Second Helpings (19 page)

the fifteenth

Now that my college applications are out to the original final four, I dont have much else to do to pass the time in school. Theres only so much energy I can funnel toward making sure that Paul Parlipianos silent, sociopath stepsister doesnt flunk her junior year.

I was looking forward to a little Marcus-Len intrigue. Marcus may not want us to really be together, but I dont think it has anything to do with him wanting to be with me. I mean, if Marcus wanted to be with me, I think he would just say something, or do something. Why get Len involved? So I kept waiting for Marcus to do something, anything, when he saw me and Len together. But he did absolutely nothing.

Life around PHS had flat-lined. Boring, boring, boring. I was dying for something to happen to anyone , if not me.

Today I was rewarded with more cranial commotions than one person can deal with. Now I cant think straight. Its not like I need my brain for anything else right now, so its better than being bored.

It all started, as most scandalous things do, with a bitchy bulletin from Sara in homeroom.

Ornigod! So youve found a new way to vent now that youre through with The Seagulls Voice , huh?

What the hell are you talking about?

You know what Im talking about.

I have no idea what youre talking about.

A quote temporarily ectomorphic scandalmonger whose college acceptance will be purchased at no small price by her Mafioso father unquote ?

I laughed. Thats pretty funny, I said. Who said it?

You did.

I wish, I replied. But I didnt.

Omigod! Who else would write something like that? Who else would call Manda a quote pseudo-feminist who has fellated her way into the upper echelons of high-school society unquote ?

I laughed again. Where did you read this?

The e-mail she said, in about as close an approximation of a whisper as she can get, which is still an eardrum banger.

I check my e-mail once every day, at night, to see what Hope has to tell me. The fact that I have no interest in 24/7 two-way communication is another prime example of how I was born about a decade too late. Regardless, there had been nothing out of the ordinary in my in-box lately.

What e-mail? If its hot nude pix of Haviland and Rico Suave getting it on, I dont want to see it.

Sara shushed me. The newsletter, she said. Quote Pinevile Low unquote .

Bruiser, I really have no idea what youre talking about.

She scrutinized my face for eight loud exhalations. A total mouth breather, Sara cant even aspirate without being annoying.

Then why werent you slammed? she asked, finally.

Why wasnt I slammed where !

In Pinevile Low she hissed.

What is Pinevile Low ? I practically screamed, gathering the attention of the rest of homeroom, even Marcus, who rarely looks up from his notebook, which is brimming with lyrics for Chaos Called Creation, something I know via a secondary source. Len.

SHUT UP!!!

Sara looked like she was about to have thirty-six back-to-back heart attacks. After she regained her composure, she said, Im going to drop this until I gather enough evidence to prove it isnt you. I cant take any chances.

At this point, I was still convinced it was something lame, or that Sara was messing with me. Yet that didnt stop me from lingering in my seat long enough after the bell rang to time my exit out the door with Marcus and ask him about it.

Did you know what I was talking about? I asked.

Usually, yes, Marcus replied. But in this case, no.

Then I realized that even in the spirit of making peace with the past, I cant tell when Marcus is being straight with me. So it was a pointless question, really. I decided to ask a more reliable source.

Bridget, I said loudly, getting her attention in the crowded hallway. Whats with Pinevile Low ?

She shushed me even more violently than Sara. You didnt get it?

I dont think so.

Uh-oh.

What?

Listen to me, Jess. Dont say another word about this until you get home and check your e-mail.

So you got the e-mail, too? Why didnt you say something this morning?

Because, like, I cant, she said. I was pretty much spared and I dont want it to get worse. But, like, thats all I can say until later.

What the hell is going on? Is it a conspiracy?

Im serious! Not another word, she replied, teeth gritted into a nervous smile. Go home, check your e-mail, and then well, like, talk. Maybe.

This was getting annoying. My only choice was to turn to the one person who wouldnt be able to withhold information from me, what with my irresistible feminine wiles and all. It might take him six hours to spit it out, but Id get it from him.

Hey, Len, I said. Do the words Pinevile Low mean anything to you?

I had the answer before he even cleared his throat. His blank face told me that he hadnt gotten it, either.

Forget it, I said, before he got his first word out. I was about to turn on my heels and hurry to class when he called after me.

Urn. Jess?

What is it, Len?

The warning bell rang.

Later.

Okay.

The rest of the day was very strange. It was like Sara, Manda, Scotty, and everyone else in our class was making an extra effort to act normal. There was a falseness to all the talk about homecoming and the big Thanksgiving football game. It was like the new reality entertainment trend that Bridget has told me about, in which real people play the

fictional roles they inspired. It was like everyone was cast as themselves, but werent giving very convincing performances.

Rampant paranoia. No one knew just who knew what I didnt know yet.

Reread that last sentence. This is what senior year is doing to me .

The only class that was somewhat normal was French III, and thats because its filled with juniors. Apparently, the only nonsenior student at PHS who knew about Pinevile Low was Pepe. The cool thing about French class is that Pepe and I can talk freely and no one in the class has the skills to translate what were saying. This is one of the greatest advantages of our friendship. Im glad that I waited until sophomore year to take French I as an elective, otherwise I would have never gotten to know him.

Tulasecrit!

(You wrote it!)

Quoi?

(What?)

Pinevile Bas.

(Pinevile Low.)

If nest pas moil Je ne Iai pas ecrit !

(It is not me! I did not write it!)

Eh.

(Eh. I dont think so. I know you really wrote it, you filthy liar you!)

Ou est-e que tu las vu?

(Where did you see it?)

Bridget ma montre .

(Bridget showed me.)

Oh!

(Oh! Why would she show you and not me? Youre my friend! Not hers! Why are you hanging out with her?!)

I must admit, I felt, well, not jealous exactly, but territorial. Id known Pepe for three years now. He was my friend, not hers. Yet she shared the e-mail with him but she wouldnt with me. I bet they even have their own inside jokes. I wondered if thats just how things got when someone who has a crush on you asks you out and you turn him down for no good reason other than the fact that hes not absolutely perfect for you.

But who is, really? Who is perfect !

No one.

I guess I was thinking about that when Len came up to me at my locker after tenth period.

Urn. Jess, can I talk to you? Um. Now?

Sure.

And for the next forty-five minutes, Len proceeded to ask me to next weeks homecoming dance.

I dont need to go into detail, because it was a very underwhelming proposal that dwelled a lot on his apologies for asking me on such short notice, which really hadnt occurred to me at all because homecoming isnt something I waste any time thinking about. I guess the important thing for you to know is that I said yes.

Youre shocked, arent you?

I figured, why the hell not? Ive already done the stay-home-on-homecoming-night thing for the last three years. Why not just go? And I bet Len will look cute in his suit. If the music is loud enough, maybe we wont even have to talk.

When I got home, I checked my e-mail. Sure enough, I had been left out. No e-mail from anyone about anything.

Why didnt I get the e-mail? I mumbled to myself.

My dad happened to be in the office, looking for some wonky techie thingie.

What e-mail? he asked, which were probably the first two non-running-related words hes said to me since I ruined my life by renouncing my status as a Pineville High Seagull.

Oh, some e-mail that everyone got at school that I didnt get, I replied, as unsnotty as possible.

Did you check your bulk-mail folder?

Huh?

Ive put a pretty high junk-mail filter on there, so it might have been funneled into that folder. Then he intelligently exited the room, probably well aware that hed be pushing his luck if he pursued a lengthier conversation with his daughter.

I clicked onto my bulk-mail folder, and there, among the porn site Spam (BARELY LEGAL LESBOS, REAL LIVE NYMPHOS, XXX!!! J. LO!!!XXX) was the message I was looking for. The subject: Pinevile Low. The sender: Blank. The message:

IVE UNCOVERED THE DIRT, THE SHAKY FOUNDATION THAT KEEPS THIS SCHOOL TOGETHER.

Then, ten blind gossip items that were so exquisitely detailed that you knew exactly who they were about but that would probably hold up against defamation-of-character charges in court. Among the most notable (besides the items Sara had mentioned that slammed her and Manda) were the following:

WHAT VIDEO VIXENS HEARTBREAK LEFT HER BELIEVING THAT PINEVILE BOYS ARE BENEATH HER, AND IS NOW RESPONSIBLE FOR A RAMPANT, RAGING BLUE BALLS EPIDEMIC?

Bridget!

WHAT POPULAR, BEST LOOKING, MOST ATHLETIC GUY HAS IMPRESSED COLLEGE RECRUITERS WITH HIS LAYUPS ON THE COURT, BUT CANT GET IT UP FOR HIS SEXUALLY DEMANDING GIRLFRIEND-OF-THE-MOMENT?

SCOTTY!!

WHAT TYPE-A BRAINIAC HAS VOWED TO FINALLY HAVE SEX FOR THE FIRST TIME ON HOMECOMING NIGHT?

LEN!!!

(And indirectly, ME!!!)

Then, the comically ominious, sign-off.

YOU WERE CHOSEN TO RECEIVE THIS E-MAIL FOR A REASON. SHARE THIS WITH ANYONE AND YOULL FIND YOURSELF OUTED, OR YOULL GET IT WORSE THAN YOU DID THIS TIME AROUND. AND THERE WILL BE A NEXT TIME. MY EYES AND EARS ARE EVERYWHERE.

I could almost hear the Vincent Price laugher that comes at the tail end of Michael Jacksons Thriller .

I know this sounds insane, but I was kind of relieved that I wasnt totally overlooked, as it proves that I register a blip on the Pinevile radar. As much as I dont care about those things, I think its human nature to not want to feel totally insignificant. Besides, Ive got nothing to worry about. Theres nothing to out about me. Besides pissing into an empty yogurt container to provide Marcus with a drug-free urine sample sophomore year, Ive done nothing of any scandalous importance. No one knows about the Dannon Incident but Marcus and me, and I doubt anyone would believe him if he decided to narc on me after all this time. The point is, Ill go unscathed for as long as I continue to lead this sad, sexless existence.

And it will be sexless, too. Im not taking what PL said about Len seriously. I mean, he can barely muster the courage to talk to me, and he blew a perfectly good opportunity to kiss me, so I seriously doubt that he has any designs on my bod. It was just someones idea of a joke. I forwarded it to him, though, because I think he deserves to know that someone is talking smack about him. I guess thats the sort of thing that youre supposed to do once you accept someones invitation to a formal. Maybe I should consult Bridget on the etiquette.

the seventeen?

This morning I called Len to talk to him about Pinevile Low . He needed to know that I didnt think any less of him or anything. Plus, I was interested in knowing what he thought about it.

Urn. Okay. Weird. Im surprised you sent it to me. Um.

Well, I thought you had a right to know.

Um. Right.

So dont worry about it, okay?

Im not. Um. Worried.

So were cool, then.

Yeah.

After I got off the phone with Len, I went over Bridgets to discuss who it could be.

You can drop the act, Jess, she replied. You wrote it, didnt you?

Thats exactly what Pepe said! I cried.

I know, she said. Weve already talked about it. We both know you pretty well and, like, we think its you.

Bridget! Its not me! Why does everyone think its me?

Look at the evidence, she replied.

The Evidence

HHHH1. The perp is probably not someone outed in the e-mail. (You werent outed in the e-mail, Bridget said.)