Perfect (14 page)

cabernet at home?”

I expect her to answer in the negative,

or maybe with a joke. But, no.
Probably

more than I ought to.

Mom always has an open bottle around.

She and Patrick are connoisseurs.
The last

two syllables are hissed.

And now I know a lot more about Jenna.

After Dinner

Walking to my car beneath a sift of new snow,

I slide my arm around

her shoulder, and she tucks herself into

the warmth of my jacket, one slender arm

snaking my waist. Very good.

This feels the way it should. The Quattro

is parked out behind the building. We stop

beneath a muted streetlight,

and I turn her so she faces me, her sweater

soft and warm against my thin cotton shirt.

I look down into eager eyes.

“Have you ever kissed a black guy before?”

Who, you? You’re black? I never noticed.

And are you saying

you want to kiss me?
She doesn’t wait,

but tilts her chin and parts her lips, a quick

flick of her tongue inviting

me in. Our first kiss isn’t uncertain. It’s smoking.

Cara

Not Uncertain

About the fabric of me.

My skin is unblemished,

kept that way by some

amazing dermatologist

who

discovered the secret of

“zit-free” somewhere deep

in the Amazon jungle.

I’m sure that my hair

is

enviable—a burnished

bronze waterfall. What

I’m more than a little

vague about is

the stranger

who keeps insisting

she is the real me—

and that if I would allow

her to take up residence

inside

this flawless shell,

I will finally come to terms

with who I was born to be.

I’m Not Sure Who I Am

Not sure who I want to be,

or if I have any choice at all.

Maybe I’m two people.

God, maybe I’m many.

Does that make me a freak?

Do I belong in Aspen Springs,

finger-painting scenes from

my childhood, right along with

my messed-up brother? Now

there’s a great family snapshot.

Twin number one: a warped sex

addict, filled with enough self-hate

to try and end it all. Twin number

two: unclear about her sexuality.

In love (?) with a guy. In lust (!)

with a girl. I have zero doubt

about the lust. As for the love,

I believed it was real. But how

can I want to touch someone

else if love is what I truly feel

for Sean? We’ve been together

almost a year, have plans

to continue seeing each other

postgraduation. In fact, I know

his college plans revolve around

me. For the most part, he’s kind.

Supportive. Not once has he ever

tried to force me to give him more

than hot make-out sessions. Sex

is something that, up until now,

I haven’t felt ready for. But without

it, how can I possibly answer

the question grating the inside

of me—scraping till I’m raw. Lust?

Love? Are they mutually exclusive?

Absent sex, how will I know?

Maybe I’ll Find Out Tonight

Sean and I are going out after

his exhibition game. I’m getting ready

to go watch him play when I hear

a familiar name spill from behind

Mom’s half-open bedroom door.

…don’t care about legalities
,

Mrs. Sanders, and I’m certain

the school board won’t either
.

Not to mention the press, and if

you refuse to see my side of things
,

that’s where I’m going next. Anyway
,

I’m sure you could use a fresh start
.

You won’t find a teaching position

in this city again. I think the best

option for everyone involved is for you

to move on
. The smell of Mom’s drink,

acrid and telltale strong for so early

in the day, hangs like incense in

the air leaking from her room. I hurry

away from it and down the hall.

Poor Emily. Against the furious

force of my mother, she is powerless—

flotsam riding a whitewater

course impossible to divert.

No wonder my father offers gauze-

thin excuses to not come home.

Lately, he’s almost nonexistent.

Something to do with Conner?

Surely I’m not the only one lifting

a backbreaking load of guilt.

Or maybe they really don’t care.

Me? Sometimes I think I might implode

from the pressure. But implosion

is not what’s expected of me.

Everyone I know would totally

freak if they even suspected I have

splintered, alone in my room.

I never reveal that Cara. That girl—

frail and choking back secrets—

is the Cara I am determined to conceal.

Bundled Up

Against the flecks of snow,

fluttering from the sky, I sit in

the sparsely populated bleachers,

watch Sean belt a long fly

ball to center, where it sinks

into the fielder’s glove. Sixth

inning. No heroics so far today.

He gives the catcher a little shove

as he turns toward the dugout.

The catcher springs to his feet,

gets in Sean’s face.
What the fuck?

Before they can beat each other

bloody, the umpire steps in,

issues a reprimand. Sean smiles

and looks up at me with searching

eyes, as if to ask,
Understand?

I shrug. Frustration is evident

in the taut slope of his shoulders.

But there’s also a copper-hot seethe

of anger I hope he never directs at me.

I Have To Admit

It’s not the first time I’ve seen

a hint of someone… hateful

lurking behind nice guy Sean.

Is he flint, waiting for a flick

of steel to spark some inner

grenade? He never used to be

this way, at least never in front

of me. When did his temper surface?

I notice it now in the way

he attacks the ball, charging

grounders, slamming them home.

I see it in how he smacks base

runners, tries to intimidate them

wide. This isn’t about winning.

It’s about conquering, and when

he errs, there’s more than pride

on the line. Bottom of the ninth,

two-all tie. One out, Sean comes

up to bat. Please let him hit!

“Come on, baby,” I shout.

“Piece of cake.” First pitch,

he tenses, swings way out ahead.

Easy. Easy.
Thwap!
He bloops

one over the shortstop’s head,

an ugly hit, but whatever. Grant

Blakemore takes two quick strikes,

and Sean’s chancy lead pays off

when he steals second. That makes

the pitcher pissy. He throws

hard and inside, nicks Grant’s leg,

sends him limping on over to first.

Our coach plays a wild card,

sends Bobby Duvall up to bat.

He fouls off the first three pitches.

Perfect. Perfect loser, that is. But on

the fourth, he must see the fastball

coming. He squares, slams a solid

hit into right field. Sean scores,

he and Bobby co-heroes this time.

It will be a good night after all.

It Starts Out Great

Sean is famished, so we go out

for pizza. I pick at one piece

while he polishes off four.

Are you sick or something?
he asks.

“No. I just like watching you

eat.” Not really a lie. I like how

he tears each bite almost daintily,

wiping tendrils of hot, gooey cheese

with a napkin before they can drip

down the front of his clean denim

shirt. I like the way he’s careful

to keep his food unseen behind

closed lips. Sexy lips. Full. Soft,

for a guy. I like how his arm muscles

flex when he reaches for another

slice. I like the charm of his smile.

I like knowing he loves me.

There’s something safe in that,

and yet, beneath pepperoni and onion,

he wears a thin scent of danger.

Danger Scent Is Somehow Attractive

I follow it to Sean’s truck, its big

chrome bumper leering through

a delicate veil of snow. I climb

up inside, determined to gain

some understanding. I need

to know if this is where I belong.

At this moment, it feels very right.

I scoot close to him. “Let’s go.”

He looks at me with confusion-

clouded eyes.
Go? You mean

home? I thought we’d hang out

a little or something. No?

I run my hand along the meaty

muscle of his thigh. Wow. All

that lifting paying off. “Can we

go someplace private?” I sigh,

and implicit in the soft exhale

is something I’ve never offered

before. Sean does not fail

to notice.
Really?
He hesitates,