Perfect - 02

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Perfect - 02 Page 16

by Ellen Hopkins


  an eating disorder. I know exactly what

  I eat and exactly how to burn it off. That

  sounds like order to me, not disorder.

  You’re too thin. Says who? Not Xavier.

  Not the big photogs. Not even my mom.

  My real mom. Not some phony wannabe.

  I will be here for you. Yeah, right.

  Not like I want her to be. Definitely not

  like I asked her to be. She means nothing

  to me. Why should I mean anything to her?

  Glad I didn’t mention the rhinoplasty.

  I’m sure she would have had something

  to say about that, too. It’s scheduled

  for Monday. I’m getting a little nervous.

  Andre’s mom has been very sweet.

  Don’t worry. I’ve performed hundreds,

  with very few complications. You’ll be

  just fine. You don’t smoke, do you?

  Didn’t think so, but needed to make

  sure. Smoking increases the risk of

  bleeding. Alcohol, too. I can tell you

  don’t drink. You’re much too slender.

  Slender. Not thin or skinny. Or anorexic.

  I’m Online

  Reading real-life nose job stories

  when I get an instant message from

  Bobby. HEY. ARE YOU ON FACEBOOK? GET

  THAT WAY. CHECK OUT SEAN’S PAGE.

  Bobby hardly ever IMs me. RIGHT NOW!

  Something’s definitely up. Oh, wow.

  I can’t believe Cara broke up with Sean.

  Neither can half the senior class. Glad

  I’m not her. They’re chopping her into

  little pieces: … IS A SLUT ANYWAY

  …ALWAYS WAS FULL OF IT

  …NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU

  And now: …SERIOUS COMMITMENT ISSUES

  YEAH, MUST RUN IN THE FAMILY.

  That last one from Aubree. Obviously

  referring to Conner and me. People

  really should mind their own business.

  Except, of course, Sean made it pretty

  much everyone’s business. Before I

  become an obvious topic of conversation,

  however, I think I’ll speak up and let

  them know I’m lurking here. HEY, SEAN,

  I type. SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT YOU AND

  CARA. CALL ME IF YOU NEED TO TALK, OKAY?

  I sign off. Get the heck out of there

  before I see any more comments I can’t

  stomach. For some stupid reason, now

  I feel hungry. Freaking stress. A small

  shot of sugar should do the trick. One

  Jolly Rancher. Watermelon. Twenty-three

  point three calories. If I go for a bike ride,

  I can treat myself to three. Game on.

  Closing In

  On April, less than a week away, winter

  wants to hang on this year. Late afternoon,

  it will be cold once the sun nose-dives

  behind the mountain. Glad I wore sweats,

  even though they make me look like Blimp

  Girl. I’ll ride back roads. Tires pumped up,

  I start on flat ground. Have to warm up a little

  before heading uphill. It’s been a while since

  I pedaled anything, and even in high gear,

  my legs start to burn fairly quickly. I like

  the burn, like the way my muscles feel

  when they contract. I should do this more.

  The last time I went bike riding was with

  Conner. It was summer, and his tanned legs

  were sensational to watch, pumping pedals.

  The morning was hot, and once in a while

  he would pour water over his head. His long

  hair dripped, catching sun, creating a halo.

  God, I loved him so much, and the memory

  is a new razor blade. Too sharp to feel its slice.

  Flat streets segue to a mild incline. I bear

  down on the pedals. My breathing shallows.

  Pant. Pant. I think of Conner again, how

  we stopped our bikes beneath the big trees

  at the park. Walked them into the heart

  of the woods, rested them against old pines,

  nestled ourselves into the thick needle bed.

  The breeze stirred gently, scenting the air

  with superheated evergreen. Conner pushed

  me back into the cushioned earth, and when

  he kissed me, it stole my breath away. Like

  now. Pant. Pant. We panted then. Together.

  The Hill Grows Steeper

  And the memory grows deeper with

  every breath I pull into my lungs.

  For the first time ever, the love we

  made was unhurried. It’s good slow,

  he said. Do you like it this way? I did

  but wondered just when he’d decided

  that, and how. Still, I didn’t dare ask

  him. Instead I just let him. And when

  he finished, he stayed very close to me,

  tracing one finger in circles on my skin.

  Don’t lose any more weight, he said.

  Don’t you want to look like a woman?

  That surprised me too. “I thought

  you’d like me better this way.”

  He shook his head, rustling the needles.

  Don’t believe the hype. Curves are hot.

  To The West

  The sun hides behind shadowed granite

  cliffs. But despite the noticeable drop

  in temperature, sweat soaks into the fleece

  beneath my arms, and my hair dampens.

  Suddenly I am starving, every calorie

  taken in today completely expended.

  My heart quakes, stuttering in my chest.

  Time to turn around. Head home. Downhill.

  As I swing the bike across the yellow line,

  I feel my face go white, as if the saw-slice

  of memory has opened my head, let blood.

  My stomach, empty, heaves nothingness.

  I begin to shiver. My arms start to shake

  and I lose control of the handlebars.

  Buzzing. Horrible buzzing. My hands

  grab for the brakes. Too late. I’m falling…

  Through The Fog

  Fog? Where did that come from? No

  matter, it’s here, and the only thing

  that makes it lift is pain. Jolts of pain.

  In my right arm. Right leg. Right side

  of my head. I try to move—have to.

  I’m in the street. I think. Must move.

  But some strange weight holds me

  in place. Don’t move. Hands test

  my body. Conner? No. That was last

  summer. My eyes work hard to focus.

  The hands belong to a lady. Don’t know

  her. I don’t feel any broken bones, but

  you could have a concussion. Stay right

  there. I’ll call 9-1-1. But as soon as she lets

  go, I manage a sitting position. “I’m okay.

  Please. Can you just take me home?”

  Sean

  I’m Okay

  Everything I’ve believed

  in, smashed into the mud.

  All I’ve worked toward,

  pulverized into dust. But

  I’m

  okay. Who wanted all that,

  anyway? Who needed

  an unobstructed road to

  a tidy little future, when

  really

  the fun is in breaking trail

  toward some unknown

  destination? Any sane person

  would say you should

  not

  put every shred of hope

  in one human being, especially

  not a girl. The perfect girl,

  no longer mine. But, hey, I’m<
br />
  okay.

  Wounded

  And I don’t even know what

  the fuck happened. Everything

  was going perfectly. Graduating

  with a high B average? Check.

  Playing top-flight baseball?

  Check. Offered a scholarship

  to play Cardinal ball? Check.

  Accepted into Stanford, an

  almost impossible goal

  to realize? Check. Best of

  all, after waiting for a year,

  after finding a way to make

  sure performance would

  not be an issue, being right

  there with Cara, both of us

  naked and hot and ready

  to go, finally having sex

  with the girl I love more

  than life, only to be accused

  of rape? Check. And check!!

  I Thought She Was Over It

  When she finally called.

  Believed she’d forgiven

  me. How could I have

  been so wrong? About

  everything. I thought she

  loved me, too. How could

  I have given my heart to

  someone still-frozen?

  Looking back, I see that she

  never felt about me the way

  I felt about her. Talk about

  one-sided affection. What in

  God’s name do I do now?

  Turn down Stanford? I could

  have gone east to school.

  Some place far, far away

  from Cara. No, damn it.

  After all I went through

  to get in there, I’m going to

  Stanford. With or without Cara.

  At Least She Didn’t

  Publicly accuse me of rape.

  Tomorrow will be a week

  since that night, and not

  one word has surfaced.

  All things considered,

  I figured she might, if only

  to save face. Reputation

  is pretty much everything

  to Cara Sykes. And her

  standing with the in crowd

  has plummeted. Bitch isn’t

  the only one who has friends

  in high places. In fact, as

  of today, she doesn’t have

  much in the way of friends.

  Period. Maybe I went a little

  crazy, posting on Facebook

  and stuff. I kind of thought

  she might jump in and defend

  herself. But no. Not a word.

  That pisses me off more than

  anything. The fucking silence.

  The least she could do is tell

  me what the hell happened.

  She owes me that much.

  The worst thing is, she’s all

  I can think about. School?

  What’s that? Oh yeah, that

  place I used to go where

  I actually became somebody

  once I started dating Cara.

  Homework? Whatever.

  I’ll do enough to graduate,

  but why work harder than

  I have to? Baseball? Now,

  that’s a problem of sorts.

  I’ve accomplished what

  I set out to do, for sure.

  But it bothers me that my bat

  has grown as cold as Cara.

  On One Hand

  It doesn’t really matter.

  On the other hand, there

  are records at stake. I should

  be number one in the league.

  And if I get it back together,

  I can still grab that title.

  I have to kick this butt-

  rod pitcher’s ass. I need

  to remember just who

  the hell Sean O’Connell

  is, with or without his girl.

  I watch the windup, try

  to read the signals. Think

  about Cara, throwing off

  her shirt that night. Strike!

  What? Wait. I didn’t even

  see the ball. Goddamn

  it. No! The pitcher leers—

  leers! Screw you, dude.

  I’ve got your ticket. I wait

  for it… mind wandering

  to Chad’s sofa, and smooth

  skin perfumed with desire.

  And she’s saying yes, touch

  me there, all wet.… Strike two.

  Damn it all, O’Connell,

  concentrate. That fricking

  pitcher is a goon. I swear

  if I don’t hit him this time…

  he pulls back from his windup.

  Trying to make me lose it

  again. No effing way, jerk.

  He comes set, draws back.

  It’s a sinker for sure. A fast-

  ball is too big of a risk. He

  lets go of the ball. Here it

  comes. Fast. And straight.

  And I swing right through.

  And the goddamn umpire

  dares, Strike three. You’re out.

  And I Know I’m Out

  I am so fucking out. And

  I know the umpire is totally

  right, but at this particular

  moment, I couldn’t give

  a damn about right or wrong.

  I want to feel better. So I wheel

  to my right, catch hold of

  his mask, pull his ugly face

  right up into mine, and

  I say, “You got it wrong.”

  Behind his face guard,

  his eyes go wide. Are you

  questioning my call? Because

  I don’t think that’s a good idea.

  Let go of me, son. I mean now.

  And I know I really need

  to stop myself, but I can’t

  seem to manage it. “I’m not

  your fucking son, you piece

  of…” And now all I can see

  is Cara, telling me I have

  just raped her. And all

  I want to do is shake

  her. And a scarlet haze

  lifts over my eyes. I hate

  her. I love her. O’Connell!

  Stop! It’s Coach Torrance.

  And I shake my head, and

  the red veil falls, and I am

  horrified to see I’ve been

  shaking the ump, like I

  wanted to shake Cara.

  Oh my God. “What’s

  wrong with me?” I say it

  aloud, with a cracked black

  pepper voice. And I’m sorry.

  Oh, yes, I’m sorry. But it’s

  too late for sorry. I am out

  of the game. No hits. No

  runs. Just another strikeout.

  I Hit The Locker Room

  Strip down. Shower. Realize

  suddenly that this stupid stunt

  could very well end my baseball

  career. Not many coaches

  want to deal with players

  who go off the deep end and

  try to kill the umpire over

  a called third strike. Or anything

  else, for that matter. What

  came over me? I turn the water

  cool, let it flow over my head,

  chill my brain. A phrase floats

  up from some subconscious

  sea. “’Roid rage.” Maybe it

  fits, but I don’t think so. No,

  this was all about Cara. Why

  can’t I just let her go? And

  now—fuck, fuck, fuck—

  I’m crying. Tears spill,

  mixing with shower splash.

  My legs start to shake,

  and I let them slip out

  from under me. I scoot

  back against the cool tile,

  let the waterfall rush over

  me. And this is how Uncle

  Jeff finds me. Are you okay?

 
Obviously not. Kind of blew

  it out there, huh? Do you want

  to talk about what’s going on?

  I do. But I can’t. I look up

  at him through the streaming

  water. “Just a lot of pressure

  lately is all.” I get up, turn

  off the shower. Reach for

  a towel. Not sure that excuse

  is good enough to fix what

  just happened. Beyond

  your likely league suspension,

  that ump could press charges.

  I Know All That

  But though my first instinct

  is to say so, I also know

  that Uncle Jeff wants to

  help. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.

  Do you think it’s fixable?”

  He shrugs. I could maybe

  pull some strings. But I need

  to know what’s happening

  with you. Anything else you

  can tell me? He turns his head

  as I start to dress. Anger

  flares again, but only for

  a second. He isn’t my dad.

  But he’s the closest thing

  I’ve got. “There’s some stuff

  with Cara.” True. “We’re

  trying to work through

  it.…” Not exactly true. Yet.

  “It’s been a rough week.”

  And looking to get rougher.

  Andre

  Not Exactly True

  That skin hate is dead.

  There will never be color

  blindness in a culture of

  fear.

  But when you live afraid

  of your neighbor, the monster

  you should most walk

  in terror of

  thrives.

  It starts as a little thing,

  small enough to burrow

  into your pores, take up

  excruciating residence

  in

  the dark recesses of your brain.

  Its name is paranoia,

  and it spreads like an oil

 

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