Check messages. Find a voice
mail from Cara, who wants
to get together. For the first
time today, everything’s bomb.
Andre Marcus Kane III
Bomb
Give most girls a way
to describe me, that’s what
they’d say—that Andre
Marcus Kane the third is
bomb.
I struggle daily to maintain
the pretense. Why must it be
expected—no, demanded—of
me
to surpass my ancestors’
achievements? Why
can’t I just be a regular
seventeen-year-old, trying to
make
sense of life? But my path
has been preordained,
without anyone even asking
me
what I want. Nobody seems
to care that with every push
to live up to their expectations,
my own dreams
vaporize.
Don’t Get Me Wrong
I do understand my parents wanting only
the best for me.
Am one hundred percent tuned to the concept
that life is a hell of a lot more enjoyable
with a fast-flowing
stream of money carrying you along.
I like driving a pricey car, wearing
clothes that feel
like they want to be next to my skin.
I love not having to be a living, breathing
stereotype because
of my color. Anytime I happen to think
about it, I am grateful to my grandparents
for their vision. Grateful
to my mom for her smarts, to my dad
for his bald ambition and, yes, greed.
Not to mention
his unreal intuition. But I’m sick of being
pushed to follow in his footsteps. Real
estate speculation?
Investment banking? Neither interests me.
Too much at risk, and when you lose,
you lose major.
I much prefer winning, even if it’s winning
small. I think more like my grandfather.
Andre Marcus Kane Sr.
embraced the color of his skin, refused
to let it straitjacket him. He grew up in
the urban California
nightmare called Oakland, with its rutted
asphalt and crumbling cement and frozen
dreams, all within
sight of sprawling hillside mansions.
I’d look up at those houses, he told
me more than once,
and think to myself, no reason why
that can’t be me, living up there. No
reason at all, except
getting sucked down into the swamp.
Meaning welfare or the drug trade
or even the tired
belief that sports were the only way out.
I guessed I wanted a big ol’ house on
the hill more than just
about anything. And I knew my brain
was the way to get it. Oh, what a brain!
My gramps started inventing
things in elementary school. Won awards
for his off-the-wall inventions in high
school, and a full
scholarship to Cal-Poly. He could have
gone on to postgrad anywhere, except
just about then he fell
hard for my grandmother, Grace, a Kriol
beauty from Belize. Never saw any girl
could match her, before
or since, he claims. God sent her to me.
Maybe. Who else would have encouraged
Gramps’s crazy ideas?
Telephones that didn’t need wires?
Computers, in every American home?
Ambitious goals,
especially in the sixties, when color TV
was about as technological as most people
got. But if Andre Kane
believed it would come to pass, then so did
his new wife, Grace. Gramps led the charge
into the Silicon Valley.
He got his house on the hill. And then some.
Gramps’s Obese Bank Account
Came with taxes and bills. His kids—two
boys and a girl—came
with private school tuitions. Dad was oldest,
and so came programmed with the Eldest Son
Syndrome—a classic
overachiever, hell-bent on making his own
mark on the world, and a bigger one than
his father’s. Andre
Marcus Kane Jr. had more than drive going
for him. He had luck, eerie foresight, and
brilliant timing. Right
out of college, Dad became an investment
banker, banking heavily on his own
investments. His stock
portfolio thrived. And somehow, he knew
to dump everything right before the last
time the market crashed.
So when things started to look iffy again,
he went looking for other investments.
Lending is too easy
these days, I heard him tell Mom. You
can’t keep giving those loans away.
Adjustable rate mortgages
are going to bring this country down.
Which explains why we deserted the Golden
State in favor of the Silver
State some eighteen months ago. Dad keeps
pouncing on the distressed properties that
pop up regularly.
Plus, cost of living is lower here, and that
includes my tuition at Zephyr Academy,
the finest college
prep school in northern Nevada. I don’t
miss California too much, except for seeing
Gramps and Grandma
Grace. That, and the street dance scene.
Dad Might Be Sympathetic
To my missing my grandparents, but
dance is not even
a small blip on his radar. I mean, it would
not jibe with his plans for my future.
It’s an ongoing rant.
Mom, who’s generally more focused on
where to nip and how to tuck her patients,
only brings it up once
in a while. Dad is more pragmatic, and
broaches the subject regularly, especially
with graduation in
plain sight. Did you decide about school?
I’ve had positive responses from two
California colleges.
Either would be okay, I guess. “Not yet.”
Stop procrastinating. Where do you see
yourself next year? Because
it won’t be here. Time for a viable plan.
Dorm or a homeless shelter? Nice choice.
Thanks, Dad. My plan
is art school, a frivolous career in graphic
design. I’m still waiting to hear back from
my top choice—the San
Francisco Art Institute. But when I told
Dad that, he freaked. Apparently, “art”
plus “San Francisco” can
only mean one thing. You’re not serious!
He actually yelled, all his well-cultivated
self-control out the
window. What are you? A homosexual?
It might have been funny, except for
the way he looked at me—
like hinging on my answer was worthiness
of the Kane surname. I shook my head,
agreed to rethink my future,
wishing I could confess that my real dream
isn’t art. It’s dance. My parents have no idea.
No one does, except
my instru
ctor, who gives me private lessons.
Ballet. Modern. Some ballroom. But I love jazz
most of all, and Liana
says I’ve got real talent. I don’t know about
that, but I do know that dance lifts me
above the mundane.
Grounds me with the certainty that I am
good at something. Connects me to the place
inside where I find passion.
Meaning beyond possessions. Pride, divorced
from my last name. But how can I confess
that to my father?
He thinks a career in art will make me a gay
loser. If I told him I wanted to be a dancer,
it would erase any
doubt in his mind that’s exactly what I am.
As For My Mom
She mostly cares about wasted tuition. Art?
You might as well go to
public school. What’s the point of spending
all this money to insure you have a quality
education only to have you
squander it on an indulgent flight of fancy?
Funny, considering indulgent flights of fancy
bring in a good portion
of her income as a plastic surgeon. Today,
snow plummeting from the silver sky,
Dr. Kane is working in
her home office. I can hear her, purring
to a patient on the phone. I understand and
your concerns are justified.
Like all cosmetic surgery, liposuction can
have side effects. But you are a perfect
candidate.… Mom will
talk that lady into letting her suck the fat
from the woman’s gut, butt, or thighs, a shortcut
to perfection. Damn
the bills. You’ll be the finest woman standing
in the bankruptcy line. Your plastic surgeon
doesn’t care, either.
She gets payment in full up front. Which helps
pay for her ambitionless kid’s unappreciated
tuition. No classes today,
though. Today, even the snowplow drivers
are staying inside; at least I haven’t heard one
go by. It’s a good day
to hang out at home. But I’ve got other plans
and a stellar all-wheel-drive Audi Quattro.
Mom’s still on the phone,
convincing. I call out anyway, “See you later.”
Her voice falls quiet, so I know she must
have heard me. But
she doesn’t bother to say good-bye.
Cara
Don’t Bother
Me with promises. Vows
are cheaply manufactured,
come with no guarantees.
Don’t bother to say you
love
me. The word is indefinable.
Joy to some, heartbreak
to others, depending on
circumstance. There
is
evidence that the emotion
can make a person live longer,
evidence it can kill you early.
I think it’s akin to
a deadly
disease. Or at least some
exotic fever. Catch it, and
you’d better, quick, swallow
some medication to use as a
weapon
against the fire ravaging
body and soul.
New Running Shoes
Are the best thing in the world,
at least once you get them broken
in. The Nikes are good to go, if
only we could get a few days
of decent weather. I can run in
the gym, but inhaling sweat
fumes is so not my thing.
I can swim indoors—don’t mind
that a bit. But I’m craving a long
run outside in the diamond air,
in a downpour of brittle morning
sun. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Feet drumming pavement. Leg
muscles flex, long then short.
Slip into the zone where time
disappears and no one expects
pace or performance. No one can
catch me. No one to stop me. No score
to keep. No measure but my own.
When I run, I am almost free.
But Today The Roads Are Icy
So I won’t run, and I’ll try not
to think about freedom. It only
frustrates me because I sincerely
doubt I’ll ever know what it means
to live autonomously. I will
forever walk beneath an umbrella
of expectation. Mom and Dad
have a plan for me and won’t talk
about alternatives. My teachers
have faith in me and know I’ll go far.
My so-called friends mostly hang
out to see if my status will rub off
on them. Only Sean doesn’t really
ask anything special of me, except
to decorate his arm like a favorite
piece of jewelry. Oh, he claims
that he’s in love with me. If I knew
what love was, I might be able to
judge the depth of his feelings. But
for now, it’s enough to have a stable
relationship with one of the most
popular guys at school. No matter
that he doesn’t make my heart pitter-
patter faster. Maybe I’m a ventricle
short. Despite that, he’s the closest
thing to a best friend I have.
Marriages have survived long
term on less. Not that I’m planning
to get married any time soon. Who
needs that kind of misery? All I have
to do is look around to know it’s not
for me. Still, it’s nice having a steady
someone to hang out with. Sean
is adventurous. Fun. Good-looking
in a jock kind of way. And you know,
everyone expects the perfect girl
to go out with the perfect guy.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned
from Mom, it’s that appearances are
everything. Sean and I look great together.
You Might Even Say
We look normal. Looks can deceive.
We’ve both had our share of emotional
trauma, though mine stems from
parents who really don’t care about
me, while Sean doesn’t have parents
at all. His mom died giving birth to
his little brother, Wade. His dad followed
her four years ago, fried in a fiery bus
crash. Half of his football team died
with him. He would have been forty-five
today. Sean’s making his annual
pilgrimage to the cemetery, and I’m
going along. Here comes his jock-
worthy GMC pickup. It was a gift from
his uncle Jeff, who will never quite
measure up, no matter how hard he tries.
Sean idolized his father. He pulls into
the driveway, and even from here I can
see sadness in the forward tilt of his
shoulders. It’s a memory-shadowed day.
The Sean Who Stops
And gets out to open the passenger
door for me is subdued. Hey, you.
It comes out a throaty whisper.
He kisses me, and the kiss is quiet too.
Sean helps me up into the cab. It over-
flows flowers. I haven’t seen so much
color in months. “Where did you find
such a big variety this time of year?”
He gives me a tepid smile. I had to
go to five grocery stores and Wal-Mart.
Stupid, I know. They’ll freeze first
thing. It’s supposed to snow tonight.
“Well, at least it’s nice right now.”
Nice, meaning thirty degrees, partly
cloudy, not much wind. Some would
call that inclement. But Sean agrees
with my assessment. Yes, it is. Let’s
go before something nasty blows in.
As we drive toward the city, I notice
there isn’t one rose in these dozens
of flowers. Lilies and asters, tulips,
carnations, sunflowers and mums,
but… “You couldn’t find roses in all
those stores?” Sean drums the steering
wheel with one hand, musing.
Finally he says, My mom loved
roses. She grew them everywhere
in our yard, and when she died,
Dad went kind of crazy and
tore them all out. I can’t even
look at a rose without thinking
about that day. I was so afraid
he’d flipped out for good and
I would lose him, too. He kept
saying he’d replant them in
her memory. Never happened.
February Doesn’t Seem
To be a big month for mourning.
Maybe it’s too cold to die?
Wow. Too cold to die. Wonder
if that’s why Conner’s still alive.
Okay. That’s dumb. I know people
die in February. But obviously,
their loved ones don’t come to say
hi in dead of winter. The cemetery
is—uh—dead. No one here but
Sean and me. Which makes it
exponentially creepy, even in
daylight. The only time I’ve been
to a graveyard was for my grand-
father’s burial. Dad said the old
jerk deserved to go early. Who
knows? I had one bad experience
with him. Of course, it was the only
time I actually met him. So, yeah.
Anyway, I’ve never shared any
of that with Sean yet. And this
is probably not the right time
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