Perfect (16 page)

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 Internet

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,