She just loves Julianna Margulies’s eyebrows.
At the end of my endless, intermission-free soliloquy, my mother simply asked me when I planned on tutoring Connor. I had a busy schedule—soccer practice, band practice, and clients who needed much more help than Connor.
“Mija,” she said, “remember your responsibilities. What happens if I don’t show up for my patients because I got a better offer? A better offer is many times just a pretty illusion.”
I met Connor’s mother at the Superbiae home, which has its own name, Mount Superbiae, conveniently located down the hill from Mark Frost Academy.
I’ve seen immense grandness in my travels—after all, my clients tend to be the wealthiest, most powerful (most anxious—and most medicated) of the land. These parents are the top .001 percent of that (in)famous 1 percent—and God forbid they don’t show exactly how top .001 percent they are, so they can show the lowly .999 percent who’s boss. Their driveways keep getting longer—sometimes it takes ten minutes to lug my butt from the gate to the house with a giant stuffed backpack on my back—the houses bigger, the cars shinier, the children more screwed up. The kids are like pieces in a collection that become less rarified (as opposed to more) as they age. Those cute little babies in their Bonpoint onesies become surly, pimply, billowy adolescents, objects to be ignored or, you know, sent to Utah for six weeks of “relaxation.”
Connor’s “home” surpassed them all. Louis XIV would have considered Versailles a miserable tear-down after walking through the Superbiae palace.
They had a ballroom, a bowling alley, a gift-wrapping room, seven trophy rooms (which were filled to the brim with various dangerous-looking metal objects), a movie theater, a music room (Connor’s a classically trained pianist), an elevator, a yoga room, a gym, a “sponsor” room (which held all of Connor’s gear), an indoor tennis court (and an outdoor one), a riding ring, a hot pool and a cold pool, countless bathrooms (also filled with trophies and awards), and God-knows-how-many bedrooms.
Despite the grand scale of her home, Mrs. Superbiae was more down-to-earth than any mother I’d met at Mark Frost Academy (besides my own, of course). She was pleasantly average, wore average clothes, average jewelry, and had average frizzy, graying hair. There was nothing that screamed “I live in that ridiculous palace on the hill.”
Constance Superbiae seemed eager to talk. She’d been an artist in college, where she’d met Mr. Superbiae. She showed me an album with old photographs of her with a grinning young man—now her husband. She’d been a natural beauty, tall, with a halo of spirals adorning her head, a large, welcoming smile, shimmery skin the color of hot cocoa. She sighed as she ran her hand over the old photographs.
Mrs. Superbiae was now an accomplished photographer, although she didn’t brag. She showed me her darkroom. I was impressed by her pictures—mostly real-life studies of children all over the world.
“These are so beautiful,” I said. I was mesmerized by the face of a small child with huge dark eyes and dirt on her tiny brown face. Maybe because I could see myself in that little face.
Mrs. Superbiae’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Perry. That’s so sweet of you.”
“I mean it. I never say what I don’t mean. I don’t like to waste time.”
She smiled. “Perry, I know you don’t have time in your schedule for Connor, but he’s so insistent.”
“He doesn’t need me to tutor him,” I said, though it pained me. “I’d be taking your money for no reason. It’s ridiculous.”
“I know.” She sighed. “But Connor and his father . . . they’re very . . . Well, they like to win . . . They’re not like me, or my other children.”
I was surprised. I’d thought Connor was an only child. “You have other kids? I didn’t know Connor has siblings.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “We have three daughters—they’re all in college or working. One just got married. Connor’s our youngest. I was quite old when we had him, actually. I was in bed for about eight months of the pregnancy.” She patted her belly. “That’s when I really started to gain weight.”
“You’re perfect,” I blurted out. I meant it. Constance Superbiae was a breath of fresh air. I wish my mom could have met her; in another life, they would have been friends. My mom, the estimable Yelena Maria Gonzales, had never connected with the Mom World of Mark Frost Academy. The moms were like vampires who never aged but somehow managed to look dead. From behind, you couldn’t tell the daughters from the moms. Sometimes from the front, as well—as though the vampire mothers were sucking the pretty out of their girls, rather than the other way around.
“Oh, no. I’m quite fat. But thank you,” Mrs. Superbiae insisted. “See, Connor’s father, Connor Senior, always wanted a son. Someone like him. Connor Senior was quite the athlete himself. He was the quarterback at Yale and captain of the tennis and lacrosse teams. So you can imagine.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” I said. In my head, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to find one another.
“Senior still does triathlons. He’s number one in the country in his age group for the Ironman.”
“Impressive.” I got the feeling that Mrs. Superbiae didn’t have a lot of people she could talk to, here in her house on the hill. I glanced at a clock on the wall. My next client was coming up soon. I had never been late to a client.
“I’ve tried to keep up,” she said. “Senior even built me my own gym on the property. I prefer long, peaceful walks outside . . .”
Her thoughts seemed to drift off like sailboats on a lake. Suddenly, I heard a loud noise. My heart jumped—after all, my simple job was becoming more and more treacherous. I never knew what danger lurked around the corner.
Mrs. Superbiae sighed. “Senior’s home,” was all she said.
“Connie!” I heard a clang clang clang of heavy footsteps, metal on marble. “Connie, I’m home—another great day at the office!”
An orange man with bright white teeth bounded into the room. He was wearing one of those biking outfits you see grown men bounce around in at coffee shops in fancy neighborhoods. Lycra shorts, a cap, tight tank top, metal cleats—everything splashed in colorful, bold advertising.
It was as though an aging, neon Lance Armstrong was paying us a visit.
“Plus, I beat my own record today chugging up that hill! I made it in 28.292 seconds. My VO2 levels were out of this world, resting heart rate one minute after was forty-nine . . .”
As he continued to stat us to death (the numbers made no sense to me—I felt betrayed), I tried to figure out what Mr. Superbiae reminded me of; finally, it came to me.
Turkey jerky.
“Connie, come on, let’s take a run.”
“No, thank you, sweetheart.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you, you know.” He glowered, then suddenly noticed I was standing there. He sized me up. “Who are you?”
“Perry Gonzales is my name. Nice to meet you, Mr. Superbiae.”
I held out my hand, and he grasped it in a handshake that felt like a garlic press. He released my throbbing hand.
“Perry’s here to talk about tutoring Connor in Honors Math.”
“Wait, what? You’re the girl who’s beating my Connor?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Yes, but only by a tiny fraction—”
“There’s winning and there’s losing, Perry. Come on now, you know that.” He bent down and looked closely at me. His face was made of striated muscle fiber. He reminded me of the pictures of medical cadavers I’d seen in my science textbook. He bore no resemblance to the grinning, carefree Yalie in those old photographs. But, then, neither did Mrs. Superbiae. Something had gone horribly, terribly, inexorably wrong on the yellow brick road from Yale to Mount Superbiae.
Mr. Superbiae stared at me. “I assume you believe in the phrase ‘It’s not cheating if you’re winning’?”
Mrs. Superbiae gasped. “Connor Senior!”
My eyes widened. “Are you saying I’m cheating?” I barely got the question out. Insult my height, my ethnicity, my silly backpack stickers—but do NOT insult my integrity. I am, after all, the daughter of Yelena Maria Gonzales. I have a lot to live up to.
“It’s just unusual, that’s all. I mean, you’re a girl. And you’re . . .”
“Senior,” Mrs. Superbiae interrupted in a soft voice, “Perry tutors half of Mark Frost Academy.”
“Connor’s a winner, Perry. He’s never come in second in his life. He isn’t going to start with Honors Math.” He spit out the words as though they had stung him on the tongue. Suddenly, I imagined him with a mouthful of bees—and it didn’t displease me.
Just a note to clarify, Admissions Committee. I, Perry Gonzales, have never cheated. It’s not that I haven’t been tempted. I saw all the cheating that went on at the academy—copies of tests hacked from teachers’ computers and sold for a hefty profit, bits of paper folded more than an origami swan, entire reports plagiarized from Internet sites . . . Poor kids wrote answers on their arms or legs or the palms of their hands or copied off their friends; rich kids used calculators with advanced algorithms they’d paid a graduate Cal Tech student to devise. Sometimes they’d bribe the professor with a trip to the Bahamas. When that didn’t work, their indignant parents berated the administrators until the teacher was forced to “fix” their child’s grade.
The newer, idealistic teachers would start off sticking to their guns and end up soaking up the sun on a distant beach.
I turned to Mrs. Superbiae. Suddenly, I felt crushing pity for her—this castle on the hill was an elaborate, golden prison, with Mr. Turkey Jerky as the warden.
“Mrs. Superbiae, it was nice meeting you. Take care. I can find my way out.” Even though I was not quite sure that I could, in fact, find my way out of this place—I should have left crumbs behind.
I pointedly did not say good-bye to Mr. Superbiae. I was afraid that what would come out of my mouth wouldn’t be an apology, but a string of colorful Spanish swear words.
No one can string together invectives like an angry Latina.
I would never be sitting next to Connor, helping him with his math and secretly breathing in his scent and perhaps collecting any eyelash that strayed from his big brown eyes for my journal.
But now I was bound and determined to grind his face in my .01 percent. This ethical little Latina was hot.
“Mija,” my mother told me that night as I got her foot bath ready—she likes the water almost to the boiling point, with two cups of Epsom salt poured in. I’m not too proud to say I had shed a few angry tears on that bus ride back to North Hollywood. “That’s just your pride talking. Pride leads to hubris, which leads to war. You do not want war with the Superbiae family.”
I feared my mother was right, as always. But for the very first time, I didn’t want to listen. I was too angry. I had dreams where I saw Mr. Superbiae mocking me with his orange skin and his white teeth, like an angry orange. So in the ensuing weeks, every time I would have a test in math, I had to check Connor’s grade.
Our grades were posted in the hallway just outside our class. I am ashamed to say I would purposely wait for Connor to stroll up in his head-to-toe Nike gear and stand practically under him as he looked for his grade. I would pretend that I couldn’t find mine; I’d start humming and acting nervous.
Connor would stare and stare in disbelief each time—because every Friday I was beating him. The funny thing was, my other grades were slipping because I cared so much about beating Connor’s ass at Honors Math.
My pride became a monster, choking off my energy for my other classes, for my soccer team, for band, for my clients.
But I was obsessed with beating Connor. And that’s all that mattered.
Until it didn’t anymore.
I was called into the principal’s office for the first time in my life. I’ll never forget walking in and seeing my mother in her nurse’s uniform, a light sweater around her shoulders. A worried look on her face.
The principal peered at me over his glasses and told me my grades were slipping.
“My math is great,” I said. “My Honors Math couldn’t be better.”
“I’m getting calls from parents,” he said. “You’re not showing up at sessions. This isn’t like you, Perry.”
I had to beat him. I had to show Connor Superbiae.
“I’ll do better,” I said.
I was going to do better.
In math.
My mother went to bed without talking to me that night. I’ve never felt more lonely.
The championship game was that Friday. Mark Frost Academy was playing their archrival, Harvard-Westlake. Connor was already being scouted by NFL teams. He had reached a height of six feet, five inches and had a velociraptor wingspan. MLB scouts had wanted him to pitch before he was old enough to vote.
There were already questions about his presidential candidacy for 2032—both Republicans and Democrats were claiming him as their own. The president himself had called him twice: once to wish him a happy Easter and once on his fifteenth birthday.
Meanwhile, Connor hadn’t said two words to me since the afternoon he insisted I call his mom to set up a tutoring session. I didn’t think he even knew I existed.
But that day, when we were both looking at our test scores (I’d beaten him—again), he asked me a question.
“Perry, do you think it’s not cheating if you’re winning?”
I looked up at him. Way, way up at him. He’d grown about six inches since our last conversation. I’d grown . . . never mind.
I was about to give him a piece of my mind when I looked in his eyes. I saw sincerity. I saw pain.
“No, Connor,” I said. “And neither do you. If you’re cheating, you’ve already lost.”
He did that thing where you draw your lips together when you’re thinking. I wanted to kiss them. It’s a horrible feeling. You ever have that feeling? Wanting to kiss someone and knowing you can’t?
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Of course.” He rubbed his arm. There were bruises inside his elbow. He noticed me glancing at them.
“It’s nothing. Okay?” he said.
“Connor . . .” I don’t know why I did it, or how I did it, or what I was thinking. Maybe for the first time in my life, I didn’t have a thought in my head. It was like instinct took over, in all its ancient glory.
I reached up and grabbed his silky curls and brought his face down to meet mine.
And I kissed him.
And when I was done kissing him, I said words that Yelena Maria Gonzales had said to me many times when I felt pressure to do more, to say more, to be more.
“You are enough.”
He looked at me. And then he ran off.
I mean, like, literally ran off.
(I’ve had more success with kissing since then, I’ll have you know. Not everyone runs away after kissing me.)
You’ve heard of the Super Bowl? March Madness? They wish they were a Mark Frost Academy championship football game.
The new stadium, provided by Lucasfilm, was filled to overflowing. Every single student and their parents were there to see Connor Superbiae lead our MFA/BofA/Sony Badgers to our first unbroken winning streak in twenty-five years. Again, news crews were there to capture Connor’s every move.
I was in the stands with the band, going through the motions of Earth Wind & Fire’s and Neil Diamond’s greatest hits on my clarinet.
I had found out a little about myself. I do have emotions.
Admissions Committee, that kiss with Connor Superbiae got me twisted (in the words of my friend Cleo, who lives with her two bouncing babies in the apartment below us. She’s twenty-one and she’s been “twisted” over her boyfriend since
she was sixteen). I felt like a woman for the first time in my life.
That’s a lot of pressure for one kiss.
We were in the fourth quarter; the score was tied.
Connor’s dad had been on the sidelines the entire game, on the field next to the coaches. With every denied touchdown or loss of yardage, Senior would scream and turn bright red like a tropical fruit, throw his sponsored cap on the ground, and stomp his feet. He’d yell at Connor from the sidelines, slapping the side of his head. His angry spittle sprayed the evening air like a mist.
Third down. Connor fumbled the ball and recovered. Our coach called our last time out.
Thousands in the stands held their breaths and prayed. The stadium had become a cathedral, their god a boy with the number 10 on his back. And bruises on his arms that only I could see.
Senior rushed Connor as he hustled off the field, picked him up off the ground by his helmet, and screamed: “THE SUPERBIAES ARE NOT LOSERS!”
Plus, all kinds of things that are unprintable here—unless, Admissions Committee, you like hearing words that would make the skin on your ears peel.
Senior wasn’t finished; his veins were popping out of his muscled head. His shouts could be heard throughout the stadium. The bandmaster lifted his baton to drown out the litany with a tinny rendition of “Serpentine Fire,” but the stadium still echoed in Connor Superbiae’s humiliation as the team, for the last time, hit the field.
Connor went back for a pass. A tie was unacceptable. We were going for the win. The crowd roared; the noise was deafening.
Senior’s screams reverberated above the din.
While his line struggled to hold the defense at bay, Connor suddenly stopped in his tracks and stretched out his arms, our Jesus in a football uniform.
Now still as his statue, Connor tilted his head back, as though offering his body, his entire self, up to the Fates.
The crowd was stunned into silence.
The last sound I heard before I fainted was the crack of his vertebrae snapping.
Seven Deadlies Page 10