Perfect (12 page)

Push to the edge

of “can’t,” knowing

the only way to leave

your mark

is sheer devotion to

the power of “can.”

Focus. Empty every

negative thought

into

a box labeled “not

allowed.” Embrace

the pain, now electric.

Brand your name into

the skin of history.

Bulking Up

I look in the mirror, like what

I see—triceps building. Pecs,

and flexors, too. The last,

hugely important to sending

a baseball over the fence.

But it’s not just my upper

body I work. Core muscles.

Leg muscles. All must sync

to become the best I can be,

and the best hitter in Grizzlies

history. Scratch that. Nevada

state high school history.

No lesser goal will do, and

to help me attain it, I have

resorted to help-in-a-bottle.

No more over-the-counter stuff.

No, this is the real steroidal

deal, brought to me courtesy

of Thailand, through a trusted

source. It isn’t cheap. I had to

dip into my savings account,

but hey, what else is that

money for, if not helping

me get into college? Might

be a warped way of looking

at it, although any seriously

ambitious athlete would

probably understand.

Yeah, I’m taking a chance,

but not a big one because,

despite what I told Bobby,

tests for steroids are really

expensive. Without solid

suspicion, most coaches

won’t ask for random ones.

And my guess is that if

a team is winning games

by breaking home run

records, most coaches

will close their eyes.

Case In Point

Uncle Jeff, who is definitely

closing his eyes, but whether

it’s on purpose or just because,

I really don’t know. Today

we are in the basement, lifting

together. He wants to be

buff too.
Take it easy, son.

You can use the heavier weights

for your legs, but don’t risk

injuring your arm muscles.

I know he means well, but it

isn’t the first time he’s told

me the very same thing. I’m

not fricking stupid. But I say,

“Okay, dude.” Three more reps.

You know, push-ups are good

for your baseball groove too.

Did he really just say baseball

groove? I nod and do another

set while he starts in on squats.

The fatherly advice is really

starting to bug me, so when

he asks about Cara, my face

prickles irritation. But I say,

“I think she’s mad at me.”

Women. Give ’em an inch

and they’ll want the whole

yardstick.

Huff. Puff.
Did

you get her something nice

for Valentine’s Day, I hope?

“Val—Shit. Is that today?”

I forgot all about it. Well, at

least it gives me the excuse

to say, “I have to run into Reno.

Thanks for the workout, Jeff.”

Showered And Dressed

I call Cara’s cell, half expecting

her not to pick up. But she does.

“Hey, you. It’s Friday. We’re going

to get together tonight, right?

You’re not mad, are you?”

She is quiet for a few seconds.

I’m not mad at you, Sean. But

I’m busy tonight. It’s Galena’s

last basketball game and

I have to cheer, remember?

“But it’s Valentine’s Day

and I have something

special for you.…” God,

I’m such a liar. “Please?

I know you’re going to love

it.” Whatever “it” ends up

being. She agrees to meet

me after the game, but her

voice is tinted with reluctance.

Why, if she’s not mad at me?

My Hand

Is on the front doorknob,

just starting to turn it, when

Uncle Jeff comes down the hall

from the kitchen.
Wait. You

might take a look at this.

He hands me a shiny ad

from Zales Jewelers.

GIFTS FOR YOUR

VALENTINE, it says

at the top. FROM $39.99.

They’re at Meadowood Mall.

One word of advice, though.

If you really think she’s mad

at you, I’d spend more than

thirty-nine ninety-nine.

Then he really surprises

me, handing me a crisp

C-note.
That’s the minimum

necessary
to make an angry

woman not angry anymore.

I stand, hundred between

thumb and forefinger, not

quite graspinn this sudden

generosity. “But… why?”

I try to give the money back.

He shakes his head.
I want

you to have it. There’s more

to life than baseball. Before

you and Cara started dating,

I was worried you’d never

figure that out. I want you

to succeed at your sport,

but not at the expense of

your happiness. She makes

you happy. Make her happy too.

I Want To Make Her Happy

I really do. But I’m not

sure jewelry is enough.

Cara is a riddle with no

evident clues. Sometimes

she just fills the whole space

around me with light. Other

times, she covers me with

shadow. And I’m not sure

why. She’s beautiful. Talented.

Brilliant. Rich. She has it all.

I think about her all the way

to the mall. Zales is crowded

with last-minute shoppers

like me. Mostly men. Trying

to make their women happy.

A glitter of diamond chips

catches my eye. The old-

fashioned necklace is three