Perfect - 02

by Ellen Hopkins

  Conner in Aspen

  Springs. I think Tony and I knew him

  better than most of you. Conner was

  good at hiding the

  scared little boy inside…. At that,

  Kendra’s crying becomes almost

  hysterical. Her mom

  does her best to console her as Vanessa

  continues, Conner couldn’t be what

  everyone else wanted

  him to be. So he chose the easy way out.

  Cara

  Death

  Is

  only

  the

  easy

  way

  out

  if

  you

  are

  the

  one who dies.

  At The Red-Haired Girl’s Words

  Dad gives a little gasp. Mom barely

  flinches. Now the dark-haired boy says,

  I’m Tony. And Conner was my friend.

  Maybe the only friend I ever had, except

  for one other person. Vanessa and I both

  loved Conner, and not because he scored

  touchdowns or got straight As. We loved

  who he was when he let his guard down.

  When he let us see who he wanted to be,

  free of expectations. The real Conner.

  We thought he was stronger than it turned

  out he was because he saved us both,

  more than once, and in different

  ways. I will never forget him.

  What I want to tell you is what

  I think he would tell you, if he could.

  Living means taking chances. Risks.

  Playing safe all the time is being dead

  inside, even if you happen to still be

  breathing. People expected Conner

  to play it safe all the time. And when

  he did, he felt dead inside. I saw him

  take risks, and then he was the most

  alive person I’ve ever known. He would

  ask you to take chances. Sometimes

  that means getting hurt. Getting an F.

  Losing a game. Losing someone you

  love. But if you always play it safe,

  you lose anyway. Tony turns, goes

  over to the casket, bends and kisses

  Conner. Fuck you, dude. You should

  have hung around. Proved ’em wrong.

  He Turns Back, Crying

  Which is fine, because everyone here

  is crying. Even Mom. She makes no

  sound, but her eyes glisten, and I think

  Tony has given her permission to break

  all the way down later. He gestures to

  Vanessa to come say good-bye. Protocol

  might dictate Conner’s family go forward

  first. But I think Tony and Vanessa are

  Conner’s family. Probably better family

  than the rest of us. Dani whispers, Thanks

  for taking a chance with me. She kisses me,

  in front of everybody. And I’m good with it.

  Kendra

  Chance

  Brought us

  together.

  Tattered us

  twisted us

  wrenched us

  wide apart.

  But it wasn’t

  chance that

  ended you

  took you

  away from

  me forever.

  People Move Forward

  To say their good-byes. But I’m afraid.

  Afraid to see what’s left of Conner.

  Afraid I’ll see too much. Too little.

  Afraid that what I see will convince me

  it’s not Conner at all. From here,

  the thing in the coffin looks like it’s made

  of wax. A fake Conner, meant to fool

  us into believing he’s dead. Maybe he’s not

  dead at all. Maybe this is just some

  crazy scheme he came up with so he could

  get away. From school. From football.

  From his family. From me. Maybe he’s living

  large with Emily Sanders somewhere.

  Oh my God. What’s the matter with me?

  Of course he’s dead. Look at his parents.

  At Cara. At those two—Tony and Vanessa.

  He has leveled them. Shredded them.

  I would say he got the final laugh, but

  would he laugh, knowing what he’s done

  to them? Knowing what he’s done to me?

  Kendra, says Mom. Don’t you want

  to say good-bye? She stands, takes

  my hand, coaxes me to my feet. I let

  her lead me forward. My head is light.

  I haven’t eaten a bite since I got

  the news. Death as a weight-loss tool.

  Wonder if I could market that.

  The thought makes me laugh. Mom

  gives me a sideways glance. But all

  it takes to sober me completely is reaching

  the casket. I’ve never seen Conner

  in a suit. That alone makes him look

  a lot like a mannequin. A suit is so not

  Conner. I’d rather remember him naked.

  Next to me. Under the trees. On a blanket

  of pine needles. The memory catches in

  my throat. Did he ever think about

  that afternoon? Can he think about it now?

  “Where are you, Conner?” I whisper.

  “Can you hear me? Can you remember,

  wherever you are? Will you remember

  me, the way I will always remember you?”

  I don’t want to say good-bye, but Mom puts

  her arm around me. He’ll remember you.

  Sean

  Good-bye

  Watching

  good-byes.

  Long ones.

  Quick ones.

  Sad ones.

  Angry ones.

  People say

  good-bye in

  many ways.

  How will

  people say

  good-bye to me?

  How will

  people

  remember me?

  I Didn’t Hang Out

  With Conner. Didn’t miss him

  when he wasn’t at school

  after his so-called accident

  with the gun. That must

  have been on purpose too.

  But I have to admit, seeing

  him dead, no more chances,

  no more choices, no more

  ways to make things better,

  is making me think. Rethink.

  That Tony guy wasn’t totally

  right. I mean, yeah, he was

  spot-on about other people’s

  expectations, and how trying

  to live up to them can take

  a guy out. But fact is, I

  don’t always play it safe.

  I take calculated risks,

  always with a focused goal

  in sight. But sometimes

  I feel dead inside anyway.

  Cara made me feel alive.

  Maybe that’s why I can’t

  let her go. I don’t want

  to feel dead anymore.

  What I think is, I need to

  find a way to feel alive

  that doesn’t require

  someone else to make

  it happen. I mean, putting

  a ball over the fence, and

  hearing people cheer for

  me, well, that’s a solo

  effort, and a definite rush.

  Dead people don’t get rushes.

  Getting into Stanford,

  mostly on my own

  willpower, that came

  close. It’s the “mostly”

  that bothers me. Am I really

  good enough to play Cardinal

  ball? I think the time has

  come to find o
ut. To dry

  out. They’re going to pee

  test us first thing anyway.

  Up in front, Cara’s girlfriend

  kisses her. Jealousy pierces

  me, but when Aubree comments,

  Oh my God. Isn’t that, like,

  disgusting? Especially here.

  I say, “Yeah, gross,” but on

  some level, I think it’s not

  so bad, really. And maybe

  the way it was always

  supposed to be. Cara was

  never meant for me. Pretty

  sure Aubree isn’t either.

  But I’m swearing off girls.

  For a while. Long enough

  to know I don’t need one.

  Andre

  Enough

  Mourning.

  Enough.

  Crying.

  Enough.

  Lamenting

  what can

  never be.

  Enough.

  Eulogizing.

  Enough.

  Second guessing.

  Enough.

  Apologizing

  for what you

  cannot change.

  Play It Safe?

  That’s my middle name. Wait. Okay,

  my other middle name.

  Andre Marcus Play-It-Safe Kane.

  Can’t in good faith add the III to that.

  Gramps never played

  it safe. And neither did my father. So where

  did I get it from? Maybe from observing

  how taking chances

  sometimes leads to failure. Neither Gramps

  nor Dad hit the jackpot every time. Win some,

  lose some. The concept

  is integral both to innovation and speculation.

  I mostly choose the path of least resistance.

  Not because I’m lazy.

  But because I hate to lose. Probably why

  I hung on to Jenna for so long, even though

  I knew our relationship

  was doomed. Not because of her father.

  But because I tried to put her up on such

  a high pedestal. Obviously,

  Jenna is afraid of heights. I hope she finds

  the courage to stand on the pinnacle one day.

  She deserves to be there.

  But she has to learn to make the climb solo.

  Speaking of solos, I have some rehearsing

  to do. Shantell and I rocked

  it as a couple. But the second audition is all

  solos. If I don’t want to fail, I’d better put

  in some hours with

  Liana. I’ll need my parents to help me pay

  for those lessons, so it’s confession time.

  I have to quit playing

  it safe eventually. Might as well be today.

  The Wake

  Is officially over, except for the food part.

  Death and hors d’oeuvres

  never did make much sense to me as a pairing.

  Still, I ask Shantell, “Hungry? Looks like

  a pretty nice spread.”

  A long line has formed for the food tables.

  Think I can skip it, she says. But we should

  go say good-bye to Cara.

  The family stands at the far end of the hall.

  Shantell and I join the receiving line, which

  rivals the food line.

  “Did everybody in town know him or what?”

  Apparently, nobody really knew him. Except

  maybe those two. She points

  at Tony and Vanessa, who comfort each

  other as only two people very much in love

  can. I hope to know love

  like that one day. Love you can’t help but notice.

  Cara

  Love

  Is

  a curious thing. Sometimes

  it barrels into you, leaves you

  breathless. Other times, it comes

  in-

  to your life, a tentative beam

  of morning sun sneaking

  through the blinds, and you think

  this

  light isn’t possible. The shutters

  are drawn. Night should linger

  on. I don’t feel like waking. Yet the

  room

  comes slowly lit. Sleep slithers

  away, and at last you can no

  longer deny the dawning.

  The Funeral Mass

  Is tomorrow. Mom allowed Dad to reclaim

  his Catholicism long enough to bury his

  son. One hour at the church. Fifteen minutes

  at the cemetery, and Conner will be left

  to the will of the earth—and God. The wake

  is winding down. The food is mostly gone,

  and so, mostly, are the mourners. More than

  I expected came to pay their last respects.

  A few stragglers come late to talk to me

  privately. Kendra looks horrible, like she’s

  forgotten food. She leaves her mother’s side

  just long enough to say, I can’t believe

  he’s gone. I always kind of thought

  we’d have another chance. But deep

  down I guess I knew that was wishful

  thinking. Just … not … like this.

  We hug, as we’re supposed to do.

  I watch her go, leaning on her mother,

  wonder if she’ll be around next year, or

  if she might wind up starved, in a coffin.

  Sean walks by with Aubree. I expect

  a smirk. Instead he offers a genuine

  smile, and I don’t see anger in his eyes.

  More something like … regret.

  Finally, as the room empties almost

  completely, Vanessa and Tony approach.

  “Thank you so much for coming, and for

  your words. I think we all took them to

  heart.” Meaningless banter. But they

  are strangers. What else can I say? That

  I am sad they knew my brother better

  than I did? Better than our parents did?

  Vanessa looks ready to turn away, but

  Tony stops her. We have something to

  tell you. Something you might want

  to know. We were on the challenge

  with Conner. He was okay at first.

  I mean, as usual, he was far out

  in front of us most of the way. But

  then he stopped taking his meds.

  Things started going downhill.

  He was edgy. Then, the last night

  before the climb, they gave us letters

  from home. After he … uh …

  Vanessa and I found this, out in

  the desert. I think it drove him over.

  He hands me the letter my mother

  wrote that night. And it is folded into …

  … a perfect paper airplane.

  Author’s Note

  Daily, we are bombarded with messages telling us we aren’t good enough. We’re too fat. Too thin. Too stupid. Too ugly. Our body parts are too little. Too big. Too bumpy. Too hairy. (Or if you’re a middleaged man, not hairy enough.) It’s important to understand that those messages come from all the wrong places. From companies who want money to make us “better.” From people who want to take advantage of us; who are jealous of us; who feel better about themselves by making others feel unworthy.

  Perfection is a ridiculous goal because there is no such thing. The definition of the word is subjective—it means different things to different people. The same person who is ugly in one estimation is beautiful in another. You’ve heard it before, but I want you to believe that real beauty is what you are inside. If you were my child, I would counsel you to invest your energy crafting inner beauty, because your outside will never please everyone anyway.

  I was the chubby kid who suffered peer abuse. I had a bump on my nose (still do) and though
t it made me ugly. I spent too many years hurting because I believed the mean things other kids said about me. But I refused to let their words make me become something I wasn’t. And I blossomed inside. Finally one day I looked in the mirror and thought, Wow, I’m kind of pretty. My high school friends will tell you I was kind of pretty. I had lost the “chubby,” but that isn’t why. It was because I learned to let my inner light shine through. And so can you.

  If someone only likes you because of the way you look, that someone isn’t a friend, and definitely shouldn’t be someone you want a relationship with. (Do you really want a guy to like you only because you’ve got big breasts? Or flip that. Do you really want a girl to like you only because you’ve got big muscles—I won’t say what kind!?) There is a certain power in outer beauty. But if you possess great outer beauty and use it in the wrong way, it can come back to haunt you. Witness Jenna, in this book.

  What we all strive for, ultimately, is love. You won’t find real love because you’re beautiful on the outside. It is drawn to inner beauty. Spend your energy crafting that, and you will know true love.

  Some Statistics

  • Anorexia and bulimia affect nearly ten million women and one million men (primarily teens and young adults) in reported cases in the United States, and both can be fatal.

  • Anorexia nervosa has the highest premature fatality rate of any mental illness. At least one thousand people die every year from anorexia.

  • The average age of sufferers is dropping rapidly (as young as elementary school), with peak onset among girls ages eleven to thirteen.

  • It’s estimated that another twenty-five million people suffer from binge eating disorder.

  • Although teens make up just two percent of cosmetic surgery patients in the United States, these numbers are increasing. According to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, the number of procedures performed on kids aged thirteen to nineteen nearly doubled to 244,124 between 2002 and 2006.

  A Reading Group Guide to Perfect by Ellen Hopkins