Page 24 of Perfect Boy

Growing up in a small town in Alabama, I suppose we had to make our own fun. When we were kids, our parents took us to our first rodeo, and Jameson didn’t want to leave. Even after countless injuries—from broken bones to concussions—he won’t walk away. I’m not sure if he ever will. I just hope he has the choice to instead of leaving in an ambulance for good.

And then there’s Carson. From a young age, he became obsessed with drag cars. How they worked, how to make them faster, how to rebuild them. But what he really became consumed with was being behind the wheel of one. Once he got his license, he started street racing on the weekends—without my parents knowing, initially. But then he gained a lot of followers on Instagram and built a YouTube account based around racing, and now, he travels around the country, racing some of the most badass motherfuckers alive.

One being Cam’s sister, Mila, who beat Carson in the finals last week.

Our parents have always wanted us to be whatever the hell we wanted to be. We lost our father to cancer a few years back, and nothing has been the same. And even though we try to be there for our mom, I think we all drown the pain in different forms of adrenaline rushes. For Jameson, on the back of a bull. For Carson, going way too fast down the asphalt. And me? On the ice. My sister though, she’s just an angel who is stronger than all of us.

I don’t think the pain ever subsides when you lose a parent. I guess you just learn to live with it. The grief still catches me from time to time. Reminding me that for as long as I’m on this earth, I’ll never get to talk to my dad again. Or laugh with him. Or give him a hug. He’s just…gone. Life seems short—until you realize some shit like that.

But that’s life. And sometimes, life really is a bitch.

10

Ryann

Ihole myself up in my bedroom and sit on the bed. Scooching myself until my back hits the headboard, I pull my phone out.

Half the time, my mom’s phone isn’t in service. It’s always one of the bills that gets put on the back burner. So, it’s really hard to say if I’ll even be able to get through to my sister. I just have to hope that she has a boyfriend right now who insists she must have a phone number so he can reach her.

When I was growing up, it was confusing how my mom couldn’t pay our electric bill, yet I could attend dance class multiple nights a week. The one good thing that came from being poor was that one of my teachers, Mrs. S, got me into a program that paid for underprivileged kids to do extracurriculars if their family couldn’t afford it. That’s something I find very cool about this fundraiser we’re doing with the hockey team. It’s for a program similar to the one that gave me the opportunity to dance my way through life.

I look at the time; it’s after six at night, so I know Riley is home by now.

“Hello?” Riley’s small voice says into the phone.

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, little turd muffin. Happy birthday to you!” I sing, knowing she’s rolling her eyes but smiling at the same time. “Thirteen years old today! An official teen! Practically a dang adult these days.”

“Thanks,” she says, but her voice is incredibly distant. Like she doesn’t really want to be on the phone with me, which is so unlike my baby sister, who could talk the ears off a snake.

“What’s wrong? It’s your birthday. All is supposed to be great!” I do my best to cheer her up, but I know it’s no use. I get it. Birthdays aren’t the magical days they are for other kids. In the Denver household, it’s just another day. Only with disappointment.

“Nothing,” she mutters. “I just got a letter in the mail; I get to attend a science fair at Braxton University in a few weeks.”

Braxton University is only an hour and a half from our house. It’s a huge university that is actually beautiful. If I hadn’t been so dead set on getting as far away from my home as I could, I probably would have applied there. And avoided breaking the law with my fake-ass visa.

“What? Riley, that’s amazing!” I squeal. “I know how hard those are to get an invite to. Do you know what you’re doing yet for your presentation?”

“I’ve got a few ideas, but nothing’s set in stone.” When she says the words, I can tell she is already feeling a little better. She’s a brainiac. And science is what makes her happiest. “I wish you could come though. Mom says she will, but…I don’t know. Besides, it costs money to get in.”

“I wish I could too,” I whisper, knowing damn well I’m not going to be able to travel to Canada right now. It would be too expensive. And risky as hell to cross the border. I was fortunate enough no one caught my forged visa when I came here. I can’t chance it.

What surprises me is that she said Mom was going. She usually doesn’t even offer.

“Well, since she said she is, maybe Mom really will go.” I attempt to say the words with a smile even though she can’t even see me.

“She has a new boyfriend. I’ve met him twice. He seems nice enough,” she says evenly, like a thirty-year-old. “But you know how that goes with Mom.” She pauses. “But she did get me something for my birthday. And she even took me out for pizza.”

“Wow,” I say, sitting up straighter in bed. “That’s…that’s really good.”

I feel a pang in my chest. I’ve gotten my hopes up in the past that my mom was going to change and start putting her kids first. It always ended in my heart breaking. I don’t want that for my baby sister, but I also can tell she’s happy. I don’t want to be a dark cloud on her birthday.

“Now, there was a package delivered to you. And because the mail lady loves us, she promised she’d put it in a special spot while you were at school.”

“What? Really?” she squeals. “What is it?! Where is it?”

I instruct her on where to look in the entryway of the tiny apartment building, hidden behind a shovel and some other things. The sounds of her footsteps, followed by her moving something I can only assume is the shovel, hit my ear. And when she finds the package and opens it, she screams.

“A phone? Ry? You got me a phone?” She’s crying now, sobbing against the speaker. “Am I dreaming?”

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