“If they suck, I’m pulling the plug and putting on some real music.”
“Then you’ll let them play.”
“Yes,” she said. “They can play in my game room.”
Sara’s house has many superfluous rooms. The Game Room, as she puts it, is a miniaturized version of one of her dad’s many arcades. It even has a little stage for karaoke. But for the Anti-Homecoming, it would be the platform for Chaos Called Creation’s debut. The Game Room for the Game Master. How perfect.
“Cool,” I replied. “I’ll let them know.”
Then she ran over to Scotty and Manda, who took a break from probing each other’s uvulas to hear her say, “Omigod! I’m totally saving homecoming. I’m throwing the quote Anti-Homecoming unquote.”
“What the hell is the Anti-Homecoming?” Scotty asked.
Then Sara explained how she thought an alternative event for homecoming needed to be planned and blahdiddyblahblahblah. Manda was psyched.
“The best thing about it is that I can still wear my fuck-me dress!”
Scotty suddenly became very interested in fashion. “Fuck-me dress?” he said, with a raise of his eyebrows and a knowing smirk. “I thought every dress was your fuck-me dress.”
Manda’s face twisted with insult. Only she is allowed to acknowledge her skankiness. That’s what makes her a powerful female, or so her theory goes. She smacked Scotty straight through to the skull with her notebook. “Shut up, you prick.”
I guess that after three months together they aren’t so blinded by sex anymore. Scotty and Manda are starting to see each other for what they really are. The enemy. I can’t wait until they break up.
“And guys can still wear their suits!” Sara said.
“I’m not wearing a fucking suit,” Scotty muttered, almost to himself. “And P.J. won’t want to, either.” P.J. was supposed to be Sara’s date.
“Ooh, honey,” Manda cooed, smoothing down the hair she had mussed up only seconds before. “But you look so hot in a suit.” She lowered her voice, but it was still loud enough to hear. “And you know what happens when you look hot. . . .”
We all know what happens. To think that I helped orchestrate the event that will provide their precoital entertainment tomorrow night. That is, unless they just shed all their inhibitions and have sex at the party, which is really not all that different from the display they put on in the halls every day. Ever since Pinevile Low, Scotty and Manda have been going out of their way to prove to the public that—yes!—he can get it up. It’s really nasty. They get more action during any one of their four-minute trysts between classes than I will get in my entire life. I’m not exaggerating. Seriously. There are a lot of eyewitnesses—teachers and students alike—who will back me up on this.
When I think about sex in the Scotty-and-Manda sense, I’m so relieved that I’m still a virgin. The fact that I haven’t done the nasty things (and with them it is nasty, because it’s them) that they have done and continue to do with shocking regularity gives me a sense of peace.
I’m not like them.
But then I get really horny and I know I’m just kidding myself.
At least Hope understands what I’m going through. She’s the only other virgin I know. I mean, I think she is. Sometimes I worry—insanely, irrationally—that she’s done it, too, and just hasn’t told me. She’s 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 didn’t go any further than the kind of kissing France is famous for. But if Hope has had sex, she’d 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 I’ve neglected to tell her over the past two years.
The point is, I’ve 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, that’s for sure, his homecoming deadline be damned. I thought Marcus was right. And I was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I couldn’t 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 can’t possibly make a rational decision.
My cerebral cortex must have been gridlocked last New Year’s Eve.
Combine brains gone all gunky with cells with bods jacked up on hormones and it’s 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 it’s really more accurate for me to say “they,” isn’t it?
A joke to get my mind off my nonsexed status.
Q: How do you make a hormone?
A: Tell her you’ll wear a suit to the Anti-Homecoming Dance. Har-dee-har-har.
Ack. I’m 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 it’s a girl? A baby Bethany—just like Dr. Evil and Mini Me!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
Yes, it’s true. Bethany and G-Money have made a little monster! Boy or girl, it’s bad.
Mr. and Mrs. Doczylkowski barely got their coats off before making the announcement.
“We’re expecting!”
I can’t 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 “he’s like family now”) and said, “I told you Sonny’s boys could swim!”
I just stood there, dumbfounded. This news was really the last thing I was expecting to hear out of my sister’s mouth. Mommy Bethany was a ludicrous concept. She’s too self-absorbed. And lazy. I mean, this is a person who recently got her eyelashes permed so she wouldn’t have to endure the tragic inconvenience of curling them manually with a Maybelline doohicky.
Bethany’s lack of baby lust was one of the very few things we had in common, besides our very compatible eighties CD/DVD collections. I don’t have one teensy-weensy bit of a maternal instinct. Maybe this is my body’s 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 wouldn’t think I had gotten fat.”
I don’t know how many times I’d 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,” she’d say. “That’s not going to happen to me.” Her fear of flab would overcome thousands of years of biological programming. Or so I’d thought. I couldn’t resist bringing this up.
“Bethany, I didn’t 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 it’s like to be O.J. or Taryn Baker—shunned. 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 ain’t ya gracing us with your face lately?”
“I’ve been busy with, uh, tutoring,” I said, lamely.
“That’s not what Tutti Flutie says,” she cawed.
“Really? And what does T
utti Flutie say?”
“He says ya got yourself a boyfriend!”
Up to this point, my mother hadn’t added much to the Thanksgiving Day conversation other than shouting “My baby’s 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! You’ve got a boyfriend! Who is it?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend, Mom.”
“That ain’t what I heard,” said Gladdie.
“Me neither,” chimed in Moe.
“Well, you can’t believe everything you hear,” I responded. “Especially if it comes out of Marcus Flutie’s mouth.”
“I’m 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 ain’t 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 don’t know about this Len fella,” Gladdie said after the wailing had quieted down. “But that Tutti Flutie is a firecracker, ain’t he?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “He is.”
“Too bad Tutti Flutie ain’t 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 ain’t attracted to you, which is just a cryin’ shame, if you don’t 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 doesn’t want me anymore. His intentions with Len are pure.
“That Len fella, he’s 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 Jordan’s return to the game. It’s 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.
Let’s fast-forward past my mother and sister’s 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. Let’s 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.” Let’s 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 dad’s navy blue Saturn, a very dependable vehicle that lacks the personality of, say, a Titanic brown seventies-era Cadillac.
Len started talking.
(Author’s note: Pay very close attention. When this entry is finished, you’ll 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 can’t do. Um. It,” he said as soon as he turned the key in the ignition.
“What? You can’t perform?” I was talking about his show.
“Um . . .”
“You can do it, Len!”
“It’s 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! You’ll be great. You’ve been practicing a lot, right?”
Len’s hands shook on the wheel. “WHAT?!”
“Believe me,” I said, gently putting my hand on his shoulder, “you’ll 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. Bruiser’s 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. “I’m 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! Tonight’s the big night, huh?” She elbowed him in the ribs, almost knocking him over.
“Um. I have to get away. Um. Until the show. Sorry. Okay.”
And he scurried off with his guitar slung over his shoulder. I don’t know where he hoped to get some time alone, as the house was packed. Within five seconds, I spotted Scotty—looking very unhappy in his suit—and Manda—looking 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 other’s 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 doesn’t bring back the visual of me puking on his shoes.
“Jessica?!” he shouted louder, thinking I hadn’t heard him. “Did you apply to Columbia yet?”
“Actually . . .”
He slapped his palms against his cheeks in shock. “Jessica! I’m surprised at you!”
“Uh, what?”
“You’re letting 9/11 stop you!”
“I got freaked out!”
“That’s 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. “Don’t 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, it’s 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 watchi
ng 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 didn’t have the familiar cat piss bouquet that Milwaukee’s 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.
“I’d assume so,” I said.
“Too bad,” she replied.
“What’s too bad?” another voice asked.
I looked to my left and Marcus was standing next to me.
“It’s too bad that Jessica’s, like, future husband is gay,” Bridget replied.
“Yes, that is unfortunate, isn’t it?” he said, holding my gaze a little longer than necessary.
“Good luck, Marcus,” Bridget said.
“If you get nervous, just imagine everyone in their underwear,” Pepe said. “That’s what I do when I’m onstage.”
“It’s easier to do with some people than with others,” Marcus said, looking right at me.
How did I become a part of yet another conversation about Marcus and underwear?
“True dat,” said Pepe, glancing at me, then zoning in on Bridget.
The truth hit me like a dodgeball to the face: I’d been replaced as his older-woman object of lust. Fortunately, Bridget hadn’t heard any of this banter because she was distracted by Dori Sipowitz and the rest of the theater crowd convening in the corner. Obviously, there’s no hope for Pepe and Bridget. Like me, Bridget enjoys Pepe’s sense of humor and his company, but she will never see him as dating material. I’m going to have to talk him out of it. One friend to another.