Perfect. Part 9

Didn't know she even had one on her radar.

She smiles. Don't know how "big"

it is. But I guess you could call it a date. It's just lunch and a movie.

She doesn't volunteer more, and I know she's expecting me to want information. I definitely do. "With who?"

Her grin widens. I met him at your plastic surgeon's office. He's her son.

Her Son?

Okay, wait. Process... process...

"So, you mean..." She can't be serious.

He's black? Yep. Definitely black.

And really cute. And smart. And rich...

Won't mean a thing to our father, who's a half step away from the KKK. "Uh, what about...?"

Her face darkens, eclipsed by thoughts of Daddy. I don't give a d.a.m.n about Dad.

"Well, you should. He didn't walk out on Mom, you know." We've had this argument before. Her answer will be the same as always. That doesn't mean he needs to take it out on me... or you.

We didn't ask Mom to leave him.

She's totally right. Daddy pretty much pretends we don't even exist anymore.

We sometimes get cards on our birthdays, once in a while with Wal-Mart gift cards inside. Ditto Christmas. But he never asks to see us. I think we remind him too much of Mom. One thing's for sure, though.

If he finds out Jenna's going out with a black guy, he will most definitely take an interest. "Okay, well, it's all fine by me.

Just remember guys are mostly only after one thing." I sound like a mom.

Her smile returns. Even when you're dreaming about them?

Oh my G.o.d. "What do you mean?"

Now I really feel sick. Burning up.

Jenna laughs. You talk in your sleep sometimes. And sometimes you moan.

I Throw My Pillow It misses her by a mile, and it comes to me that we haven't shared a sister moment like this in quite a while.

Not since we moved in with Patrick.

I have to get ready to go now.

Andre's picking me up at eleven.

Eleven? Holy c.r.a.p. I slept away most of the morning. Not a good way to burn calories. I'll have to work out an extra hour. I try not to look at the mirror as I make my way to the toilet for an overdue pee.

When I come out of the bathroom, I glance out the window just in time to see Jenna scoot into a hot little Audi. Metallic blue. Nice car. I hope this Andre person is nice too. My sister p.i.s.ses me off regularly, but I don't want to see her get hurt. And a guy is the surest path to heartbreak that I know. I put on sweats, pull my hair back into a ponytail.

If I'm going to work out for two hours, I have to eat something. Our kitchen is the devil's den, the cupboards filled with carb-laden c.r.a.p. The kind that goes straight to your thighs and belly.

The fridge is a little better. I've become an expert label reader and calorie counter.

One orange: thirty-five calories, eight grams carbs. Ten grapes: thirty calories, nine grams carbs. One tomato: nine calories, two grams carbs. I choose the tomato.

One Tomato Two thin slices of Healthy Fare turkey, and two gla.s.ses of water later, I make a call. "h.e.l.lo? Is Sean there?" Long pause while his little brother goes to look for him. Finally, Uh, no. He's got baseball practice.

"Oh. Well, this is Kendra. I was hoping to use your workout equipment." Why pay for a gym when the O'Connells have state-of-the-art stuff in their bas.e.m.e.nt?

Wade doesn't hesitate. You can use it. But only if you let me watch. Pervert freshman. But, hey, what do I care if he gets off on watching me sweat?

By The Time I Get There Wade has rounded up a friend. They follow me downstairs, stare as I program the elliptical to level five. Cardio first. Weights after.

The guys stand there, gawking. Might as well give 'em a good show. I strip down to a sports bra and Lycra pants. "Can you turn on the TV, maybe find a music channel?" Wade obliges, and I climb on the machine, tune into the music, find my zone. Breathe in. Breathe out. Lose track of time. Push myself harder. Forget about freshman eyes and banter. Breathe deeper as sweat trickles turn to rivulets, carry away toxins. One tomato, two turkey slices. Fat.

Breathe. Burn fat. Forget about the taunts of the mirror and too many hours tangled in sleep, deep woods perfume, and the arms of a ghost.

Sean

Arms Worked to the max.

Pumped to capacity.

Muscles bathing in lactic acid. Slow build to burning.

Lift. Rest. Stretch.

Push to the edge of "can't," knowing the only way to leave your mark is sheer devotion to the power of "can."

Focus. Empty every negative thought into a box labeled "not allowed." Embrace the pain, now electric.

Brand your name into the skin of history.

Bulking Up I look in the mirror, like what I see-triceps building. Pecs, and flexors, too. The last, hugely important to sending a baseball over the fence.

But it's not just my upper body I work. Core muscles.

Leg muscles. All must sync to become the best I can be, and the best hitter in Grizzlies history. Scratch that. Nevada state high school history.

No lesser goal will do, and to help me attain it, I have resorted to help-in-a-bottle.

No more over-the-counter stuff.

No, this is the real steroidal deal, brought to me courtesy of Thailand, through a trusted source. It isn't cheap. I had to dip into my savings account, but hey, what else is that money for, if not helping me get into college? Might be a warped way of looking at it, although any seriously ambitious athlete would probably understand.

Yeah, I'm taking a chance, but not a big one because, despite what I told Bobby, tests for steroids are really expensive. Without solid suspicion, most coaches won't ask for random ones.

And my guess is that if a team is winning games by breaking home run records, most coaches will close their eyes.

Case In Point Uncle Jeff, who is definitely closing his eyes, but whether it's on purpose or just because, I really don't know. Today we are in the bas.e.m.e.nt, lifting together. He wants to be buff too. Take it easy, son.

You can use the heavier weights for your legs, but don't risk injuring your arm muscles.

I know he means well, but it isn't the first time he's told me the very same thing. I'm not fricking stupid. But I say, "Okay, dude." Three more reps.

You know, push-ups are good for your baseball groove too.

Did he really just say baseball groove? I nod and do another set while he starts in on squats.

The fatherly advice is really starting to bug me, so when he asks about Cara, my face p.r.i.c.kles irritation. But I say, "I think she's mad at me."

Women. Give 'em an inch and they'll want the whole yardstick.

Huff. Puff. Did you get her something nice for Valentine's Day, I hope?

"Val-s.h.i.+t. Is that today?"

I forgot all about it. Well, at least it gives me the excuse to say, "I have to run into Reno.

Thanks for the workout, Jeff."

Showered And Dressed I call Cara's cell, half expecting her not to pick up. But she does.

"Hey, you. It's Friday. We're going to get together tonight, right?

You're not mad, are you?"

She is quiet for a few seconds.

I'm not mad at you, Sean. But I'm busy tonight. It's Galena's last basketball game and I have to cheer, remember?

"But it's Valentine's Day and I have something special for you...." G.o.d, I'm such a liar. "Please?

I know you're going to love it." Whatever "it" ends up being. She agrees to meet me after the game, but her voice is tinted with reluctance.

Why, if she's not mad at me?

My Hand Is on the front doork.n.o.b, just starting to turn it, when Uncle Jeff comes down the hall from the kitchen. Wait. You might take a look at this.

He hands me a s.h.i.+ny ad from Zales Jewelers.

GIFTS FOR YOUR.

VALENTINE, it says at the top. FROM $39.99.

They're at Meadowood Mall.

One word of advice, though.

If you really think she's mad at you, I'd spend more than thirty-nine ninety-nine.

Then he really surprises me, handing me a crisp C-note. That's the minimum necessary to make an angry woman not angry anymore.

I stand, hundred between thumb and forefinger, not quite graspinn this sudden generosity. "But... why?"

I try to give the money back.

He shakes his head. I want you to have it. There's more to life than baseball. Before you and Cara started dating, I was worried you'd never figure that out. I want you to succeed at your sport, but not at the expense of your happiness. She makes you happy. Make her happy too.

I Want To Make Her Happy I really do. But I'm not sure jewelry is enough.

Cara is a riddle with no evident clues. Sometimes she just fills the whole s.p.a.ce around me with light. Other times, she covers me with shadow. And I'm not sure why. She's beautiful. Talented.

Brilliant. Rich. She has it all.

I think about her all the way to the mall. Zales is crowded with last-minute shoppers like me. Mostly men. Trying to make their women happy.

A glitter of diamond chips catches my eye. The old- fas.h.i.+oned necklace is three hundred dollars, and worth every dime if it makes her smile.

It Is Past Ten By the time Cara is finished cheering. She exits the gym with Kendra and Shantell, all three looking pretty hot in their short black skirts.

Comparing the three, Shantell is on the short side, round, big b.o.o.bs. Kendra is the flip side of that-thin as a twig and almost as tall as I am.

And Cara? Cara is perfect- all taut, muscular curves wrapped in kid-leather skin, with hair like waves of summer wheat and golden eyes that remind me of autumn leaves.

I want to eat her up, keep her a part of me always.

I wave, and she peels from the group, heads my way.

A winter-clipped breeze blows through her sweat- dampened hair. She s.h.i.+vers, and when I open my arms, she leans into me gratefully.

Thanks for being so patient, she says, head against my chest.

I don't know what's wrong with me. She looks up, smiles, and the world rights itself, s.h.i.+mmers with her glow.