Perfect (13 page)

hundred dollars, and worth

every dime if it makes her smile.

It Is Past Ten

By the time Cara is finished

cheering. She exits the gym

with Kendra and Shantell,

all three looking pretty hot

in their short black skirts.

Comparing the three, Shantell

is on the short side, round,

big boobs. Kendra is the flip

side of that—thin as a twig

and almost as tall as I am.

And Cara? Cara is perfect—

all taut, muscular curves

wrapped in kid-leather skin,

with hair like waves of summer

wheat and golden eyes that

remind me of autumn leaves.

I want to eat her up, keep

her a part of me always.

I wave, and she peels from

the group, heads my way.

A winter-clipped breeze

blows through her sweat-

dampened hair. She shivers,

and when I open my arms,

she leans into me gratefully.

Thanks for being so patient,

she says, head against my chest.

I don’t know what’s wrong

with me.
She looks up, smiles,

and the world rights itself,

shimmers with her glow.

“Ah, you know, we all get

a little crazy sometimes.

Anyway, tonight is about

what’s right.” I find the red

velvet box in my pocket.

“I knew this was you as

soon as I saw it. Happy

Valentine’s Day. I love you,

Cara.” So much it hurts.

I Wait For Her

To tell me she loves me, too.

She doesn’t, but she does

open the box, and when she

sees the heart-shaped diamond

pendant inside, she gasps.

Oh, Sean. It’s beautiful, but

you shouldn’t have spent so

much.… I mean, I love it, but…

But? I don’t like the sound

of “but.” I take the necklace

from her hands. “Turn around.”

I wrap the chain gently around

her neck, fumbling the clasp

like a dork. “This isn’t even close

to what I’d give you if I could.”

Cara lifts onto her tiptoes,

looks deep into my eyes.

Thank you.
And now she kisses

me like I want to be kissed. So why

does my body refuse to respond?

Andre

To Be Kissed

Like they do in movies—

glossy lips parting

in bold invitation,

hungry mouths

meeting,

igniting the blistering

passion most can only

dream of. To be kissed

like they do in books,

some exotic

setting beguiling two

ordinary people, bewitching

them with its subtle

perfumes until,

stranger

inextricably linked to

stranger, their lives

are forever changed.

I am only kissed like this

in dreams.

Academically

The Zephyr Academy is a fine school.

Great, engaging

teachers. All advanced placement classes,

no more than twelve students to a classroom.

You can’t ask

for a better environment if you want to learn

the things you need to get into an Ivy League

college. (I gave up on

that idea years ago, though I kept that decision

to myself until I absolutely had to confess it.)

As far as a thriving social

scene goes, though… uh, there isn’t one.

Oh, there are a couple of campus romances

happening. But

face it, two hundred sixteen kids, grades

seven through twelve, most of them much

more focused on

academics than dating, the odds of hooking

up with someone special here are slim.

Probably why so many

Zephyr students actually get into their chosen

colleges. Easy to focus on your work.

That’s not to say

that there aren’t any cute girls here.

There are a few, and yeah, I’ve had some

casual sex with one

or two. (Okay, maybe three.) But mostly

I go looking elsewhere. Never expected

to find someone

in my mom’s office, waiting for her

sister to get out of a pre-op counseling

session. Jenna is a one-

of-a-kind piece of… art. Kind of stuck

on herself, but who isn’t? And yeah,

I’m a couple of years

older. Something to keep in mind.

Still, I Don’t Plan

To marry her. Don’t even know about

getting in deep.

Mostly, I like how we look together.

Okay, and I like the way she smells.

And the way she feels

when she rubs up against me, purring.

Hmm. I guess I like her. We’ve only gone

out a couple of times.

Tonight will be the third. I’m picking her

up at four thirty. Reno, Friday night, if you

want a decent restaurant,

you get there early or wait for hours.

Almost time to go, I notice Dad is home.

I can hear his poor excuse

for music leaking out from behind his office

door. I should probably say hello. We don’t

see much of each other

lately. Two knocks. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

He pulls his eyes away from his computer.
Doing some research.
He gives me a once-over.
You going out?

Like I always dress in a button-up shirt

and leather jacket. But

I say, “Yeah. Going to dinner and a game.”

Now he looks at me as if he’s seeing

a complete stranger.

Really?
You have a girlfriend or what?

Or what. “She’s not really my girlfriend.

We’ve been out a few

times. But it’s not anything serious.”

Why must he take such an interest in

my uninteresting life?

Oh yeah. Control.
Tell me about her.

I shrug. Give a brief description, omitting

the age difference

thing. Mention she goes to Galena.

He absorbs the information. Blinks twice.

Finally comments,
Blond,

huh?
Which means, “So she’s white?”

“Yes, Dad, she’s white. But don’t worry.

Like I said, it’s not serious.

Not even close. We’re just friends.”

I know what he’s going to say, and he does.

You really should date

black girls. Are you ashamed of your race?

He goes on to talk about artificial beauty

standards, European

versus African, etc. All stuff I’ve heard

before. And more than once. But… “Look,

Dad. It’s not like there

are a whole lot of African Americans in Reno,

anyway. Running into the exact right

black girl won’t happen

that easily. And
this is just a date.
Okay?”

He Says Okay

And we leave it there, though I could

have said a whole

lot more. Like how his own wife

(my toffee-skinned mom) skews

way toward the Anglo

ideal. Like how she has made a fair

amount of money altering the features

of her African American

sisters, all to make them more “beautiful.”

Like, right, wrong, or who fucking cares,

I happen to think

Jenna is pretty and enjoy spending time

with her. Like maybe tonight I might

even kiss her, just to

try it on for size. And if that works out,

well, who knows how much further

we might go? If she

feels the same way about me, of course.

On My Way To Jenna’s

The conversation with Dad replays.

If I were to be honest

with myself, the truth is I have always

been more attracted to girls who reflect

the European standard.

Not that there aren’t gorgeous black women.

But the ones who I’d label beautiful are

models—Tyra Banks,

Naomi Campbell. Selita Ebanks. Tall.

Thin. Long, straight hair. Fairer skinned.

Am I wrong to feel

this way? Does it make me a stereotype?

Or does it in some weird way make me

racist? If it does, would

I be less racist if I were only attracted

to black women? It’s hard enough to

find someone you want

to be with. Why worry about color at all?

It’s A Little Before Five

When we reach Red Lobster. Already

the place is busy.

There’s a twenty-minute wait. We sit

in the lobby, people-watching. And

I’m pretty sure we’re

being people-watched too. Funny,

two hours ago, I wouldn’t have felt

nearly as self-conscious

as I do right now. Jenna intuits it.

Are you okay? You’re awfully quiet.

Doesn’t she notice

the way people are staring? Then again,

considering how luscious she looks,

perfect little legs peeking

out from under a way-short skirt, and

dream girl breasts gloved sweetly by

a quite tight sweater,

they are probably not seeing me at all.

Jenna reaches for my hand, reminding

me that she asked

a question. Her fingers thread mine,

a checkered weave. “Sorry. Just thinking

about some stuff my dad

said earlier. It’s not important.” Not

nearly as important as how her skin

feels, sea glass smooth

in the palm of my hand. Or the way

her gardenia-scented hair reminds me

of California summer.

Nothing my dad ever says is important.

Not that he bothers to say much to me

anymore.
She goes on about

her parents’ divorce, beauty pageants,

orthodontia—oh, and did I know her stepdad

and my parents went to

college together? News to me. Weird connection.

Maybe Fate Does Exist

I’ve never much believed in it before.

But now I wonder if

some things are just meant to be.

If so, I should probably quit over-

thinking everything.

Jenna orders lobster raviolis, Caesar

salad, dares to ask the waiter for cabernet.

His dubious expression

makes her say,
Doesn’t hurt to ask, does it?

God, she is ballsy. “Do you drink much