Perfect Girl - Weebly

“Let’s jam!” he shouts.
The Greyhound terminal is a block behind the D.C.
train station, which is a gorgeous, enormous, bright-white
building rising up against the powder-blue sky. Perry and I
run for it, unable to keep our feet from flying. The sun feels
warm and wet, like the bathroom after a long shower. Perry
takes my hand, and it feels so natural, it’s as if we were born
with our fingers intertwined.
“Look!” he yelps.
The dome of the Capitol Building is visible in the distance.
I yelp, too. I want to roll in the green grass across
from the station, swing on the branch of a blossoming
cherry tree. I want to kiss Perry Gould and whisper, “You
are my love.”
“I’m starving,” Perry says.
It’s nearly eleven thirty. We have time for a quick lunch.
And, thanks to Aunt Marty, who insisted on giving me a
hundred-dollar bill (“Not a loan,” she said, “but an investment
in my brilliant, beautiful niece.”), I can afford to pay
for it.
“Follow me,” I say, not letting go of Perry’s hand. I’m
prepared. I know exactly where to go.
We circle around to the front of the train station and
walk under a chorus line of huge arches that lead inside. As
I pull Perry through the heavy brass-handled doors, we both
gasp.
“Get out.” Perry tilts his head up. The sky-high, vaulted
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