by Sarah Bird
“Hey, Blythe,” Joe calls out. “I’ve got some more designs for you to look at.”
“Great,” I answer.
Joe, an emo boy with a dyed-black forelock tugged permanently over his right eye, and I are organizing a fashion show/fund-raiser. Joe, a fashion major, is making most of the clothes. We’re going to use my street kids as models. Nikki and Kat will do hair and makeup. I’ll get my homegirl Lynn Sydney, who still maintains her minimalist toehold in Austin even though she spends most of the year in London, to be the nominal chair of the planning committee. That will guarantee 100 percent Pemberton attendance.
When Lute appears on the front porch, a pair of board shorts barely hanging on to his hip bones, and asks if anyone is interested in going to Barton Springs, all three of the newcomers jump up. Joe springs up fastest.
“Blythe?” Lute asks. “What about you?”
“Naw, I’m good.”
I watch the quartet leave and imagine the heartbreaks and poignant songs to come. No doubt Joe will fall hardest. I make a note to myself to keep an eye on him. The mailman appears and hands me a tall stack of mostly bills and flyers, though I am pleased to discover that Megan is a subscriber to US magazine and flop down on the porch to enjoy it along with the abandoned iced teas and cigs.
My enjoyment diminishes markedly when I hit an article titled “Indie’s Hottest Hunks.” There, among the frail man-children in their porkpie hats and nose rings, I am stunned to find a complete grown-up, Danny Escovedo. He was caught walking the red carpet into an awards show where the album he produced with L’il CheeZ would win Emerging Rap Artist Album of the Year. But it’s not the sight of his handsome face that ruins my US moment so much as it is the emaciated waif on his tuxedoed arm. Alleged to be the “next Avril Lavigne,” she is beaming up at Danny in a way that makes me want to scratch the tarry smudges where her eyes are supposed to be right out of her head. It is obvious that she is having sex with Danny. The sex I should be having.
It’s been two months since I made the last of many calls to Danny. He didn’t respond to any of them unless you consider Archive’s decision to start giving away their music online in a format that deletes itself after three plays a response. In spite of Kippie Lee’s efforts, the RIAA’s lawsuit wasn’t going away until Danny’s decision put them into a publicity headlock.
I can almost convince myself that Danny did it for me. But we’re too much alike for me to believe that for very long; he made the legal unpleasantness vanish because it was a savvy business move and benefited him. I understand this.
Not that any of this clearheadedness has stopped my longing for him, the depth of which still surprises me. Time was, the only reason I would have yearned for a man with such a walloping intensity would have been for his ability to create or buy haute couture for me. I certainly never ached for Tree-Tree this way. It doesn’t seem fair that knowing you brought misery on yourself actually makes it hurt more.
My snarled synapses interpret this pain as a problem that needs solving and they start flashing “solutions.” Visualizations as clear as a treasure map jump into my head with giant X s marking spots like the underwear drawer where Amy hides the Percocet she got when she had her wisdom teeth taken out and the scrotal-looking woven bag where Megan keeps her Xanax. The number of the street kids’ fund-raiser fashion show’s meager bank account also makes an appearance.
I am starting to stray dangerously down this trail when, amid a flurry of cell-phone bills and Peace and Justice Coalition flyers, I spot a letter addressed to me from Waco, Texas. I open the envelope. Inside is a curry-colored invitation with the god Ganesh at the top.
I thank the Remover of Obstacles for sending me an event that I truly care about to coordinate. Millie’s wedding just might be the only distraction with enough traction to help me plow over Percocet, Xanax, and embezzlement. As easily as opening an envelope, my thoughts turn to trying to figure out how many tubs of icing and artful scatterings of fresh flowers it will take to “repurpose” a very cost-effective purchase from Sam’s Club bakery into a wedding cake. The happy thought of dancing at Millie’s wedding causes the song that cost me so dearly to start playing in my head:
I had a dream the other night
When everything was still
I thought I saw Susanna
A-comin’ down the hill
A buckwheat cake was in her mouth
A tear was in her eye.
I said I’m coming from the south
Susanna, don’t you cry.
I catch myself singing out loud and wonder if I am turning into a batty old lady. Or just the person I started out to be. It is too hot for such a burst of excitement, and I settle farther into the old wicker chair. A moment later Big Lou bumps my ankle, demanding attention. As I pat the tub of lard, my eye is drawn to the crape myrtles shading the porch. A few blossoms still cling to the smooth, snaky limbs. The papery flowers are bright pink, gaudy fuchsia, watermelon red. Beautiful though they are, the blossoms are as odorless as tissue; it is too hot for even plants to put up a front and try to smell good. I know the feeling. I am down to tank tops and flip-flops. I can’t strip away anything more. Fortunately, in Austin, Texas, if you play your cards right, that is all a person needs.
How perfect is that?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my wonderful friends and informants for their insight, grace, and good humor in helping me create, populate, and decorate the high and low societies of this novel: Brenda Bell, Gracie and Bob Cavnar, Malou Flato, Phil Hudson, Clare Moore, Bettye Nowlin, Quality Quinn, the residents of Seneca House past and present, Helen Thompson, Julie Thornton, Becca and John Thrash, Peggy Weiss, and Anne Elizabeth Wynn.
For crucial ideas and support, I am grateful to my sisters, Kay and Martha Bird, and genius friends Carol Dawson, Gianna LaMorte, Kathleen Orillion, and Evan Smith.
Once again I acknowledge the joy of working with the best in the business: Ann Close, Caroline Zancan, Millicent Bennett, Kristine Dahl, Montana Wojczuk, Nina Bourne, Sarah Gelman, Jason Kincade, Patricia Johnson, Kathryn Zuckerman, Kim Thornton, Kathleen Fridella, Marci Lewis, Robert Olsson, Gabriele Wilson, and Chris Gillespie.
For all of the above and the perfect title, I thank Dave Hickey.
And, as always, for my G-Men, George and Gabriel.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sarah Bird is the author of six previous novels: The Flamenco Academy, The Yokota Officers Club, Virgin of the Rodeo, The Mommy Club, The Boyfriend School, and Alamo House. She lives in Austin, Texas.
www.howperfectisthat.com
ALSO BY SARAH BIRD
The Flamenco Academy
The Yokota Officers Club
Virgin of the Rodeo
The Mommy Club
The Boyfriend School
Alamo House
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Copyright © 2008 by Sarah Bird
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada, Limited, Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bird, Sarah.
How perfect is that: a novel / by Sarah Bird.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Texas—Social life and customs—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.I74H69 2008
813'.54—dc22
2008004757
eISBN: 978-0-307-26931-7
v3.0