I’ve hit lately have been at
baseball practice. I think
if love is real, and headed
toward the altar, the sex part
can—within reason—wait.
My big brother thinks I’m
crazy. Dude, he told me, if
you’re really thinking forever,
you’d better take a test-drive.
What if she sucks in bed?
I’ve test-driven four or five.
And the thing is, there wasn’t
a helluva lot of difference
in the way they handled. Tune
’em up, hit the freeway. Fly.
One of My Former High-Horsepower Rides
Happens to be texting Cara
right now. Kendra and I had
a short, sweet, ten thousand
RPM fling before she and Conner
hooked up. Kind of incestuous,
I guess. Wonder what’s going
on. Not like she and Cara are
tight or anything. Lukewarm
buddies at best. “What does
she want?” Hope that didn’t
sound as impatient as it felt.
Nothing important. If that’s
true, why do they keep going
back and forth for so long?
She’s on her way to Elko.
“Another brainless beauty
contest?” Right up her alley.
She’s got it all in the looks
department. Intellect-wise,
however, she’s no Cara.
Probably. I’m not sure.
Now she’s sounding kind
of short. In between texts,
she stares out the window,
contemplating each answer,
it seems. Finally she sighs,
thumbs one last message,
hits send, and puts her cell
away. “You want to tell me
what that was all about?”
Not especially. That’s it.
Not exactly what I’d call
communication. Sometimes Cara
reminds me of her mother.
I’ll keep that to myself.
I’ve Talked To Her Parents
A few times. Her dad is cool.
Meaning chilled. I think it
probably takes a lot to get
the dude excited. He isn’t
friendly. But he’s cordial.
That probably has a lot to
do with being a lobbyist.
Totally outstanding butt
kissers, especially those
who lobby for insurance.
They might have a shitload
of “buddies,” but I bet they
don’t have a lot of friends,
unless you count the ones in
high places and back pockets.
Anyway, considering who
he’s married to, the guy
deserves credit for being
even tepid. Especially
when holed up at home.
Because Cara’s Mom
Reminds me of crystal—
all sparkly and beautiful
distraction while it carves
you clear to the bone. She
is a don’t-turn-your-back-
on-her kind of woman.
Our first encounter was
a lot like a job interview.
We are careful about who
our daughter is allowed
to date, she declared, before
basically third-degreeing me
as to my qualifications. She’s
a high-society high roller who
steamrolled right over me.
It was almost enough to make
me rethink things with Cara.
Except she’s just so damn
perfect. Well, other than when
it comes to communication.
We’ll Have To Work On That
But, hey, we’ve got plenty
of time. Forever takes a while.
Meanwhile, I’m practicing
how to get my way without
her noticing. Subtlety is not
my best thing, but control
and Cara are not easily
juxtaposed. It’s a challenge,
but one I’m equal to. Not
that I’d say so out loud.
Staying (subtly) in control
requires current information.
“So have you heard from
Stanford yet?” She pretty
much aced her SATs. Grades
are outstanding. Community
service likewise. Not yet. Dad
says it will probably be a few
weeks still. I did hear from
Loyola, though. They want me.
“Loyola? I didn’t know
you applied there.” Not in
the game plan. Suddenly
my gut feels scrambled.
“You’re not even Catholic.”
We don’t go to church often,
and when we do, it’s usually
to Holy Cross Lutheran. Mom
isn’t into the whole Pope thing.
But Dad was raised Catholic.
“So, he really believes in all
that ‘wine into blood’ bullshit?”
I bet the real reason they go
Lutheran is so he doesn’t have
to confess. Too much time,
trading Hail Marys for penance.
I’m not sure. My grandmother
did, and my grandfather
still does, at least when his
Alzheimer’s lets him. He doesn’t
remember a whole lot most
of the time. Which is why
they invented special care
retirement communities. If I
get that way, please shoot me.
She shudders at the last two
words, and I’m guessing
she’s thinking about Conner.
“How’s your brother doing,
anyway? All healed up yet?”
Not really, and what the hell
is up with everyone today?
Is it Dig Up Information on
Conner Day? Because I don’t
have anything new to tell you.
Jeez. What was that about?
“Hey, I’m not trying to dig
up anything, new or old.
Just trying to communicate.”
Will that always be a problem?
Andre
A Problem
Is really just a solution
in need of a reason to exist.
If you think about it,
life
would be kind of boring
if it were completely free
of friction. Each day
presents
choices. Turn this way, it’s
a downhill coast. Turn that
way, you will stumble across
obstacles.
Some are easily conquered.
Some require intelligence,
will, and perseverance
to overcome.
To win is to prosper.
The game is defeating doubt.
And the fun is in the game.
Today’s Game
Was faking my way through a trig
test. I probably passed,
but just barely. Trig? What for? Not
like I’ll need it beyond June, except
to have it, with a C
or (unlikely) slightly better grade
on my transcript. Okay, my mom might
argue that I’ll want to
know math for a future career. She uses
it all the time, calculating body fat
percentages and how
many millimeters of bone to remove
or skin to tighten to achieve the desired
effect. Not to mention
how much anesthesia
per pound
of person will allow said person to wake
up from deep sleep
and walk out, covered in bandages, alive.
And Dad utilizes the ol’ calculator
to figure price points
and down payments and monthly
fees, and whether or not a prospective
client’s take-home
salary can cover those things, at least
on paper. But if I had to follow in either
of their footsteps,
I’d use math to calculate how fast
I’d have to drive my car over a cliff
of x feet in height
to attain the proper distance to make
sure I’d end up dead instead of paralyzed.
Wow. A real-world use
for trigonometry. Who’d have believed it?
School Behind Me
For the day, I stop by the house on
my way to Reno.
Change out of my stiff white button-up
shirt, khaki slacks. This isn’t my usual day
for dance lessons, but
Liana had an opening, and I’m itching to work
off a little stress. Dad’s relentless pressure
is getting to me. He caught
me on my way out the door this morning.
I’m off to Vegas for a few days. When I get
back, we’ll arrange a trip
over spring break to look at those schools.
It totally hit me wrong. “Would you please
stop micromanaging my life?
What if I have my own plans for spring break?”
His jaw clicked audibly as it tightened, and
he silenced me with
two words. Cancel them. End of discussion.
I Have To Make A Stop
On the way to Liana’s. I need two hundred
dollars for this month’s
lessons. But I’ll tell Mom the money is for
a haircut and some new clothes. Last year’s
sweaters are dated.
If I say that, she won’t even think twice.
Perception is everything to Mom, and style
is a vital component.
She wants her son to be a fashion trendsetter.
Three p.m. on Wednesday, her regular day
for pre-op consults,
her office is humming. “Hello, Simone,”
I say to her receptionist, eliciting her
smile with my own.
“Will my mother be tied up very long?”
She’s with a patient, but should be
finished soon. Take
a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.
She scuttles off, and I turn toward
the plush waiting
room. A girl, seated in one of the cushy
chairs, lifts her eyes up over a magazine.
Damn! She’s a spectacular
creation, the kind you’d like to paint
a portrait of, so you could hang her on
a wall and stare at her
forever. And speaking of staring, she is
staring at me, so I’m motivated to say
hello, only it comes out,
“H-he-hello.” She smiles at the stupid
stutter, and I can’t help but notice
the perfect shape
of her plump little pout. Delicious.
Hello back at you, she says, her voice
rich and sweet as
caramel, and all the invitation I need.
I Choose A Seat
Close to her, where I can better study
her. She’s younger
than me, maybe sixteen, but the curves
of her body belong to a woman. Surely
she doesn’t want more
nor less than what she’s been gifted with.
I can’t help but ask, “You’re not here
to see my mom, are
you?” Forward, yes. But I have to know.
She smiles again, and in that smile
is something Eve-like.
Me? No way. My sister is in there
now, choosing a new nose. But I kind
of like what I’ve got,
you know? How could I in good faith
disagree? “You are a wise girl.” One, I’ve just
decided, I really want
to know. I offer a straightforward, “I’m Andre.”
Her Skin
Is flawless, and the color of fine ivory.
Together we are
a keyboard. Or maybe a chessboard.
My color has never been an issue for girls
before, but there’s a first
time—or person—for everything and in Reno,
ghosts of Wild West prejudice still haunt
certain neighborhoods.
This girl, however, doesn’t seem put off
by my skin. I’m Jenna. And are you,
like, hitting on me? She
laughs at how I can’t quite confess it.
It’s okay. I don’t mind. She watches
Simone scurry back
to her desk. Do you want to call me?
Her forwardness is both a little scary
and a lot refreshing.
“You know, I really would.” We exchange
appreciative smiles and cell phone
numbers, as down
the hall a door slams open, followed
by scattered voices. One of them belongs
to my mom. The others,
I’m guessing, are Jenna’s mother
and her sister. Both of them look like
lacks the abundant flesh that makes
Jenna so attractive. She notices where
my eyes keep roaming.
My sister is a pageant girl, she says in
a low (luscious) voice. She also wants to
model, which is why
she thinks she needs her nose “fixed.”
“I hope it’s enough for her. Some people
get addicted to
the ‘fixing.’” Some are never satisfied.
Jenna, However
Appears more than satisfied with the way
she looks, every move
designed to draw the eye. My eyes,
for sure. And I can’t believe other guys
wouldn’t feel the same
way. There is something extremely
alluring about a girl who’s completely at ease
in her own skin.
And this one loves how she’s put together.
Her sister, however, for all her beauty-
focused goals, seems
to hold something in reserve. She is closer
to my age. But she is so not my type.
Not sure why I think
Jenna is, but I can’t wait to research.
Her mom tells her it’s time to leave. I watch
her exit, enthralled
by the performance. She is one of a kind.
She Is On My Mind
On the short drive to the All the Right
Moves dance studio.
Usually, when I meet a girl, I make her
wait a day or two before I ask her out.
For some reason,
I’m driven to skip the whole coy charade
and call Jenna right away. She answers
on the third ring. “Hey.
It’s Andre. Are you free Saturday night?”
Wow. You’re direct. I like that, and I’d
like to say yes, but I
kind of had tentative plans for Saturday.
That stings. And I’m late for my lesson.
“Okay. I’ll try again.”
I go inside. The place is empty, except
for Liana, who is on her own phone.
Warm up, she mouths,
nodding toward the open studio door.
I start my stretch
ing, thinking about
the magnetic smile that
drew me immediately to the girl I can’t
seem to get off my mind. Liana comes in,
and we begin a familiar
routine. I’ve done these steps dozens
of times, but I can’t keep them in the right
order. I can hear my dad
saying how if he wants something, he won’t
let anyone tell him he can’t have it. Andre!
scolds Liana. Where’s your
head today? Did you forget how to count?
Focus, Andre, focus. One, two, three, four…
Somehow I make it
through the rest of my lesson. Pay Liana
the money I finagled from Mom. At last,
I can call Jenna again. “You
know those tentative plans? Cancel them.”
Cara
At Last
It’s a perfect winter day.
No wind. No Arctic freeze.
Cloudless azure sky. A day
to fly.
Snow drapes the mountain
like ermine, fabulous feather-
light powder coaxing me
to flee
the confines of my room, brave
the mostly plowed road
up to the closest ski resort.
To run
from the cloying silence
connecting Mom and Dad,
into encompassing stillness
far away
from city dirt and noise.
Far above suburban gridlock.
Far beyond the grasp of home.
First Decent Day In Weeks
Mt. Rose will be swarming by noon.
Good thing I got here early.
Nothing much better than first
tracks beneath cloud-clear skies.
Heaven must be something
like boarding on night-crisped virgin
powder. Lingering atop a cornice,
few other people in sight, I take
a deep pull of winter-spiked air, finesse
over the lip. Two sweeping turns
to safety. Here, where there are no
hypercritical eyes, I slip