Perfect (3 page)

Yeah. Statistically, I should be just fine.

But there are always those annoying

what-ifs. What if it doesn’t work?

What if it makes things worse? Or,

best of all, what if I have a bad reaction

to the anesthesia and fricking die?

The plastic surgeon comes highly

recommended—she and Patrick went

to college together. Not sure how that

makes her better than anyone else,

but Patrick’s paying for the surgery,

so it’s all good. If it turns out the doc

rocks, I’ll use her again for my boob job.

Patrick Won’t Pay For That

In fact, he gave me a totally embarrassing

lecture.
First of all, for a young lady your age,

I’d say the good Lord gave you just enough

in that department.…
That, while trying not

to stare at my 34Bs.
And my guess is you

haven’t finished developing yet.…
At that

point, Mom jumped in to agree.
I didn’t

fill all the way out until my twenties.

Not till after I had you and Jenna.

Not till after breastfeeding two babies.

But here’s the deal. I don’t plan on

babies or breast milk augmentation.

Doesn’t matter. Once I hit eighteen,

my pageant winnings will be all mine

to spend, and I will have the D cups I need

to kick ass in the cutthroat world of fashion.

What’s Irritating

Is that Jenna, who just turned sixteen,

is well on her way to D cups already.

Of course, though she’s three inches

shorter, she’s fifteen pounds heavier,

and happy to stay that way. Jenna takes

after Daddy. Both her looks and her lack

of ambition. I watch her, tucked under

a quilt on the window seat, reading.

She seems blissfully unaware of the snow

crawling up the glass behind her. For some

stupid reason, that really bugs me. “Hey.

You gonna get dressed sometime today?”

Jenna’s eyes roll up over the rim

of her book.
What’s it to you, anyway?

“I’m not shoveling all by myself.

Patrick said to keep the walk clean.”

She shrugs.
What’s the use in doing it

now? It’s just going to get covered again.

True enough. But it wouldn’t hurt

her to do it twice. “It’s good exercise.”

The book drops a couple of inches.

Enough to expose Jenna’s mean-edged

smile.
Maybe you
should
do it all,

then. You’re looking a little flabby.

I could fast-pitch an insult back

at her. But she’s expecting that.

I’ll try a slow curveball instead.

“Really? Then I guess I’ll take

my own advice. Wouldn’t want

you to have a heart attack, anyway.”

Her face flares, jaw to ear tips.

She lifts her book to cover it up.

I Didn’t React Badly

Because I know she was just being

rude. I do carry extra poundage.

But she doesn’t think so, and neither

does anyone else. Even the scale

keeps trying to tell me one hundred

twenty-two pounds isn’t too much

for my five-foot-ten-inch framework.

But that stinking mirror doesn’t lie.

Every time I walk by, it shouts out,

Hey. Chub. When are you going to lose

those fifteen pounds of ugly-ass flab?

Do you want to stay size four forever?

Between dance and cheer, I get plenty

of exercise, so I know my real enemy

is food. But calories won’t conquer

me. They are one thing I can control.

And Just Maybe

If I can control them, make myself

thin as I need to be, the rest of my life

will turn right again. Maybe, if I can make

Daddy proud enough, he’ll come see me cheer

or watch me vie for Miss Teen Nevada.

Maybe, if I can make Mom really look

at me, she’ll have something to think

about besides Patrick. Maybe, when

I’m a size two, a talent scout will

take an interest in me. And maybe,

when Conner gets out, he’ll decide

I’m the one he wants, after all. Maybe.

So I’ll count every calorie. Train even harder.

Fight for buff. And maybe I’ll ask Sean

about that steroid I read about—

the weight loss phenom of the stars.

Sean Terrence O’Connell

Buff

Don’t like that word.

Not tough enough to describe

a weight-sculpted body.

“Built”

is better. Like a builder

frames a house,

constructing its skeleton

two-by-four

by

two-by-four, a real

athlete shapes himself

muscle group by muscle

group, ignoring the

pain.

Focused completely on

the gain. It can’t happen

overnight. It takes hours

every single day

and

no one can force you to

do it. Becoming the best

takes a shitload of inborn

drive.

Drive

That’s what it takes to reach

the top, and that is where

I’ve set my sights. Second

best means you lose. Period.

I will be the best damn first

baseman
ever
in the league.

My dad was a total baseball

freak (weird, considering

he coached football), and

when I was a kid, he went

on and on about McGwire

being the first-base king.

I grew up wanting to be

first-base royalty. T-ball,

then years of Little League,

gave me the skills I need.

But earning that crown

demands more than skill.

What it requires are arms

like Mark McGwire’s.

I Play Football, Too

Kind of a tribute. (Hey, Dad.

Hope they let you watch

football in heaven!) But, while

I’m an okay safety,

my real talent is at the bat.

I’ll use it to get into Stanford.

The school’s got a great

program. But even if

it didn’t, it would be

at the top of my university

wish list because Cara will

go there, I’m sure. She says

it isn’t a lock, but that’s bull.

Her parents are both alumni,

and her father has plenty of

pull. Money. And connections.

Uncle Jeff has connections too,

and there will be Stanford

scouts at some random (or

maybe not so) game. I have

to play brilliantly every time.

Our first game is in three weeks.

Snow or no snow, we have to

practice. And on a day like

today, no school and all snow,

I’m grateful for the weight

room Uncle Jeff put together here

at home. His home. My home

since Dad died, and my kid

brother, Wade’s, home too. Our

big brother, Chad, lives in Reno.

No slick roads to brave, just

steep stairs, I grab my iPod, head

first to the kitchen for a power

bar and amino drink, plus a

handy-dandy anabolic booster.

Over-the-counter for now,

just in case our preseason

pee test includes a steroid

screen. Gotta play it smart

or end up busted, à la McGwire.

All Pumped Up

And ready to lift, I’m on

my way to our makeshift

gym when the doorbell

rings. Who the hell would