not a novice like me.
I tell Liana, “I’ll think about it, okay?”
Not for too long. We’ll want to come up
with something really
special for your audition. Call me tomorrow.
Tomorrow? No problem. I already know
what I’m going to say.
The Quattro takes me home. It must, because
I’m not thinking much about where to turn it.
I’m thinking about Shantell.
Dance isn’t about money. It’s about heart.
Is Dance My Heart?
I can’t say that it is. The only thing
that feels that way
right now is Jenna. She is an obsession,
really. Not sure why. She says she’s not
in love with me. Can never
be. Does soul-splitting love have to be
returned to make it real? If I had to give
her up, it would open
a black hole inside of me. But what about
dance? If I had to give it up… what? I park
my car, go inside to shower.
Run the water hot, make the bathroom steam.
Soap. Shampoo. Routine. Dance, I realize,
is my escape from ordinary.
If I had to give it up, I would lose something
integral. Why am I afraid to confess that?
I dance. Train. Work hard
to improve. Doesn’t that mean I’m a dancer?
Believing I Am
Should mean being proud that I am, which
means telling the world.
I’ll start with Jenna, work my way up.
We’re going to a party tonight. Always
an adventure with Jenna.
When she gets in the car, it’s obvious
her personal party has begun. “You drinking
already?” I think her condition
must be due to more than alcohol. But I’m not
stupid enough to say so. Only a little.
I don’t want to pass
out before we even get there, you know?
I won’t comment on that. “So, hey. I want
to tell you something.…”
Tell her, quick, before the fire goes out.
Okay, but I have to tell you something first.
Your mom thinks Kendra
is anorexic.… The flame extinguishes.
Cara
Fire
Some people say love is fire—
flame fanned into inferno. A
raging
that all too predictably burns
through the years, fades into
smoldering,
burns down into ash, soot
that cannot be rekindled.
I say that soot is
dust,
swept up by gravity to fly,
untouched by time, with
ice,
a comet. Bright in the vast
azure deep of night, a
flare in
the frozen emptiness of space.
A hot, cold candle, magnified
beneath the glare of
solar wind.
Falling In Love
Was not something I ever expected.
I have no role models for love.
I always thought friendship would
do—that my heart couldn’t hold
more. But it can, and that presents
an incredible dilemma. Because if I
truly love Dani as much as I think
I do, how can I deny it? Her? Us?
At Stanford, no one worth mentioning
would care. The Bay Area is a liberal
stronghold. But Stanford presents
another problem. Will I still go there?
It’s not so far from here. I could come
home on weekends. Not to see
my family, who I just want away
from. But how can I live without Dani?
Everything is so new, and moving
bullet train speed, we haven’t even
talked about next year. It’s all
been about how, when, and where
we can see each other again. God,
I want it to be every day. So strange.
Never, ever before did having sex
mean anything to me. But now
I think about it all the time. Is that
sick? I have no idea what normal
is. Has she turned me into a perv?
Maybe the trick is just having lots
and lots of sex until you get tired
of it? Does everyone eventually
get tired of it? Do really old people
still like having “fun” after decades
together? Does being in love influence
any of that? Does love fade with
time? And which fades faster—love
or lust? Too many questions.
That’s what comes of sitting here
alone when all I want is to be with her.
Wonder if she feels the same way.
Suddenly the phone rings. Am I psychic?
But It Isn’t Dani
Caller ID says it’s Sean. I let it go
to voice mail, though I’ve got a good
idea what he’s going to say. He’s sorry.
He loves me, and he’s sure I love him, too.
But no. This message is different.
Hello, Cara. You might want to
pick up, unless you want your parents
to hear about you and your girlfriend.
I feel like I just stepped off a high
dive. He waits, and I can almost hear
the zzzzzz of his anger. I don’t know
what to do. Pretend I’m not here?
I know you’re there. I can see
your car. My car? Is he outside?
You’ve got five seconds. Answer
the goddamn phone! Four. Three…
I yank the receiver out of its cradle.
“What is wrong with you, Sean? Why
can’t you just leave me alone?”
I am not the type to cry, but this is getting
creepy. Scary, even. “What do you
want from me?” Hope he can’t hear
the crack in my voice. And I pray
he can’t see me crying. He isn’t
looking through my window
with binoculars or something,
is he? I want to know when you
went all gay. Not only a whore,
but a lezbo whore? Just when
the fuck did that happen? No
wonder you didn’t want dick.
Then again, some lezs like dildos.
Do you and your little butch girl
use those? Because I’d pay to
watch. In fact, I bet I could round
up a few friends. What do you think?
Deny. Deny. Deny. He can’t know
anything for sure. He has to be
guessing. “Sean, I have no clue
what you’re talking about.”
His Laugh Is Cruel
Really? And now you’re a liar,
too. I saw you with her at Mt. Rose,
off in the trees making out. You
wanna tell me that isn’t true?
Oh my God. So, fine, change tactics.
“You are stalking me, aren’t you?
You realize that’s crazy, right?
Sean, can’t you see you need help?”
First of all, I didn’t even know
you’d be at Rose. Pure coincidence.
And second, considering everything,
I’d say you’re the one who needs help.
I could tell him that Dani is my help.
But arguing with him is useless.
And no matter how much he thinks
he knows, I won’t confess anything.
How can I de-escalate the war he so
wants to wage? “You’re right. I do
need help. See? You’re better off without
me.” I expect a fresh barrage of rage.
No, Cara. His voice is unusually
gentle. I am nothing without you.
Look, I can understand wanting
to experiment. Lots of girls play
with other girls. What if I let you
be with her, too? Just give me
another chance to show you
how much I love you. Please?
What if he lets me? Is he serious?
Dumb question. Of course he is.
“Look. I don’t have to ask your
permission for anything. Love
isn’t about ownership. It’s about
respect—something I don’t have
for you. Find somebody who does.
Direct your affection toward her.”
I hang up before he can respond.
Oh God, what will he do next?
I’ve got to get out of here. But
first, I have to talk to Dani.
Her Cell Goes Straight
Through to voice mail. Turned
off. Or dead. Should I call her house?
Why not? It’s not like I’m the stalker.
I can always fall back on the old
“I’m just a good friend” explanation.
Three rings and her dad picks up.
“Uh, hello. Is Dani there? This is Cara.”
Surprisingly, he acknowledges me.
Oh, Cara. Yes, hello. One second,
please. The phone moves away from
his mouth while he yells, Dani! Phone!
Then he’s back. Okay, when am I going
to meet you? I’ve heard so much
about you. He reminds me of a Jewish
mother, talking to a prospective in-law.
At least, like the Jewish moms on TV.
I had no idea he knew about me.
“Um, any time. Would be great
to meet you, too.” How much,
exactly, does he know? The next
voice I hear is Dani’s. Hey, girl.
What’s up? Oh, hold on… now
she and her dad are talking. Okay,
he’s gone now. What’s going on?
“It’s Sean. He called. He saw us
kissing and he got all weird and went
off on me. I hung up on him and now
I’m afraid he’ll tell everyone.” She
goes off on me too. So? God, Cara,
why do you want to hide? What are
you afraid of? That people will know
who you really are? You take pride in
the way you look. The clothes you
wear. Excelling at everything.
But you’re embarrassed by loving
me? That is totally messed up.
“I know. I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.
Please? Can I see you? I need you.”
Need a megadose of courage.
I grab my keys, run to my car.
What Am I Afraid Of?
Good question, one I’ve asked myself
before. Mostly, I am afraid of failing.
But why? Everyone falls down from
time to time. Why must I always stay
on my feet? I am afraid of not
meeting expectations. But whose?
The answer to that is easy. Suppose
I choose a far different future
than the one my parents require
of me. Will I have made a mistake?
Done something regrettable? Or
will I have set myself free? Am I
afraid of freedom? Of being cut
loose from my family, such as it
is? Would they sever the tie, and
if they did, what do I really have
to lose, especially considering
how much I have gained with Dani.
If I have to be honest, though, I am
afraid of being stained by the lesbian
label. Some girls wear it proudly,
a giant “this is who I am” tattoo.
And much of mainstream society
now accepts the idea of two people
in love, whatever their genders.
My challenge is to accept it myself.
And, a bigger one, to embrace it.
I’ll try. And I’ll start right now.
This is the first time I’ve actually
been to Dani’s house, a small brick
beauty in an old southwest Reno
neighborhood. Tall, naked trees line
the street like big-boned skeletons.
Dani’s dad opens the door. Come in!
He grabs my hand, pulls me inside
and across the blemished oak floor
to the living room. Make yourself at
home. Dani! Your girlfriend is here.
I hope you’ll excuse me. I’ve got
a golf score that needs improvement.
Dani Comes, Smiling
Into the room. After a few minutes
of three-way small talk, she leads me
back to her bedroom, which is mauve
and sage green. I fall into her arms,
strangely not worried about her dad
suspecting what we’re up to. We are
kissing, and there is strength in that,
power in the “two” of us, deepening
connection. In the truth of our love.
She lays me back on her bed, lifts
my sweater over my face so it covers
my eyes. Don’t be afraid. Trust me.
Traffic hisses by on the street beyond
the window. And here, on this side
of the glass, in the darkness behind
closed eyes, I put away my fear, place
my faith in Dani. She makes love
to me with borderline ferocity, awakens
something inside. Something completely
new, and at the same time, primordial.
Kendra
Borderline
It’s the latest, greatest
twenty-first-century buzzword,
tossed around freely in
certain circles. Oddly, it
means
different things to
different lexicologists.
It is defined as the line
separating two
almost
identical qualities, i.e.,
between frankness and
rudeness. Definition two:
not
clearly belonging to one
or the other of two
categories, i.e., neither
here
nor there. Finally, it means
emotionally unstable, self-
destructive, and erratic.
Maybe, like me.
Food Is Not My Friend
My stomach wants nothing to do
with it. But if I don’t at least pretend
to eat, Patrick’s talking lockdown
rehab. In fact, Mom had to argue him
out of taking me straight to Aspen
Springs. They had a pretty big fight.
She’s my daughter. I’ll handle it, okay?
You just worry about orthodontia.
Mom made me promise to consume
at least one thousand calories per day.
Meat. Vegetables. Whole grains. You can
skip dairy, but have to take a calcium
supplement. You’re begging for brittle
bones, not to mention bad teeth.
Okay, she got me on that one. I should
have been taking calcium all along.
No calories there. And a perfect
smile is a necessity in the industry.
Meat? I’ve sworn off anything red.
One boneless, skinless chicken breast,
broiled. Two hundred calories. One-half
whole wheat bread, seventy. There. Two
eighty-five. That’s as good as I’ve done
in six months. A thousand calories?
Not going to happen in one day. Thank
God she’s not standing over my shoulder
watching. If she decides to, I’ll eat plenty
of veggies. Then I won’t have to rely
on laxatives, my last-resort backup plan.
I Really Don’t Get
Why everyone’s so worried anyway.
God, until that stupid anesthesiologist saw
me without my clothes on, no one had
ever noticed a problem. And I still don’t see
one. When we got home (me, still wearing
an ugly nose bump), I went into the bathroom,
stood naked in front of the full-length mirror
I’ve avoided for months. I guess my arms are
pretty thin, and my legs look just about right.
But my stomach still bulges, and my waist
poofs out on each side. I’ll try some
extra crunches and sit-ups. And, since Patrick
seems deadly serious about the rehab
threat, I’ll run more. Exercise is healthy, right?
And I’ll call Sean. See about the Clen.
Something to make my muscles lean. Strong.
Can’t Do That Right Now
Xavier is on his way to pick me up
for an audition. This one is important,
he said. Dress sexy as hell, but we’re going
for the modest look with the makeup.
This client is developing a new younger
teen line, so the work will reflect that.
I go for a micro skirt, tights to sheath
my legs. Tank top, no bra. Short, zipped
hoodie. Gentle with the makeup. Hair
smoothed into a ponytail. The mirror says
Young. (Baby fat.) Fresh. (Early crow’s-
feet.) Pretty. (Bump, still there.) Teen.
So why do I feel tired? Worried?
Stressed? Anxious? Why do I feel old?
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