Perfect. Part 11

Does that make me a freak?

Do I belong in Aspen Springs, finger-painting scenes from my childhood, right along with my messed-up brother? Now there's a great family snapshot.

Twin number one: a warped s.e.x addict, filled with enough self-hate to try and end it all. Twin number two: unclear about her s.e.xuality.

In love (?) with a guy. In l.u.s.t (!) with a girl. I have zero doubt about the l.u.s.t. As for the love, I believed it was real. But how can I want to touch someone else if love is what I truly feel for Sean? We've been together almost a year, have plans to continue seeing each other postgraduation. In fact, I know his college plans revolve around me. For the most part, he's kind.

Supportive. Not once has he ever tried to force me to give him more than hot make-out sessions. s.e.x is something that, up until now, I haven't felt ready for. But without it, how can I possibly answer the question grating the inside of me-sc.r.a.ping till I'm raw. l.u.s.t?

Love? Are they mutually exclusive?

Absent s.e.x, how will I know?

Maybe I'll Find Out Tonight Sean and I are going out after his exhibition game. I'm getting ready to go watch him play when I hear a familiar name spill from behind Mom's half-open bedroom door.

...don't care about legalities, Mrs. Sanders, and I'm certain the school board won't either.

Not to mention the press, and if you refuse to see my side of things, that's where I'm going next. Anyway, I'm sure you could use a fresh start.

You won't find a teaching position in this city again. I think the best option for everyone involved is for you to move on. The smell of Mom's drink, acrid and telltale strong for so early in the day, hangs like incense in the air leaking from her room. I hurry away from it and down the hall.

Poor Emily. Against the furious force of my mother, she is powerless- flotsam riding a whitewater course impossible to divert.

No wonder my father offers gauze- thin excuses to not come home.

Lately, he's almost nonexistent.

Something to do with Conner?

Surely I'm not the only one lifting a backbreaking load of guilt.

Or maybe they really don't care.

Me? Sometimes I think I might implode from the pressure. But implosion is not what's expected of me.

Everyone I know would totally freak if they even suspected I have splintered, alone in my room.

I never reveal that Cara. That girl- frail and choking back secrets- is the Cara I am determined to conceal.

Bundled Up Against the flecks of snow, fluttering from the sky, I sit in the spa.r.s.ely populated bleachers, watch Sean belt a long fly ball to center, where it sinks into the fielder's glove. Sixth inning. No heroics so far today.

He gives the catcher a little shove as he turns toward the dugout.

The catcher springs to his feet, gets in Sean's face. What the f.u.c.k?

Before they can beat each other b.l.o.o.d.y, the umpire steps in, issues a reprimand. Sean smiles and looks up at me with searching eyes, as if to ask, Understand?

I shrug. Frustration is evident in the taut slope of his shoulders.

But there's also a copper-hot seethe of anger I hope he never directs at me.

I Have To Admit It's not the first time I've seen a hint of someone... hateful lurking behind nice guy Sean.

Is he flint, waiting for a flick of steel to spark some inner grenade? He never used to be this way, at least never in front of me. When did his temper surface?

I notice it now in the way he attacks the ball, charging grounders, slamming them home.

I see it in how he smacks base runners, tries to intimidate them wide. This isn't about winning.

It's about conquering, and when he errs, there's more than pride on the line. Bottom of the ninth, two-all tie. One out, Sean comes up to bat. Please let him hit!

"Come on, baby," I shout.

"Piece of cake." First pitch, he tenses, swings way out ahead.

Easy. Easy. Thwap! He bloops one over the shortstop's head, an ugly hit, but whatever. Grant Blakemore takes two quick strikes, and Sean's chancy lead pays off when he steals second. That makes the pitcher p.i.s.sy. He throws hard and inside, nicks Grant's leg, sends him limping on over to first.

Our coach plays a wild card, sends Bobby Duvall up to bat.

He fouls off the first three pitches.

Perfect. Perfect loser, that is. But on the fourth, he must see the fastball coming. He squares, slams a solid hit into right field. Sean scores, he and Bobby co-heroes this time.

It will be a good night after all.

It Starts Out Great Sean is famished, so we go out for pizza. I pick at one piece while he polishes off four.

Are you sick or something? he asks.

"No. I just like watching you eat." Not really a lie. I like how he tears each bite almost daintily, wiping tendrils of hot, gooey cheese with a napkin before they can drip down the front of his clean denim shirt. I like the way he's careful to keep his food unseen behind closed lips. s.e.xy lips. Full. Soft, for a guy. I like how his arm muscles flex when he reaches for another slice. I like the charm of his smile.

I like knowing he loves me.

There's something safe in that, and yet, beneath pepperoni and onion, he wears a thin scent of danger.

Danger Scent Is Somehow Attractive I follow it to Sean's truck, its big chrome b.u.mper leering through a delicate veil of snow. I climb up inside, determined to gain some understanding. I need to know if this is where I belong.

At this moment, it feels very right.

I scoot close to him. "Let's go."

He looks at me with confusion- clouded eyes. Go? You mean home? I thought we'd hang out a little or something. No?

I run my hand along the meaty muscle of his thigh. Wow. All that lifting paying off. "Can we go someplace private?" I sigh, and implicit in the soft exhale is something I've never offered before. Sean does not fail to notice. Really? He hesitates, then starts the truck and heads up the highway toward Virginia City.

Thank G.o.d it has stopped snowing.

My fingers play with the pendant Sean gave me, sliding it back and forth along the chain, the motion sensuous. The road snakes south, then north, ultimately taking us east, and I wonder if life is like that. Go one way, then another, to end up someplace else. Finally Sean pulls into a turnout overlooking city lights.

"Beautiful." I lift up on my knees, turn to face him, kiss him as if this might be our last kiss-intention clear in the race of my heart and the way my tongue tangos over his. He pulls back. Wait. Are you sure? In answer, I squirm free of my sweater. Now, that's beautiful. His lips move over me, wet and rough and punctuated by sharp nips of teeth. He lays me back across the seat and his thumb runs along the waistband of my jeans.

Danger scent envelopes me. You are ready, aren't you? He fumbles at my waistband and I hurry the unb.u.t.toning, desire a steady thrumming, like rain upon tin. Strangely, I'm not afraid.

Sean is a hot salt rub, friction against my skin, and it all feels good. Right. I reach for his belt, want to touch what's below his belly b.u.t.ton. Except... it isn't how it should be. Sean rolls away. G.o.dd.a.m.n it. No!

Stunned, tears spatter my cheeks.

"What's wrong? What did I do?"

Hands shaking on the steering wheel, Sean whispers, It wasn't you.

Kendra

It Wasn't Me That's what you said- it wasn't me who sent you running, spinning into someone else's arms.

No, it had nothing to do with me. So why do I think if I had only been thin as rays of dawning sun it all would have worked out differently? Flawless, you needed a girl without imperfections, and that wasn't the troll who lives in the room beyond the looking gla.s.s. No, your perfect girl wasn't me.

An Ugly Rumor Has surfaced, sc.u.m rising to stink up the hallways at school. I get it from Bobby Duvall. Did you hear about Mrs. Sanders? His tongue, I swear, lolls to one side, like a summer-tired dog. She and Conner were... you know.

"What are you talking about, Bobby?"

But I see the story in his eyes, and in how some of the other kids pa.s.sing by stare, then quickly look away.

Kali Benson told me. She was in the office and heard Jerkwad Taylor talking to the superintendent. Looks like we'll have subs for the rest of the year.

I want to scream that it's a lie. But certainty plunks into my empty stomach.

Of course it's true. Conner trashed me for a teacher. A woman twice his age.

I don't see what all the hype is about, you know? I mean, she didn't, like, force herself on him. Ask me, he was a lucky son of a b.i.t.c.h. She's a f.u.c.king babe.

I smoke him with my eyes. "Shut up, Bobby. The whole thing is totally vile."

Blood whistles in my ears, and my face drains, cold. The mirror would tell me it's the color of chalk. I reach one shaky hand inside my locker, grab a small bag of dry-roasted almonds. I take five, chew them one at a time, seven calories each. Thirty-five total.

I'm starving. Haven't eaten since breakfast, yesterday. So why is it so hard to swallow?

Distracted Light-headed. Irritated by the stupid gurgling in my stomach. Five almonds will not get me through PE, which means I have to eat lunch or risk pa.s.sing out. Good thing I brought a salad. Lettuce. Red cabbage.

Half a carrot, grated. No dressing. Forty-three calories, all negative. Now, to find a private place to eat. I can't handle the swarm of voices.

Every time I let my ears pick up conversation, hey hear the same snippets: Mrs. Sanders.

Conner Sykes. s.e.x. s.e.x. s.e.x. G.o.dd.a.m.n him.

He told me he loved me. I loved-love- him, too, so I said okay. Did he love me?

Did he love her, too? Did she love him?

Love is supposed to take the "wrong"

out of making love. Was any of "us" right?

Too Icy To run outside, we're doing laps around the gym. The wood is slick and hard, but I like how my legs feel, pounding against it. Some of the girls 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 G.o.d. The period is almost over.

Thank G.o.d 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 b.u.t.t-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 compa.s.sion 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."