Perfect (5 page)

what I want. Nobody seems

to care that with every push

to live up to their expectations,

my own dreams

vaporize.

Don’t Get Me Wrong

I do understand my parents wanting only

the best for me.

Am one hundred percent tuned to the concept

that life is a hell of a lot more enjoyable

with a fast-flowing

stream of money carrying you along.

I like driving a pricey car, wearing

clothes that feel

like they want to be next to my skin.

I love not having to be a living, breathing

stereotype because

of my color. Anytime I happen to think

about it, I am grateful to my grandparents

for their vision. Grateful

to my mom for her smarts, to my dad

for his bald ambition and, yes, greed.

Not to mention

his unreal intuition. But I’m sick of being

pushed to follow in his footsteps. Real

estate speculation?

Investment banking? Neither interests me.

Too much at risk, and when you lose,

you lose major.

I much prefer winning, even if it’s winning

small. I think more like my grandfather.

Andre Marcus Kane Sr.

embraced the color of his skin, refused

to let it straitjacket him. He grew up in

the urban California

nightmare called Oakland, with its rutted

asphalt and crumbling cement and frozen

dreams, all within

sight of sprawling hillside mansions.

I’d look up at those houses,
he told
me more than once,
and think to myself, no reason why

that can’t be me, living up there. No
reason at all, except
getting sucked down into the swamp.

Meaning welfare or the drug trade

or even the tired

belief that sports were the only way out.

I guessed I wanted a big ol’ house on
the hill more than just
about anything. And I knew my brain

was the way to get it.
Oh, what a brain!
My gramps started inventing
things in elementary school. Won awards

for his off-the-wall inventions in high

school, and a full

scholarship to Cal-Poly. He could have

gone on to postgrad anywhere, except

just about then he fell

hard for my grandmother, Grace, a Kriol

beauty from Belize.
Never saw any girl
could match her, before
or since,
he claims.
God sent her to me.

Maybe. Who else would have encouraged

Gramps’s crazy ideas?

Telephones that didn’t need wires?

Computers, in every American home?

Ambitious goals,

especially in the sixties, when color TV

was about as technological as most people

got. But if Andre Kane

believed it would come to pass, then so did

his new wife, Grace. Gramps led the charge

into the Silicon Valley.

He got his house on the hill. And then some.

Gramps’s Obese Bank Account

Came with taxes and bills. His kids—two

boys and a girl—came

with private school tuitions. Dad was oldest,

and so came programmed with the Eldest Son

Syndrome—a classic

overachiever, hell-bent on making his own

mark on the world, and a bigger one than

his father’s. Andre

Marcus Kane Jr. had more than drive going

for him. He had luck, eerie foresight, and

brilliant timing. Right

out of college, Dad became an investment

banker, banking heavily on his own

investments. His stock

portfolio thrived. And somehow, he knew

to dump everything right before the last

time the market crashed.

So when things started to look iffy again,

he went looking for other investments.
Lending is too easy
these days,
I heard him tell Mom.
You

can’t keep giving those loans away.
Adjustable rate mortgages
are going to bring this country down.

Which explains why we deserted the Golden

State in favor of the Silver

State some eighteen months ago. Dad keeps

pouncing on the distressed properties that

pop up regularly.

Plus, cost of living is lower here, and that

includes my tuition at Zephyr Academy,

the finest college

prep school in northern Nevada. I don’t

miss California too much, except for seeing

Gramps and Grandma

Grace. That, and the street dance scene.

Dad Might Be Sympathetic

To my missing my grandparents, but

dance is not even

a small blip on his radar. I mean, it would

not jibe with
his
plans for my future.

It’s an ongoing rant.

Mom, who’s generally more focused on

where to nip and how to tuck her patients,

only brings it up once

in a while. Dad is more pragmatic, and

broaches the subject regularly, especially
with graduation in
plain sight.
Did you decide about school?

I’ve had positive responses from two

California colleges.

Either would be okay, I guess. “Not yet.”

Stop procrastinating. Where do you see
yourself next year? Because
it won’t be here. Time for a viable plan.

Dorm or a homeless shelter? Nice choice.

Thanks, Dad. My plan

is art school, a frivolous career in graphic

design. I’m still waiting to hear back from

my top choice—the San

Francisco Art Institute. But when I told

Dad that, he freaked. Apparently, “art”
plus “San Francisco” can
only mean one thing.
You’re not serious!

He actually yelled, all his well-cultivated
self-control out the
window.
What are you? A homosexual?

It might have been funny, except for

the way he looked at me—

like hinging on my answer was worthiness

of the Kane surname. I shook my head,

agreed to rethink my future,

wishing I could confess that my real dream

isn’t art. It’s dance. My parents have no idea.

No one does, except

my instructor, who gives me private lessons.

Ballet. Modern. Some ballroom. But I love jazz

most of all, and Liana

says I’ve got real talent. I don’t know about

that, but I do know that dance lifts me

above the mundane.

Grounds me with the certainty that I am

good at something. Connects me to the place

inside where I find passion.

Meaning beyond possessions. Pride, divorced

from my last name. But how can I confess

that to my father?

He thinks a career in art will make me a gay

loser. If I told him I wanted to be a dancer,

it would erase any

doubt in his mind that’s exactly what I am.

As For My Mom

She mostly cares about wasted tuition.
Art?
You might as well go to
public school. What’s the point of spending

all this money to insure you have a quality
education only to have you
squander it on an indulgent flight of fancy?

Funny, considering indulgent flights of fancy

bring in a good portion

of her income as a plastic surgeon. Today,

snow plummeting from the silver sky,

Dr. Kane is working in

her home office. I can hear her, purring

to a patient on the phone.
I understand and
your concerns are justified.
Like all cosmetic surgery, liposuction can

have side effects. But you are a perfect
candidate.…
Mom will
talk that lady into letting her suck the fat

from the woman’s gut, butt, or thighs, a shortcut

to perfection. Damn

the bills. You’ll be the finest woman standing

in the bankruptcy line. Your plastic surgeon

doesn’t care, either.

She gets payment in full up front. Which helps

pay for her ambitionless kid’s unappreciated

tuition. No classes today,

though. Today, even the snowplow drivers

are staying inside; at least I haven’t heard one

go by. It’s a good day

to hang out at home. But I’ve got other plans

and a stellar all-wheel-drive Audi Quattro.

Mom’s still on the phone,

convincing. I call out anyway, “See you later.”

Her voice falls quiet, so I know she must

have heard me. But

she doesn’t bother to say good-bye.

Cara

Don’t Bother

Me with promises. Vows

are cheaply manufactured,

come with no guarantees.

Don’t bother to say you

love

me. The word is indefinable.

Joy to some, heartbreak

to others, depending on

circumstance. There

is

evidence that the emotion

can make a person live longer,

evidence it can kill you early.

I think it’s akin to

a deadly

disease. Or at least some

exotic fever. Catch it, and

you’d better, quick, swallow

some medication to use as a

weapon

against the fire ravaging

body and soul.

New Running Shoes

Are the best thing in the world,

at least once you get them broken

in. The Nikes are good to go, if

only we could get a few days

of decent weather. I can run in

the gym, but inhaling sweat

fumes is so not my thing.

I can swim indoors—don’t mind

that a bit. But I’m craving a long

run outside in the diamond air,

in a downpour of brittle morning

sun. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Feet drumming pavement. Leg

muscles flex, long then short.

Slip into the zone where time

disappears and no one expects

pace or performance. No one can

catch me. No one to stop me. No score

to keep. No measure but my own.

When I run, I am almost free.

But Today The Roads Are Icy

So I won’t run, and I’ll try not

to think about freedom. It only

frustrates me because I sincerely

doubt I’ll ever know what it means

to live autonomously. I will

forever walk beneath an umbrella

of expectation. Mom and Dad

have a plan for me and won’t talk

about alternatives. My teachers

have faith in me and know I’ll go far.

My so-called friends mostly hang

out to see if my status will rub off

on them. Only Sean doesn’t really

ask anything special of me, except

to decorate his arm like a favorite

piece of jewelry. Oh, he claims

that he’s in love with me. If I knew

what love was, I might be able to

judge the depth of his feelings. But

for now, it’s enough to have a stable

relationship with one of the most

popular guys at school. No matter

that he doesn’t make my heart pitter-

patter faster. Maybe I’m a ventricle

short. Despite that, he’s the closest

thing to a best friend I have.

Marriages have survived long

term on less. Not that I’m planning

to get married any time soon. Who

needs that kind of misery? All I have

to do is look around to know it’s not

for me. Still, it’s nice having a steady

someone to hang out with. Sean

is adventurous. Fun. Good-looking

in a jock kind of way. And you know,

everyone expects the perfect girl

to go out with the perfect guy.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned

from Mom, it’s that appearances are

everything. Sean and I look great together.

You Might Even Say

We look normal. Looks can deceive.

We’ve both had our share of emotional

trauma, though mine stems from

parents who really don’t care about

me, while Sean doesn’t have parents

at all. His mom died giving birth to

his little brother, Wade. His dad followed