Second Helpings (34 page)

What greater joy can there be than bringing a baby into the world, a little person who loves you unconditionally?

Okay. But kids can be pains in the ass, I said. I mean, Im not even bad and Im a pain in the ass.

Yes, I know, she replied, rubbing her belly. But the benefits far outweigh the troubles.

Maybe my parents would have an easier time seeing things that way if I had been planned.

Anyway, Bridget and I arrived at the bus station with just a few minutes to spare. Bridget warned me that the post-rush-hour weekday bus trips into New York are generally full of Highly Irritating Passengers. Again, she was balls-on.

An Incomplete Catalog of Highly Irritating Passengers on NJ Transit Bus #76

Species:Snotnoses Rugrattus

Distinguishing Characteristics:Under three feet tall. Will cry and shriek if not given candy, or toys, or attention, or whatever it wants.

Too immature to control his or her own bowel movements, yet sophisticated enough to master a Game Boy.

Natural Habitat:Chuck E. Cheese.

Species:Showtunicus Lionkingus

Distinguishing Characteristics:Dressed in fancy clothes, i.e., shiny, artificial fabrics. Will chatter on and on about all the musicals he/she has seen. Often sings songs from said shows, particularly I Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables , which the Showtunicus Lionkingus invariably calls Les Miz. (Note: On return trips, is never seen without a yellow-and-black Playbill.)

Natural Habitat:The sound track section of Borders.

Species:Nasticus Pervertus

Distinguishing Characteristics:Trench coat, greasy hair, and dark sunglasses. Will sit across from the most attractive teenage girls (who happen to be the only attractive travelers) and leer silently. Has the uncanny ability to give one the willies.

Natural Habitat(s):Porn shops and playgrounds.

Bridget and I didnt talk much during the trip because we were all too acutely aware that simply hearing the voices of teenage girls gives Nasticus Pervertus a boner. We couldnt get to the Port Authority and off that bus fast enough.

So you know where youre going, right? Bridget asked.

I know.

Just take the one or the nine straight up to 116th Street, the Columbia University stop.

I know.

Dont get off any sooner.

I sighed. Did you swallow my mom?

Bridget giggled. Remember, Ive got my cell and you can meet me at Union Square if the Snake March, like, sucks.

It wont suck, I assured her.

Famous last words.

I was about to head for the subway when Bridget turned and asked me a question that, quite frankly, startled me.

Like, whatever happened with you and Columbia?

What? How did you?

Last summer, remember? You had your big moment with Paul Par-lipiano at the coffee shop.

Oh, right, 1 said. I had totally forgotten that I had ever told Bridget about Columbia.

So, what happened? Did you end up applying there?

Bridget has never lied to me. Never, ever, ever. So the least I could do was return the favor. Wasnt I going to have to face the truth within the next five to thirty days, anyway?

Yeah, I did, I said. Im still waiting to hear.

Bridget raised an expertly tweezed eyebrow. Your parents are going to, like, kill you.

The truth hurts, doesnt it?

Go get her, I said.

Oh, she said, rubbing her palms together. 1 will.

Throughout the twenty-minute trip uptown, I hoped and wished and prayed that it was the first of countless times Id be taking this ride in the future. I didnt feel the least bit nervous about traveling by myself. I felt like I knew where I was going, even though I had never been to the address Paul Parlipiano had e-mailed me, the one I had printed out and clutched inside my coat pocket like a talisman. I wasnt freaked out by the ride, simply because I was too busy imagining what it would be like if I got into Columbia and Paul Parlipiano became my fabulous gay best friend in New York City, the Will to my Grace. We would go shopping at swanky shops on Fifth Avenue that neither of us could afford! We would squeal with delight and hit the dance floor whenever we heard the intro to Erasures Chains of Love! We would dish about boys we liked and bitch about ones we didnt! We would be more devoted, dependable, and dedicated to each other than any mere boyfriend could ever be!

This fantasy would prove to be even more far-fetched than the one that involved us getting married and having many babies.

PACO HQ was a graduate students apartment. I buzzed the intercom three times before anyone responded.

What? said a very shrill female voice.

Uh Im here for the Snake March.

You sure?

Uh yeah.

She buzzed me up without saying another word.

The door to apartment 3B was open, but I could barely make it inside because there were protest signs on the floor and leaning against the walls blocking the doorway. WE WALK FOR THOSE WHO CANT, said one. WALKING NEVER HURT ANYONE, said another. These slogans were hardly any better than the ones on the lame signs Scotty and Manda held during the unsuccessful Homecoming Walk-Out. However, since I was the novice here, I kept my opinion to myself. One thing was for sure: There seemed to be more signs than people to hold them.

Are those jeans from the Gap? I heard Paul Parlipianos mellifluous voice ask. Not exactly the greeting I was hoping for, but whatever.

I swiveled around, actually convinced that the aesthetics of my new ass transcended sexual preference. Yes, they are!

He heaved an exasperated sigh. Gap is Crap! he said.

On instinct, anyone within earshot instinctively repeated his chant. Gap is Crap!

Then he went on to explain how the Gap relies on sweatshops that break about a bizillion child labor laws.

I didnt know.

Ignorance is no excuse, Jessica, he said.

Uh, okay. Sorry.

Then things were okay for thirty seconds as Paul introduced me to some of the other PACO members: an African-American, buzz-cut, hippie-skirted lesbian named Kendra; an elfishly short, goatee-sporting Hispanic hipster named Hugo; a dreadlocked, Birkenstocked granola white boy named Zach. For people so concerned about human rights, they seemed pretty much uninterested in my very existence.

I fortified myself with a swig of Coke from the bottle in my backpack and was about to volunteer to do something when Paul said, Are you drinking Coca-Cola?

I looked at the label dumbly.

Choke on Coke! he shouted.

Choke on Coke! shouted Kendra, Hugo, Zach, and everyone else.

He went on to explain how Coca-Cola is the most insidious promoter of corporate imperialism. I wasnt used to seeing Paul Parlipiano outside of Pinevilles oppressive environment. The freedom made him very opinionated , to say the least.

Sorry, I replied. I didnt know.

He gently rest his hand on my shoulder with great pity. Ignorance is no excuse, Jessica.

Why not? I asked. How could I know something if I, uh, didnt know it?

Duh. Genius debate, Jess.

Then Paul Parlipiano launched into this whole pedagogical argument about how it is our generational imperative to celebrate the ties that bind our society instead of the differences that divide us, that all the peoples of the world should aspire to live as One in global unity and blahdiddyblahblahblah. It was exactly the line Haviland gave me when she told me my divergent opinions would no longer be needed for The Seagulls Voice .

What do you have to say to that? he said when he was finally finished.

What did I have to say to that? WHAT did I have to say to THAT?

Well

There he stood, Paul Parlipiano, my crush-to-end-all-crushes, the gay man of my dreams, looking down his nose at me like I had an extra chromosome. He was getting off on his cosmopolitan superiority, but hell, I knew where he came from.

I think that kind of thinking promotes conformity.

Paul Parlipianos deep, deep brown eyes bulged out of his perfectly symmetrical skull.

What?!

PACO is all about accepting people of different races, religions, and lifestyles, which is good. But when it comes down to it, youre a bunch of like-minded people who want to talk to other like-minded people.

He just stood there, eyes still half out of his handsome head.

You dont want anything to do with anyone who doesnt share your politically correct point of view. You filter out any opposing thoughts that might undermine your cause, whatever it is.

I felt the whole room glaring at me, but I pressed on.

I mean, you dont even know what youre protesting today, so youre protesting everything!

An icicle dripped from the tip of my nose in the subzero silence.

To single out any injustice for the purposes of our protest would be insulting to all those who suffer in the world, responded a flabbergasted Paul. How can we measure ones oppression versus anothers?

But youre not really taking a stand against anything* .

You are wrong, Paul said, finally regaining his calm.

See? Thats exactly what Im talking about. Im entitled to my opinion.

Not if your opinion is wrong, he said.

Its my opinion , I huffed. By definition it cant be wrong.

Well, it is, he said.

How could this be happening? This was Paul Parlipiano, my former obsessive object of horniness, gay man of my dreams, my crush-to-end-all-crushes.

At that moment, I discovered a fundamental truth about this and all crushes-to-end-all-crushes: Its so much easier to convince yourself youre madly in love with someone when you know nothing about him. Now that Ive seen Paul Parlipiano in his element, and have really gotten to know him, Ive realized that we are truly not meant to be. You think the whole gay thing wouldve tipped me off to that inevitability, huh? No, that just wasnt a big enough deal breaker for me. I couldve dealt with his physical revulsion at the sight of my vagina. But what couldnt I deal with? His preachiness. I just dont like people telling me what to do.

Paul, I never thought Id say this, but I dont think you and PACO are for me. Im out of here.

His response threw me off guard. Are you venting your anger about my sister?

Taryn? Why would I have any reason to be mad at her?

He pursed his lips. Well, thats something you need to find out from her, he said, showing me the door.

Okay, fine.

No hard feelings, he said, regaining his impeccable manners. Maybe Ill even see you around here next year.

Yeah, maybe, I said, wondering whether Columbia was such a good idea after all, if this is how people here react to me and vice versa.

I must say, though, that I am disappointed in you, Jessica.

Likewise, Paul. Likewise.

I tried calling Bridgets cell phone, but she didnt pick up. For all I knew, she was still on the subway, so swift was the PACO in-and-outraduction. I figured Id meet her at the bookstore, even though I had no desire to see Hy. Of course, when I got there Hy was in my face and all over the place. Huge pictures of her and blow-ups of that hot-pink book jacket covered all the stores windows. I took a deep, bracing breath before I walked in.

I followed the sound of Hys voice, amplified by a microphone, until I found her. There were about fifty peoplemostly college-age girls lined up, waiting for Hy to sign their copies of Bubblegum Bimbos .

Bridget was not among them.

Hy looked just as non-Jersey as she did back when she was undercover at PHS. Her glossy black hair was spliced with shades of pink (surely to match the cover of her book) and cut in a piecey bob (which looks like bedhead but requires the touch of a celebrity stylist). She wore a peasant top and leather skirt that had a thrift-shop vibe (but were no doubt kustomized-with-a-k, which, I know from reading Bridgets Vogue over her shoulder on the bus, is vintage stuff thats been given a new zipper or a new hemline so the designer can jack up the price a bizillion percent). Her skin was tan and her cheeks were rosy, as though she had just come back from vacation. (Or holiday, as her kind call it. Bali, no doubt. Or some island that isnt even on the map.) Her very white, very perfect teeth provided a stunning backdrop for her shiny hot-pink lips.

Lips that were talking about Jenn Sweet, the cooler-than-Ill-ever-be version of me.

I stood patiently in Science Fiction until Hy had finished signing everyones copies of Bubblegum Bimbos . When the last girl walked away with an autograph, Hy looked up and waved me over. She had a smile on her face, like she was genuinely happy to see me.

Hey, I said.

Hey, girl, she replied, standing up and leaning across the table to hug me. Much to my chagrin, I let her. I always hoped youd show up at one of these things.

Well, uh, yeah.

I. Am. So. Slick.

You checked it, right? she asked.

Uh-huh.

And?

And.

And

And what, Jessica? What?

And I read it expecting to hate you more than ever, I said. But

But? she asked curiously, somewhat surprised that I wasnt going to continue on the hate trip.

But I guess I have to thank you, in a way, I said.

For?

For, well, as uncomfortable as it was for me to read, you kind of showed me who I could bethat is, if I werent such a moron.

What are you talkin about?

Well, how you took a lot of artistic license with the Jenn Sweet character, you know, making her a lot of things I am, only better.

How better?

Better. Cooler. Someone who stands up for what she believes in, yet everyone still likes her, anyway.

He squinted at me, then shook her head in disbelief. Girl, thats how I always saw you.

What?

I always saw you as the girl who had it going on, she said. But you just didnt know it because you were stuck in an area code where your bean aint never gonna get the respect it deserves.

Are you on crack? I asked, in utter disbelief.

Not anymore, she laughed.

How could you say that Jenn Sweet is me?

I can, she said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and tapping it against her hand. Because Im the one who wrote it.

Its unreal, isnt it? How other people see you versus how you see yourself? Ever since I read Hys book, Ive felt inadequate when compared to my cooler alter ego. And here Hy was telling me that I was my alter ego.

I was about to protest, when I thought about what had happened an hour before this conversation. I had told off my crushto-end-all-crushes, my former obsessive object of horniness, the gay man of my dreams. Yet he still seemed to like me, anyway. What more evidence did I need that she was right? Hy was right. I am my alter ego. Im just not used to seeing myself that way. Powerful. Confident. And not a social outcast.

I may feel like a social outcast, but Im not really one. Taryn, now, shes a social outcast. I think Im an outcast inasmuch as I want to be left alone by people I cant stand, which isnt really the same thing as true social ostracization, now is it?

I dare say not.

Why did it take me until my last marking period of high school to figure this out? Because Im me, and Im a moron. Thats why. (You probably had this all sorted out a bizillion pages back.)

We are what we pretend to be, I said, with finality.

Kurt Vonnegut, Hy replied.

Of course you knew it. Thats a pricey private-school education for you.

Speakin of education, where you headed next year?

The Question. How odd that my first face-to-face with Hy in over a year had so quickly become so comfortable as to follow the required conversational patterns for seniors in high school.

Im still waiting to hear, I said. Id rather not jinx it by telling you.

No big, she said. But youre stressin for no reason.

If only she knew. What about you? Harvard?

Maybe, she replied. I dont know if Im down with Cambridge. When youre born and raised in the dopest city in the world, livin anywhere else just aint an option.

Funny, how living in the least dopest city in the world could make me come to the same conclusion.

Hys people soon came over to tell her that she was late for her next appointment.

Im out, she said.

Yeah, me, too, I replied.

Later, she said.

And you know what? I knew that she was right.

Later, Hy, I said. Ill see you around.

When I met up with Bridget back on the bus to Pineville, she was hanging her head in shame.

I bailed, she said. I, like, totally bailed when I saw her.

Its okay, Bridge, I replied.

I couldnt do it, she said. I couldnt go off like I wanted.

Its okay. I couldnt go off on her either for some bizarre reason.

I guess we dont have it in us to be bitches, she sighed with resignation.

You say that like its a bad thing, I replied.

Well, in high school, she concluded, while pensively chewing on her ponytail, being too nice can get you in more trouble than being a bitch.

Again, Bridget spoke the truth.

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April 1st

Dear Hope,

Let me say it again: I AM SO HAPPY FOR YOU! Congratulations on getting into the Rhode Island School of Design. I still wish that you had picked Parsons, but if I get into Columbia, well be eight hundred miles closer than weve been in the past two years! Whoo-hoo!

See whats happened? I wrote if. If I get into Columbia. With every day that goes by, I am less and less certain that Ill get in. Karmic punishment for all my college cockiness.

I am dreading the Williams letter. My final non-Columbia acceptance could come any day now, and Ive run out of stalling tactics. Im no Scheherazade, thats for sure. My parents are still so pissed about Piedmont that they will not tolerate any more ifs, ands, or buts. As their reaction to my recent visit proves, they will never be in a New York state of mind. They are the only people in the tristate area who did not run out and buy I==================================

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Why do I do this to myself? Why do I always want what 1 cant have? And why do I never want what I can get?

Because I, my friend, am a moron. I dont need an Ivy League degree to know that much. Now I must go and celebrate the holiday that is specifically targeted at fools like me.

Masochistically yours, J.

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the twelfth

In homeroom this morning, Sara was showing off the thick envelope she received in the mail from someone who, according to the return address, is named S. Jones. S. Jones had stapled it more than a dozen times, requiring Sara to wrench it open with brute force. This was the desired effect. With one quick pull, Sara told me, the envelope exploded, showering the DAbruzzis plush carpet with glittery, multicolored shrapnel. Sara had been letter-bombed with beach-themed confetti: green palm trees, yellow suns, blue ocean waves. Her living-room couch had taken the harshest hit, and I knew her stepmother would be unamused. No matter how thoroughly the housekeeper vacuums, years from now, long after Saras college days are over, she will still be finding tiny, shiny coconuts or beach umbrellas in the cushions.

But nothing could dampen Saras excitement. Apparently she had gotten over the fact that she hadnt scored high enough on her SATs to attend Rutgers with Manda.

OMIGOD! THIS! IS! SO! COOL!

S. Jones is Sandi Jones, a senior at Harrington College and Saras Freshman Initiation Counselor. Sandi had cleverly turned a favorite picture of herself into a sticker and attached it to the bottom of her greeting letter. She had beauty queen beauty, the kind of perfection found in Miss America pageants back when the swimsuit competition was worth more points than the interview. She had shoulder-length blond hair, no bangs, blown-dry smooth and curled under. She was wearing a silver lame strapless gown and a toothpaste-commercial smile. A disembodied male hand rested on her shoulder.

OMIGOD! SHE! IS! SO! BEAUTIFUL!

In her letter, Sandi revealed that the manly hand was attached to a Sigma Chi brotheras she was designated the fraternitys official sweetheart. This entitled her to a plastic cup of beer fetched at a moments notice. No keg lines for the sweetheart of Sigma Chi. No siree.

The letter itself was a marvel. Each word of the two-page document was written in a different-colored Magic Marker. The pattern: pink, blue, purple, teal, yellow, red, orange. Repeat. This wasnt colored-copied at Kinkos. It was done by hand. Multiply this by, say, ten others in Sandis Freshman Initiation group, and that meant approximately one bizillion Magic Marker switches. I couldnt imagine Sandi getting ink on her soft, paraffin-treated hands. She must have had someone else do it an assembly line of Delta Gammas each designated her own Magic Marker color to trace Sandis faint pencil letters into a rainbow of welcoming. A sorority sweatshop.

OMIGOD! I! WANT! TO! BE! HER!

What Sara didnt realize, but I did, was that Sara and Sandi Jones were already the same person. In fact, I would bet that Harrington College was comprised entirely of Saras. A college full of superficial, moneyed daddys girls who werent smart enough to get into better schools, all of whom would bring out each others worst eating-disordered, stucco-butt fears.