Perfect (35 page)

mad at me for refusing

to plan the trip to California to look at schools.

I do not understand your attitude,
he said.

Don’t you realize your

entire future is at stake?
Stupid questions

don’t really demand answers. I didn’t

say anything, which

made every inch of skin above his too-

tight collar turn the color of a boiled

lobster.
Are you being

deliberately obnoxious?
That made

me laugh. “Not deliberately, Dad. I can’t

help it. I was born

this way. I think it must be genetic.”

Mom scowled. I figured I probably

shouldn’t mention

the web of facial lines that created.

Would you please be serious?
she said.

Have you even thought

about what you’ll do after graduation?

“Of course I’ve thought about it. How

could I not? Dad’s been

on me for months. I told him what I want

to do, but he says art won’t pay the bills.

In fact, he thinks it

makes me gay.…” Mom flinched.

“Okay, I’m not gay. And to tell you the truth,

design is a compromise.

I…” I had said too much. I backpedaled

quickly. “Gramps always said if you do what

you love, the money will

follow. Worked for him. It will work for me.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing

something that makes me

miserable. Not even if it means drowning

in money.” Suddenly it got very difficult

to choke down my

soggy cereal. “Look. I promise I’ll be okay,

no matter what. Cheer up. Maybe I’m just a late

bloomer, and there’s a mercenary

lurking somewhere deep inside me after all.”

It Wasn’t That Funny

But it did make both of them smile long

enough for me to

escape. What I didn’t tell them, and have

no idea how I will, is that I’m thinking about

taking a semester or two off

school. There’s a theater conservatory

I might look into. Or maybe I’ll get a job,

an apartment. Chill

for a year or so, until I figure out exactly

what it is I want to do. Become. God,

the harder they push me

to “become” something, the more I want to

dig in my heels and just be whatever it is

I am. And what I am right

now is once again running late. I’ve got tickets

for the ballet tonight. Thought I’d surprise

Jenna. I told her to dress

up. Hope she listened. And I hope she’s ready.

She Isn’t, Of Course

I call her as I pull into the driveway.

More and more, I try to

avoid relating to either one of her parents.

“Hey. Ready to go? You wore a nice

dress, right?” I hear

muffled voices in the near background.

I’ll be out in a minute,
she huffs. Then,

to the muffled voices,

Can I
please
go now? Andre is waiting

for me!
Garbled responses.
I promise.

I don’t know… Wait…

And to me,
What time will I be home?

The performance starts at eight. Two hours

makes ten o’clock. “Around

eleven, I guess.” Suddenly they care?

It is another several minutes before she exits

the house, teetering down

the walk in some extremely tall—and hot—heels.

She shimmies into the car, pushes down

into the cush leather.

God. Unbelievable. Let’s go, before Patrick

changes his mind and makes me stay home.

I back out of the driveway,

noticing the length of her almost nonexistent

skirt. “Wow. Short dress.” Hope her top

is covered better. Can’t tell

because of her jacket, but my guess is, no.

I’m afraid she’ll draw more attention than

the ballerinas. That’s my girl.

I’m almost used to it. “So, what’s going on?”

She pulls a familiar flask from her pocket.

Takes a long drink.
I love

peppermint schnapps.
Her voice is husky,

slow.
Want some?
I decline, and she takes

a drink for me.
For some

asinine reason, Patrick decided he needed

to play Daddy tonight. He called a family

meeting. First, he accused

Kendra and me of stealing Mom’s Xanax.

Then he said there are new house rules

about going out, and

how they want to know who we’re going

with, where we’re going, and when we’ll

be home. I bet he starts

checking out our rooms and stuff too.

Considering she’s sitting here, sucking down

alcohol, maybe he’s got

a point. “Did you take your mom’s Xanax?”

Maybe a couple,
she admits.
Just to get me

through the wedding

stuff. Who knew Mom’d actually keep track?

The Girl Has No Shame

It’s one of her better qualities. But it also

makes me worry about

her. And us. “Xanax is expensive. Why

wouldn’t she keep track? But the bigger

question is, did you take one

tonight? Xanax and schnapps don’t mix well.”

How would you know? I kind of like

the way they mix.

She laughs.
In fact, they mix perfectly.

This is going to be an interesting evening.

“Jenna, please be careful.

People die every day from drug interactions.…”

She flips.
Don’t worry about me! I am

completely in control.

Anyway, why do you care what I do?

“Because I love you, goddamn it. You’re

supposed to worry

about people you love. Don’t you get it?”

She Does Not Respond

For a long while. Finally she says,
I don’t

believe in love. Not sure

it really exists, but even if it does for some

people, it won’t for me.
She is serious.

Then she lightens up.

But, hey, if you think you love me, cool.

My turn not to know what to say. I exit

the freeway, thread

through a maze of side streets, park a few

blocks away from the theater. We get out

of the car, and I go around,

take Jenna into my arms. “I do love you.

Not always sure why. But you are unique.

Exceptional, in so many

ways. Why do you think love will never

come to you? It already has.” I kiss her,

as sweetly as I know how,

hoping she will believe love has found her.

Finally She Wiggles Free

No acknowledgment. No reciprocal

declaration. Just,

Okay. Where are we going, anyway?

It’s so Jenna, I can’t even get mad.

“The San Francisco Ballet

is in town. Ready to soak up some culture?”

The ballet? Are you kidding?
Her inflection

gives away nothing. Surprise?

Disgust?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained,

I guess.
She takes my arm, struts toward

the theater, drawing

the usual stares from passersby, and a catcall

from some derelict-looking guy. Luckily,

we don’t have to walk

all that far. But then, when we get inside

and she takes off her jacket, my worst

fears are confirmed.

Her V-necked top hides nothing. She pulls

every eye, and not just the guys’. Our seats

are in the balcony, front row.

Great view. Jenna actually seems excited

to be here. It’s a special performance

of
The Little Mermaid
.

I figured the story would be familiar

enough to make the dance enjoyable

for Jenna. But, not quite

forty minutes into the program, I look

over to find Jenna asleep. Xanax and

alcohol. A knockout

combination. She rouses when the lights

come up for intermission.
Guess I dozed

off. Sorry. But this stuff

is just so boring. You don’t like it, do you?

Why did I expect anything different?

“Actually, I don’t like it.

I love it. Sorry you don’t feel the same way.”

Cara

Did I Expect

To

learn something new,

walking the same old

avenues? Did I believe I’d

find

surprises under the pillow

my head rests on every

night—an extension of

myself?

Change doesn’t come

without invitation.

You won’t discover it

in

routine. And you won’t

create an all-new and

better you if you wait for

someone else

to give you permission.

Transformation begins—

and ends—inside of you.

Transformation

Isn’t easy when most of the people

in your life think you’re already

perfect, and want you to stay just

how they see you. Try to begin

a new phase, you’d better expect

push-back. Try to create a whole

new you, your friend list will shrink

considerably. I don’t have any friends

left at all, and that’s before anyone

knows about Dani and me. I’m so

happy that school is almost over.

Once it is, I’ll be free of the pressure

to be someone other than who I am.

Not sure how I’ll come out to my

parents, or if that’s what I should

even do. Is there a proper time to tell

your relatives that you’re a lesbian?

Easier to let them guess than to

stand up on a soapbox, loudly

confess that, hey, guys just don’t do it

for me. At least Dad has Conner

to carry on the Sykes family name.

Thank God that was not legitimately

up to me. And speaking of God,

hope he’s okay with me being here

at worship on Easter Sunday. One

thing good about Lutherans—most

of them don’t ostracize gay people.

Gay. Lesbian. Words. That did not

apply to me until recently. Or did

they? Do you have to admit you’re

a lesbian before you are one? Dani

says no. I can’t think about her now.

Here. In church. Can I? God, I think

I love her. Is that wrong? Or is that me,

only a footnote to your master plan?

Easter

Is a mad celebration. Imagine

if the story is true. Resurrection.

The ultimate transformation. Son

of man, risen in glory to take his place

at the right hand of God. Okay, that’s

the preached-from-the-pulpit version.

But in the historical context, it’s even

better. Some guy—a street person

with a resonant message—in turn

wows crowds, then somehow angers

them enough to want him dead.

When the reigning pols agree,

he is crucified. Hung on a cross

to die, while former followers cheer.

Sounds like some modern politicians.

Hope they never have to rely on resurrection.

I Sit With Mom And Dad

Near the front of the church.

Not sure how much of the Easter

story either of them really believes.

Pure light and boundless love

don’t seem to relate much to Mom,

who sits straight-backed and ice-cold

in her chair. Dad, at least, sings

the liturgy and semi-tunes in to

the pastor’s remarks.…
He died

so that we, no matter our lifestyles

or challenges or histories, might live
,

free from judgment or sorrow, forever
.

No matter our lifestyles. Was that

directed specifically toward me?

Free from judgment. What I find

particularly funny about that is

how judged I felt at the party Friday

night. Hard enough coming to terms

with the label “lesbian,” without

somehow having to prove that you