Glass - 02 (35 page)

Of course, I don’t want to give

the impression that it’s all up to me.

Most of the heavy labor is done by

our housekeeper, Gwen. She’s an

imposing woman, not at all the type

that most men would find attractive.

Not even Conner, which is the point.

My twin has a taste for older

women. Before he got himself

locked away, he chased after more

than one. I should have told sooner

about the one he caught, the one

I happened to overhear him with,

having a little afternoon fun.

Okay, I know a psychologist

would say, strictly speaking,

he was prey, not predator.

And, in a way, I can’t really

blame him. Emily is simply

stunning. Conner wasn’t the only

one who used to watch her go

running by our house every

morning. But, hello, she was

his
teacher.
That fact alone

should have been enough warning

that things would not turn out well.

I never would have expected

Conner to attempt the coward’s way

out, though. Some consider suicide

an act of honor. I seriously don’t agree.

But even if it were, you’d have to

get it right. All Conner did was

stain Mom’s new white Berber

carpet. They’re replacing it now.

Kendra Melody Mathieson

Pretty

That’s what I am, I guess.

I mean, people have been telling

me that’s what I am since

I was two. Maybe younger.

Pretty

as a picture. (Who wants

to be a cliché?) Pretty as

an angel. (Can you see them?)

Pretty as a butterfly. (But

isn’t

that really just a glam bug?)

Cliché, invisible, or insectlike,

I grew up knowing I was

pretty and believing everything

good

about me had to do with how

I looked. The mirror was my best

friend. Until it started telling

me I wasn’t really pretty

enough.

Pale Beauty

That’s what my mom calls the gift

she gave me, through genetics.

We are Scandinavian willows,

with vanilla hair and glacier blue

eyes and bone china skin. Two

hours in the sun turns me the color

of ripe watermelon. When I lead

cheers at football games, it is wearing

SPF 60 sunblock. Gross. Basketball

season is better, but I’ll be glad

when it’s over. Between dance lessons

and vocal training and helping out

at the food bank (all grooming for Miss

Teen Nevada), I barely have time for

homework, let alone fun. At least

staying busy mostly keeps my mind

off Conner. I wish I could forget

about him, but that’s not possible.

I tumbled hard for that guy. Gave him

all of me. I thought we had something

special. He even let me see the scared

little boy inside him, the one not many

other people ever catch a glimpse of.

I wonder if he showed that boy to

the ambulance drivers who took him to

the hospital, or to the doctors and nurses

who dug the bullet out of his chest. Sewed

him up. Saved his life. I want to see him, but

Cara says he can’t have visitors. Bet he doesn’t

want them—scared he might look helpless.

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 to Dad.

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.

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

what I want. Nobody seems

to care that with every push

to live up to their expectations,

my own dreams

vaporize.

Don’t Get Me Wrong

I do understand my parents wanting only

the best for me.

Am one hundred percent tuned to the concept

that life is a hell of a lot more enjoyable

fun with a fast-

flowing stream of money carrying you

along. I like driving a pricey car, wearing

clothes that feel

like they want to be next to my skin.

I love not having to be a living, breathing

stereotype because

of my color. Anytime I happen to think

about it, I am grateful to my grandparents

for their vision.

Grateful to my mom for her smarts,

to my father for his bald ambition,

and, yes, greed.

Not to mention unreal intuition.

My Grandfather

Andre Marcus Kane Sr. embraced

the color of his skin,

refused to let it straitjacket

him. He grew up in the urban

California nightmare

called Oakland, with its rutted

asphalt and crumbling cement

and frozen dreams,

all within sight of hillside mansions.

I’d look up at those houses,
he told

me more than once,

and think to myself, no reason why

that can’t be me, living up there.

No reason at all,

except getting sucked down into

the swamp.
Meaning welfare or the drug

trade or even the cliché

idea that sports were the only way out.