Perfect (51 page)

“He never …? Oh yeah, he meant to hurt

me. In fact, he used to fucking wail on me.”

Ha! Said It

And it had the exact effect I wanted.

Disbelief. Shock. Dawning realization

that the guy she fell in love with—

my father—is so not the man she thinks

he is. “Oh yeah. He’d come home

drunk. Angry. Didn’t matter at what.

Mom was good at disappearing.

Not me. Jenna was too little. Too cute.

Too much the daughter he really

wanted. I was chubby. More butt to belt

without doing real damage.
That’s

who you fell in love with. That’s what

the world would have seen had

it ever actually bothered to look.”

For once, the mirror tells me that

the girl looking back at me is skinny.

The Skinny Girl Crumbles

Tries to fall, but the woman behind

her—only a moment ago her rival—

gathers up the pieces of her, attempts to

squash them back together.
Oh, honey.

I’m so sorry. Please try to believe

your father is not that man anymore.

I can’t tell you that he’s sober. He’s

trying, but he backslides. Alcohol can

be a monster. It’s an addiction, but it

starts as learned behavior. He learned

it as a boy, from the man who beat
him.

Abuse is a learned behavior too.

“Sounds like an excuse to me.” On the far

side of the mirror glass, the skinny girl

stares back at me. And, safe in the refuge

of a stranger’s arms, she disintegrates.

People Are Starting To Gawk

Not in a good way. I pull myself together.

“I’m okay.” Not. My makeup is smeared

and my hair’s a mess. “I like the dress.”

Much cooler than I feel. “Not sure how

it would look on Jenna.” They do have it

in a ten, though. And where is she, anyway?

I go back to change, and am still only half-

way into my jeans when Shiloh knocks.

Urgently.
Hurry, honey, okay? We have

to go. Right now. Leave the dress.

The tone of her voice hustles me into

my shoes. “What is it?” As soon as I unlatch

the door, she takes my arm, rushes me

toward the exit.
Your mom tried to get

hold of you, but couldn’t. Your cell

must be dead. It’s Jenna….

The Hospital Is Five Minutes Away

Mom and Patrick meet us there. Mom

is freaking out.
I don’t understand.

How could this happen? Oh, Patrick.
She

reminds me of the skinny girl falling

to pieces. “What happened?” Neither

of them will look at me. “Please. Tell me.”

Patrick draws me to one side of the waiting

room.
We don’t have all the details yet.

He sucks in a big breath of antiseptic air.

Your sister was raped. And … hurt.

We sit in a stiff row, waiting for details.

Finally a doctor comes to give them. Raped.

Beaten. Cut. Left to bleed out. Some

good Samaritan jogging by saved her life.

Broken bones. Stitches. And all because

she asked the wrong guy to buy her booze.

Sean

Broken Bones

Are preferable to broken

dreams. A broken heart.

A solid future smashed

like porcelain into

dust.

How do you reconcile

love that won’t let go

with the overpowering

resentment of being cast

off,

leftovers for scavengers?

How do you scab over

wounds that deep?

Some believe faith can

move

a mountain. I say that’s

not possible if it

isn’t strong enough

to build tomorrow

on.

You Could Power The World

On anger. All you’d have to do

is tap into a deep well of it,

extract it, fill up your tanks.

It’s clean burning, too. All

except for a thin exhaust.

Anger is fueling my days. It gets

me up. Out the door to school.

Reminds me that I need to pass

my approaching finals. Have

to maintain that GPA to stay

on track for my scholarship, and

I will
not
give that up, Cara or

no Cara. Restraining order or

no restraining order. Stanford

is a very big campus.
She
can

figure out how to stay away

from
me.
She’s done a pretty

good job of it here at Galena.

I’ve barely seen her at all

since she got me locked up.

Okay, other than the initial

arrest and holding cell time,

I didn’t go to jail. Uncle Jeff’s

lawyer got me out on my own

recognizance. And when I went

to court, the judge gave me

community service and

warned me any behavior

even vaguely resembling

stalking would immediately

land me in an actual jail cell.

Some people might say I

got lucky, drew the right

judge. I say Cara deserves

a little comeuppance for

causing me sleepless nights

and five days picking up

trash along the Truckee River.

But, as they say, revenge

is a dish best tasted cold.

Especially If I Want

To keep playing baseball.

The thing is, anger has also

powered my bat. It’s all in

the focus. Uncle Jeff showed

me that.
It’s okay to be mad,

he told me.
What you have

to do is gather up all that

anger, hold it right between

your eyes, and when the ball

releases, laser it. Your arms

will follow.
It took a time or

two to get what he meant,

but once it clicked,
bam.
I’ve

put them over the fence

pretty much every game.

The very best part of that is

it keeps Guy Behind My Eyes

mostly quiet. Lately, he only

talks to me when I’m alone,

something I try hard not to be.

The Main Thing

He keeps telling me is that

I need to lay off the ’roids.

I’ll stop talking if you do.

You might shut me up forever.

Chad agrees. He says I’m

borderline schizo and that

he won’t supply me anymore.

At least, not for a while. Not