Part 31 (1/2)

I'm sick of her always getting the stuff she wants. All because of her looks? She hasn't worked hard. All she does is starve herself. And my mom doesn't even care about that. That's messed up. No one notices me. Not even when I got good grades. That was ”expected.” But get bad ones, everyone freaks.

Still trying to be the voice of reason, I dared say, ”You know insurance rates go down when you get good grades. If your parents are paying for your insurance, isn't it fair to expect you to step up and get them?”

Mistake. Why are you taking everyone else's side? It came out a whine. I thought you'd understand.

”Jenna, I do understand. I just think you're standing a little too close to have a clear perspective.”

Bigger mistake. You are just like my dad.

Always saying you love me, but not meaning it enough to prove it.

”Me? Like your dad?” I snorted. ”Yeah, right.

You mean I'm an overt bigot, semi-misogynistic, and an overbearing p.r.i.c.k?”

Biggest Mistake Of All To my complete surprise, she jumped straight to his defense.

I don't even know what half that stuff means.

Okay, that one time you met him, he wasn't very nice. But before Mom left him, he was my daddy. Sometimes he was kind of mean, but never to me. After we moved in with Patrick, that was when he got nasty. I don't know why he decided to take it out on Kendra and me. Not like we told Mom to go.

But he acted like it was our fault. Then, even more to my surprise, she hauled off and started to cry. Which s.h.i.+fted everything back on me, and somehow elicited my apology. ”I'm sorry, sweetheart. Please don't cry. Everything will be all right.” But I'm wondering if it will.

I'm Also Wondering If the reason she can't accept the idea of her dad's wedding is a simple case of jealousy. She wants his love. He's focusing it all on s.h.i.+loh.

Jenna says they're talking about having a baby before too long, too.

I can see why she feels left behind.

Maybe even discarded.

Is that why she refuses to accept my love and return it? Afraid that love doesn't last? Doesn't really exist?

Afraid if her own father can withdraw his love (or at least the manifestation of his love), that maybe she somehow isn't worthy of the emotion?

I've tried so hard to break through her enamel, reach the clay beneath, mold it into a viable relations.h.i.+p.

But a relations.h.i.+p needs more than one person to be involved in it. My own parents are anything but perfect. They hold high expectations for me, and for each other.

But there is nurturing within the boundaries of our family. I don't know if they are in love anymore. But they love each other, and I have no doubt that they love me.

So maybe my lesson here is to learn from my musings and trust that my family's love will sustain my dream.

I'm not quite ready to out myself as a dancer yet. But I have to consider doing it very soon. Because the more I think about Shantell's tirade, the more I realize that while dance hasn't always been my heart, it's starting to feel that way now.

So Today, I Will Tell Jenna I'm taking her to a big jazz festival on the Riverwalk. G.o.d, I hope she likes jazz better than she liked the ballet. At least it's outside, with lots of places to walk and sit beside the Truckee River. The weather is warming, as if it understands that May is approaching. Jenna, of course, dresses for the sun-lathered day in teeny shorts and a tight little T-s.h.i.+rt, which leaks cleavage from a low scoop. For the millionth time, I think how beautiful she really is. Every other guy will think so too. I really wish I didn't have to share her with them all.

At least she seems to have forgiven me for our last time together.

The Riverwalk is crowded, and, locked thigh to thigh, we worm our way through the throng. ”What kind of jazz do you like best?” Please have something positive to say. Is there more than one kind? She smiles at some college-age guys who overtly ogle her scoop. All three are slurping beers. Do you think they'd buy me one? Like she doesn't know the answer.

”I think they'd probably all give you theirs if you keep flirting like that.” Irritation is obvious in my voice.

Really? I'm going to go ask them. As an experiment. Be right back.

And off she goes, without waiting for me to tell her no effing way. I can only watch as she slinks up to them, acting for all the world like she wants to join their pack. One of them turns and looks at me. I shrug, and he smiles.

In under five minutes, she returns, holding two almost-full cups of beer. You were right. G.o.d, you're smart.

Here. One's for you. She offers a beer.

”No, thanks. I'm not much into brew.”

I really don't like an alcohol buzz, something she still hasn't noticed.

But even if I were, I'd want to stay sober.

”You didn't give them your number, did you?” It's a joke. But her answer isn't. No, of course not. But one of them gave me his. ”Just in case,” he said. She gulps down one of the beers in three long pulls.

Good stuff. Okay, now tell me about the different kinds of jazz.

At Least She Remembered The Jazz I lead her to an open spot on the concrete stairs. ”I'll tell you about jazz in a minute,” I say, watching her start on the second beer. Thank G.o.d she's sipping this one. She already looks a little unsteady. ”But first, there's something I've been meaning to tell you for a while now....” She tenses, and her eyes go kind of panicky, and I realize how that might have sounded. ”No, no. It has nothing to do with you.

It's about me, and what I've been doing....”

She slams down half the beer. ”It's all good, Jenna. I just want you to know....” I talk about Liana. About dance.

Dreams. She smiles and nods and when I finish, she says, Cool.

Be right back. I'm gonna hustle more beer.

Cara

Dreams Has it only been weeks since we met? How can such a short span of time connect two people so completely?

Before, I would have sworn new love this deep could only be hallucinatory fantasy, imagination incarnate.

Someone no one else could see to spend your heart-weary nights with.

Then you appear in my life, full-color ill.u.s.tration, ink lifted off pages of my Big Book of Fairy Tales, and into reality.

My Big Book of Fairy Tales Takes up a wide chunk of bookshelf on my bedroom wall. It was the first big book I read on my own. I always had a thirst for words, though Mom was not the one who quenched it.

That was Sandra, our au pair when Conner and I were little.

She was a star in those very dark nights when Mom didn't understand her postpartum mood swings could be regulated chemically. She cut us early from her ap.r.o.n strings. Sandra was our mommy subst.i.tute, and she was very good at her job. When she left to get married, I cried. Next came Sherrie, who went too far with Dad. And after her, Leona, who went way beyond all things proper with Conner, aged twelve.