“Let’s, like, bond with the rest of the cast,” Bridget said as she whisked Pepe away.
Marcus and I were alone. Alone surrounded by a hundred screaming, scamming, shot-slamming buffoons. Our peers. The walls were vibrating. The air was thick with smoke and the airborne form that beer takes on at parties, so it hangs heavy over everyone’s heads.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how Len is doing?”
“How’s Len?” Marcus replied with extra dramatic emphasis.
“Len is fine.”
“That’s good.”
“I guess.”
Our conversation had already become a parody of itself.
“Nice shirt,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied, sincerely flattered that someone appreciated its awesomeness. “I was about to say the same to you.”
For the Anti-Homecoming, Marcus was wearing another one of his custom white T-shirts. This one said: COMINGHOME. If I’d had an adequate number of beers, I probably would’ve pressed my fingertip to one of the letters, to feel the soft fake-velvety texture.
“Thanks. I ironed it myself,” he replied.
The image of Marcus toiling over an ironing board was too domestic for me to handle.
“I happen to be very crafty,” he said, laughing along with me, knowing exactly what I had thought was so funny.
I glanced at the plastic cup in his hand. The liquid was dark and bubbly.
“That better not have any alcohol in it,” I said disapprovingly.
What was I doing? Why was I saying this to him?
“Do you want a taste?”
Why is it that everything that comes out of that boy’s mouth sounds like a come-on? Because it is?! No! I still can’t believe it. The Game Master was just messing with me.
“Sure.” I took his cup, put it to my lips, and let the liquid wash over my tongue. Mmmm. Plain Coca-Cola. No Jack. No Bacardi.
“Aren’t you tempted?”
“I’m tempted all the time by lots of things,” he replied. “But alcohol and drugs aren’t among them.”
I was about to ask what tempts him, when Len broke in.
“Hey, Jess. Um. Flu, Sara wants us on soon. It’s almost. Um. Time.”
“Cool,” Marcus said, handing me his cup as Len headed toward the Game Room. “You can finish this for me.”
“Uh, okay.”
“Oh, and don’t worry,” he said when Len was out of earshot. “I didn’t slip you a roofie so Len can have his way with you later.” Then he grinned.
He is maddening.
Sara stumbled on the stage, her tube top slipping so dangerously low that it was almost a belt. Her lipstick was smeared from nose to chin, a sure sign that P. J.—or someone else—had discovered the only surefire way to shut her up.
Sara shouted into the mike so loudly that when her words were amplified by the sound system, they (with the exception of the occasional “Omigod!”) came out totally garbled and unintelligible, or so I thought. When she paused, the crowd cheered, as if they understood.
Pepe had miraculously found me again in the crowd. Knowing how good he is with languages, I consulted him for a translation.
“She said that if the band totally sucks, it’s—omigod!—totally not her fault and that the audience should totally throw things at them if they totally want to.”
Leave it to Sara to promote civil disobedience at her own party.
Then Sara screamed something else, the band took the stage, and the audience roared.
Len stepped up to the mic. I remember thinking that standing in front of the mic, guitar strapped over his shoulder, in a Nirvana Bleach T-shirt, Len looked really hot. I also remember thinking that I would forget about how hot he looked the moment he opened his mouth.
“This is the Anti-Homecoming!” Len said. “We’re Chaos Called Creation!”
No stuttering. No babbling. Remarkable. I was wrong. He still looked hot.
Then the band launched into their first song.
Marcus stayed stage-left, almost completely hidden behind the speaker. I was surprised by this. I thought for sure he’d want to be up front and more conspicuous.
I don’t know if it was Marcus’s addition to the band, the extra rehearsal time, the clear skin, or what, but Len was a smoother, more confident front man for Chaos Called Creation than he ever was for the Len Levy Four. He looked and sounded less tortured. And the band sounded great in that loose, loud, guitar-heavy way. It was too punk for dancing, too pop for moshing. Perfect for hopping and head-bopping. I’d say they were kind of like the Clash, though everyone else would probably compare them to the Strokes. I prefer eighties synth pop, but I was obviously in the minority. When they finished their first number, the audience went apeshit. Sara grabbed me from behind by my shoulders and shook me violently, both with her hands and her voice.
“Omigod! They totally don’t suck! Omigod! I can’t believe it!”
Even Manda was impressed. “They rock!”
“I scored the winning touchdown in today’s game,” slurred Scotty, dejectedly. He had gotten very drunk and disheveled since I last saw him. He had ditched the jacket and was wearing the tie around his head like a kung fu master.
“And their songs are all about how women are the superior sex,” continued Manda, ignoring her boyfriend.
“Really?” I hadn’t been able to understand any of the words.
“Yes! I am so impressed!”
She wasn’t the only one. There was a lot of commotion after the band finished. Chaos Called Creation was swarmed by fourteen-year-old Hoochie Babies who were wearing more body glitter per inch than actual clothing. It was gross. Just gross. You know what? Seeing those little girlies push up on Len made me want him for myself. He was my geek cute guy, not their guitar god. And if he wasn’t brave enough to make a move, then goddamn it, I was going to do it for him.
I stole Pepe’s beer and pounded it. Then I snatched Bridget’s cup and did the same. All in less than sixty seconds.
I know, I know. Liquid courage backfires because when you wake up with a hangover, you’re back to your same old self, and your problems are still there, only now you’ve got to deal with them with a debilitating jackhammer headache blahdiddyblahblahblah. Sometimes knowing something is bad for you isn’t enough to stop you from doing it. This was one of those cases. Besides, I wasn’t drinking to obliterate, just to loosen up. I didn’t want another puke-on-the-shoes scenario.
It worked fairly well. When Len and Marcus finally approached us, I grabbed Len by the arm and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
When we got in the car, I remember thinking that we were alone for the first time since we arrived. I was about to tell him how much I liked him when Len cleared his throat.
“Look, Jessica. I like you.”
“I was about to tell you the same thing.”
“Um. Yes.” He barked out a cough, to get himself back on track. “I’m so happy that you like me back and I’m flattered and quite frankly flabbergasted that you wanted to lose your virginity to me tonight and were nice enough to let me know your intentions by forwarding me the Pinevile Low e-mail, but I wished you had felt comfortable enough to discuss it with me directly . . .”
I wasn’t getting it. And it wasn’t the alcohol that slowed my synapses, no. It was the shock value of what he was saying.
WHAT TYPE-A BRAINIAC HAS VOWED TO FINALLY HAVE SEX FOR THE FIRST TIME ON HOMECOMING NIGHT?
I assumed it was Len. And Len had assumed it was me. HAHAHA-HAHAHAHAHA. I defy you to tell me that’s not the funniest Three’s Company–style high jinks and shenanigans you’ve ever heard in your life. But he was too busy babbling for me to clear things up.
“. . . .which is why I simply can’t go through with it. I have quite strong feelings for you, but I feel I should tell you that I have decided not to have sex before I am married, not because of religious beliefs, but because I cannot afford to jeopardize my future with an unplanned pregnancy or a sexually
transmitted disease. Not that I think you have a sexually transmitted disease, I’m just speaking in the broadest terms. And I know abstinence contradicts everything that I’m supposed to do as a teenage guy, but even if I did believe in sexual relations outside of marriage, I can’t help but think that having sex with you tonight would be wrong when we haven’t so much as kissed yet . . .”
There only seemed to be one logical, rational response to this, Len’s first spontaneous, emotional, and factually inaccurate speech.
I leaned over and kissed him. And he didn’t stop me.
December 1st
Dear Hope,
Today was the start of the second marking period. For seniors, this means the class we’ve been waiting for since fifth grade: Health and Human Sexuality. A whole marking period devoted to penises and vaginas, brought to us by none other than the always-bubbly Brandi, Professional Counselor and Certified Sexpert Extraordinaire. Why they wait until our senior year to “teach” us about sex is beyond me. I mean, the only people in our class who still rely on secondhand sex education are me and, appropriately, Len.
I should be relieved, right? His no-sex stance makes things a lot less complicated. I know for sure that he’s not just being nice to me so he can dick me over. Besides, even if Len were a typical bootyhound, I doubt I’d be in a hurry to hump him. Hearing Brandi gush about the magnificent mons pubis and the delightful vas deferens is all the negative conditioning I need to delay my devirginization by another decade or two. At least.
It’s weird having a boyfriend. Or maybe it’s just weird for me to be a girlfriend. I’m not very good at it. Like, I have to remind myself not to bolt out of class when the bell rings—I’m supposed to grab Len’s hand, then bolt. Or I have to remember to call him before I go to bed, and to pick up the phone when he calls me. I have to remember that I’m supposed to be thinking about Len.
You might be wondering why I bother. Sometimes I wonder, too. Then I remind myself that Len is smart, focused, and driven to go somewhere and do something in life. He has goals beyond Pineville High, and it’s nice to have that in common with someone. His babbling and/or stuttering doesn’t distract me so much from his hotness anymore. He’s not a bad kisser, either.
Most important, I know Len likes me in an uncomplicated, straightforward way. I’m tired of playing with (and being played by) Marcus. Game over.
Forfeitingly yours,
J.
december
the fifth
I finally understand why the whole Marcus thing happened last year. I needed Marcus to lead me to my true love, Len Levy. My elementary-school crush wasn’t just a crush, it was the first chapter of our complicated courtship. Now I just have to Love Him. Right now I’m stuck somewhere between Liking Him Enough and Liking Him a Lot. I didn’t go into this thinking I’d come out as Len’s girlfriend, which is why it is just so meant to be. Really.
Then, the day after the Anti-Homecoming, Len launched into a list of reasons why he’s happy I’m his girlfriend.
I’m smart.
I’m focused.
I’m driven to go somewhere and do something with my life.
I see life beyond Pineville High, unlike most girls.
I have a very attractive figure.
(Yes, this bears a vague resemblance to the list I gave Hope. So I cribbed it. Sue me.)
Never in my life has a member of the opposite sex so thoughtfully and so thoroughly expressed his appreciation for my virtues. I was touched. So much so that I told him to come right over. He said he’d be there in ten minutes. Len does what he says he’ll do—he was on-the-dot punctual. Precisely ten minutes and thirty seconds after I had hung up, we were hooking up.
I’ve realized that all that stuff about seeing Fourth of July fireworks is bullshit, propaganda promoted by the people responsible for Meg Ryan movies and the Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus books. I haven’t seen so much as a lit match.
That doesn’t mean that I don’t like kissing Len, because I do. I’d say on the scale of guys I’ve kissed, he comes way ahead of Scotty, and pulls a squeaker against Cal (though Cal got points taken off by assuming our one and only kiss meant that he could jump my bones right there on the golf course during my sister’s wedding reception). Len’s lips are soft and pleasant. He pays attention to what my mouth, lips, and tongue are doing to him, and responds in kind with an almost technical precision. I’ll bet Len takes the same approach to fooling around as he does to academics. He studies hard, applies himself, and eventually masters the material. It’s a good thing he’s a quick learner. And when it comes down to it, kissing him is more enjoyable than not kissing anyone.
It’s also a good way to get my mind off my Columbia dilemma.
Ever since I saw Paul Parlipiano at the Anti-Homecoming, I can’t get Columbia off my mind. I see a future for me there. Whenever I’ve tried to superimpose Amherst, Piedmont, Swarthmore, or Williams in the visual, it never works. Then again, when I try to picture myself as Len’s girlfriend—which I am—I have trouble doing that, too. My mind’s imaginings obviously have little do to with reality.
the eleventh
This is how Bridget greeted me this morning:
“AAAIIIEEEEEE!!!”
I didn’t even have to look at the magazine to know what had inspired this kamikaze outburst, but I did anyway. Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace was in Harper’s Bazaar, clicked at some fashion designer’s thirtieth birthday party, wearing what appeared to be a red leather Band-Aid.
Wild-child turned writer/actress Cinthia Wallace flaunts her less cerebral assets in Gucci. Filming is about to begin on the celluloid adaptation of her soon-to-be-released novel, Bubblegum Bimbos. Both the book and the movie are inspired by the six months the Princess of the Park Avenue Posse went undercover at a New Jersey high school.
“AAAIIIEEE!” Bridget shrieked again. “I am, like, so sick of seeing that fat, ugly moonface!”
With the release of Bubblegum Bimbos just days away, Hy had been popping up all over newspapers and magazines in full-on promo mode. Bridget’s sanity was tested with each additional photo and caption. She’s pre-ordered a copy of the book, so she’ll be nice and nutty on the fifteenth. Oh, joy. I myself refuse to read it and I’ve warned Bridget not to say one word about it when she does.
I took the magazine out of her hand, rolled it up, and thwacked her over the head.
“Ow! Why did you do that?”
“I’m trying to knock some sense into you!”
“Her people called my people!” she said, repeating the line I’ve heard a bizillion times. “She, like, totally wanted me! Not vice versa!”
“I told you not to audition,” I said. “I warned you.”
But Bridget hadn’t heeded my advice. Nope, she let it all go straight to that bubblegum, bimbocious, blond head of hers.
It all started last June, when Bridget’s agent informed her that she had gotten a call from the agency that represented Cinthia Wallace. After seeing her work in the Hum-V video, Hy had specifically requested that Bridget Milhokovich audition for a very specific role: Gidget Popovich.
“Isn’t that, like, so cool of her?”
“Bridget Milhokovich. Gidget Popovich.” I had paused, hoping it would be easier to get through to her. It wasn’t. “Doesn’t this sound the least bit weird to you?”
“What?”
“She’s asking you to audition for the role of you!”
“She’s not me.”
The scary thing about Bridget’s inability to lie is that it means that she actually believes every idiotic word that comes out of her mouth.
“Describe her, then.”
Bridget instinctively picked her ponytail off her shoulder and started chewing on it, a sure sign of guilt.
“Okay. Like, Gidget is really beautiful on the outside but super-insecure on the inside.”
“And?”
“And, like, her parents are divorced.”
“And?”
“And . . .” She continued gnawing. “Like, she’s got this boyfriend who cheats on her.”
“Oh no, Bridget. Gidget doesn’t sound like you at all.”
She spit out the ponytail. “Okay,” she admitted. “She is kinda, like, inspired by me.”
“Inspired? She is you! Don’t you think that’s messed up?”
“Why should I? Like, Hy is playing the role of debutante-turned-reporter Rose Karenna Williams.”
That’s when I started to lose it. “Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace is portraying Rose Karenna Williams?”
Bridget continued, unfazed. “My agent said it’s, like, the next step of this whole reality-entertainment trend. It’s all about getting the real-life people who, like, inspired the characters to play the characters in the movie.”
I let this comment dangle in the air for a moment before cutting it loose.
“If that’s true, why hasn’t anyone called Sara to play the role of Tara, the, uh, gossipmongering rich girl with severe body-image issues? Why haven’t they called Manda for the role of, uh, Panda, a big-boobed feminist who thinks promiscuity is the best way to battle the patriarchy?”
“Actually, the characters are named Kara and Randa,” corrected Bridget, totally missing the point as usual.
“Why haven’t they called me to play the role of my alter ego?”
Bridget looked away.
“What’s her name, by the way?”
“Whose name?”
“My alter ego’s name. There is a character inspired by me, right?”
By then, Bridget must have trimmed an inch off her ponytail, so thorough was her chewing.
“Bridget! I’m going to find out eventually,” I said. “You might as well tell me now.”
Bridget sighed. “There is a character named . . .” She paused. “Jenn Sweet.”
Jess Darling equals Jenn Sweet. My God. That was all I needed to hear. There was no escaping it: Hy had turned my life into a bad low-budget indie flick. Though I’m sure her crafty lawyers advised her to disguise me enough that a defamation of character suit would never hold up in court. (Kind of like the person behind Pinevile Low.) Still, anyone who knows me will know. I’ll know, and that’s one person too many. This is why I refuse to read it. No way will I contribute to her royalties.