“The eating thing is a problem.
But as far as the job, you should be happy
for her. It’s her dream, and she’s worked hard
to accomplish it, right?”
I still hadn’t—haven’t—mentioned my own
dream, and my decision to pursue it. I started
to do that one time, but when
she cut me off to talk about Kendra’s probable
anorexia, somehow the subject of dance just
didn’t seem important.
It wouldn’t have been to her, anyway.
My supporting her sister pissed Jenna off.
I’m sick of her always
getting the stuff she wants. All because of
her looks? She hasn’t worked hard. All she
does is starve herself. And
my mom doesn’t even care about that. That’s
messed up. No one notices me. Not even when
I got good grades. That was
“expected.” But get bad ones, everyone freaks.
Still trying to be the voice of reason,
I dared say, “You know
insurance rates go down when you get
good grades. If your parents are paying
for your insurance, isn’t
it fair to expect you to step up and get them?”
Mistake. Why are you taking everyone
else’s side? It came
out a whine. I thought you’d understand.
“Jenna, I do understand. I just think
you’re standing a little
too close to have a clear perspective.”
Bigger mistake. You are just like my dad.
Always saying you love
me, but not meaning it enough to prove it.
“Me? Like your dad?” I snorted. “Yeah, right.
You mean I’m an overt bigot,
semi-misogynistic, and an overbearing prick?”
Biggest Mistake Of All
To my complete surprise, she jumped
straight to his defense.
I don’t even know what half that stuff means.
Okay, that one time you met him, he wasn’t
very nice. But before Mom
left him, he was my daddy. Sometimes he
was kind of mean, but never to me. After
we moved in with Patrick,
that was when he got nasty. I don’t know
why he decided to take it out on Kendra and
me. Not like we told Mom to go.
But he acted like it was our fault. Then, even
more to my surprise, she hauled off and
started to cry. Which shifted
everything back on me, and somehow elicited
my apology. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Please
don’t cry. Everything will
be all right.” But I’m wondering if it will.
I’m Also Wondering
If the reason she can’t accept the idea
of her dad’s wedding
is a simple case of jealousy. She wants
his love. He’s focusing it all on Shiloh.
Jenna says they’re talking
about having a baby before too long, too.
I can see why she feels left behind.
Maybe even discarded.
Is that why she refuses to accept my love
and return it? Afraid that love doesn’t
last? Doesn’t really exist?
Afraid if her own father can withdraw
his love (or at least the manifestation
of his love), that maybe
she somehow isn’t worthy of the emotion?
I’ve tried so hard to break through
her enamel, reach the clay
beneath, mold it into a viable relationship.
But a relationship needs more than one
person to be involved
in it. My own parents are anything but
perfect. They hold high expectations for
me, and for each other.
But there is nurturing within the boundaries
of our family. I don’t know if they are in love
anymore. But they love each
other, and I have no doubt that they love me.
So maybe my lesson here is to learn from
my musings and trust
that my family’s love will sustain my dream.
I’m not quite ready to out myself as a dancer
yet. But I have to consider
doing it very soon. Because the more I think
about Shantell’s tirade, the more I realize that
while dance hasn’t always
been my heart, it’s starting to feel that way now.
So Today, I Will Tell Jenna
I’m taking her to a big jazz festival
on the Riverwalk. God,
I hope she likes jazz better than she liked
the ballet. At least it’s outside, with lots
of places to walk and sit
beside the Truckee River. The weather
is warming, as if it understands that May
is approaching. Jenna,
of course, dresses for the sun-lathered day
in teeny shorts and a tight little T-shirt, which
leaks cleavage from a low
scoop. For the millionth time, I think how
beautiful she really is. Every other guy will
think so too. I really wish
I didn’t have to share her with them all.
At least she seems to have forgiven me
for our last time together.
The Riverwalk is crowded, and, locked
thigh to thigh, we worm our way through
the throng. “What kind
of jazz do you like best?” Please have
something positive to say. Is there more
than one kind? She smiles
at some college-age guys who overtly ogle
her scoop. All three are slurping beers. Do
you think they’d buy me
one? Like she doesn’t know the answer.
“I think they’d probably all give you theirs
if you keep flirting like
that.” Irritation is obvious in my voice.
Really? I’m going to go ask them. As an
experiment. Be right back.
And off she goes, without waiting for me to
tell her no effing way. I can only watch
as she slinks up to them,
acting for all the world like she wants to
join their pack. One of them turns and looks
at me. I shrug, and he smiles.
In under five minutes, she returns, holding
two almost-full cups of beer. You were
right. God, you’re smart.
Here. One’s for you. She offers a beer.
“No, thanks. I’m not much into brew.”
I really don’t like an alcohol
buzz, something she still hasn’t noticed.
But even if I were, I’d want to stay sober.
“You didn’t give them
your number, did you?” It’s a joke. But
her answer isn’t. No, of course not. But
one of them gave me
his. “Just in case,” he said. She gulps
down one of the beers in three long pulls.
Good stuff. Okay, now
tell me about the different kinds of jazz.
At Least She Remembered The Jazz
I lead her to an open spot on the concrete
stairs. “I’ll tell you about
jazz in a minute,” I say, watching her start
on the second beer. Thank God she’s sipping
this one. She already looks
a little unsteady. “But first, there’s something
I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while
now….” She tenses, and
her eyes go kind of panicky, an
d I realize
how that might have sounded. “No, no. It has
nothing to do with you.
It’s about me, and what I’ve been doing….”
She slams down half the beer. “It’s all good,
Jenna. I just want you
to know….” I talk about Liana. About dance.
Dreams. She smiles and nods and when
I finish, she says, Cool.
Be right back. I’m gonna hustle more beer.
Cara
Dreams
Has it only been weeks
since we met? How can
such a short span of time
connect
two people so completely?
Before, I would have sworn
new love this deep could
only be hallucinatory
fantasy,
imagination incarnate.
Someone no one else
could see to spend your
heart-weary nights
with.
Then you appear in my life,
full-color illustration, ink
lifted off pages of my Big
Book of Fairy Tales, and into
reality.
My Big Book of Fairy Tales
Takes up a wide chunk of bookshelf
on my bedroom wall. It was the first
big book I read on my own. I always
had a thirst for words, though Mom
was not the one who quenched it.
That was Sandra, our au pair
when Conner and I were little.
She was a star in those very dark
nights when Mom didn’t understand
her postpartum mood swings could
be regulated chemically. She cut us
early from her apron strings. Sandra
was our mommy substitute, and
she was very good at her job. When
she left to get married, I cried. Next
came Sherrie, who went too far
with Dad. And after her, Leona,
who went way beyond all things
proper with Conner, aged twelve.
Her fall from grace led to her early
demise when a fight with her grown-
up boyfriend sent her driving, head-
first, into a wall. No happily ever after
for Leona. We went without a governess.
Mom took over as mother, compelling
us toward the same kind of perfection
her own parents demanded of her.
It came more easily to me. Poor
Conner fielded the brunt of her
rages, along with Dad, who steadily
withdrew. From her. From us. From
time to time, I return to the pages
of My Big Book of Fairy Tales, as if
by doing so, I might rediscover
a few short memories of childhood
happiness. A star in the night, perhaps.
Saturday Morning, Late April
Usually the house would be still
as a crypt. But not today. I’m called
downstairs to the dining room, where
Mom and Dad have slipped into
earnest conversation. Sit down, says
Mom. You know Conner is coming
home for a short visit today. There
are a few things to keep in mind,
according to Dr. Starr. She asked
that we please not quiz him about
life in Aspen Springs. As you might
imagine, there is a confidentiality
issue. No questions about therapy,
or any of the people he knows there.
Above all, we are not to ask why
he chose to attempt suicide.
Her expression seems to demand
an answer. But what is the question?
Does she believe I’d argue? “Okay.”
I look at Dad, but his resolute jaw
and rail-rigid spine reveal zero
emotion. I remember an afternoon
many years ago, when he tried to set
aside his devotion to work long
enough to play with Conner and
me. It was a board game—Risk—
and what I recall most clearly was
how he struggled not to overwhelm
his children with adult strategy.
Not easy for a man whose entire
existence is centered around winning.
Dad has always hated to lose. Yet
Conner won twice that particular
day. Not sure if it was luck, or if
Dad held back, but the look in our
father’s eyes was half pride, half fury.
Mom Goes To Get Her Coat
Sweeps past us, down the hall.
I should be back in an hour.
I hear the garage door open. Wait
until I’m pretty sure she’s gone.
Dad has immersed himself in the Wall
Street Journal. I interrupt him anyway.
“Someone asked about Conner the other
day. She saw him at the movies, I guess,
with some other Aspen Springs kids,
and maybe one of his doctors. I didn’t
know how much to tell her. Is there
a particular story I should be giving?”
Dad looks up from his paper. Our
eyes connect, and I find sadness
in his. I don’t suppose you could tell
people to mind their own business,
huh? A few weeks, you’ll graduate.
Move on. Move away. Then it really
won’t matter much what your friends
have to say about Conner, will it?
He doesn’t get it. “She was his
girlfriend, Dad. She’s worried about
him, and I don’t blame her. It’s like
he vanished without an explanation.”
Just tell her he’s rehabilitating.
Getting better every day. No one
knows how badly he was injured,
so that’s all you need to say.
Better not mention she already
knows a lot more. Let him ramble
in his fantasy forest in total denial.
It’s a gamble, but so is chancing
the truth. Kendra will probably
keep her mouth shut. She has so far.
Is it Conner’s reputation she doesn’t
want to mar? Or is it her own?
Not Much More To Say
I excuse myself, return to my room.
Try not to think about anything or
anyone except Dani. I wish I was
with her instead of waiting for reunion
with someone I barely know anymore.
After a while, the sound of Mom’s Lexus
lifts toward my window. She has pulled
around in front of the house, as if
planning a quick getaway. Past the glass
and two stories below, my brother gets
out of the car. I watch as he turns
to look toward where Emily lived.
He won’t find her there. Or anywhere
close by. Even from here, I can see
him processing the filtering information.
She. Isn’t. There. Downstairs, I hear
Mom hissing for him to please come
inside. That woman doesn’t live there
anymore. Did you think she would?
Did he believe Mom would forgive her?
Conner responds with rage. Why
wouldn’t she, Mother? What the hell
did you do? Enough. I turn up my music
so I don’t have to hear her tell him
what he doesn’t want to know—
that she is, and always will be, in
control of all of our lives. Unless
we get away. Run away. Fly away.
The Loud Exchange
>
Between Mom and Conner rises
above my music. I start to turn it up
even more, when my cell signals
a new text message. Dani! I rush
to see what she has to tell me. Only
it’s not from Dani at all. It’s from Kendra.
THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT THIS.
GOT IT FROM AUBREE. SHE GOT IT FROM SEAN.
What? I click on the photo link. Oh God.
No! How? Sean, what have you done?
You bastard! You are stalking me!
In bold letters, the caption says slut.
I’m not, and neither is she, despite
how Dani and I look. On her bed.
In her mauve and sage room. Me,
with my sweater up over my head.
The rest of me is stripped to skin.
My mouth is in a perfect O, as I give
myself to Dani’s lips, below my belly
button and in between my opened
legs. And tiny spot of glare or no,
the camera caught everything. As if that
isn’t enough, another text. Another
photo, this when she has pulled my
sweater all the way off, ducked
to kiss the inside of my knee, leaving
my most intimate places, plus my face,
for the camera to see—and capture.
Kendra Got the Pic
From Aubree. That means it has
been passed around. Who knows
how far it’s gone? God, it might
be on YouTube by now. I think
about searching it, but how? He
wouldn’t use my name, would he?
I guess I should be thankful for “slut.”
I text Dani. CHECK THIS OUT. GET BACK
TO ME. I wait. Wait. Where is she?
I need to go downstairs. Should say
hello to Conner. But I need more
to hear back from her. Way more.
At last, my cell buzzes. HOLY SHIT.
WHO DID THIS? WAIT, I CAN GUESS.
LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE OUT NOW. JUST
BTW SEXTING IS ILLEGAL, YOU KNOW.
Perfect - 02 Page 24
