Second Helpings (13 page)

I got a C on my AP Physics test. Ive never gotten a C in my life.

And running? My race pace is a stroll with just enough bounce to distinguish it from a walk. I havent won a meet all season.

This has brought much grief to my father, but my mom didnt worry until she realized that I wasnt eating. I have never not been able to chow down.

These tragic events have taken a toll on everyone, she said, eyeing my barely touched bowl of Capn Crunch this morning. I think you should talk to a counselor. Its nothing to be ashamed of.

Ha! Our Professional Counselor has been unhinged lately herself. Weve all seen Brandi in the parking lot behind the school, furiously sucking on cigarettes to cope with the onslaught of traumatized students who have sought her infinite wisdom.

Dont think so, Mom.

My mothers brow wrinkled with genuine panic. I hadnt seen her this concerned since my sophomore year, when I told her about my MIA menstrual cycle.

We both sat at the kitchen table in silence for a few minutes. During this time, my mom stared at me while I stared at a fascinating green thread hanging from my place mat. Im telling you, Ive been the walking brain-dead lately.

Finally, my mother said, I think you should visit Gladdie.

She thought that going to Silver Meadows and talking to Gladdie and WWII vets about the 3 HsHitler, Hiroshima, and the Holocaustwould give meguess what? perspective . Quite frankly, I didnt have the energy to argue, so I took her suggestion. As much as I hate to admit it when my mother is right, she was.

At Silver Meadows, I was given the red-carpet treatment.

Look who it is! exclaimed the receptionist, a chubby, fortysome-thing lady named Linda with frosted Farrah Fawcett wings. Its J.D.!

Uh, hi, I said. How did you know ?

Oh! Gladdies told everyone about her brilliant, boy-magnet granddaughter!

I laughed weakly. Boy magnet. Har-dee-har-har.

Just go upstairs and follow the noise, Linda said. Youll find her in the recreation room.

Sure enough, I could hear Gladdies strident voice rising above everyone elses before I was halfway up the staircase.

So I say to the fella, You cant make a burlap purse out of that sows ear!

Riotous, pacemaker-shaking laughter. They didnt seem fazed by current events in the least.

Gladdie was sitting at a card table designed to seat only four people, but was surrounded on all sides by an elderly coterie. Whether they were the same group as the first time, I honestly couldnt tell. Im not ageist or anything, but old people have a tendency to look alike. However, I did notice that Moe, the cats meow, was sitting right next to Gladdie. A deck of cards rested on the table, untouched. The game had been indefinitely postponed.

Gladdie roared when she saw me.

J.D.!

Then, on cue, the whole group exclaimed, Its J.D.! They were so excited to see me, as if I were Bob Hope or Milton Berle or some other ancient entertainer Im not even sure is dead or alive at this point.

Uh, hi.

After a few minutes of grandiose and grossly inaccurate bragging about her granddaughter, Gladdie asked Moe to get her walker.

Well, guys and dolls, I gotta shuffle off to my room for some good old-fashioned girl talk with my granddaughter, here.

Moans of disappointment all around.

Ill be back in time for arts and crafts, dont you worry. Then she clasped Moes hand and gave him a wink. And Ill see you later.

Moe lifted her hand and gave it a gentlemanly kiss.

Was that ? Could that ? Were they FLIRTING? I could barely wait to get to her room to interrogate her about what I had just witnessed.

Grandma! Have you landed the pick of the litter?

She looked at me with uncharacteristic coyness.

Oh my God! You have! You have a a

A boyfriend, J.D., she said. Ive got me a boyfriend.

Gladdie told me all about their courtship. The flirtatious glances over the Yahtzee cup, the long conversations in the dining room over bowls of goulash, the hand-holding during Sunday-afternoon showings of Abbott and Costello . It all sounded very, very sweet, yet very, very distressing. I mean, imagine discovering that your ninety-year-old grandmother has a better shot at getting laid than you do. Not a pretty picture, now, is it?

So! I hear that youve been letting those towel-head lunatics get you down, Gladdie said, relishing the political incorrectness only tolerated in the elderly.

Yes.

She sighed and sat next to me on her sofa, a dusty, rusty-brown velvet job that makes me sneeze if I sit on it too long.

Look, kiddo. We were all quaking in our boots during the Big One. Still, I had faith that our nation, the greatest nation in the world, would pull through and show those bastards what they had coming to them.

But this is a different kind of war, Gladdie.

She didnt even listen, she kept right on going about her contribution to the war effort, how she sold war bonds and worked in the Federal Office for Price Administration, whatever that was, and bartered coupons for nylons and pork chops.

I took comfort in doing without because I knew it was all for the greater good. We all made great sacrifices, none more so than those boys who lost their lives. Tragedy was part of our daily routine. But through it all, I never understood the point of being sad when I could choose to be happy.

Of the incessant jumble of words that have tumbled out of my grandmothers mouth over the last ninety years, I would doubt that any were more perfect, or more profound, than those.

Dont stop doing what you love, she said, tenderly patting my knee. Dont let your future be ruined by a bunch of loony sand monkeys.

And with those words, the wise sage turned back into the mortifying big-mouth Ive known my whole life.

Gladdie obviously lives by the choose to be happy philosophy. She always seems happy, something Ive long attributed to her senility. But maybe she was born that way. While it may be in her blood, its just not easy for me. I think Bethany got all the happy genes.

Im still scared about the future. Actually, Im petrified beyond words, which is why I cant write about it at length. Though Gladdie did help me today. Its small and stupid, but I realized that I cant keep doing what I dont love, starting with cross-country. I dont love competitive running. Never did. Now that my transcript is locked and loaded, why should I still participate in an activity that I hate so much? I should be doing something thats important to me and isnt just providing unnecessary padding for my college applications. The only glitch is that Ive been living for college admissions officers for so long that I dont even know what I like to do anymore. I need to work on that.

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October 1st

Dear Hope,

Pineville High has certainly taken our Presidents advice to heart. Everything here is back to normal. Our Class Character elections perfectly illustrate that point:

Most Athletic: Scotty Glazer

Best Looking: Bridget Milhokovich

Class Flirt: Manda Powers

Class Motormouth: Sara DAbruzzi

And last but not least

Class Brainiac: Me (and Len Levy)

Hmm Sounds familiar, doesnt it? Maybe thats because we won the EXACT SAME TITLES IN THE EIGHTH-GRADE ELECTIONS. Im surprised you didnt still win Class Artist. The only differences between eighth grade and now are that the yearbook staff added new categories and reversed the middle-school rule that allowed only one victory per student. Scotty also walked away with Best Looking and Most Popular, the latter with Manda, of course, whose coupling with King Scott has elevated her social standing at Pineville High to nosebleed level. The Clueless Two got Bestest Buds. I got Most Likely to Succeedagain with Len. The addition of new titles made it possible for even Marcus Flutie to come out a winner. I would love to joke with him about his oxymoronic status as the universally accepted Class Nonconformist. But I cant. Its not that simple, even though I know you think it is.

Anyway, I should be comforted by Pineville Highs resilient unoriginal-ity, but Im not. I dont want things to go back to normal. I want things to be better than back to normal, because normal was never good enough for me.

Predictably yours, J.

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october

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the second

Bridget and I sat in the auditorium, watching Scotty and Manda get rock-star treatment.

Most Popular, up! Best Looking, on deck! yelled Haviland.

The yearbook photographer had recruited a dozen students to gather at the bottom of a ladder that had been spray-painted gold and coated in glitter. The lowly masses gazed up at their idols, who were perched as high as their Most Popular status could take them. As I watched, I started thinking about how this degrading display is at odds with our nations new appreciation of true courage and valor. I was figuring out how I could turn this into my first Seagulls Voice editorial for the year, when Bridget clogged my brain flow with one of her classically sincere questions.

Why doesnt anyone, like, take me seriously?

What do you mean?

Best Looking. She stuck out her tongue. Bleeech.

Jesus Christ.

Bridge, dont make me slap you. Dont be one of those gorgeous girls who longs to be average-looking so she can be taken seriously. Its insulting to the truly average.

Its just that Her voice broke.

What?

Its just that, like, I did a really good job in Spoon River last year, right? And I was good enough to get into SPECIAL.

She was good in last years play; I had to admit that. Her performance surprised me even more than Pepes. Pepes triumphant serious stage debut would have shocked me, as it proved there was much more to him than his legendary reign as the Black Elvis and PHS talent-show champion. But his predictable unpredictability has made it impossible for him to shock me anymore. Anyway, I told Bridget that she was good enough to make people temporarily forget how goddamn blond and gorgeous she is, which is the best compliment to her acting I can think of.

Thank you, Jess, she said, the telltale redness rushing to her face and neck. She paused, and pointed toward Dori Sipowitz, who was in the corner, perfecting her pose with an oversized tragedy mask. I just, like, totally beat her out for the lead in Our Town. And shes still considered Class Drama Queen.

Are you trying to tell me that you wanted to be voted Class Drama Queen?

Well, like, yeah.

Oh, come on, Bridget! Dori is a theater geek, through and through, I said. Theres no way anyone at PHS would see you as one of those tools.

Percy said the same thing at play practice, she said. Pepe was cast as the Narrator in Our Town.

Pepes right. Youre too pretty. Youre too popular. Too many guys want to get into your pants.

Thats the problem, she said softly.

Ill say it again. Jesus Christ.

Best Looking, up! Brainiacs, on deck! yelled Miss Haviland, whos also the yearbook adviser.

We better get up there before Haviland starts ranting about how todays youth doesnt respect time, I said. Dont we see that our collective disregard for punctuality contributes to the unreliable devil-may-care image that undermines our credibility as a generation?

Bridget wasnt listening. She was too busy chowing down on what would normally be her ponytail, but was released from its elastic for the photos.

Stop chewing on your hair, unless the saliva look is what youre going for.

She kept right on gnawing as we made our way to the stage.

Each Class Character photo is taken in front of the same red-and-white PHS logo backdrop, but with different props. For Class Motor-mouth, Sara yammered into a cell phone. For Class Flirt, Manda hung her hooters all over P.J., her prop/male counterpart, while Scotty glared off-camera. For Best Looking, Bridget and Scotty gazed lovingly at them-selves in handheld mirrors. To her credit, Bridget rolled her eyes as she did it.

Honey, this isnt Class Clown, the photographer said. Now, do me a favor and look pretty, like youre supposed to.

Bridget called out to me, See what I mean?

It was quite nauseating.

Len was dutifully waiting for our photo, wearing a T-shirt Id never seen him in before. Underneath a black-and-white pic of Einstein, read GREAT SPIRITS HAVE ALWAYS ENCOUNTERED VIOLENT OPPOSITION FROM MEDIOCRE MINDS.

Cool shirt, I said. It reminded me of something Mac would say. I wondered if hed be disappointed in my decision not to apply to Columbia. Hell never have to know.