I shrugged sheepishly.
For the next eternity or so, he read. He gasped. He moaned. He winced. Every few seconds, he'd mutter a phrase that I'd hardly remembered living, let alone writing about.
“‘Homemade Bikini Contest.'”
“‘Telekinetic titty-flexing.'”
“‘No cushion for the pushin'.'”
And he laughed. And laughed. Oh, how he laughed at me.
While I slowly died.
He put the pages down. “‘I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking,'” he began. “‘What I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.' Joan Didion.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I think,” he said, tapping his fingers on his desk, “that if you do it well, you give others the opportunity to do the same.”
“Uh . . . Sure.”
“You would benefit from a more disciplined approach to your craft. You should take my advanced creative nonfiction class.”
“But I don't have a writing portfolio!” I protested.
He waved the essay in the air. “This is the only portfolio I need to read, Ms. Darling.”
“But I haven't taken any of the prerequisites.”
“I can see to it that you get in, regardless of prerequisites.”
“But . . .”
“You have the eye of a reporter and the heart of a novelist,” he said. “But you have much to learn, Ms. Darling. I'll make sure that you don't throw away your gifts.”
For someone like Mac to believe so deeply in my potential, well, it nearly made me weep with gratitude. Even now, I don't think he has a clue just how much his words have done for me. Mac instilled hope in me, and not only that I won't end up a tragic waste of potential, but hope in general, which is something I've been sorely lacking for a long, long time. (In more ways than one.)
“What are your thoughts?”
“My thoughts?” I replied, before I even realized what I was saying. “My thoughts create my world.”
Mac sat up in his seat. He scrunched his curls with his hands, perplexed. “Who said that?”
I told him the truth.
“Oh, just someone I used to know,” I said, stroking the naked skin on my middle finger.
* * *
December 15th
Dear Hope,
No, I don't think it's strange that I was the first person you called when you lost your virginity to a person I didn't even know you were dating because we haven't talked or corresponded for almost a year and a half.
Do you think it's strange that the day you called, I was thinking about writing you again? I was thinking about writing you again because I bumped into an old friend who once mistook me for her best friend. Her name was Jane and you never met her and I intentionally never told you about her because I felt like I was cheating on you with her.
Jane and I resembled each other, shared clothes, had similar likes and dislikes, blahblahblah. Our friendship seemed so obvious that I tried to overlook how she was always judging me and trying to make me feel bad about anything she didn't approve of. The biggest one of these things was Marcus, and it was her exhilaration over our breakup that led to the demise of our friendship. This was an ironic turn of events, because I reserved my own opinion about her asshole boyfriend for fear that it would have a similar outcome.
When I saw her today in the elevator, my first reaction was, “Oh my god, this is awkward.” In three years we had somehow managed to avoid each other. But now, on one of my last days on campus, here we were together, trapped in an enclosed space for the interminable time it would take the creaky campus elevator to drop ten stories.
“Did you get back together with Marcus?” she asked.
“No,” I replied.
She smiled. “See? I told you so.”
And I could have let it go. But I didn't.
“Are you still with Jake?”
She frowned. “No,” she said as the door finally opened. “He ended up being a total asshole.”
“I didn't tell you so,” I replied. “But I should have.”
And I quickened my pace before I could get stuck inside the inevitable excruciating pause.
I realize now that our friendship didn't end because of Marcus or Jake. It ended because we weren't very good friends to each other. Period.
After Jane, I got to know a girl named Dexy, who was nothing like Jane or me. She was an exuberant spirit who made everything fun. If anyone, she reminded me of you, only without most of your depth or artistry. I never thought that we would be anything more than hangout, superficial friends. That is, until she had a nervous breakdown and never came back to school. I miss her more than I ever would have expected. But my reunion with you—the one that's happening between us right now with these very words—makes me hopeful that Dexy will return to my life when she's ready.
And then there's Bridget, who has been a part of my life since diapers, and whose positive presence I continually forget to appreciate until she's gone. But she, too, always comes back, and always when I can best benefit from her blond wisdom.
You, Hope, have always been a good friend to me. The best. I'm afraid I can't say the same, though I sincerely believed that removing myself from your life—not writing, not calling—was in your best interest. You've been so content these past three years and I've been . . . a mess. I didn't want to be responsible for fucking with your bliss, especially when it's so hard to come by in this world. Thank you for reminding me of a profound truth about all devoted relationships, be they romantic or platonic: We love each other because of our flaws, not in spite of them. They make us who we are.
I was terrified that I had ignored our friendship to the point of no return. I'm ecstatic to hear that such an end point doesn't exist. I'm glad you're back in my life, though, in truth, you were never really gone. I can't wait to see you and begin our adventure. There's no one else I'd rather sit next to in a car for days and days on end.
Synchronically yours,
J.
* * *
the twentieth
December graduation is nothing if not anticlimactic. What a far cry from my high school graduation, with all its pomp and circumstance and my big salutatorian speech about not wanting to change any of my crappy high school experiences because they all contributed to the content creature standing before them, the one boldly proclaiming that I was happy being me, yes me. Ha. It's easier to think you know it all when you don't know anything at all.
Ah, the beauty of being eighteen.
I have the option to walk in June, but I'll probably skip it. I can't afford the cap and gown anyway. To make up for the lack of ceremony, my friends splurged on a champagne brunch send-off. It was quite touching, actually. A very mixed crowd was in attendance, one that reflected the randomness of my three and a half years at Columbia University. Dexy shocked the hell out of me by showing up in full Catholic schoolgirl regalia, perhaps as a nod to the end of my education (or more likely because it made her look really hot). Tanu, Kazuko, and even ALF were there, representing The Winter of Our Discontents. Pepe and Bridget were there, representing my Pineville roots. Paul and Hy were there, representing people I didn't know cared. Bethany and Marin came, representing blood love. Even Mac came, representing what I hope is my promising future.
I egotistically insisted that no one could be depressed about my departure. We joked about how I'm unemployed a full six months ahead of my classmates. Maybe I'll contact one of Mac's editor friends and beg him for a lower-than-entry-level job that will make my turn at True seem like the literary high life. Maybe I'll throw financial caution to the wind and apply to journalism school, or I'll miraculously develop a sense of empathy for my fellow man and get a PhD in Psychology. Perhaps I'll be more practical and enroll in a correspondence school for gun repair. Whatever I decide to do, Mac assures me that I made the right decision in devoting myself to the study of the mind, instead of the almighty dollar. After all, college life is so short—
even shorter for me—and professional life is sooooo long.
“‘This is not the end, not even the beginning of the end,'” Mac said, raising his glass. “‘But perhaps it is the end of the beginning.'”
I leapt out of my chair. “Churchill!” I bellowed, blowing everyone's hair back. “Winston Churchill! I did it! I got one! I rock!”
I high-fived everyone at the table and they all indulged me by cracking up.
It seemed fitting that this was the first time I'd actually known the original source of one of Mac's quotations, because it was exactly what I needed to hear. Sure, my future is uncertain. But isn't it always? So I figured, Why worry about it right now, when I've got champagne fizzing in my glass and friends at my side?
We spent the morning happily. Hy promised Bridget a private screening of Bubblegum Bimbos to prove that she had done a great service in not casting the ex-actress formerly known as Bridge Milhouse in the meta-role of Gidget Popovich because the movie really, really blew. ALF and Pepe shoulder-thumped over the latest barely-of-age starlet's homemade sex video. Kazuko admired Dexy's outfit—very Goth Loli—and Dexy reciprocated with her admiration of Kazuko's cameo brooch—was it vintage or a convincing copy? Tanu asked Bethany if she would be willing to be interviewed for her thesis, titled, “The ‘Yummy' Effect: How the ‘Hip' Urban Parent Paradigm Defines the Character of a Community.” Paul leaned in, almost forehead to forehead with Mac, and grumbled about the Religious Right's latest efforts to “out” SpongeBob SquarePants. And Marin counted from one to ten en español as taught to her by her part-time nanny—otherwise known as yours truly—for everyone and no one at once.
And I—Jessica Darling!—was the silent heart giving life to these connections.
My optimism didn't fade until I got on the bus to Pineville. After so much social activity, I craved solitude, and on this bus I was never going to be alone. My duffel smacked the shoulders of row after row of aisle-sitters and I had trouble finding two side-by-side empty seats. I planned to sprawl across the first unoccupied spot and feign a narcoleptic sleep attack so no one would sit next to me. But it looked like I wasn't going to find the solitude I sought, so I searched for a passenger so absorbed in a book that any chitchat would be a nuisance. I thought I'd found her in the form of an after-school-with-milk-and-cookies mom midway through a paperback copy of The Five People You Meet in Heaven.
I ungracefully hurled my bags into the overhead and slumped into the orange vinyl seat. I reached into my pocket for my package of tissues, but only found cardboard covered in the plastic Kleenex wrapper. I resigned myself to sniffling for the trip back to New Jersey. I was sleeve-wiping tears and mucus from my face when my neighbor put The Five People . . . down on her lap.
“Are you a student?” she asked in a familiar New Yawk accent. I nodded and tried to remember which bag carried my iPod. She then asked me what school I attended. I inhaled as deeply as I could before answering.
“Oh!” she bubbled. “Great school.”
I was extremely disappointed in her. She wasn't what I expected. Before I could plug myself into iPod isolation, she asked another question.
“So,” she sang. “What year are you?”
“Actually, I just graduated,” I said.
“You did? In December?”
“Yeah,” I said.
Her eyes widened with this revelation. “So that's why you're so teary-eyed.” She unconsciously ran her thumb along the pages she had yet to read. I hunched up my shoulders in a half-hearted shrug.
“Don't be sad,” she said, gently but firmly enough not to go ignored. “The people who really matter, you'll see them again.”
I looked past her profile and out the window. I needed to leave. I was tired of staring at the same concrete.
the twenty-first
Perhaps inspired by Hope's infectious spirit of adventure, I'm making a more concerted effort to bust my ruts, one rut at a time. And so, when Bridget called to say she had some big news, I suggested that we meet not at my house, or hers, or Helga's Diner, but Cool Beanery, a tiny, homey coffee and tea shop in downtown Pineville that I've never patronized because I've got an aversion to suburban java joints that try too hard to be hip and Manhattanlike. And you know, I'll be damned if they didn't serve up a bracingly nutty cup of black coffee. It will be a more than adequate hangout when I'm in town (which I'm sure will be more often than I'd like to admit).
Anyway, the dramatic change in setting was appropriate. Bridget broke her dazzling news before she even sat down or shrugged off her coat, one of those heinous quilted numbers that look more like a sleeping bag than an article of clothing. But not even the ugly coat could dim her glow.
“Percy and I are getting married!” she squealed, stripping off her left-hand glove and shoving a diamond solitaire up my nostril.
And then I initiated what must have been the most girlie-girl display of my life, complete with hop-hugging, cheer-clapping, and teeth-shattering shrieks of joy.
“Not until June 2007,” Bridget giggled, answering my unasked question. “After we both graduate. Can you believe it?”
“I can!” I gushed right back. “But I can't! It's so weird!”
“I know!” she bubbled, still bopping up and down. “I know!”
And then she told me the whole story. How Percy bought tickets for a local high school performance of Our Town. It was a very deliberate choice, as they had been cast in that same play when she was a junior and he was a sophomore in high school, and it was during rehearsals for said production that they had started their “showmance.” When Bridget wasn't looking, he slipped a piece of paper in the playbill, like those often inserted when the understudy is playing the lead role for the evening. Only on this paper, Percy had printed Bridget's headshot, underneath which was typed: And tonight, and for the rest of her life, the role of Mrs. Percy Floyd will be played by Bridget Milhokovich.
And when she read it she was, like, “Huh?” until Percy knelt down in the aisle and presented her with a velvet ring box containing the Floyd family engagement ring, passed down from none other than Grandma Floyd herself for the occasion.
It was a great story. And I could imagine Bridget telling it again and again. For generations and generations to come.
“Look, I know it's, like, eighteen months away, and you're not, like, into marriage and everything but, like . . .”
“What?”
“I would be so honored if you'd be my maid of honor,” she said.
It kind of reminded me of a few years back, when Marin was getting christened and Bethany asked me to be her godmother. I told her I couldn't do it because I was an atheist and it would be totally hypocritical for me to stand up there and pretend that I would raise Marin as a child of God.
But this time I said yes before I let my mind get the better of my heart.
I'm not saying that this news has totally transformed my notion of marriage. It makes no sense for them to get engaged so young, especially when they've got more than a year of school left. It makes no sense at all. But I just am so happy for Bridget and Percy that I want their commitment to make perfect sense. I want to believe in forever and destiny and, most of all, love.
They make me believe in love.
the twenty-fifth
In my younger days, I would have begun this entry with a string of exclamation points. But I'm too old for that sort of thing now.
Unfortunately, now that I'm stripped of this youthful shorthand, I'm finding it impossible to express what I'm feeling.
Oh, fuck it.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
There's only one event that could make me so willing to regress. And that's what happened on this holy holiday:
The one-man phenomenon called Marcus Flutie returned to me.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, when I opened the door.
He was dressed in a wool cap, jeans, a black hand-knit sweater, and his old pea coat. He looke
d, remarkably, like a lot of twentysomething guys. No shirt-jacket-and-tie-goody-goody Honors uniform. No snarky or days-of-the-week T-shirts. No Buddhist pajamas. No gay cowboy chaps. The outfit was refreshing because it signified absolutely nothing.
And as bizarre as it sounds after his two years of absence, the sight of him under my parents' portico, one he'd never before stood beneath, didn't seem strange at all. It felt as if all the times I had opened the door to someone else were the aberrations. This—him—was the norm. He was always supposed to be there.
“Merry Christmas?” he repeated, this time more of a question.
He was beautiful. Glowing from within, a human luminaria on my doorstep. Whatever he's been looking for all these years, he must have found it. Lucky him. But his hands jingle-jangled in his pockets, betraying a nervousness that reminded me of something rather important: I shouldn't be so happy to see him.
“In or out, Jessie!” my dad shouted from the living room.
Was I in? Or was I out?
I sprung open the coat closet, grabbed my parka, and shouted back, “I'm out!”
I could hear my mother asking, “With who?” as I slammed the door behind me.
We walked toward the Caddie, which was parked by the curb. I shook my head in disbelief. Who would have thought this fossil burner would outlast our relationship? I tugged the stubborn door handle, then slipped into the passenger side. The springs under the leather creaked under my weight. Marcus slid behind the wheel, smiling to himself as he turned the key into the ignition. As the engine sputtered to life, and hot air blasted from the dashboard, I realized that I still hadn't said a word to him.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS,” I shouted over the noise from the heater. This made Marcus laugh. His was a genuine laugh, full and deep in the belly, one that sounded exactly as I had remembered. Hearing it made me laugh, too, even though I wasn't sure why.
“I thought you were supposed to stay in the desert until next spring,” I said.