Second Helpings (21 page)

Im not like them.

But then I get really horny and I know Im just kidding myself.

At least Hope understands what Im going through. Shes the only other virgin I know. I mean, I think she is. Sometimes I worryinsanely, irrationallythat shes done it, too, and just hasnt told me. Shes dated a few guys in Tennessee, but none have been serious enough to warrant a devirginization, she says. And the fling she had with a Parisian last summer didnt go any further than the kind of kissing France is famous for. But if Hope has had sex, shed keep it a secret, not out of shame, but because she knows the news would be a devastating blow to our friendship. It would be one less thing that distinguishes Hope and me as the us against them . Sometimes loyalty requires lies. Think of all the things Ive neglected to tell her over the past two years.

The point is, Ive waited this long, so I might as well just keep on waiting. Waiting for the right person, the right time. When it makes sense to have sex, that is, when the timing is right, and timing is almost everything, I want to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that no one else should be inside me.

This is why I am going to die a virgin.

The right person is not Len, thats for sure, his homecoming deadline be damned. I thought Marcus was right. And I was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I couldnt have been more wrong. I must have been insane. I read that temporary teenage insanity can be attributed to an overproduction of cells in the cerebral cortex, the thinking part of the brain. Our gray matter gets all clogged with new cells and we cant possibly make a rational decision.

My cerebral cortex must have been gridlocked last New Years Eve.

Combine brains gone all gunky with cells with bods jacked up on hormones and its no wonder we drink and drug and screw and get body parts pierced that should be nowhere near a man wielding a gigantic needle.

Oh. By we I mean teenagers. But its really more accurate for me to say they, isnt it?

A joke to get my mind off my nonsexed status.

Q: How do you make a hormone ?

A: Tell her youll wear a suit to the AntiHomecoming Dance .

Har-dee-har-har.

Ack. Im losing it.

Everything but my virginity, that is.

Har-dee-har-har.

the twenty-second

Run! Flee! Before little G-Money, Jr., starts his eighteen-year reign of terror! Oh, Christ! What if its a girl? A baby Bethanyjust like Dr. Evil and Mini Me!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Yes, its true. Bethany and G-Money have made a little monster! Boy or girl, its bad.

Mr. and Mrs. Doczylkowski barely got their coats off before making the announcement.

Were expecting!

I cant describe the deafening screech of joy that came out of my mother.

Dad clasped G-Money on the arm in a manly-man, male-bonding gesture.

Gladdie turned to Moe (whom she had insisted on bringing because hes like family now) and said, I told you Sonnys boys could swim!

I just stood there, dumbfounded. This news was really the last thing I was expecting to hear out of my sisters mouth. Mommy Bethany was a ludicrous concept. Shes too self-absorbed. And lazy. I mean, this is a person who recently got her eyelashes permed so she wouldnt have to endure the tragic inconvenience of curling them manually with a May-belline doohicky.

Bethanys lack of baby lust was one of the very few things we had in common, besides our very compatible eighties CD/DVD collections. I dont have one teensy-weensy bit of a maternal instinct. Maybe this is my bodys way of coping with the fact that I am destined to die a virgin.

I wanted to tell you right away, Bethany said, patting her still-flat stomach. So you wouldnt think I had gotten fat.

I dont know how many times Id heard her declare that her uterus was a baby-free zone for that very reason. As soon as wives pack on the pregnancy fat, their husbands leave them, shed say. Thats not going to happen to me. Her fear of flab would overcome thousands of years of biological programming. Or so Id thought. I couldnt resist bringing this up.

Bethany, I didnt think you wanted to have a baby.

Big mistake. You should have seen the looks of revulsion and loathing. It was as if I had screamed: I HATE BABIES. KILL ALL THE BABIES. ALL BABIES MUST DIE, DIE, DIE!!!!!!!!!

I now know what its like to be O. J. or Taryn Bakershunned. No one talked to me until we sat down to enjoy our Thanksgiving meal, at which point Gladdie got on my case about not visiting her lately. It turns out that my absence at Silver Meadows for the past month was more conspicuous than I had thought.

So why aint ya gracing us with your face lately?

Ive been busy with, uh, tutoring, I said, lamely.

Thats not what Tutti Flutie says, she cawed.

Really? And what does Tutti Flutie say?

He says ya got yourself a boyfriend!

Up to this point, my mother hadnt added much to the Thanksgiving Day conversation other than shouting My babys having a baby! at random intervals that grew more frequent as Chardonnay replaced the blood in her veins. But upon hearing the word boyfriend , she suddenly gave me her full attention.

Jessie! Youve got a boyfriend! Who is it?

I dont have a boyfriend, Mom.

That aint what I heard, said Gladdie.

Me neither, chimed in Moe.

Well, you cant believe everything you hear, I responded. Especially if it comes out of Marcus Fluties mouth.

Im sorry, kiddo! But he said that you and this Len fella were going to the big dance, Gladdie said.

YOU HAVE A DATE TO HOMECOMING? shouted Mom and Bethany simultaneously.

No!

That aint what I heard

Then I had to go on to explain that Len had asked me to homecoming, but it was canceled, so we organized some Anti-Homecoming festivities for tomorrow night instead.

Just imagine the eviscerating shrieks of horror as my mother and Bethany contemplated a world without homecoming.

I dont know about this Len fella, Gladdie said after the wailing had quieted down. But that Tutti Flutie is a firecracker, aint he?

Yes, I agreed. He is.

Too bad Tutti Flutie aint interested in you.

Her words hit me harder than Tyson off his Prozac.

Uh Uh I stammered, much like Len. He, uh, said that?

Oh, yeah, she said. He likes your brain, J.D., but he aint attracted to you, which is just a cryin shame, if you dont mind me sayin so.

No. How could I mind the truth? It was a cryin shame, and my tears almost dripped right into my stuffing. No matter how much it hurt to hear it, this is good news, right? Now I know for sure that Marcus doesnt want me anymore. His intentions with Len are pure.

That Len fella, hes got hot pants for you, Gladdie said with a snicker and a wink of a wrinkly eye.

Then she, Mom, and Bethany launched into a fit of giggles.

Throughout this conversation, G-Money, Moe, and my dad were totally engrossed in their own discussion about Michael Jordans return to the game. Its at times like this that I wish everyone in my family had nads. Myself included.

the twenty-third

The Anti-Homecoming will go down in Pineville High history as one of the all-time biggest, best, and most debaucherous blowouts.

The Anti-Homecoming will go down in my personal history as one of the all-time bizarro nights of my life, from the moment Len picked me up to the second he drove me home, and including all the moments without him in between. Especially those.

Lets fast-forward past my mother and sisters futile attempt at a fashion makeover, when I vetoed all of their superfemme sartorial suggestions in favor of my favorite dark rinse low-riders and a pristine, child-sized T-shirt from the Jacksons 1984 Victory Tour that I scooped up on eBay. Lets just bypass the mortifying prelude, during which Mom, Dad, Bethany, G-Money, Gladdie, and Moe lined themselves up Brady Bunch-style on the staircase to watch me greet my new boyfriend. Lets just skip right over the part where Len and I exchanged awkward pleasantries for the benefit of our viewing audience and headed out the door to the car. Len drives his dads navy blue Saturn, a very dependable vehicle that lacks the personality of, say, a Titanic brown seventies-era Cadillac.

Len started talking.

(Authors note : Pay very close attention. When this entry is finished, youll probably want to refer back to this conversation, as well as my conversation with Len documented on November 17, to make sense of our misunderstanding.)

Jess? I cant do. Um. It, he said as soon as he turned the key in the ignition.

What? You cant perform? I was talking about his show.

Um

You can do it, Len!

Its just a lot of. Um. Pressure.

I know this whole night is kind of riding on how good you are

Len whimpered. I swear to God.

Relax, Len! Youll be great. Youve been practicing a lot, right?

Lens hands shook on the wheel. WHAT?!

Believe me, I said, gently putting my hand on his shoulder, youll be fine.

He whimpered again, like a Doberman that just got its ass kicked by a French poodle.

Len had had the foresight to set up and do a sound check earlier in the afternoon, so all he had to do was chill until go time, a metaphysical impossibility in his torqued-up state. It only got worse when we arrived. Bruisers circular driveway was jammed with cars and kids. This party was well on its way to becoming a legend. Not only was the senior class in near-perfect attendance, but underclassmen and even some graduates had shown up for the sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Everyone was in a particularly festive mood because Pineville had beat Eastland in the annual Thanksgiving gridiron grudge match, 21 to 7.

Omigod! Sara screamed when she saw me and Len. Im so psyched to see you! She planted a yeast-and-hoppy kiss on my cheek. She had obviously beer-blasted her brain cells.

Omigod! Len! Tonights the big night, huh? She elbowed him in the ribs, almost knocking him over.

Urn. I have to get away. Um. Until the show. Sorry. Okay.

And he scurried off with his guitar slung over his shoulder. I dont know where he hoped to get some time alone, as the house was packed. Within five seconds, I spotted Scottylooking very unhappy in his suitand Mandalooking very hobagity in a black jersey backless, almost-frontless, slit-up-to-the-crotch dress. It was so barely there that it seems more accurate to call it a dress concept , rather than an actual dress. Neither of them said anything to me, as they had their mouths full of each others saliva.

However, I knew that this party had reached mythological proportions when I saw that even Taryn Baker was in attendance. Guess who she brought with her?

Hey, Jessica!

Hey, Paul! I was quite proud of how cool I was. So cool that I would acknowledge Taryn, who was hovering silently and sullenly behind his shoulder.

Hey, Taryn. How goes the quadrilaterals? This, in reference to our latest tutoring session.

She shrugged and scanned the room as if she were searching for something specific, like she was on a scavenger hunt and would get ten points for finding Billy Bass the singing fish.

So did you send your application to Columbia yet? he yelled, in between sips of beer.

BEER! Oh, God. I hope that the concept of me and beer doesnt bring back the visual of me puking on his shoes.

Jessica?! he shouted louder, thinking I hadnt heard him. Did you apply to Columbia yet?

Actually

He slapped his palms against his cheeks in shock. Jessica! Im surprised at you!

Uh, what?

Youre letting 9/11 stop you!

I got freaked out!

Thats what they want! His arms were flailing all over the place. He was all riled up, as I imagine he is at his PACO meetings. Dont you see? Fear is the greatest form of oppression. The best way to rise up in protest is to live your life to its fullest!

Taryn whispered something into his ear.

Look, I gotta go now. Remember, its not too late to change your mind. Then he looked me dead in the eyes and said one last time, Columbia.

Columbia. Columbia. Columbia.

New York City. New York City. New York City.

Death! Terror! Fear!

Was that, like, the Paul Parlipiano you were talking to? said Bridget, snapping me out of my hysteria. She and Pepe had been watching the whole thing. I was actually very relieved to see them.

So was it? Pepe asked, handing me a cup of beer.

The same, I replied. I took a long swig and was pleasantly surprised to find that it didnt have the familiar cat piss bouquet that Milwaukees Best is famous for.

What is it? I asked.

MGD, Pepe said.

No Beast? Pretty classy for a Pineville party.

True dat, he replied, and we bumped fists.

Is he, like, still gay? Bridget asked.

Id assume so, I said.