Perfect (43 page)

It’s the girl’s father.
Duh.

Maybe the voice is the voice

of reason.
Oh yes, I’m reasonable.

I sit, waiting. Not sure what for.

Hope the people who live in

the house I’m parked in front

of don’t think I’m scoping out

the place. Last thing I need in

my life are cops. After a little

while, blue-haired-girl’s front

door opens again. The man

comes out, lugging a set of golf

clubs. He carries them to an aged

SUV parked in the circular

driveway. And off he goes.

Golf, huh? He’ll be gone for

a while. Think he knows

what the girls will be up to?

What Will The Girls Be Up To?

I really, really want to know.

Guesswork and imagination

are so unfulfilling. Frustrating.

Come on. You know what girls

do. You’ve seen it in magazines.

Movies, too. Remember that night

with Cara. It was a girl-on-girl

scene that got her all turned on.

Hey, maybe it’s your fault. Maybe

you
helped flip her gay. How ironic.

No. Not me, and not the movie.

Gayness comes built in, right?

That’s what everyone says.

Yeah, everyone who’s gay. You

don’t really believe that, right?

“Goddamn! Would you just shut

the fuck up? I can’t think straight.”

Nope. All you can think is homo.

God. Cara might be in there,

with that girl, doing … what?

Are they naked right now?

Playing naked lez games?

No way to know for sure.

Ever heard of windows? You

know, those glass things you

can look through to see what’s

on the other side? Just be careful

in case Mrs. Golf Dude is at

home. And you might not want

to let any of the neighbors see.

Windows Are Made To Look Through

Other than the cars zipping by

faster than they probably should,

the street seems quiet enough.

I get out of the truck, don’t lock

the doors, in case I need to leave

in a hurry. What is that noise?

High power lines? My ears

don’t like the thrumming.

I try to look like I belong on

this sidewalk, like I have a legit

purpose for walking along it.

But the winter-bared trees

seem to be the only things

that know I’m here. Not too

worried about fooling them.

I slow as I approach the house.

Glance around, trying not to

look like I’m glancing around.

The front door is flanked by

windows, shades drawn.

Shouldn’t peek in the front

windows, anyway. I veer

into the unfenced side yard.

It’s screened from the neighbors’

view by a tall evergreen hedge.

Two white-framed windows

break up the red brick. I draw

back, against the wall. Listen.

Yeah, listen to that. Lord, what

are those two doing to each other?

From behind the first window

come the sounds of nasty girls.

Check it out. Come on. Hurry,

would you? Don’t worry. They’re

looking at each other, not at you.

I duck under the window, then

cautiously lift my face to the glass.

The voice was right. They are way

too into each other—literally—

to notice me. The head of the bed

is toward the wall opposite me.

Blue Hair is on top (of course),

which has Cara’s feet pointed

toward me. But even if she wanted

to look at the window, she couldn’t.

Her sweater is pulled up over

her face. The rest of her

beautiful body is bared,

and opened to Blue Hair’s

mouth. Tongue. Fingers.

No fair! That should be me!

Watching is torture. But I can’t

turn away. Cara moans, and

I want her to moan for me.

Me! And then she screams.

I Love You

That’s what she screams, only

not for me. The thrumming

swells into the sound of a billion

crickets rubbing their legs.

And, Viagra or no, I am hard.

Quick! Your cell. Come on!

I don’t get it until he says,

The camera. A picture is worth

a thousand words, remember?

And two thousand screams.

My cell. Right. I locate it,

fumble to find the camera setting.

No flash. Hold it right up against

the glass so it doesn’t glare. Zoom

it in. Perfect.
Now get out of here.

I Don’t Bother With Stealth

On the way back to the truck.

In my pocket, the camera bumps

against my groin. The boner

is gone, a sticky glaze left

as a reminder inside my boxers.

Sick. I am sick, right? I start

for home, in a fairly straight

line on well-traveled roads.

A picture is worth two thousand

screams. It’s her turn to squirm.

I see Cara squirming. Building.

Hear Blue Hair tell her yes, now.

I am seeing through red lenses again.

Don’t get mad, dude. Get even.

You can wreck her. Simple upload.

Yes, now.

Wreck her.

Get even.

Andre

Even Now

After so much time nearly

inseparable, connected by

experiences and emotion,

she

can shut me out. Turn

away, as if our investment

in each other

doesn’t

carry weight beyond

the moment. Is it possible

that she doesn’t really

know

how much I need her?

Can’t hear truth when I tell

her how much she means to

me,

that she has changed the way

I look at life, at the future?

Does she even care

at all?

Some Things You Can’t Fix

For someone you love, no matter how

much you want to.

I can’t make Jenna’s sister stop being a star.

I can’t change last quarter’s report card

so her parents will let

her get her driver’s license. I can’t insist

her father stop being a racist jerk. And there

is absolutely nothing I can

do about his upcoming wedding. All I can

do is be available to listen, and maybe offer

comments to help her process

the disappointments in her life. Not that she

would call them that. She thinks she’s handling

them just fine, rising above

them, as it were. But I seriously disagree.

She’s Disintegrating

The fracture occurred a while ago. I noticed

the fissure last week,

after her sister landed a major modeling job.

I can’t believe it. The guy loved her. He made

her a spokesmodel for this

major new teen fashion line. Not that most of

us are skinny enough to wear it and look half

decent. God. It’s big bucks.

National exposure. It’s all Kendra can talk

about, and it’s making me sick. Then there’s

Mom, who keeps saying,

“All our hard work is finally paying off.”

Our
hard work? She hasn’t even noticed

that Kendra isn’t eating

again. Or maybe she’s just overlooking it.

She went on longer. And all I could say was,

“The eating thing is a problem.

But as far as the job, you should be happy

for her. It’s her dream, and she’s worked hard

to accomplish it, right?”

I still hadn’t—haven’t—mentioned my own

dream, and my decision to pursue it. I started

to do that one time, but when

she cut me off to talk about Kendra’s probable

anorexia, somehow the subject of dance just

didn’t seem important.

It wouldn’t have been to her, anyway.

My supporting her sister pissed Jenna off.

I’m sick of her always

getting the stuff she wants. All because of

her looks? She hasn’t worked hard. All she

does is starve herself. And

my mom doesn’t even care about that. That’s