Perfect - 02

by Ellen Hopkins

  or place to mention it. He looks

  scared. Flustered. Duh. The flowers.

  “Let me carry some of those.”

  Sean leads the way, and as we walk,

  a fist of clouds chokes out the sun.

  Despite the overwhelming gray, our

  blossoms mist the gloom with color.

  Scarlet. Lilac. Tangerine. Bronze.

  Evening star gold. Late morning

  sun yellow. Any place but here,

  it would be romantic. It isn’t far

  to the gravesite, on a slight rise well

  away from the road. This time of year,

  there’s no grass, just packed layers of old

  snow. Sean stops to lay his flowers

  in front of an ice-rimmed headstone.

  Hey, Dad. Sean’s breath steams into

  frozen air, and his voice pierces

  the silence of death. Happy birthday.

  No Answer

  At least, not one I can hear, unless

  it is the disturbing mutter of wind.

  “Should we find something to hold

  the flowers?” They’ll soon clutter

  the cemetery if we don’t, but Sean

  says, Let them blow if they want to.

  That way everyone here can enjoy them.

  It is so unlike anything I’d expect

  from him, I hardly know how to

  react. So I kneel to place an armful

  of spring atop slick layers of winter.

  Within seconds, they chase each other

  across the grounds, halted here and

  there by marble and granite head-

  stones. I glance at the inscriptions here:

  CLAIRE JENNIFER O’CONNELL, adjacent to

  “COACH” BRYAN PIERCE O’CONNELL.

  It hits me, electric, like lightning.

  “Your mom was so young when she

  died.” Only twenty-eight. I wait for some

  sign of sadness. But Sean responds

  instead with a quick jab of anger. Stupid

  bitch. He takes a deep breath. If she hadn’t

  gone all New Agey, she wouldn’t be dead.

  We’ve never really talked about

  her, or how exactly she died.

  “New Agey? What do you mean?”

  He trembles, but whether from cold

  or memory, I can’t be sure. She decided

  to use a midwife instead of going to

  the hospital. If she had been at Saint Mary’s,

  she wouldn’t have bled to death when

  she hemorrhaged. The paramedics

  couldn’t save her. And you know

  the worst thing? I was standing right

  there. I saw her go. I was just a little

  kid, but I’ll never forget watching her

  fade away. One minute she was Mommy.

  The next, she was a mannequin.

  All that was left of her was Wade.

  Bitterness

  Tints his voice. That, and anger.

  How can he blame his mom?

  I’m not sure I understand. Then

  again, I have no frame of reference.

  My mother is still one of the walking,

  talking, breathing. But she doesn’t

  do a whole lot more for me than Sean’s

  mom does for him now. We never

  spend time together. Rarely even

  attempt to communicate. For all

  our daily interaction, she might

  as well be dead. I don’t hate her.

  But I’m not really sure I love her,

  at least not in the classic fashion.

  And if she loves me, she hides it well.

  Parenting should be a passion, not

  a part-time pursuit. The wind kicks

  stronger, branches clatter. Or maybe

  skeletons. Bones of abandonment.

  Ghosts of what will never be.

  Kendra

  Ghosts

  Take shape under moonlight,

  materialize in dreams.

  Shadows. Silhouettes

  of what is no more. But

  ghosts don’t

  bother me. The day brings

  bigger things to worry about

  than flimsy remains of

  yesterday. No, spooks don’t

  scare me.

  Gauzy apparitions might

  prank your psyche or

  agitate your nightmares,

  but lacking

  flesh and blood

  they are powerless

  to hurt you—cannot hope

  to inflict the kind of damage

  that real, live

  people do.

  Miss Teen Spirit Of The West

  Is not the biggest pageant I’ve ever done.

  But as regional pageants go, the prize money

  is good, especially compared to the entry fee.

  And every pageant I compete in keeps me

  tuned up for heavier-weight competitions.

  This one is in Elko, a five-hour drive from

  Reno. Five hours, listening to my mom remind

  me about stuff I don’t need to be reminded

  about. Remember to keep your chin tilted

  up and your shoulders back. Act like…

  “The royalty you pretend to be. I know,

  Mom. You’ve only told me that, like, eight

  gazillion times. If I can’t remember it by

  now, I never will.” The tone was testier

  than I intended. Mom looks a little stung.

  “Sorry. It’s just, I’ve got it, you know?”

  Interstate 80 is mostly flat Great Basin desert.

  Salt flats, sage, and carrion. Not much to excite

  the eye or stimulate conversation. I guess

  I should be grateful to Mom for trying.

  After several very long silent minutes,

  she tries again. Do you still enjoy them?

  Pageants, I mean. You used to love them,

  at least I thought so. But now I’m not sure.

  Does she want the truth? Do I want

  to give it to her? I decide to compromise.

  “I like winning them.” Like every eye on me,

  and when those eyes find me fairest of all.

  What I don’t like is what it sometimes

  takes to win. Backstabbing. Manipulation.

  Out-and-out bribery once in a while,

  and not always the monetary kind.

  Beautiful Bodies

  Are ripe for the picking. It’s rare. But not

  unheard of. Unless I am willing to go that far,

  I’ll always be at a slight disadvantage.

  I most definitely wouldn’t stoop so low

  to win Miss Teen Spirit of the West.

  Miss America, however, might be a whole

  different tale. Not even sure Mom

  would object. Pageants are a means

  to an end, as she reminds me now.

  Winning is good. Every crown puts

  you one step closer to the runway.

  You get there, you’ll never have to

  depend on anyone else. A self-reliant

  woman. That’s what you’ll be.

  I’ve heard it before. She’s drummed it

  into me. My looks are the key to the kingdom.

  Still Two Hours West

  Of Elko, the silence becomes stifling.

  At least for Mom, who digs too hard

  to come up with something. Do you

  want to talk about Conner? She waits,

  patient as one of the vultures I watch,

  circling above some vile desert-claimed

  corpse. “What about Conner?” The buzzard

  wheel widens as more black wings link

  to the cog. Well, um… Do you think it

  had anything to do with you breaking up?

  What is she talking about? “D
o I think

  what had to do with us breaking up?”

  She huffs a little, like she thinks I’m

  dense. You know. The gun. The hospital…

  Okay, she’s the one who’s dense. “Why

  would Conner shooting himself have

  anything to do with ‘us’? Accidents hap—

  Wait. Are you saying it wasn’t an accident?”

  Heat flowers at the back of my neck,

  radiates toward my skull. “Well? Mom?”

  She slows the car. It was not an accident,

  Kendra. Conner tried to kill himself.

  Suicide? Conner? “No! He’d never!” Would

  he? But even if he did, “How do you know?”

  I was dealing with another Jenna issue

  and was in the guidance counselor’s office.

  I overheard him talking about where to send

  Conner’s schoolwork—Aspen Springs.

  Aspen Springs. Psych hospital. Residential

  treatment center. Lockdown for druggies and…

  I have to know for sure. I jerk my cell from

  my bag, check for a signal. Two bars. Still,

  a text might work. IS CONNER IN ASPEN

  SPRINGS? Hit the send. Wait for Cara

  to answer. Mom watches me sideways,

  out of the corner of her eye. You all right?

  “No. Yes. Wait…” What was she saying

  about Conner and me breaking up? No! No way!

  “Even if Conner did try to kill himself,

  it wasn’t my fault! How can you think that?”

  I cut off her denial. “Just drive, okay?”

  I think about the last few times I saw him.

  I could barely look at him through the smog

  of my pain. And Conner was never easy to

  read, anyway. But I only remember him

  smiling. Laughing. Easygoing. All Conner.

  My phone chimes suddenly. Incoming.

  WHO TOLD YOU? No denial, so it must

  be true. DOESN’T MATTER. DID HE TRY

  TO KILL HIMSELF? I don’t expect a quick

  answer, but it comes back right away.

  NO ONE KNOWS. PLEASE DON’T TELL.

  Don’t tell? That’s what she’s worried

  about? My eyes sting and my cheeks burn.

  YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME. I HAD

  THE RIGHT TO KNOW. Bitch. I THOUGHT

  YOU WERE MY FRIEND. Then I remember.

  The Sykes family doesn’t keep friends.

  But they do keep secrets. I’M SORRY. MY MOM

  WOULD HAVE WRECKED ME IF I TOLD YOU.

  Probably literally. Doesn’t make it right,

  though. One last question. WHY DID HE DO IT?

  We go into a tunnel. On the other side, Elko

  comes into view, along with Cara’s last message:

  WHO KNOWS?

  Elko Is A Mining Town

  And while the surrounding countryside

  is stunning, the town itself has seen

  better days. Parts of it are pretty. Others

  are shabby. Run-down. Battered by time

  and circumstance. Sort of like how I feel

  right now. We were up before dawn to

  hit the highway, but this soul-drooping

  weariness comes from some absurd sense

  of guilt. I didn’t make Conner pick up

  that gun. But was there anything I might

  have done to stop him? Why didn’t I see

  warning signs? Was any of his hopelessness

  because of me? Ridiculous, I know. He broke

  up with me. But I still don’t know why.

  Mom pulls into the Thunderbird Motel.

  Checks us into a this-will-do kind of room.

  “Why do we always stay here?

  The Holiday Inn isn’t too far away.”

  She’s busy hanging my dresses in a tiny

  closet. I don’t know. Memories, I guess.

  “Memories of what?” Pretty sure Patrick

  has never been here with her. “Daddy?”

  Mom pulls her head out of the dank

  cubicle. Weird, huh? We stayed here

  not too long after we met. Spent long

  days hiking Lamoille Canyon. Gorgeous

  up there… She loses herself in some

  recollection. Comes back again. Anyway,

  I’m starving. Let’s get some lunch.

  We’ve got a couple of hours to kill.

  Lunch? Don’t think so. “I’m more tired

  than hungry. Think I’ll take a nap. You go.”

  Her Eyes Say The Words

  Her mouth refuses to—I’m worried

  about you. Why don’t you eat? What

  she does say is, Are you sure? You have

  to be hungry. You didn’t eat breakfast.

  I never eat breakfast. But all that does

  is prove her unspoken point. “I’m sure.

  If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll look awful

  tonight.” To make her happy, I ask her to

  bring back a salad. Off she goes. I lie down

  on the plywood-and-cotton-lumps mattress.

  Oh, Conner. How could you try to die?

  And why didn’t you? You hardly ever fail

  to get the things you really want. Did

  a switch flip inside your brain? If it did,

  I think what flipped it was that little boy

  who suddenly grew tired of being scared.

  I’ve Only Known

  One other person who ended up in Aspen

  Springs. Tiffany took dance with me for

  three or four years. Rumor had it her stepdad

  liked her a little too much. She coped with

  his “bad, bad touch” by binge-and-puking.

  Bulimia is nasty. Hanging your head in

  the toilet after every meal? Sticking your fingers

  down your throat? All that stomach acid,

  carving holes in your esophagus? And even

  after all that, still wearing a size eight? Talk

  about a waste of energy. Real control is

  not putting in more than you can work off.

  Knowing the exact count and keeping track.

  Shaving off every extra caloric unit you can

  without passing out. And the most important

  thing of all—keeping everyone else in the dark.

  Sean

  Everyone Else

  Seems to stumble through

  life. Fall. Get up. Go

  stumbling on again.

  If

  they happen into a really

  good place, do they then

  make plans how to stay there?

  I

  don’t understand how

  people manage without

  a well-drawn game plan.

  Don’t

  they want some promise

  of success? Every good

  novel requires a considered

  plot.

  Should a biography not

  demand as much? How do

  you function without structure?

  I fail

  to comprehend.

  Plotting

  Is important to me. How

  do I manage to reach

  Point B if I kick off

  from Point A? Logic,

  that’s what it takes. I hate

  the illogical. And really

  despise when it actually

  pays off for somebody.

  You know, right place,

  right time, whoopee, you

  win, without putting in

  one damn lick of effort?

  Bugs the shit out of me.

  Especially considering

  my life has been mostly

  about wrong place, wrong

  time, too damn bad for

  you. Lost my mom that

  way. Lost my dad that way.

  No
t going to lose Cara, too.

  Which is why I’ve got

  a game plan. One I’m

  sticking to. When you’ve

  only got one little shimmer

  of sunshine, you capture it

  best you can. I will marry

  that girl one day. Not

  that I’ve asked her yet.

  That page of our memoir

  isn’t ready to be written.

  Right now I’m working

  on the chapter that sends

  us to college together.

  First things first, and I

  always prefer to write

  in chronological order.

  Mostly because it’s [chrono]

  logical. I keep hearing that

  love isn’t a logical emotion.

  Should I worry about that?

  It Does Worry Me Some

  Which is probably why, until

  Cara, I refused to give my

  heart away. I mean, I’ve

  never had to work to get

  a girlfriend. I have sampled

  more than a few yummy

  female delicacies. But

  they’ve all been appetizers.

  Cara is a main course.

  I’d call her comfort food.

  Just not to her face. Don’t

  think she’d appreciate

  the metaphor. Truth

  is, I’ve got nothing but

  respect for that girl. I love

  her more than anything,

  and I know this love is

  real because, unlike

  my other relationships,

  it’s not all about sex.

  So Far, In Fact

  It isn’t about sex at all. Lots

  of kissing. A stolen second

  base or fifty, plus a definite

  leadoff toward third a time

  or two. But the only home runs