Second Helpings (4 page)

Karl Joseph Johnson is a shoulda-been graduate of PHS Class of 1999. He was sent to juvie after the top-notch Pineville police department discovered that he was stealing his neighbors lawn mowers and selling them for crack money. (The giveaway? The Johnsons were the only family in the Bay Gate section of town whose lawn wasnt a weedy, overgrown mess.) But unlike every one of Pinevilles juvenile delin-quents before him, Johnson parlayed his petty criminal status into a full time career when he was rechristened Kayjay, one of the five demi-himbos in the baaaaaad boy band Hum-V.

Because it is doubtful that Hum-V will be remembered in the annals of music history, I will briefly describe their contribution to popular culture here.

Hum-V is what I predict will be the last teenybopper trifle to come off the Orlando assembly line, a group put together in a desperately calculated attempt to cash in on TRLs NSYNCEminem polarization, squeezing every last bit of air out of the barely breathing boy-band genre. Hum-Vs faux-funky jams and toothachey ballads sound as synth-cheesy as their nonthreatening, harmonizing predecessors, but their lyrics are painstakingly incendiary. Hum-V is the first boy band to earn a Parental Advisory Warning label.

Kayjay was the most vocally challenged member, whose only reason for being in the group was because he had red hair and freckles. The evil geniuses behind Hum-V decided they needed Cute Redhead Freckled Juvie Boy to balance out the delicate yet deviant mix (the other four-fifths of which are Cute Baby-Faced Blond Sex Addict Boy, Cute Olive-Skinned Maybe-Italian, Maybe-Latino Junkie Boy, Cute Black Gangbanger Boy, and Cute Chinese-French-Canadian-Cuban-Swedish Multicultural Gay-Bashing Boy).

Last spring, as the five Hum-V hunks poured over hundreds of eight-by-ten glossies to hand-pick the girls who would portray bitches in the video for their straight-to-the-middle single, Bitch (Y U B Trip-pin?), Kayjay instantly recognized the aspiring model Bridge Milhouse as none other than Pineville Highs Bridget Milhokovich, the blond babe who was ranked number one on the Fuckable Freshmen List when he was a senior. Kayjay never got a crack at her before he was bounced out of PHS because Bridget was still with Burke, as he had yet to cheat on her with Manda. So to make his high-school fantasy a reality, Kayjay picked Bridget to portray the bitch who b trippin on him. Their portion of the video plot involved screaming at each other, then kiss-and-making-up in a torrential downpour, all shot in the slo-mo style that signifies heavy emotional stuff in the music video world.

Neither the wrath of his then-girlfriend, Shyla, from the girl group Jillbait nor the fire-hose rain could put out the fire of Kayjays desire. (Hmm that sounds familiar. Oh, no. I think thats a line from the Hum-V Song. Christ.) Kayjay was smitten with Bridge Milhouse and was obsessed with winning her over. Bridget is a sucker for glamour and couldnt resist his offer to be his arm candy for important PR ops like movie premieres, awards shows, and parties thrown by people hed never met. Incredibly, it only took one such outing for Bridget to discover that fame had only expanded the dimensions of Kayjays sphincter.

He was, like, the biggest asshole Id ever gone out with, she reported to a rapt audience at PHS the Monday morning after the big date.

Considering that Bitch (Y U B Trippin?) peaked at number 8 on TRL and barely cracked the Billboard chart, Hum-Vs appearance on the covers of teenybopper bibles continues to baffle me. Apparently, Hum-Vs small but intense fan basethe Hummers, as they call themselvesguarantees that Kayjay enjoys a cushy existence that has little to do with Hum-Vs overall popularity. They are also responsible for the relentless haterade spewed on message boards toward the blond ho from the video who broke poor Kayjays heart months after their one and only and very insignificant date. Bridget has vowed to never, ever date a celebrity (or quasi-celebrity) again.

Unless its, like, James Dean back from the dead, she says.

Well, thats sensible, I say.

Though the relationship tanked, this little credit on her resume has already made Bridget the envy of all the other girls in SPECIALS acting program. Still, I realized that her notoriety had spread beyond the world of wanna-be actress-models when my roommate recognized Bridget right away. My roommate just happens to be Hum-Vs biggest fan, or so she shrieks.

You might have noticed my roommates conspicuous absence from my journal thus far. Every time I picked up this journal to start writing, shed hover over my shoulder and say, Youre writing about me , arent you???

This is just one of many quirks Ive observed about the person with whom Im supposed to share a room for the next three weeks and five days. For the time being, I will stick to irrefutable facts, untainted by my cynical analysis. Weve still got a long haul ahead of us and I dont want to damn her right away with my first, second, and third impressions, as my character analyses are usually for shit. I could very well find out tomorrow that she really is cool, despite surface characteristics that indicate otherwise. If I avoid jumping to conclusions now, I wont have to feel guilty about all the mean things Ill most likely write about her later.

So here are the facts and just the facts:

Name: Mary Call Me Chantalle DePasquale.

Hometown: Huntsdale, which means she is from the wealthiest town in the wealthiest county in the wealthiest state in the wealthiest nation in the world.

Long-Term Goal: Principal dancer with the American Ballet Company.

Short-Term Goal: To share an unspecified intimate moment with each and every one of the Lucky Seven. Ack.

Aesthetic Icon: Its hard to tell. Her body is so teeny that her head looks supersized in comparison, giving her the appearance of a lollipop in a tutu. She makes me (at five-foot-five and 105 boobless, assless pounds) look like a WWF she-male.

Telltale Quote: Call me Chantalle. These were her first words to me. Is Chantalle your middle name? I asked. Call. Me. Chantalle, she replied. Then she ripped Mary DePasquales toe shoe off the door, the only evidence that her birth name was more spinster than Parisian prostitute. This switch is fitting, considering it took her less than twenty-four hours to provide Derek, the vocal music hottie, with a manual release. Unspecified Intimate Moment #1. Ack. The thing that really irks me about Call Me Chantalles name change is that its precisely the kind of summer identity-morphing that I cant get away with. Damn that Bridget!

Potentially Troubling Fact: On the bookshelves above her bed, Call Me Chantalle displays three foot-high Nutcrackers, like the hero from the ballet of the same name, a mere fraction of the extensive collection she keeps in a display case at home. They are all dressed in military garb but carry different weaponsa gun, a sword, a British bobby batonas if they were guarding her virginity. Theyd better be on high alert, because I walked in on her in full-frontal frottage with the saxophone player hottie on Day 5. Unspecified Intimate Moment #1 . Ack.

Positively Troubling Fact: Call Me Chantalle brought a half-dozen bottles of Summers Eve douche, which she keeps in plain view in her closet, not to mention the Summers Eve body wash in her shower caddy, and the travel-size Summers Eve disposable wipes stashed in her backpack. What makes this hygienic hoarding so odd is that she doesnt even try to hide it, which makes me feel like Im wrong for thinking its weird. But it is weird, isnt it? Then again, maybe theres something that Ive been doing in the privacy of my own bedroom my whole life that I think is perfectly normal but is actually illegal in thirty-two states. Call Me Chantalle could observe the way I clip my toenails and think, My God, how can she cut the pinky toenail first, when every sane person knows you finish with the littlest piggie???

I am doing my best to be positive, by celebrating Call Me Chantalles quirks. After all, isnt this the beauty of having a roommate? Getting a glimpse of someone elses private world and discovering that everyone is as big a freak as you are, just in different ways?

I got a postcard today from Hope, whos in London, where she has had a far more interesting assortment of cool characters to observe. Id like to think that shes got the advantage of a fascinating location, but I know that its just the way she is. At first, strangers are struck by her appearancesix feet of luminous, alabaster skin topped by wild, flame-colored curls. But then theyre drawn to her warmth, sensitivity, and good humor. No matter where she ends up at college, Hope will make lasting connections with the chatty girls in her dorm, the brooding guys in her art classes, the awkward sopranos and tenors in her choir, whoever. She could find redeeming qualities in Call Me Chantalle, thats for sure.

Im afraid that Hope will still be as vital to my sanity but I wont be as important to hers, simply because she will have made new friends to fill the void. I dont think shell forget me, but shell move beyond me, because thats the healthy thing to do when your best friend lives a thousand miles away and you can only talk to her once a week, and see her once a year.

Maybe I should try to get used to this now. Maybe I should accept that this journal is the only place thats safe to express whats really going on inside my mixed-up mind. Or maybe I should give others the benefit of the doubt. Maybe, just maybe, I should stop blaming SPECIAL or

Pineville for not serving up my soul mate on a silver platter with caviar on the side. Drop me anywhere on the map and Id quickly prove that location isnt the problemits me .

the seventeenth

My trial run for college is still not going well. My classmates hate me. I should have known SPECIAL would be a haven for Noir Bards, and that they would have no tolerance for a fraud like me.

Pretentious and depressed, a Noir Bard is very big on the fact that he/she is a writer. They write a lot about writing, often rhyming words like verse and hearse . To them, black is always the new black. They spend a lot of time at poetry slams and other literary events, chain-smoking and washing down Paxil with (black) coffee. Their intricate facial hardware and Goth getups are painfully obvious cries for help. Heres a brief archetypal member profile, very much tainted by my cynical analysis. (But thats okay because cynicism is in keeping with the true, blackened spirit of the Noir Bard.)

Name: Rebecca Adams (aka the Female Nosferatu).

Hometown: Cherry Hill, by way of Transylvania.

Long-Term Goal: To be the next Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton. (Read: Suicidal, then dead.)

Short-Term Goal: To creep me out.

Aesthetic Icon: Winona Ryder in Beethjuice .

Telltale Quote: Why is/Any one/Any where? (From her poem Dying All the Time.)

Potentially Troubling Fact: She has fangs. Genuine fangs, not those detachable ones that club kids wear to torment their elders.

Positively Troubling Fact: She bares them whenever Mac calls on me in class.

I admit that there are certain aspects of my personalitymy chronic, low-grade depression, for examplethat would prompt

Pineville High classmates to vouch for my card-carrying status in the Noir Bard camp, despite the lack of funereal tones in my wardrobe. But now that weve shared our work with one another over the past few weeks, it is clear that I am not one of them.

Take todays assignment, for example. We were asked to write a dramatic monologue in which the character talked about a Life-Changing Experience. Proving the theory that writers are a tortured bunch, I was the only student in the writing program who didnt write about being rehabbed, raped, or rejected by a parent in a viciously ambivalent child-custody case. Ive never felt so normal in my entire life. Of course, SPECIAL is the one place on earth where being normal is a liability.

My monologue, told from Hopes perspective about moving to Tennessee, was not very well received. After I read it out loud, Mac made it clear that I am probably the most sunshiney, superficial student hes ever had. This, by the way, is making it much more difficult to have a crush on him, but not impossible.

The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph, Mac said. Thomas Paine.

Uh, okay.

Dig deeper, Jessica. Work harder. Struggle with your writing. It will be worth it.

Uh, how?

Tch. Mac grabbed two handfuls of his curls, right above both ears. Any suggestions ?

Use her departure as a metaphor for mans journey to the grave, urged Loser.

Make the narrator a voice from the grave, suggested the Grim Reaper.

But shes not dead, I argued, not so eager to kill off my best friend for the sake of satisfying this bloodthirsty group.

Do you know anyone whos moved on to the next realm? asked Barbella.

Her brother died of a drug overdose when he was eighteen.

That is the best thing Ive heard out of you since weve been here, said Nosferatu.

Write it from his perspective, said the Lump.

There were nods of approval all around the room.

And Mac said, Tch.

I dont think its fair for me to steal someone elses tragedy for the sake of completing an assignment. This makes it very hard for me to dig deeper and darker. We all know that nothing really bad has ever happened to mejust take a look at my Top Trauma List. Every day, I wait for that doomsday shoe to drop on my head and crush my spirit.

If my classmates have any say in the matter, that shoe will be made by one Dr. Marten.

Until the Doc drops, what can I possibly have to write about? What made the admissions people believe that I belong here? Why didnt I choose cross-country camp instead? Oh, thats right. Because I suck. I broke every school distance record in my sophomore year. The only thing Ive broken since then is my leg. Im still waiting for the day I finally shatter my fathers dreams of NCAA glory.