Perfect (4 page)

be out on a day like this?

I peek through the peephole.

Duvall, all frosted white.

Guess I should see what

he wants. I crack the door.

“Hey, Bobby. What’s up?”

The pissant pushes past me.

Dude. It’s, like, dumping

out there.
He shakes off

like a dog, dropping snow

to melt on the entrance tile.

“Uh, yeah, I can see that.…”

Fricking dweeb. He just

stands there, and his stupid-

ass grin is pissing me off.

“I was just about to go lift, so…”

Cool, dude. Can I watch?

Been wanting to improve

my technique.
He wants

more than that, but since

he’s not saying what, I don’t

know how to respond

except, “Uh, yeah. I guess

so.” Hope the guy isn’t gay.

I don’t think he is. I mean,

we’ve shared locker rooms

for years. Bobby plays

first-string shortstop

and second-string kicker.

I never noticed him look

funny at the other guys.

But for sure, if I even

think he’s checking

me out, he’ll be one

sorry fucker. My blood

pressure surges. Swells.

My Face Flushes Hot

I move quickly past

Bobby so he doesn’t see

it and think I’m blushing,

or hear my heart drilling

into my chest, into my ears.

It’s the supplements

and their thermogenic

rush through my veins.

But Bobby doesn’t know

that. And he doesn’t need to.

He follows me down

the stairs, humming

some weird-ass song.

“What are you singing?”

And why is he singing it?

Zeppelin, dude. Don’t

you know “Black Dog”?

Hey, hey, Mama, hmmm

hmmm hmmm hmmm hm.

Radical. Robert Plant rocks.

If He Says So

Personally, I prefer metal,

especially the death variety.

I pop my iPod into a docking

station, queue up Kataklysm,

Nile, Six Feet Under.

Turn it up. Loud. Something

about the frantic rhythm

encourages pumping of iron.

Start with lighter dumbbells,

to warm up the muscles before

really working them. I can

do a dozen easy reps while

still conversing, so I nudge

Bobby. “Coach Torrance

taught you this stuff, right?”

Bobby shrugs his narrow

shoulders.
Well, yeah, kind of.

But look at you, and then

look at me. I must be doing

something wrong, you know?

I choose heavier barbells

before letting myself move

to the weight machine.

I love the way my muscles

start to burn. “It’s not just

correct form that makes

it happen, you know. It

takes dedication. Hours

and hours of hard fucking

work. Total commitment.”

Bobby shakes his head.

Takes more than that.

Besides…
He watches

me fight for another rep.

I don’t want to work

that hard. There’s an easier

way.
He waits to see if

I bite. When I don’t, he says,

I was hoping you could help

me out with some ’roids.

I Could Do That

I’ve got an easy source.

I could probably even

make a few bucks on

the deal. But I don’t like

how the guy just assumes

it’s possible, let alone that

I will score them for him.

It’s not like we’re best

friends or anything. If he

gets busted, I’m def going

down right along with him.

“Uh, you know it’s pretty

much a sure bet we’ll get

tested in the next few weeks.

The stuff you can get over

the counter works. Do

you have a GNC gold

card?” Hint. Hint. Huff.

Lift. “That’s what I use,

and with the card it’s not

too pricey.” A hell of

a lot cheaper than

the real deal, but

I don’t add that part.

If he can’t figure that out

all by himself, he’s even

stupider than I thought.

Barbells accomplished,

I move over to the weight

machine, waiting for him

to respond. Just about

the time I think he’s been

struck mute, he says,

Guess you’re right about

the piss test. But after that,

I still want the good shit.

I know you’ve got a line

on them. Get me some,

I’ll make it worth your

trouble. How about it?

Anger Pricks

Like static, sharp and electric

and urging me toward rage.

My biceps and quads already

burn, and now my brain feels

on fire too. And just as I decide

to let myself blow, the door

at the top of the stairs opens.

Sean!
yells Aunt Mo.
Your cell

is ringing. And please turn

down that god-awful music.

I abandon the weight bench,

turn off my iPod. “Come on.”

Bobby heels up the stairs.

(Good dog.) I point toward

the front door. “See ya, dude.”

I locate my now-silent phone.

Check messages. Find a voice

mail from Cara, who wants

to get together. For the first

time today, everything’s bomb.

Andre Marcus Kane III

Bomb

Give most girls a way

to describe me, that’s what

they’d say—that Andre

Marcus Kane the third is

bomb.

I struggle daily to maintain

the pretense. Why must it be

expected—no, demanded—of

me

to surpass my ancestors’

achievements? Why

can’t I just be a regular

seventeen-year-old, trying to

make

sense of life? But my path

has been preordained,

without anyone even asking

me