jog slowly, doing their best not to breathe
hard. Slugs. I sprint by them, spraying sweat.
Comments follow me: Ooh. Disgusting.
What’s she trying to prove? Stupid
cheerleaders think they’re special.
If she gets any skinnier, she’ll blow
away in a good, stiff wind. And then,
She used to go out with Conner Sykes.…
I run even faster, before the rest catches
up to me. I glance at the big clock on the wall.
Thank God. The period is almost over.
Thank God I can leave when we’re through.
Picking My Way
To my car, trying not to slip on
the snow-frosted parking lot, I am
almost there when I spot Cara,
working her way to Sean’s truck,
parked in the row behind. “Wait!” I yell,
picking up my pace, even if it means
falling flat on my butt—something
I just barely avoid. “I need to talk to you.”
The scarlet flush of her face tells
me she knows what I have to say.
I’m sorry, Kendra. This was a bad
way for you to find out. Zero denial.
Not at all what I expected. Still, I have
to know. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She stands, a hand on each hip, little
in the way of compassion in her eyes.
I couldn’t. Her voice is sharp as new
nails. But even if I could, I wouldn’t have.
You’d been hurt enough already. I’m
sorry you had to find out. That anybody did.
“Me too. How is he doing? Do you
know? Have you talked to him?”
She shakes her head. He’s still not
allowed phone calls. And my parents
don’t want to discuss him with me.
Or each other, for that matter.
That doesn’t surprise me. He never
said much about them either. And what
he did say wasn’t very nice. “Okay.
Well, I’ve got to go. I have a photo shoot.”
We head opposite directions—she, toward
her boyfriend. Me, forever away from mine.
That Seems More And More
Like reality. Not sure why I thought
maybe we’d get back together again.
Wishful thinking pretty much always
comes back to slap you in the face.
I think about Conner all the way home.
Think about him and Mrs. Sanders while
I curl my hair, and put on the kind of makeup
that makes you look older in magazines.
My agent, Maxine, showed me how to
do it. She is forty, trying to look twenty-
five. And she wants me to look the same
age. Easier for me. First, concealer, to cover
those sleep-deprivation shadows. Wait. OMG.
Close inspection reveals embryonic tendrils
at the corners of my eyes. Perfect. Wrinkles
before I graduate high school. Oh well.
That’s why they invented Botox, right?
Mrs. Sanders has great skin. Wonder if
she’s doing the Botox thing. Wow. Talk
about irony. Wonder if she’s had a boob
job, if that’s why Conner chose her over
me. Damn it. If I keep stressing over this,
I’ll really get wrinkled. The irony, like
frown lines, deepens. I need something
to take my mind off it. I’d hit the liquor
cabinet, except alcohol is so fattening.
(One hundred calories per ounce for
the hard stuff, and I’d want it hard.)
But here in the medicine chest, between
the ibuprofen and the Benadryl, is a little
amber bottle, with Jenna’s name on
the prescription label. Percocet.
I Don’t Know What It Is Exactly
But I do remember that Jenna got it after
oral surgery. Some kind of painkiller.
And I also remember it made her really
giggly. I could use a good laugh. I read
the label. Lots of warnings. Don’t drink
alcohol with. (No problem.) Don’t drive
while using. (Could be a problem.)
Don’t use for more than five days,
as dependency is a risk. (Not enough
pills left in the bottle to worry about.)
There’s a whole list of possible side
effects, too. But I’m only going to take
one. I wash it down with a huge
glass of water. And by the time I finish
my makeup—blush, liner, smoky eye
shadow, mascara, lip gloss—I feel better.
By the Time
I get in my car and drive halfway to
the studio, I’m feeling great. No worry,
no pain at all. And, in fact, my empty stomach
doesn’t bother me either. This stuff rocks,
except it does make my eyelids heavy.
I turn up the radio, crack the window. Cool
air streams over my face, fights a sudden
desire to let my eyes close. Just for a second.
Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut. Whoa. That’s why
they put those bumpy things in the yellow line.
Okay, I’m awake now. Lots of traffic around
me, and this time of day, there are bound to be
cops doing speed control. I signal, pull
into the slow lane, and somehow I manage
the last five miles without drifting off, arrive
at the shoot all in one piece. And happy.
The Photog
Isn’t quite ready for me, so I sit in a big
comfy chair. I’m not alone in the waiting
room. The man, who is fit and tan and wears
pricey clothes, stares without apology. “What?”
His smile reveals perfect predatory teeth.
Sorry. It’s just that you’ve got a great look.
You here to do portfolio stills? His eyes—
striking green—continue their assessment.
I shake my head. “Pre-pageant publicity.
Miss Teen Nevada. I’ve got a portfolio.”
Of course you do. I’d love to take a look
at it. He pauses. Then, You repped?
“Yep. I’m with Maxine Delgado.”
The studio door opens just as he says,
She’s good. But I’m better. Here’s my
card. Call me. I think we need to talk.
Sean
We Need To Talk
Four words. Twelve
letters that strike terror
like a hint of a slither
through tall grass.
I
know what she wants
to ask me, know how
I made her feel. But I
am
afraid to admit
there’s something wrong
with me. Something
fundamental. I’m
not
sure if it’s fixable.
But without it,
I am less than
a man.
How can I possibly
tell that to
the perfect woman?
Can’t Stop Thinking
About the other night—Cara
so coming on to me, and me
unable to give her what she
wanted. What I wanted too.
My body’s betrayal is not
acceptable. And the really bad
thing is, nothing is making
it work right. Not the girl
I’ve lusted after, but had to
wait for since we were freshmen.
And not the hottest Inter
net
porn. Okay, probably not
the best thing for me to be
looking at in my spare time,
but I figured if anything could
encourage this piece of dead
wood attached to my groin,
that would be it. So far, no
good. Not giant boobs, not
girl-on-girl action, not even
the vilest three-way romp
I’ve ever been not-quite-
disgusted to view. The damn
thing just lays there, like
a bored housewife. And now
Cara wants to talk to me.
If she wants to break up
over this, I’ll totally freak
out. Maybe I should go
to a doctor. Except a blood
test, if he wanted one, would
not be a good thing. Can’t
talk to Dad. Embarrassing.
That pretty much leaves
Chad. He’s a loser, capital L.
But I have to trust someone.
I’ve trusted him with other
stuff, maybe even bigger
(so to speak) than this.
After all, he is my brother.
Chad Is A Senior
At UNR, majoring in nutrition.
Not that he cares much about
it. He wants to go into sports
medicine, and nutrition
was the closest he could get
without moving too far from
home. He’ll go to Vegas
next year, if he can get into
their graduate program.
Grades may be a factor.
Like I said, he’s not the most
ambitious guy, which explains
why he never became Dad’s
best hope for a professional
athlete son. Lucky me. I did.
Chad has been very helpful
to me there. Glad he isn’t
the envious type. Then again,
jealousy takes a certain
amount of effort. Just saying.
I Could Call
But a visit to his apartment
is almost always an interesting
experience. He attracts a certain
kind of people. Partiers, mostly.
And that usually means girls.
Yeah, I’m already attached
to one. But it doesn’t hurt
to look at other ones, especially
hot coeds. Chad may be lazy,
but I guess he’s got charisma.
I go straight to his place after
practice, stopping to pick up
sub sandwiches—the healthiest
fast food I know. Chad would
probably prefer burgers and fries,
but oh well. I do let him know
I’m on my way, so if he does
have a female there, they won’t
be mid-dirty. Wonder if watching
it live would fix my little problem.
But Today He’s Company-Free
Good thing. His place is a sty.
I pick my way through piles
of clothes—clean or dirty,
I can’t really tell—cereal boxes,
crumpled Keystone cans, somehow
make it to the kitchen, where
Chad’s actually studying.
Hey, bro. Thanks for bringing
dinner. Have a brewski.
He gulps a big swig of his own.
I go to the fridge, grab a beer,
sit across the cluttered table
from him, unwrap my sandwich.
He waits for me to say something,
but I’m not sure how to start.
Finally he jumps in. You look
like you’re bulking up pretty
well. You ready for opening
day? Uncle Jeff said you rocked
during your exhibition game.
I take a giant bite, wash it down
with bitter beer. “I did okay.
But I’ve got to do better to
impress a Stanford scout.
I’m working my ass off.”
Work is a good thing, hence…
He points to books, stacked
tall on the table. Only one
is actually open, however.
Wanna tell me why you’re here?
To the point, which is probably
good. “Well, this is kind of hard
to talk about. Like embarrassing.”
Like maybe it was a mistake
to come. How do I say this?
He looks up from his sandwich,
studies my face, which must
be the color of pomegranates.
What? You got an STD or
something? He shakes his head.
Fuck it. Just say it. “Not
an STD. I couldn’t get one
if I tried. See, the problem
is, I can’t get it up. Not even
when I really want to. Not
even when my girlfriend
takes her clothes off and
climbs all over me. I’m barely
eighteen, and my dick acts
like it’s eighty. What’s wrong?”
Chad grins. Dude, you know
about ’roids and nut shrinkage,
right? At my horrified grimace,
he says, Too much artificial
testosterone makes the real
deal go away. That’s one
reason why you don’t want
to do too many cycles in a row.
Stop using, things should work
like they’re supposed to again.
Chad, Steroid Expert
Is also my supplier. And not
just mine. He underwrites
his living expenses dealing
illegal substances. Steroids
are just the tipping-off place.
I’m glad there’s a sound
explanation. Still, “So I can’t
What about all those pro
athletes and their hot women?
Well, I wouldn’t say that
exactly. Haven’t you heard
of Viagra? He’s got to be
kidding, Viagra is definitely
for eighty-year-old dicks, right?
I Leave Chad’s
With a pretty good beer buzz,
one more round of muscle
enhancers, plus a penis fixer.
Holy crap. But it’s just for
a little while. I also got a lecture
about not combining Viagra
with other drugs. About ’roids
and high blood pressure. About
probable acne, potential liver
or kidney problems, and (this is
a great one!) the remote
possibility of growing
breasts. About steroids
staying in your system for as
long as a year or more after
you quit them. Chad is quite
the lecturer, considering
he’s also the pusher. Guess
he doesn’t want to feel guilty
if I wind up needing a bra.
Personally, I Think
It’s all hype. Well, other than
the penis problem. And I guess
my skin has looked better.
That, at least, can be fixed
without resorting to pill popping.
I have to admit I’m curious
to see if the “little blue pill”
can fix me. If it can make me
some kind of sex superstar.
None of the times I’ve had
sex before were what you
might call memorable. Easy.
Fast. Not much in the way
of intensive foreplay. Nothing
like what you see in movies.
I’m a total amateur. Time
for some real practice, with
a little chemical assistance.
Now if only Cara is up for
it too, like the other night.
A Little Fuzzy
(Foamy?) around the edges,
I decide to wait until I get
home to give her a call.
I manage the icy drive without
incident, park mostly straight,
make my way inside. I’m pretty
much a lightweight drinker,
so the four beers I downed
at Chad’s have blunted my
motivation. Glad I already
ate, because as soon as Aunt
Mo hears me come in, she calls
from the kitchen, We’re all at
the table. Were you going to
grace us with your presence?
She’s bitchy. I’m fuzzy.
A deadly combination.
“No,” I yell. “I don’t feel
so hot.” Not a lie. Suddenly
bed sounds like a good plan.
Andre
So Hot
Beneath her cool veneer,
she’s steaming. You’d think
she was thirty, not just
sixteen, and I can’t
help
but wonder how she learned
the dance of the cobra.
Sensuous. Dangerous.
Deadly venomous. And
I’m
the snake charmer who
snaps out of a trance
to find the serpent
has tricked him into
tumbling
under her spell. I swore
this wouldn’t happen.
Never believed it was
possible to fall so
hard.
Wish I Could Say
I’ve fallen for the perfect girl,
but that would be
a lie. Or at least a gross exaggeration.
There’s a lot about Jenna to love.
The way she looks,