for that matter.

  That doesn’t surprise me. He never

  said much about them either. And what

  he did say wasn’t very nice. “Okay.

  Well, I’ve got to go. I have a photo shoot.”

  We head opposite directions—she, toward

  her boyfriend. Me, forever away from mine.

  That Seems More And More

  Like reality. Not sure why I thought

  maybe we’d get back together again.

  Wishful thinking pretty much always

  comes back to slap you in the face.

  I think about Conner all the way home.

  Think about him and Mrs. Sanders while

  I curl my hair, and put on the kind of makeup

  that makes you look older in magazines.

  My agent, Maxine, showed me how to

  do it. She is forty, trying to look twenty-

  five. And she wants me to look the same

  age. Easier for me. First, concealer, to cover

  those sleep-deprivation shadows. Wait. OMG.

  Close inspection reveals embryonic tendrils

  at the corners of my eyes. Perfect. Wrinkles

  before I graduate high school. Oh well.

  That’s why they invented Botox, right?

  Mrs. Sanders has great skin. Wonder if

  she’s doing the Botox thing. Wow. Talk

  about irony. Wonder if she’s had a boob

  job, if that’s why Conner chose her over

  me. Damn it. If I keep stressing over this,

  I’ll really get wrinkled. The irony, like

  frown lines, deepens. I need something

  to take my mind off it. I’d hit the liquor

  cabinet, except alcohol is so fattening.

  (One hundred calories per ounce for

  the hard stuff, and I’d want it hard.)

  But here in the medicine chest, between

  the ibuprofen and the Benadryl, is a little

  amber bottle, with Jenna’s name on

  the prescription label. Percocet.

  I Don’t Know What It Is Exactly

  But I do remember that Jenna got it after

  oral surgery. Some kind of painkiller.

  And I also remember it made her really

  giggly. I could use a good laugh. I read

  the label. Lots of warnings. Don’t drink

  alcohol with. (No problem.) Don’t drive

  while using. (Could be a problem.)

  Don’t use for more than five days,

  as dependency is a risk. (Not enough

  pills left in the bottle to worry about.)

  There’s a whole list of possible side

  effects, too. But I’m only going to take

  one. I wash it down with a huge

  glass of water. And by the time I finish

  my makeup—blush, liner, smoky eye

  shadow, mascara, lip gloss—I feel better.

  By the Time

  I get in my car and drive halfway to

  the studio, I’m feeling great. No worry,

  no pain at all. And, in fact, my empty stomach

  doesn’t bother me either. This stuff rocks,

  except it does make my eyelids heavy.

  I turn up the radio, crack the window. Cool

  air streams over my face, fights a sudden

  desire to let my eyes close. Just for a second.

  Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Whoa. That’s why

  they put those bumpy things in the yellow line.

  Okay, I’m awake now. Lots of traffic around

  me, and this time of day, there are bound to be

  cops doing speed control. I signal, pull

  into the slow lane, and somehow I manage

  the last five miles without drifting off, arrive

  at the shoot all in one piece. And happy.

  The Photog

  Isn’t quite ready for me, so I sit in a big

  comfy chair. I’m not alone in the waiting

  room. The man, who is fit and tan and wears

  pricey clothes, stares without apology. “What?”

  His smile reveals perfect predatory teeth.

  Sorry. It’s just that you’ve got a great look.

  You here to do portfolio stills? His eyes—

  striking green—continue their assessment.

  I shake my head. “Pre-pageant publicity.

  Miss Teen Nevada. I’ve got a portfolio.”

  Of course you do. I’d love to take a look

  at it. He pauses. Then, You repped?

  “Yep. I’m with Maxine Delgado.”

  The studio door opens just as he says,

  She’s good. But I’m better. Here’s my

  card. Call me. I think we need to talk.

  Sean

  We Need To Talk

  Four words. Twelve

  letters that strike terror

  like a hint of a slither

  through tall grass.

  I

  know what she wants

  to ask me, know how

  I made her feel. But I

  am

  afraid to admit

  there’s something wrong

  with me. Something

  fundamental. I’m

  not

  sure if it’s fixable.

  But without it,

  I am less than

  a man.

  How can I possibly

  tell that to

  the perfect woman?

  Can’t Stop Thinking

  About the other night—Cara

  so coming on to me, and me

  unable to give her what she

  wanted. What I wanted too.

  My body’s betrayal is not

  acceptable. And the really bad

  thing is, nothing is making

  it work right. Not the girl

  I’ve lusted after, but had to

  wait for since we were freshmen.

  And not the hottest Inter
net

  porn. Okay, probably not

  the best thing for me to be

  looking at in my spare time,

  but I figured if anything could

  encourage this piece of dead

  wood attached to my groin,

  that would be it. So far, no

  good. Not giant boobs, not

  girl-on-girl action, not even

  the vilest three-way romp

  I’ve ever been not-quite-

  disgusted to view. The damn

  thing just lays there, like

  a bored housewife. And now

  Cara wants to talk to me.

  If she wants to break up

  over this, I’ll totally freak

  out. Maybe I should go

  to a doctor. Except a blood

  test, if he wanted one, would

  not be a good thing. Can’t

  talk to Dad. Embarrassing.

  That pretty much leaves

  Chad. He’s a loser, capital L.

  But I have to trust someone.

  I’ve trusted him with other

  stuff, maybe even bigger

  (so to speak) than this.

  After all, he is my brother.

  Chad Is A Senior

  At UNR, majoring in nutrition.

  Not that he cares much about

  it. He wants to go into sports

  medicine, and nutrition

  was the closest he could get

  without moving too far from

  home. He’ll go to Vegas

  next year, if he can get into

  their graduate program.

  Grades may be a factor.

  Like I said, he’s not the most

  ambitious guy, which explains

  why he never became Dad’s

  best hope for a professional

  athlete son. Lucky me. I did.

  Chad has been very helpful

  to me there. Glad he isn’t

  the envious type. Then again,

  jealousy takes a certain

  amount of effort. Just saying.

  I Could Call

  But a visit to his apartment

  is almost always an interesting

  experience. He attracts a certain

  kind of people. Partiers, mostly.

  And that usually means girls.

  Yeah, I’m already attached

  to one. But it doesn’t hurt

  to look at other ones, especially

  hot coeds. Chad may be lazy,

  but I guess he’s got charisma.

  I go straight to his place after

  practice, stopping to pick up

  sub sandwiches—the healthiest

  fast food I know. Chad would

  probably prefer burgers and fries,

  but oh well. I do let him know

  I’m on my way, so if he does

  have a female there, they won’t

  be mid-dirty. Wonder if watching

  it live would fix my little problem.

  But Today He’s Company-Free

  Good thing. His place is a sty.

  I pick my way through piles

  of clothes—clean or dirty,

  I can’t really tell—cereal boxes,

  crumpled Keystone cans, somehow

  make it to the kitchen, where

  Chad’s actually studying.

  Hey, bro. Thanks for bringing

  dinner. Have a brewski.

  He gulps a big swig of his own.

  I go to the fridge, grab a beer,

  sit across the cluttered table

  from him, unwrap my sandwich.

  He waits for me to say something,

  but I’m not sure how to start.

  Finally he jumps in. You look

  like you’re bulking up pretty

  well. You ready for opening

  day? Uncle Jeff said you rocked

  during your exhibition game.

  I take a giant bite, wash it down

  with bitter beer. “I did okay.

  But I’ve got to do better to

  impress a Stanford scout.

  I’m working my ass off.”

  Work is a good thing, hence…

  He points to books, stacked

  tall on the table. Only one

  is actually open, however.

  Wanna tell me why you’re here?

  To the point, which is probably

  good. “Well, this is kind of hard

  to talk about. Like embarrassing.”

  Like maybe it was a mistake

  to come. How do I say this?

  He looks up from his sandwich,

  studies my face, which must

  be the color of pomegranates.

  What? You got an STD or

  something? He shakes his head.

  Fuck it. Just say it. “Not

  an STD. I couldn’t get one

  if I tried. See, the problem

  is, I can’t get it up. Not even

  when I really want to. Not

  even when my girlfriend

  takes her clothes off and

  climbs all over me. I’m barely

  eighteen, and my dick acts

  like it’s eighty. What’s wrong?”

  Chad grins. Dude, you know

  about ’roids and nut shrinkage,

  right? At my horrified grimace,

  he says, Too much artificial

  testosterone makes the real

  deal go away. That’s one

  reason why you don’t want

  to do too many cycles in a row.

  Stop using, things should work

  like they’re supposed to again.

  Chad, Steroid Expert

  Is also my supplier. And not

  just mine. He underwrites

  his living expenses dealing

  illegal substances. Steroids

  are just the tipping-off place.

  I’m glad there’s a sound

  explanation. Still, “So I can’t

  have sex until I quit, or what?”

  What about all those pro

  athletes and their hot women?

  Well, I wouldn’t say that

  exactly. Haven’t you heard

  of Viagra? He’s got to be

  kidding, Viagra is definitely

  for eighty-year-old dicks, right?

  I Leave Chad’s

  With a pretty good beer buzz,

  one more round of muscle

  enhancers, plus a penis fixer.

  Holy crap. But it’s just for

  a little while. I also got a lecture

  about not combining Viagra

  with other drugs. About ’roids

  and high blood pressure. About

  probable acne, potential liver

  or kidney problems, and (this is

  a great one!) the remote

  possibility of growing

  breasts. About steroids

  staying in your system for as

  long as a year or more after

  you quit them. Chad is quite

  the lecturer, considering

  he’s also the pusher. Guess

  he doesn’t want to feel guilty

  if I wind up needing a bra.

  Personally, I Think

  It’s all hype. Well, other than

  the penis problem. And I guess

  my skin has looked better.

  That, at least, can be fixed

  without resorting to pill popping.

  I have to admit I’m curious

  to see if the “little blue pill”

  can fix me. If it can make me

  some kind of sex superstar.

  None of the times I’ve had

  sex before were what you

  might call memorable. Easy.

  Fast. Not much in the way

  of intensive foreplay. Nothing

  like what you see in movies.

  I’m a total amateur. Time


  for some real practice, with

  a little chemical assistance.

  Now if only Cara is up for

  it too, like the other night.

  A Little Fuzzy

  (Foamy?) around the edges,

  I decide to wait until I get

  home to give her a call.

  I manage the icy drive without

  incident, park mostly straight,

  make my way inside. I’m pretty

  much a lightweight drinker,

  so the four beers I downed

  at Chad’s have blunted my

  motivation. Glad I already

  ate, because as soon as Aunt

  Mo hears me come in, she calls

  from the kitchen, We’re all at

  the table. Were you going to

  grace us with your presence?

  She’s bitchy. I’m fuzzy.

  A deadly combination.

  “No,” I yell. “I don’t feel

  so hot.” Not a lie. Suddenly

  bed sounds like a good plan.

  Andre

  So Hot

  Beneath her cool veneer,

  she’s steaming. You’d think

  she was thirty, not just

  sixteen, and I can’t

  help

  but wonder how she learned

  the dance of the cobra.

  Sensuous. Dangerous.

  Deadly venomous. And

  I’m

  the snake charmer who

  snaps out of a trance

  to find the serpent

  has tricked him into

  tumbling

  under her spell. I swore

  this wouldn’t happen.

  Never believed it was

  possible to fall so

  hard.

  Wish I Could Say

  I’ve fallen for the perfect girl,

  but that would be

  a lie. Or at least a gross exaggeration.

  There’s a lot about Jenna to love.

  The way she looks,