Perfect. Part 21

In my right arm. Right leg. Right side of my head. I try to move-have to.

I'm in the street. I think. Must move.

But some strange weight holds me in place. Don't move. Hands test my body. Conner? No. That was last summer. My eyes work hard to focus.

The hands belong to a lady. Don't know her. I don't feel any broken bones, but you could have a concussion. Stay right there. I'll call 9-1-1. But as soon as she lets go, I manage a sitting position. "I'm okay.

Please. Can you just take me home?"

Sean

I'm Okay Everything I've believed in, smashed into the mud.

All I've worked toward, pulverized into dust. But I'm okay. Who wanted all that, anyway? Who needed an un.o.bstructed road to a tidy little future, when really the fun is in breaking trail toward some unknown destination? Any sane person would say you should not put every shred of hope in one human being, especially not a girl. The perfect girl, no longer mine. But, hey, I'm okay.

Wounded And I don't even know what the f.u.c.k happened. Everything was going perfectly. Graduating with a high B average? Check.

Playing top-flight baseball?

Check. Offered a scholarship to play Cardinal ball? Check.

Accepted into Stanford, an almost impossible goal to realize? Check. Best of all, after waiting for a year, after finding a way to make sure performance would not be an issue, being right there with Cara, both of us naked and hot and ready to go, finally having s.e.x with the girl I love more than life, only to be accused of rape? Check. And check!!

I Thought She Was Over It When she finally called.

Believed she'd forgiven me. How could I have been so wrong? About everything. I thought she loved me, too. How could I have given my heart to someone still-frozen?

Looking back, I see that she never felt about me the way I felt about her. Talk about one-sided affection. What in G.o.d's name do I do now?

Turn down Stanford? I could have gone east to school.

Some place far, far away from Cara. No, d.a.m.n it.

After all I went through to get in there, I'm going to Stanford. With or without Cara.

At Least She Didn't Publicly accuse me of rape.

Tomorrow will be a week since that night, and not one word has surfaced.

All things considered, I figured she might, if only to save face. Reputation is pretty much everything to Cara Sykes. And her standing with the in crowd has plummeted. b.i.t.c.h isn't the only one who has friends in high places. In fact, as of today, she doesn't have much in the way of friends.

Period. Maybe I went a little crazy, posting on Facebook and stuff. I kind of thought she might jump in and defend herself. But no. Not a word.

That p.i.s.ses me off more than anything. The f.u.c.king silence.

The least she could do is tell me what the h.e.l.l happened.

She owes me that much.

The worst thing is, she's all I can think about. School?

What's that? Oh yeah, that place I used to go where I actually became somebody once I started dating Cara.

Homework? Whatever.

I'll do enough to graduate, but why work harder than I have to? Baseball? Now, that's a problem of sorts.

I've accomplished what I set out to do, for sure.

But it bothers me that my bat has grown as cold as Cara.

On One Hand It doesn't really matter.

On the other hand, there are records at stake. I should be number one in the league.

And if I get it back together, I can still grab that t.i.tle.

I have to kick this b.u.t.t- rod pitcher's a.s.s. I need to remember just who the h.e.l.l Sean O'Connell is, with or without his girl.

I watch the windup, try to read the signals. Think about Cara, throwing off her shirt that night. Strike!

What? Wait. I didn't even see the ball. G.o.dd.a.m.n it. No! The pitcher leers- leers! Screw you, dude.

I've got your ticket. I wait for it... mind wandering to Chad's sofa, and smooth skin perfumed with desire.

And she's saying yes, touch me there, all wet.... Strike two.

d.a.m.n it all, O'Connell, concentrate. That fricking pitcher is a goon. I swear if I don't hit him this time...

he pulls back from his windup.

Trying to make me lose it again. No effing way, jerk.

He comes set, draws back.

It's a sinker for sure. A fast- ball is too big of a risk. He lets go of the ball. Here it comes. Fast. And straight.

And I swing right through.

And the G.o.dd.a.m.n umpire dares, Strike three. You're out.

And I Know I'm Out I am so f.u.c.king out. And I know the umpire is totally right, but at this particular moment, I couldn't give a d.a.m.n about right or wrong.

I want to feel better. So I wheel to my right, catch hold of his mask, pull his ugly face right up into mine, and I say, "You got it wrong."

Behind his face guard, his eyes go wide. Are you questioning my call? Because I don't think that's a good idea.

Let go of me, son. I mean now.

And I know I really need to stop myself, but I can't seem to manage it. "I'm not your f.u.c.king son, you piece of..." And now all I can see is Cara, telling me I have just raped her. And all I want to do is shake her. And a scarlet haze lifts over my eyes. I hate her. I love her. O'Connell!

Stop! It's Coach Torrance.

And I shake my head, and the red veil falls, and I am horrified to see I've been shaking the ump, like I wanted to shake Cara.

Oh my G.o.d. "What's wrong with me?" I say it aloud, with a cracked black pepper voice. And I'm sorry.

Oh, yes, I'm sorry. But it's too late for sorry. I am out of the game. No hits. No runs. Just another strikeout.

I Hit The Locker Room Strip down. Shower. Realize suddenly that this stupid stunt could very well end my baseball career. Not many coaches want to deal with players who go off the deep end and try to kill the umpire over a called third strike. Or anything else, for that matter. What came over me? I turn the water cool, let it flow over my head, chill my brain. A phrase floats up from some subconscious sea. "'Roid rage." Maybe it fits, but I don't think so. No, this was all about Cara. Why can't I just let her go? And now-f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k- I'm crying. Tears spill, mixing with shower splash.

My legs start to shake, and I let them slip out from under me. I scoot back against the cool tile, let the waterfall rush over me. And this is how Uncle Jeff finds me. Are you okay?

Obviously not. Kind of blew it out there, huh? Do you want to talk about what's going on?

I do. But I can't. I look up at him through the streaming water. "Just a lot of pressure lately is all." I get up, turn off the shower. Reach for a towel. Not sure that excuse is good enough to fix what just happened. Beyond your likely league suspension, that ump could press charges.

I Know All That But though my first instinct is to say so, I also know that Uncle Jeff wants to help. "I'm sorry. Really, I am.

Do you think it's fixable?"

He shrugs. I could maybe pull some strings. But I need to know what's happening with you. Anything else you can tell me? He turns his head as I start to dress. Anger flares again, but only for a second. He isn't my dad.

But he's the closest thing I've got. "There's some stuff with Cara." True. "We're trying to work through it...." Not exactly true. Yet.

"It's been a rough week."

And looking to get rougher.

Andre

Not Exactly True That skin hate is dead.

There will never be color blindness in a culture of fear.

But when you live afraid of your neighbor, the monster you should most walk in terror of thrives.

It starts as a little thing, small enough to burrow into your pores, take up excruciating residence in the dark recesses of your brain.

Its name is paranoia, and it spreads like an oil spill, there in the shadows, chokes your humanity.

Threatens your soul.

I Don't Usually Think A whole lot about the color of my skin.

Most of the time it's not an issue at all. Sometimes, I think, it can be an advantage. Which is, of course, a brand of reverse racism.

I mean, if you're helping some school fulfill their diversity quota, you might actually get a boost up over a Caucasian male with the same GPA. If we didn't live in one of Reno's pricier neighborhoods, things would doubtless be different.

But it's hard to argue with millionaires, white, black, brown, yellow, or any shade in between.

When you rub elbows with rich kids, no one's especially worried about what might rub off.

I Have Heard That in Deep South states like Alabama-hotbeds of racial unrest in the sixties-even today, they have segregated schools. Probably not officially sanctioned as such, but according to Jenna, on a trip to visit family down "theya,"

her cousins made it clear that they attended the "white high school."

The one across town was "the colored school."

I was something close to stunned. "You can't be serious! This is the twenty-first century, for cripes' sake!"

Visiting down there is definitely like stepping back in time. Not everything about that is bad, though. Communities are safe.

Families are tight.

People are polite, respectful....

"Except when it comes to people of color.

Not to mention gay people. Muslims. Jews. G.o.d, Jenna."

She slid her little hand into mine.

But that's not me.

Sometimes I'm not even sure how I can be related to them. I know my great- great grandpa moved down there during the Depression.

Somehow, he found work, when other people couldn't.

The South was good to him, and he stayed a loyal Southerner. So did most of his family, including Dad. But someone had to break the cycle.

I'm sort of a cycle breaker, in case you somehow haven't noticed. And no one speaks for me.