Perfect. Part 30
Caught In A Maelstrom Of jealousy and anger. That's me.
It's a static in my brain. A crimson lens I'm looking through, and it all makes my head pound like meat getting tenderized with a mallet.
Why did the b.i.t.c.h lead me on?
I watch her come out of her house, walk quickly to her car. Does she suspect I'm here? If she drives by, she'll know for sure. But she turns the other way, taking the back road toward town. To her. She's going to her, says a voice. Follow her. I don't look for the source.
No matter how many times I've searched, I can't seem to find him. But for the past week or two, he's been talking a lot. I've learned to do what he says. Or my head hurts even worse. Cara's little red Saab is easy to spot. I maintain a decent distance so she doesn't see my truck in her mirrors.
Yeah, but don't let her get too far ahead, or you'll lose her.
I turn up the radio. That won't work, idiot. I'm louder than the music and you know it.
He was practically shouting that time. I turn the radio back down.
Open the window. A sharp stab of air attacks my cheek, but it feels good. Great. My skin is fevered.
"You have to stop distracting me," I tell the voice. Some people would say it's crazy, talking to someone you can't see.
But mostly he's decent company.
Cara Weaves Through an asphalt maze. Right.
Left. Left. Into an old southwest Reno neighborhood, where houses are brick and river rock, with covered porches and splintered sidewalks. She drives slowly, as if looking for an address.
Maybe I'm wrong. Surely she knows where the blue-haired girl lives. You're not wrong.
She pulls against the curb a couple of blocks ahead.
I find a place to park, watch her go to the door of a small house. Some man answers, steps back to let her in. A man?
She's here to see a man? No.
It's the girl's father.Duh.
Maybe the voice is the voice of reason. Oh yes, I'm reasonable.
I sit, waiting. Not sure what for.
Hope the people who live in the house I'm parked in front of don't think I'm scoping out the place. Last thing I need in my life are cops. After a little while, blue-haired-girl's front door opens again. The man comes out, lugging a set of golf clubs. He carries them to an aged SUV parked in the circular driveway. And off he goes.
Golf, huh? He'll be gone for a while. Think he knows what the girls will be up to?
What Will The Girls Be Up To?
I really, really want to know.
Guesswork and imagination are so unfulfilling. Frustrating.
Come on. You know what girls do. You've seen it in magazines.
Movies, too. Remember that night with Cara. It was a girl-on-girl scene that got her all turned on.
Hey, maybe it's your fault. Maybe you helped flip her gay. How ironic.
No. Not me, and not the movie.
Gayness comes built in, right?
That's what everyone says.
Yeah, everyone who's gay. You don't really believe that, right?
"G.o.dd.a.m.n! Would you just shut the f.u.c.k up? I can't think straight."
Nope. All you can think is h.o.m.o.
G.o.d. Cara might be in there, with that girl, doing ... what?
Are they naked right now?
Playing naked lez games?
No way to know for sure.
Ever heard of windows? You know, those gla.s.s things you can look through to see what's on the other side? Just be careful in case Mrs. Golf Dude is at home. And you might not want to let any of the neighbors see.
Windows Are Made To Look Through Other than the cars zipping by faster than they probably should, the street seems quiet enough.
I get out of the truck, don't lock the doors, in case I need to leave in a hurry. What is that noise?
High power lines? My ears don't like the thrumming.
I try to look like I belong on this sidewalk, like I have a legit purpose for walking along it.
But the winter-bared trees seem to be the only things that know I'm here. Not too worried about fooling them.
I slow as I approach the house.
Glance around, trying not to look like I'm glancing around.
The front door is flanked by windows, shades drawn.
Shouldn't peek in the front windows, anyway. I veer into the unfenced side yard.
It's screened from the neighbors'
view by a tall evergreen hedge.
Two white-framed windows break up the red brick. I draw back, against the wall. Listen.
Yeah, listen to that. Lord, what are those two doing to each other?
From behind the first window come the sounds of nasty girls.
Check it out. Come on. Hurry, would you? Don't worry. They're looking at each other, not at you.
I duck under the window, then cautiously lift my face to the gla.s.s.
The voice was right. They are way too into each other-literally- to notice me. The head of the bed is toward the wall opposite me.
Blue Hair is on top (of course), which has Cara's feet pointed toward me. But even if she wanted to look at the window, she couldn't.
Her sweater is pulled up over her face. The rest of her beautiful body is bared, and opened to Blue Hair's mouth. Tongue. Fingers.
No fair! That should be me!
Watching is torture. But I can't turn away. Cara moans, and I want her to moan for me.
Me! And then she screams.
I Love You That's what she screams, only not for me. The thrumming swells into the sound of a billion crickets rubbing their legs.
And, v.i.a.g.r.a or no, I am hard.
Quick! Your cell. Come on!
I don't get it until he says, The camera. A picture is worth a thousand words, remember?
And two thousand screams.
My cell. Right. I locate it, fumble to find the camera setting.
No flash. Hold it right up against the gla.s.s so it doesn't glare. Zoom it in. Perfect. Now get out of here.
I Don't Bother With Stealth On the way back to the truck.
In my pocket, the camera b.u.mps against my groin. The b.o.n.e.r is gone, a sticky glaze left as a reminder inside my boxers.
Sick. I am sick, right? I start for home, in a fairly straight line on well-traveled roads.
A picture is worth two thousand screams. It's her turn to squirm.
I see Cara squirming. Building.
Hear Blue Hair tell her yes, now.
I am seeing through red lenses again.
Don't get mad, dude. Get even.
You can wreck her. Simple upload.
Yes, now.
Wreck her.
Get even.
Andre
Even Now After so much time nearly inseparable, connected by experiences and emotion, she can shut me out. Turn away, as if our investment in each other doesn't carry weight beyond the moment. Is it possible that she doesn't really know how much I need her?
Can't hear truth when I tell her how much she means to me, that she has changed the way I look at life, at the future?
Does she even care at all?
Some Things You Can't Fix For someone you love, no matter how much you want to.
I can't make Jenna's sister stop being a star.
I can't change last quarter's report card so her parents will let her get her driver's license. I can't insist her father stop being a racist jerk. And there is absolutely nothing I can do about his upcoming wedding. All I can do is be available to listen, and maybe offer comments to help her process the disappointments in her life. Not that she would call them that. She thinks she's handling them just fine, rising above them, as it were. But I seriously disagree.
She's Disintegrating The fracture occurred a while ago. I noticed the fissure last week, after her sister landed a major modeling job.
I can't believe it. The guy loved her. He made her a spokesmodel for this major new teen fashion line. Not that most of us are skinny enough to wear it and look half decent. G.o.d. It's big bucks.
National exposure. It's all Kendra can talk about, and it's making me sick. Then there's Mom, who keeps saying, "All our hard work is finally paying off."
Our hard work? She hasn't even noticed that Kendra isn't eating again. Or maybe she's just overlooking it.
She went on longer. And all I could say was, "The eating thing is a problem.
But as far as the job, you should be happy for her. It's her dream, and she's worked hard to accomplish it, right?"
I still hadn't-haven't-mentioned my own dream, and my decision to pursue it. I started to do that one time, but when she cut me off to talk about Kendra's probable anorexia, somehow the subject of dance just didn't seem important.
It wouldn't have been to her, anyway.
My supporting her sister p.i.s.sed Jenna off.