Perfect (44 page)

messed up. No one notices me. Not even when

I got good grades. That was

“expected.” But get bad ones, everyone freaks.

Still trying to be the voice of reason,

I dared say, “You know

insurance rates go down when you get

good grades. If your parents are paying

for your insurance, isn’t

it fair to expect you to step up and get them?”

Mistake.
Why are you taking everyone

else’s side?
It came

out a whine.
I thought you’d understand.

“Jenna, I do understand. I just think

you’re standing a little

too close to have a clear perspective.”

Bigger mistake.
You are just like my dad.

Always saying you love

me, but not meaning it enough to prove it.

“Me? Like your dad?” I snorted. “Yeah, right.

You mean I’m an overt bigot,

semi-misogynistic, and an overbearing prick?”

Biggest Mistake Of All

To my complete surprise, she jumped

straight to his defense.

I don’t even know what half that stuff means.

Okay, that one time you met him, he wasn’t

very nice. But before Mom

left him, he was my daddy. Sometimes he

was kind of mean, but never to me. After

we moved in with Patrick,

that was when he got nasty. I don’t know

why he decided to take it out on Kendra and

me. Not like we told Mom to go.

But he acted like it was our fault.
Then, even

more to my surprise, she hauled off and

started to cry. Which shifted

everything back on me, and somehow elicited

my apology. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Please

don’t cry. Everything will

be all right.” But I’m wondering if it will.

I’m Also Wondering

If the reason she can’t accept the idea

of her dad’s wedding

is a simple case of jealousy. She wants

his love. He’s focusing it all on Shiloh.

Jenna says they’re talking

about having a baby before too long, too.

I can see why she feels left behind.

Maybe even discarded.

Is that why she refuses to accept my love

and return it? Afraid that love doesn’t

last? Doesn’t really exist?

Afraid if her own father can withdraw

his love (or at least the manifestation

of his love), that maybe

she somehow isn’t worthy of the emotion?

I’ve tried so hard to break through

her enamel, reach the clay

beneath, mold it into a viable relationship.

But a relationship needs more than one

person to be involved

in it. My own parents are anything but

perfect. They hold high expectations for

me, and for each other.

But there is nurturing within the boundaries

of our family. I don’t know if they are
in
love

anymore. But they love each

other, and I have no doubt that they love me.

So maybe my lesson here is to learn from

my musings and trust

that my family’s love will sustain my dream.

I’m not quite ready to out myself as a dancer

yet. But I have to consider

doing it very soon. Because the more I think

about Shantell’s tirade, the more I realize that

while dance hasn’t always

been my heart, it’s starting to feel that way now.

So Today, I Will Tell Jenna

I’m taking her to a big jazz festival

on the Riverwalk. God,

I hope she likes jazz better than she liked

the ballet. At least it’s outside, with lots

of places to walk and sit

beside the Truckee River. The weather

is warming, as if it understands that May

is approaching. Jenna,

of course, dresses for the sun-lathered day

in teeny shorts and a tight little T-shirt, which

leaks cleavage from a low

scoop. For the millionth time, I think how

beautiful she really is. Every other guy will

think so too. I really wish

I didn’t have to share her with them all.

At least she seems to have forgiven me

for our last time together.

The Riverwalk is crowded, and, locked

thigh to thigh, we worm our way through

the throng. “What kind

of jazz do you like best?” Please have

something positive to say.
Is there more

than one kind?
She smiles

at some college-age guys who overtly ogle

her scoop. All three are slurping beers.
Do

you think they’d buy me

one?
Like she doesn’t know the answer.

“I think they’d probably all give you theirs

if you keep flirting like

that.” Irritation is obvious in my voice.

Really? I’m going to go ask them. As an

experiment. Be right back.

And off she goes, without waiting for me to

tell her no effing way. I can only watch

as she slinks up to them,

acting for all the world like she wants to

join their pack. One of them turns and looks

at me. I shrug, and he smiles.

In under five minutes, she returns, holding

two almost-full cups of beer.
You were

right. God, you’re smart.

Here. One’s for you.
She offers a beer.

“No, thanks. I’m not much into brew.”

I really don’t like an alcohol

buzz, something she still hasn’t noticed.

But even if I were, I’d want to stay sober.

“You didn’t give them

your number, did you?” It’s a joke. But

her answer isn’t.
No, of course not. But

one of them gave me

his. “Just in case,” he said.
She gulps

down one of the beers in three long pulls.

Good stuff. Okay, now

tell me about the different
kinds of jazz.

At Least She Remembered The Jazz

I lead her to an open spot on the concrete

stairs. “I’ll tell you about

jazz in a minute,” I say, watching her start

on the second beer. Thank God she’s sipping

this one. She already looks

a little unsteady. “But first, there’s something

I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while

now….” She tenses, and

her eyes go kind of panicky, and I realize

how that might have sounded. “No, no. It has

nothing to do with you.

It’s about me, and what I’ve been doing….”

She slams down half the beer. “It’s all good,

Jenna. I just want you

to know….” I talk about Liana. About dance.

Dreams. She smiles and nods and when

I finish, she says,
Cool.

Be right back. I’m gonna hustle more beer.

Cara

Dreams

Has it only been weeks

since we met? How can

such a short span of time

connect

two people so completely?

Before, I would have sworn

new love this deep could

only be hallucinatory

fantasy,

imagination incarnate.

Someone no one else

could see to spend your

heart-weary nights

with.

Then you appear in my life,

full-color illustration, ink

lifted off pages of my
Big

Book of Fairy Tales
, and into

reality.

My Big Book of Fairy Tales

Takes up a wide chunk of bookshelf

on my bedroom wall. It was the first

big book I read on my own. I always

had a thirst for words, though Mom

was not the one who quenched it.

That was Sandra, our
au pair

when Conner and I were little.

She was a star in those very dark

nights when Mom didn’t understand

her postpartum mood swings could

be regulated chemically. She cut us

early from her apron strings. Sandra

was our mommy substitute, and

she was very good at her job. When

she left to get married, I cried. Next

came Sherrie, who went too far

with Dad. And after her, Leona,

who went way beyond all things

proper with Conner, aged twelve.

Her fall from grace led to her early

demise when a fight with her grown-

up boyfriend sent her driving, head-

first, into a wall. No happily ever after

for Leona. We went without a governess.

Mom took over as mother, compelling

us toward the same kind of perfection

her own parents demanded of her.

It came more easily to me. Poor

Conner fielded the brunt of her

rages, along with Dad, who steadily

withdrew. From her. From us. From

time to time, I return to the pages

of
My Big Book of Fairy Tales
, as if

by doing so, I might rediscover

a few short memories of childhood

happiness. A star in the night, perhaps.

Saturday Morning, Late April

Usually the house would be still

as a crypt. But not today. I’m called

downstairs to the dining room, where

Mom and Dad have slipped into

earnest conversation.
Sit down
, says

Mom.
You know Conner is coming

home for a short visit today. There

are a few things to keep in mind
,

according to Dr. Starr. She asked

that we please not quiz him about

life in Aspen Springs. As you might

imagine, there is a confidentiality

issue. No questions about therapy
,

or any of the people he knows there
.

Above all, we are not to ask why

he chose to attempt suicide
.