Second Helpings (6 page)

He massaged his scalp, waiting for some kind of multisyllabic response that I couldnt give him.

The Noir Bards, as you aptly describe them, are more concerned with the stereotypical, self-loathing trappings of being a writer. But they all lack the one thing that you have: a writers soul.

Jesus Christ. It was like Miss Haviland all over again.

Youre as bad as my English teacher, I said. Im here because I didnt want to go to cross-country camp or work on the boardwalk. Macs eyebrows shot up in doubt. Thats when I remembered that he had read the truth. So I switched gears. Who says I want to be a writer?

He removed his hands from his head. We are what we pretend to be. Kurt Vonnegut.

Whats that supposed to mean?

You already are a writer, he said. All you have to do is be yourself.

Huh. All this time, I thought Mac hated me and my writing. I told him this.

The only thing you lack is life experience. Your life so far has been lived in one of those self-contained, shake-it-up-and-watch-it-snow globes. You owe it to yourself to go explore beyond your picture-perfect suburban surroundings. You owe it to the rest of us to go out into the world and describe what you see and feel from your unique point of view.

Okay. My surroundings are far from picture perfect, but I got the point.

I pushed you because you were better than all the other kids in the class. Youve only got two weeks left here; dont waste it. Dont blow this opportunity by being what everyone else wants you to be. Are you afraid of offending people? Telling them things that they dont want to hear?

Yuh, I said, nodding vigorously.

If you cant annoy somebody, theres little point in writing, he replied. Kingsley Amis.

Im afraid of embarrassing myself, I said. I reveal excruciating things. Things like my illegal lust for my gay writing teacher. The me in my journal is a total moron.

This cracked Mac up.

The ignorant take themselves too seriously. The brilliant know better, and laugh at themselves.

Who said that?

I did, he said, pausing long enough to shine the high beams on my stupidity. In my second novel.

Oh, I said, wincing. Yeah.

Tch.

While Im relieved that Mac doesnt think Im a pervy loser, his praise doesnt change the fact that I dont want to be a writer. Ive already decided to major in psychology. I analyze everyone so much already, I might as well get paid for it.

I was on my way out the door when Mac called out to me.

Oh, one last thing, he said.

Yes?

Who is He Who Shall Remain Nameless?

Muhhh, I replied, stripped of my powers of speech. Again.

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August 1st

Hope,

Now that Ive FINALLY FINALLY FINALLY got my journal back, Ive been looking through it more carefully than usual, for glimpses of genius. Personally, I dont see it.

What I do know is that my journal is a very shabby representation of my SPECIAL experience so far. Ive been here for four weeks, and yet Ive neglected to write about any of the fun stuff Ive done, or the cool people Ive met since Ive been here. No, Id much rather dwell on Ashleigh and Call Me Chantalle, who have taught me a very valuable lesson: Bitches and skanks are everywhere. Theyre at school. Theyre at camp. And theyll surely be in college. I might as well get used to it. But I wont. And that, my friend, is because I am a moron.

Happy entries in my journal do not exist. Or if they do, they end abruptly with scenes and sentences left unfinished because they are too gushy in a way that is disturbing and sick and foreign. Like Fabio. Because of my inability to document any nondepressing developments in my life, the girls with whom Ive spent the bulk of my time here at SPECIAL have gone nameless. Brooke Mars, for example. Ive never mentioned her before, even though she is a very cool person. And I doubt Ill mention her again. I think the reason I didnt bother writing about Brooke is that I know, deep down in my gut, she and all the friends-4-eva that I meet this summer will drop off the edge of the universe once school starts up.

Oh, sure. Ill still be on their lists for forwarded e-mail jokes and whatever, and there will be a few phone calls. But responding to their e-mails with a LOL is about as much effort as Im willing to put into these friendships, which I know are just temporary time-and-place things, anyway. I know that to them, Im just another smart-ass girl, no better or worse than the friends they see every day in the halls of their own high schools. Why make the effort to stay friends with me, someone they would have only known for forty-two days? Especially when were all going to make a new four-year set of friends once we head to college.

I have a hard enough time keeping in touch with youand you were my soul sista numero uno for three and a half years. You know as well as I do how exhausting it can be to have to explain everything after the fact.

You should just be here, watching my life happen in real time, because thats the only chance youll have at really understanding itand even then theres no guarantee. Even with the best intentions, growing apart might just be an inevitable part of growing up. Its no ones fault, so theres nothing to feel guilty about. Its just the way things are.

I know this letter is particularly pessimistic, but I just dont see the point in putting any effort into any more long-distance friendships. Life such as it isalways seems to get in the way.

Pragmatically yours, J.

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august

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the fourth

Ive never been a big fan of New York City. A lot of this has to do with my parents programming me to hate its dirt and crime and crowds and general seediness. When I told them that I needed their permission to attend last nights big literary night at Blood and Ink, they almost didnt sign the consent form. Their arguments ranged from hysterical (Gangs target innocent kids like you for drive-bys!) to simply childish (Giuliani, Schmuliani!). Finally, after much whining on my part, they caved in (Bring Mace!).

Now that Ive returned from the trip, I understand why New York City has become a haven for people who dont feel like they fit anywhere else. Only in New York could I hear the sound that would change my destiny.

Id like a coffee, black.

That voice

And a biscotti.

That voice . Could it be ?

Thank you.

And there, brighter than the wattage of Times Square or the Rockettes bleached smiles, and more spectacular than anything Broadway has ever seen, was none other than the Boy Whose Name I Can Shout Out Loud

PAUL PARL1P1ANO!

I caused such a commotion at the milk and sugar station that I immediately attracted his attention in the most seen-it-all city on earth. But even on the off chance he recognized me, I never expected him to come over to talk to me, which is exactly what happened. So this is how, in a city of a bizillion people, and even more coffee franchises, I found myself standing face-to-face with my crush-to-end-all-crushes.

I know you, Paul Parlipiano said.

I gulped down a chunky mouthful of air.

Jessica Darling, right?

I nodded.

Youre still at Pineville. Youre going to be a senior.

I nodded again and forced a single word out of my throat.

Yes.

What are you doing here?

SPECIAL.

I see.

As soon as he said that, I realized how dorky I must have sounded. He didnt know SPECIAL was an acronym. Duh.

Summer Pre-College Enrichment Curriculum in Artistic Learn-ing. SPECIAL. I got accepted to the writing program.

Great, he said.

It really isnt all that great because I dont really like the people in my class because theyre all very pretentious and suicidal and we all took a trip here today to do a reading at Blood and Ink that theyre all very psyched about but Im not really and our professor who is the writer Samuel MacDougall have you heard of him? No? Well, he let us roam around for a while to take in the sights, sounds, and smells so we could write about them later so I decided to come here to take a break even though it would totally freak my parents out if they knew I was wandering around alone because they hate New York but nothing screams dork louder than traveling in packs

Correction: Nothing screams dork louder than a dork who cant stop babbling.

Thank God Paul Parlipiano pointed to a free table, because the shock of that gesture shut me up. He did it without thinking, as though it was totally natural and normal for me, Jessica Darling, to sit down and have coffee with him, Paul Parlipiano, my former obsessive object of horniness, in the middle of the afternoon, on a totally average day, in this teensy little nothing of a pastry shop in the heart of New York City, New York, USA. If this was happening, didnt it make anything possible? Why couldnt we fall madly in love and get married and have many babies? I dont even like babies. I have a very low tolerance for people who sit in their own defecation. But something about Paul Parlipiano made me want to procreate. He gave me the urge to merge.

I sat down.

Paul Parlipiano paused, looked down at the table, and pursed his pink lips. Then he pulled a single white napkin out of the dispenser, held it by the corner, and brushed away stray sugar crystals and muffin crumbs left behind by the previous customer. Only when the tabletop was cleared of the snacky detritus did he sit down. It was the delicacy of that tidy-up gesture that reminded me of a small but crucial detail that would put the kibosh on our honeymoon: PAUL PARLIPIANO IS A HOMOSEXUAL.

This was easy for me to forget because he looked the same as he always did. He hadnt gayed himself up since coming out: No platinum highlights in his dirty blond curls. No pink triangle pins. No Im HERE. IM QUEER. GET USED TO IT! tattoo.

So how do you like school? I bravely ventured.

I love it! Columbia was the best decision I ever made in my life, he said, running a slender finger around the rim of his mug. I thought thats why you might be here.

I didnt understand what he meant.

I thought you might be checking out colleges.

Oh, uh. No.

Oh, he said, his mouth forming an oval just wide enough to wrap my lips around.

Jessica?

Uh, what? I said, snapping back to G-rated reality. Did you say something?

Where are you headed next year?

Sigh.

When youre a senior in high school, its a given that everyone you come in contact with is going to ask you a variation of the Question within thirty seconds of saying Hey. So youd better have a fast answer. Until today, mine was: Amherst, Piedmont, Swarthmore, or Williams.

Paul Parlipianos face puckered, as though he had just taken a swig out of a milk carton with an expiration date from the first Bush administration.

Whats wrong with those schools? It just so happens that all four of them are among the top twenty most difficult to get into in the world . In fact, its harder to get into these schools than some of the Ivies.

Defensive much, Jess?

His face relaxed slightly, just enough to reply, Theyre fine schools.

Then whats with the face?

Well, its just that theyre all kind of out in the boondocks, he replied. How did you decide that you wanted to be on a campus in the middle of nowhere?

Do you really want me to get into it?

Paul Parlipiano leaned back in his chair and made the steeple gesture with his hands. You know, from the childhood rhyme: Heres the church, heres the steeple, open the door . . .

I took a deep breath.

According to the Princeton Review, there are approximately sixteen hundred accredited institutions of higher learning I can apply to. This is way too many, as having too many options always freaks me out

And thus, for the next half hour, I explained

Jessica Darlings Process of Collegiate Elimination

Step 1: Eliminate any school that is not in the Most Difficult to Get Into category .

Not everyone can get away with such academic snobbery. With my college boards and jacked transcript, I can be as snooty as all get-out.Number of Schools Left: 35 HHHH

Step 2: Eliminate any school in the red in other words, any school located in a state that voted for Bush in the 2000 election . While I am sure that there are smart people in these red(neck?) states (after all, Hope is surviving in one), I cant help but be a Northeastern elitist when 75 percent of schools in the Most Difficult to Get Into category are located in states that did not vote for Bush. (Note: This got a chuckle and a nod of approval from Paul Parlipiano.)Number of Schools Left: 29 HHHH