Perfect Girl - Weebly

last pool of syrup with my last forkful of pancakes. She
smiles and waves. I wave back. Frankie isn’t here yet, but I
know she will be. For the first time, the sense of sameness,
of knowing exactly what to expect, doesn’t feel like a tight
turtleneck choking me.
I sense him before I see him. He comes in through the
side door. Which is so like him. Perry, like my aunt Marty,
never does anything the ordinary way. His whole being
resembles a ripe peach. Fuzzy light hair on his upper lip,
pink cheeks.
“Yo, Bayer.” He nods in my direction, stands in the pancake
line, and forklifts a dollar’s worth of pancakes onto his
plate. Jenna Wilson, in her tangerine outfit, makes a beeline
for him.
Mrs. Gould, Perry’s mom, enters through the front,
buying two cups of peach juice on her way to the firehouse
table. She sets Perry’s juice at the far end of the table. Perry
joins her, carrying three plates of pancakes. One for him,
one for his mom, one for Jenna.
My heart breaks a little. Not so much for what is—or
what’s about to be—but for what will have to wait. My heart
aches for the time I’ll look at someone the way Jenna
Wilson now looks at Perry Gould. And the way he looks at
her.
“Ruthie!” Frankie bounds over. “Save me a seat!”
The sizzle of pancakes on the firehouse grill, the squeals
of Odessa’s kids, the sight of Perry’s pink cheeks, Mom’s
185