Perfect - 02

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Perfect - 02 Page 15

by Ellen Hopkins


  anything except walk

  through the door with your daughter.”

  Directed in a straight line at Mr. Mathieson.

  “I don’t know what your

  problem is, but I’m not going to make it mine.

  I’m leaving, Jenna. You can come with

  me, or you can stay.

  It doesn’t really matter either way.”

  I Turn My Back

  On the whole ugly scene, walk away

  without a backward

  glance. Behind me, things escalate

  into a regular shouting match. Jenna:

  You had no right to do

  that, Dad. Andre is really good to me.

  Dad: Listen to me, little girl. I’d better

  never see you with

  someone like… that… again. Never.

  Someone like… that? I am almost

  through the door

  when Jenna confirms the reference.

  You mean someone who’s black? God,

  Dad. What century do

  you live in? Anyway, we’re just going

  out. It’s not like we’re getting married

  and making babies

  together or something. Andre! Wait up.

  I keep on walking. Last thing I need

  is for some racist jerk

  to come gunning for me. And that seems

  a likely possibility. Jenna! Get your ass

  back here right now!

  The door closes behind me, and I don’t

  have the stomach to turn around and

  see which one of them

  prevailed. Jenna is strong-willed, but

  her father is a regular ogre. Can’t believe

  a nice lady like Shiloh

  wants to hook up long term with the man.

  Can’t believe girls as pretty as Jenna

  and Kendra could be

  so closely related to someone as ugly as that.

  I Reach My Car

  Without taking a bullet in the back.

  Thank God for small

  miracles. As I unlock the door, footsteps

  come slapping up the street. Not sure

  I’m all that happy

  to see Jenna, but whatever. A quick scan

  of the sidewalk behind her tells me we’ve

  got all of thirty seconds

  to make a clear getaway. “Hurry up, okay?”

  As I pull away from the curb, Jenna sighs.

  Wow. I didn’t know he’d

  get that mad. Not that I really care. Sorry.

  I’m pretty sure she’s not sorry at all.

  But when I look at

  her, all wide-eyed and beautiful, I’m not

  sure how to be angry. “Damn it, Jenna.

  You had to know how

  he’d feel about you showing up with me.

  I mean, it’s not like he just woke up one

  day and decided to

  hate black people. It’s programmed.”

  My grandparents aren’t the most open-

  minded people in

  the world, she says. He definitely learned

  it from them. Her hand skips across

  the seat, pounces on

  my leg. But, hey, aren’t you glad I chose

  to break the cycle of hate? She says it with

  a completely straight

  face, then breaks out in a lunatic grin.

  I can’t help but laugh. “Girl, you make

  me totally crazy.

  And just so you know, I’m still mad at you.”

  Yeah, but you’ll forgive me. Her fingers

  dance up along my inner

  thigh. That’s what love is all about, right?

  Cara

  What Is Love All About?

  The question is asked time

  and again in books. Movies.

  Television. Songs. Sadly,

  I

  have to admit I’m clueless,

  and the theories I’ve seen

  presented seem to

  have no

  solid footing on terra firma.

  They are spores, floating

  in imagination, oblivious of

  real experience.

  From what I’ve seen, love

  isn’t about mutual respect.

  It’s more concerned

  with

  control than sacrifice.

  And I wonder whether

  it’s better or worse when

  love

  finally walks away.

  Three Days

  Since the night Sean had sex

  with me. Three long days, trying

  to make sense of the disgusting

  scene that replays over and over

  in my head—the worst-ever dirty

  movie, stuck in an endless loop.

  In retrospect, it wasn’t all Sean’s

  fault. It’s a thin line between

  outright assault and temporary

  insanity. And I was as crazy as

  he was, at least for a few intense

  moments. What’s hazy is when,

  not to mention why, I changed

  my mind. My head said okay.

  My body said hurry. But my heart

  said I’d be sorry. And I am. I am.

  I Am Also Incredibly Angry

  At him. At me. At us. At there

  ever having been an us. I guess

  I got the answer I needed. But

  it was never the one I wanted.

  It destroys the impeccable order

  of my life.

  Ruins the rhyme.

  Makes the meter out of sync.

  I’m afraid it will never be perfect

  again. I am indelibly stained.

  Forever redefined, but

  blurred around the edges.

  Because the clearer it becomes

  that this other Cara really is me,

  the less I’m sure that she’s the person

  I want to be. I’m scared there’s no

  turning back. I loathe labels,

  especially those I can’t free myself

  of. So how do I hang out a “lesbian”

  shingle? How can I expose myself

  (so to speak) in such a blatant

  manner? God, it’s hard enough

  waving around the “Stanford-

  bound Cheerleader” banner.

  Yes, I made it. The acceptance

  letter came today. I should be

  celebrating. But I have no one

  to celebrate with, except maybe

  Dani. And I’m afraid to call her.

  Because I’d have a lot more to tell

  her than just about Stanford. If

  I open that door, let the bad air

  out, who knows if I could close

  it again once the sweet breeze

  came wafting in? My cell phone

  rings, and I freeze. I know it’s Sean.

  I’ve lost track of how many times

  he’s called in the past three days.

  I know I have to talk to him.

  What I don’t know is where to begin.

  If He Really Loves Me

  He should understand that I am

  not the princess he so desires.

  Not a princess at all. If he really

  loves me, he will want me to stay

  true to who I am. The person I was

  born to be. What I’m trying to say

  is, if he loves me, he will let me go.

  How frigging cliché. But I mean it.

  His messages have been predictable:

  Please forgive me. I’ll make it up

  to you. Tell me what you want me

  to do. Get down on my knees? I will.

  This one is different. Cara, you are

  my world. I’ve planned my future

  around being with you. I need you

  to understand what that means.

 
; I signed my letter of intent to play

  ball for Stanford. Because of you.

  I thought we would be together. Live

  together. Maybe even… Please call.

  Maybe Even What?

  That sounded serious. No, more

  like ominous. Surely he wasn’t

  hinting at marriage? Okay, that’s

  purely speculation on my part,

  but if that’s what he meant, better

  to sever this relationship right away.

  Because while I might have thought

  I loved him once, I never considered

  marrying him. Or anyone. When

  I was little, my friends would gush

  over wedding gowns and honeymoons.

  But I saw too many people flush decades

  together right down the toilet over

  money or kids or meaningless flings.

  My own parents chose to stay married,

  which I think is rather funny, since

  they show about as much affection

  for each other as pit bulls in a ring.

  Tying the knot means slipping a noose

  around love and choking it to death.

  So Now Or Never

  I dial Sean’s number. He answers

  before it rings, as if waiting, phone

  in hand, for me to call. Oh, thank

  God. I swore if I didn’t hear from

  you, I was coming over there and

  camping in your driveway. Did you

  get my last message? I got in! And

  I’m going to play for Stanford.

  I can picture his face, all lit up

  with pride and excitement. I have

  to hurry, or I’ll lose my nerve.

  “Sean, listen. I’m not sure why

  you thought we would be together

  after this year. I never promised

  that. And what happened the other

  night made it clear to me that I can

  never be what you need. You deserve

  someone who will love you with all

  her heart. That isn’t me. I’m sorry.”

  I knew he would take it hard, but

  did not expect the rabid way he comes

  back at me now. What the fuck are

  you saying? That it’s over? Because

  we finally had sex? You can’t be serious!

  “Not just because we finally had sex.”

  Damn it. I’m crying. “Because it

  didn’t mean anything. I should

  be dying to have it again. I’m not.”

  He is quiet for several very long

  seconds. Finally he says, Cara,

  I love you and that wouldn’t change

  even if we never had sex again.

  I’ll jack off forever, if that’s what

  you want. His voice slices the ether

  between us. But I will never let you

  go. He gives me no choice but to

  say, “We’re over, Sean. I’m sorry,

  but the longer we try to hold on to

  each other, the more it will hurt when

  we finally fall apart. This is good-bye.”

  I Think I Hear Him Sob

  As I hit the off button. That so did

  not go well. It was the right thing

  to do. So why do I feel empty? Why

  must I make things black and white?

  Okay, I know the answer. Like it or

  not, I take after my parents. Neither

  acknowledges hues of gray. Really,

  though, it’s my choice. Either deal

  the cards faceup on the table or

  withdraw from the game. I’m sick

  of bluffing. This is where most girls

  would pick up the phone, call

  their best friend, seek sympathy.

  Not me. Oh, I’ve got more than a few

  so-called friends, but none I’m close

  to. Something else I inherited—lack

  of trust. I wish I had someone to talk

  to. Only one person comes to mind.

  Guess it’s time to let out the bad air.

  Straight to voice mail. “Hey, you.

  I’ve been thinking about you.…”

  Screw that. Try the truth for once.

  “Uh, some stuff happened and it

  would be really great to talk to you.

  Call me when you can. Oh, this is

  Cara.” Stupid. She would know who.

  Wouldn’t she? Oh my freaking God.

  What’s wrong with me? I dump

  Sean and my ego suffers? Freud

  would no doubt have something

  deep to say about that. I can’t just

  sit here stressing, so I fire up

  my laptop, check my e-mail. There

  are a dozen from Sean, all sent before

  we talked. Delete. Without. Opening.

  The usual junk mail. Nothing more.

  I head on over to Facebook. No

  new wall posts on my profile page.

  On my home page, more messages

  from you-know-who. Delete.

  One from my cousin, Tiffany,

  asking about summer plans. Looks

  like she’s getting married. You go,

  girl. A shout-out from Shantell,

  reminding me about her graduation

  party. How could I forget? It’s all

  she’s talked about for weeks. And

  now it looks like I’m going solo.

  Messages read, I return to my home

  page, where status alerts announce

  all the news that’s fit to know. I’m just

  about out of there when an update

  pops into view. What the…? Sean

  is cyber-screaming to our mutual crowd:

  CAN’T BELIEVE THE BITCH BROKE

  UP WITH ME!!! I knew he was upset,

  but I didn’t think he’d go public, at least

  not so soon. Comments start to appear.

  Most paint me a villain. A whore, lacking

  a heart. Some are written by “friends.”

  Enough Already

  I can understand vitriol from his team-

  mates. Guys stick together, and those

  particular guys have muscles beneath

  the double-thick plates of their skulls,

  where brain matter really should be.

  But the nastiest remarks come from

  girls. A couple are on the cheer squad.

  The one who comments, CARA’S A SLUT

  would know what that word means

  from experience. But I would never

  post that on Facebook. Not even now.

  I want to respond. React. Deny.

  But that would only stoke the coals

  of gossip, churn them into a raging

  firestorm. Better to keep quiet,

  let the coals burn down into ash.

  I turn off my computer. Lie on my

  bed, hoping for sleep to toss me

  somewhere else for a while.

  Somewhere deep. Dark. Empty.

  Kendra

  Empty

  Is the perfect state of being.

  Nothing inside to anchor

  you. Nothing inside

  to chain you down, keep

  you

  from living your dreams.

  Empty, almost weightless,

  you are an eyelash afloat

  on a blink of breeze. You

  can

  rise above tension and worry,

  loosed from the grip of gravity.

  Adrift in thermal lift, you

  ride the wing of freedom and

  soar.

  Empty, you are Eve in Eden.

  Empty, you are what

  you were meant to be.

  Thank God For Jenna

  My messed-up little sister always

  manages to take the glare off of me.


  I mean, here I am, in the red-hot seat,

  getting the fifth degree from my loser dad

  and his wife-to-be (like she has any place

  talking all “mom” to me), when in sambas

  Jenna with her boyfriend. I have to admit

  I felt sorry for the guy. He had no idea

  that Dad is stuck in the pre–civil rights

  era. Racism is alive and well and hanging

  ’em high in the Rudolph Mathieson home.

  Downright nasty of Jenna to bring Andre

  to lunch. She knew Dad would make

  a miserable scene. That way, she didn’t have

  to make her own scene about the wedding.

  Wait. Okay, that was brilliant. Damn her.

  Something Obvious

  To me, though I’m pretty sure Dad

  missed it completely—Andre is flat

  crazy in love with Jenna. It was in his eyes,

  how he couldn’t pry them off of her.

  It was in the way his fingers played

  music along the keyboard of her hand.

  In the way he kept his mouth shut

  just as long as he could. Even when

  Dad got right up spit-close in his face,

  Andre kept hold of his temper. Some

  people might have interpreted it as not

  having a spine, but I could tell it was for

  Jenna. And despite the awful way she set

  him up, he offered her the out. To go

  or stay, her choice. Yep, he’s definitely

  got a major thing for her. Poor guy.

  One Thing I Have To Respect

  About Jenna is she does not apologize

  for who she is or the things she does.

  In that way, she takes after our father.

  I am more like Mom, saying I’m sorry

  for everything, even when I don’t mean

  it. The one thing I refuse to apologize

  for is my weight. Do you know what

  kind of damage an eating disorder can

  do to your body? Bitch. I do not have

 

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