Perfect - 02
Page 15
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