Jessica is one of the most gifted young women I have ever met. As I’m sure you are aware, there are many gifted high-school students vying for admission to Columbia University. I imagine few who would so greatly benefit from the education your university can provide, both in and out of the classroom. Jessica’s shining intelligence is in danger of being dimmed by lackluster life experience. Having read her most intimate writings, I can vouch that even her deepest observations—though funny, vivid, telling, and true—are appallingly shallow.
Jessica is obsessed with the petty banalities that are the hallmark of high-school life, simply because she hasn’t been exposed to anything else. She needs an eye-popping, high-voltage shock to her system, which she would no doubt get if she could plug into the eclectic electricity of Columbia and New York City. This intellectual and emotional jolt is the life force she needs to make her mark on the world. Without it, I’m afraid she’ll never get beyond suburbia.
As Confucius says, “Real knowledge is to know the extent of one’s ignorance.” The best thing that could happen to Jessica is for her to learn just how much she doesn’t know. And the best place I can think of for such an education is at one of the greatest institutions located in the most indefinable city in the world.
Sincerely,
Samuel MacDougall
So I was right all along. Mac did think I was superficial. Ah, but with potential.
You might think I’d be offended by this. I’m not. Backhanded compliments are definitely the way to my heart. The fact that he was so honest about my intellectual shortcomings it makes his praise all the more believable. He’s right. I am superficial with potential. Is it me, or did Mac make it sound like going to Columbia could turn me into the person I’m supposed to be? Aka Jenn Sweet? Does it make sense to find my “life force” in a place where I’m likely to be murdered live on television? Or am I just being melodramatic? I mean, do the next four years of my life really merit so much deliberation? Will choosing the wrong school really have that much of an impact on the rest of my life? Especially when the odds are 1600 to 1 that I will choose the wrong school?
But what if Columbia is the right one? The “1” of 1600 to 1.
WWJD? What Would Jenn Do? I know damn well what she would do. But—as has been gleefully pointed out by anyone who has cracked the spine of Bubblegum Bimbos—she is not me. I don’t know who the hell I am. I’m definitely not the Jessica Darling I used to be. I mean, who is Jessica Darling if she doesn’t run on the track team and doesn’t write for the school paper anymore? Weren’t those my defining traits? Who am I now without them?
Hope thinks I’m putting too much pressure on myself, because I’ll thrive academically wherever I go. She’s completely overlooking the social variables, but it’s not her fault. It doesn’t matter whether she gets into Parsons or the Rhode Island School of Design (her top two choices) because she can find ways to be happy anywhere. She’s very much like Gladdie in that way.
With all this weighing on my brain, I consulted Len. You know, my boyfriend, the person I’ve been sucking face with on a semi-regular basis, the person I’m supposed to turn to in times of personal crisis.
I told him all about how I visited the Columbia campus last summer and just felt like I belonged there, for reasons I can’t quite explain. How after 9/11 I got freaked out by the idea of going away to a primary terrorist target, and how my parents hate all cities, even before the WTC gave them a legitimate reason, and probably wouldn’t let me go to Columbia even if I get in.
“Yet despite all this,” I said, wrapping up, “I’m thinking that going to any of the other schools I’ve applied to would be a mistake.”
“Um. Well. Of course it is.” No, our boyfriend/girlfriend relationship has done little to relax his verbal skills. He coughed, then cleared his throat. “Of course going to those other schools is a mistake, because Columbia outranks all of them on all of the most important lists— Peterson’s, U.S. News and World Report, Princeton Review, to name a few. And going to an Ivy League school, like Columbia, or in my case, Cornell, will be an invaluable asset when it’s time to enter the job market, as recruiters are always impressed with—”
This is exactly what he said the first time I consulted him.
“I don’t know, Len,” I said, interrupting him. “I’m kind of afraid of New York.”
Marcus tapped me on the shoulder. I was expecting him to admonish me about Gladdie again, but he didn’t.
“Not going to New York won’t protect you from harm,” he said.
“You can die at any time.”
“That’s. Um. Morbid.”
“Not really,” Marcus replied. “The way I see it, if you’re going to die, and you will eventually, you might as well die happy.”
“Is that would Gladdie would say?” I asked. A valid question, considering her “choose to be happy” philosophy.
“Probably,” he said. Then he turned back around in his seat.
So there it is. The argument that convinced me to apply to Columbia. Yet another example of how I’m not good at being a girlfriend.
the thirtieth
I DID IT! I APPLIED TO COLUMBIA!
This application required a lot more effort than all the others combined, since I actually cared about it. I’m so paranoid that I sent an on-line and snail-mail, postmarked, and insured hard-copy version, just in case.
There’s no going back. I did it. Now it’s just up to the admissions office to do their duty. Won’t it be funny—not ha-ha funny but funny like a swift kick in the groin—if after all this Columbia is my destiny talk, I DON’T GET IN? Like, they’ve already filled their quota of white, Anglo-Saxon, Catholic, Merit Scholar, wanna-be psychology majors from New Jersey who are superficial, ah, but with potential.
I e-mailed my homosexual Manhattan mentors to thank them for helping me see the light. Neither has responded, which kind of surprises me. Unless . . . Maybe Paul Parlipiano and Mac already know something I don’t! Maybe they have gaydar of an entirely different sort. The kind that intuits whether someone is Ivy material or not.
Oh, God. I am going to be in full-on freak-out mode until I get accepted. This sucks. Suckity, suck, sucks. Let’s face it. I could have gotten a perfect score on my SATs and I’d still be in a panic about getting accepted to Ocean County Community College if it were my number-one choice. When I really want something, I mean, really, really want something, I just can’t believe that I’ll ever actually get it. I think that’s why I so rarely really, really want something. I try not to address my desires. If I deny, deny, deny, then I have no reason to be disappointed when I don’t get it. Right?
I don’t know how I got this way. I highly doubt Jenn Sweet would react like this.
In other un-Jenn-like behavior, I ended up not telling my parents about the application. It was probably Len’s positive influence that had me even considering it. The other day, when I was taking a TV break from my application, I was given an indisputable sign from MTV to keep my mouth shut: Mom walked into the room while I was watching The Real World .
As you know, the show returned to none other than New York City for its tenth season. As Mom and I were watching, the Real World group was getting smacked at a bar called the West End, which just happens to be located at 114th and Broadway—practically on Columbia’s campus . I couldn’t believe it. My breath caught in my throat as I waited for her response.
“I can’t believe their parents let them do that,” she said.
Too vague. She could’ve been referring to (a) living in New York, (b) appearing on the show, (c) underage drinking, or (d) all of the above.
“Do what?” I asked innocently.
“Leave home to live in the most dangerous city on earth!”
Whammo! We’ve got a winner!
“Mom, the show was taped way before 9/11.”
“Even still,” she said. “I wouldn’t want any child of mine living there. Ever!”
Could you get any more clear
than that? I think not.
Knowing that I’ve just done something that will take decades off my parents’ lives with worry, you’ll excuse me for not getting into the fa-la-la-la-la Yuletide spirit this year. There really isn’t much to tell. The only difference between Christmas 2001 and Christmas 2000 is that I don’t have a visit from Hope to look forward to. And Bethany has already packed on some major fetal flab. Oh, and now Gladdie doesn’t need to ask a bizillion questions about my boyfriend, because she’s already gotten the dirt from you know who.
“Tutti Flutie says you and this Len character are getting serious!”
“He does, does he?”
“Tutti Flutie says that you two make him want to be with someone he loves.”
“Really? He said that?”
“He sure did!” Then she turned to Moe, who was by her side, as always. “From what I hear, Tutti Flutie used to be quite the lady-killer, like you back in the day!” They both slapped their arthritic knees in laughter.
“Then what happened?”
“I got tamed by a tigress,” Moe shouted. Gladdie purred. Oh, Christ.
“No, I mean to Tutti Flutie,” I said.
“He won’t say,” Gladdie said. “If you ask me, I think some dumb girl broke his heart!”
I refuse to take whatever a senile ninety-year-old double-stroke victim says as fact.
“Len is such a smart, cute, and polite boy,” my mom piped up, dulled by Chardonnay and a few steps behind in the conversation.
My mom is right, you know. Len is all those things. He gave me the Best of Morrissey CD, Fast Times at Ridgemont High on DVD, and a yoga mat as nondenominational tokens of his affection. SO PERFECT. I bought him—SO MORTIFYING!—a tie. A very nice, not-too-shiny blue silk tie from Banana Republic, one that he said he’d need for his Cornell interview next week. But Christ, it’s still a tie. I am so girl-friendly inept.
Len’s family celebrates some vague combination of Christmas and Hanukkah, hence, the nondenominational gift-giving. Len’s dad was Jewish. He was a cardiac surgeon who died of a heart attack when he was forty-three years old. If that’s not ironic, I don’t know what is. He died just a few months before Kurt Cobain, and I can’t help but think that Len’s obsession with the latter has something to do with the former. Len doesn’t talk about his dad’s death, just like my family never talks about my dead baby brother, Matthew, and Hope’s family never talks about Heath. I think this is how our parents’ generation would like to deal with everything: deny, deny, deny! I only know what I know because I asked and Len very reluctantly told me.
Anyway, Len’s mom, Sandra, is Catholic. I haven’t met Mrs. Levy yet—too busy perfecting my application—but I will tomorrow night, before we head to Sara’s New Year’s Eve party. Chaos Called Creation was such a hit at the Anti-Homecoming that she asked them back. I’m so lucky to be the girlfriend of a guitar god. Or so the freshman Hoochie Babies tell me. Anyway, Len says his mom is very eager to get to know the girl who is dating her son. Yikes. This freaks me out because it kind of makes this real.
Looking over my entries for the past month, I realize I have not written much about Len. I would love to say it’s because I have no words to describe my birds-are-singing, bells-are-ringing so-in-love delirium. But this would be untrue. In my nondocumentation of my relationship with Len, I have realized that I am unable to write about not only happy moments, as I’ve already pointed out, but any moments that do not fall into the angsty category. Things are going well, I guess. We hang out, make out . . .
The physical aspect of our relationship is progressing at a reasonable rate. Long kisses, vertical. Longer kisses, horizontal. Hands over the bra. Hands and mouth under the bra. Hands over my skivvies. Under . . . Ack.
I’m kind of relieved that’s as far as it will go, if only because I would have no idea how to document my devirginization. I can’t go into detail about stuff like this when it’s about me. I make it sound a lot nastier than it really is. Plus, when I describe it like this, in the most basic terms, it shows just how selfish I am about sex stuff. I’m making Len do most of the work. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m taking advantage of him. Wouldn’t Manda be proud?
Speaking of, my skankiest classmate seems to think that we’re not moving fast enough. On the last day of school before break, after Len and I gently kissed each other good-bye before French (me) and Accounting (him), Manda marched up to me and asked, “Have you guys fucked yet?”
“That’s none of your goddamn business,” I snapped.
“They haven’t fucked yet,” she said matter-of-factly to Sara, who was hovering behind her. Then Manda turned back to me. “You better do it soon. The longer you wait, the bigger a deal it’s going to be. You’re going to regret building it up so much.” Then she sauntered off, her ass shaking with every step.
As much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Manda said. I told Bridget about it later that day.
“Maybe she’s right,” I replied. “Maybe I have built it up too much.”
Bridget gently placed her hand on my shoulder. “When it’s with the right person, it’s, like, totally worth waiting.”
“How would you know? You didn’t hold out on Burke very long and he definitely wasn’t the right person.”
Bridget chewed on her ponytail instead of responding. I guess it was kind of cold to throw her dubious sexual decisions in her face like that.
“Do you think Len is the right person? I mean, if he were willing?” I asked. “Like you said, we’re both cute, smart, uptight virgins.”
“Come on, Jess. Only you can answer that.”
She’s right. But as history shows, my whole concept of love is usually for shit. I don’t know. I like him. I really do, even if I have to stifle the urge to complete all his sentences. My relationship with him is secure. Easy. Reliable. Len doesn’t cause me any angst, which is why I don’t feel the need to write about him. With him, I don’t have to exorcise my demons by scribbling maniacally page after page after page. I won’t be shredding any notebooks devoted to my sick obsession with him anytime in the near future, that’s for sure.
December 31st
Dear Hope,
I’m waiting for Len to pick me up for Sara’s New Year’s party. While I do, I’ll make another futile attempt to better myself.
Six Goals for My Senior Year That I Hope Will Make It Suck
a Teensy Bit Less (2002 Edition)
1. I will not be a college-unbound senior. Now that I’ve completed my application to Columbia, I will not get caught up in the mass hysteria of the college selection process. I mean it. No more Peterson’s paranoia. None.
2. I will try to write, if not happy, then less miserable journal entries. If I’m lucky enough not to be completely pissed about something, Lord knows I should document the rarity for posterity.
3. I will be nicer to Bridget and any other misguided individual who— for reasons I can’t comprehend—pursues a friendship with me despite the inevitable and immutable incompatibility at its core.
4. I will ignore the Clueless Two. This still requires herculean effort, as their adventures are too front-page tabloid to go unnoticed by the anonymous author of Pinevile Low.
5. Now that I’ve read Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace’s so-called Gen-Whatever masterwork, Bubblegum Bimbos and Assembly Line Meatballers , I will try to be more like the me I could be if only I were braver . . . bolder . . . ballsier. Applying to Columbia was a good start, but I need to do more.
6. I will try to appreciate my boyfriend, especially since he is not (a) a homosexual or (b) He Who Couldn’t Remain Nameless.
Dubiously yours,
J.
january
the first
Ow.
Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.
My face hurts.
OWWWWWW.
It’s 4:32 A.M. The light from my clock is like a laser, boring right through my brain.
OWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
&nb
sp; I’m in my own bed. How I got here, I do not know. I’m still wearing my clothes from last night.
Last night . . . ?
Oh, Christ, my bra is missing. Uh-oh.
It’s too early to call Len. Maybe I can IM him.
OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
Oh, sick. A flavor most foul. The Pineville High marching band performed a halftime show on my tongue. In stanky tube socks.
I just tried to get up. And I learned something else about my current situation.
I’m still wasted.
OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
I just washed down ibuprofen and a multivitamin with a liter of Coke. I’m sort of waking up.
My bathroom smells like puke. And did I mention that my bra is MIA?
Oh, God. What the hell did I do last night?
OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
Whatever it was, I can wait until later to find out. Ow.
What Happened to Me Last Night
The following timeline was cobbled together through author flashbacks, eyewitness testimony, and other conclusive forms of evidence, i.e., missing undergarments.
7:30 P.M. Len arrives at my house and chats with my parents. The word Cornell comes out of my mom’s mouth at least a dozen times. My dad smiles and gently punches Len in the arm. The subtext behind this allegedly good-natured gesture: Don’t have sexual intercourse with my daughter tonight.
7:45 P.M. Len drives me back to his house. We talked about the AP Physics test we took before vacation. We both know we aced it in a way that only two Brainiacs can.
8 P.M. I meet Len’s mom. I note that Mrs. Levy has an unfortunate figure: a size six on top, but she’s packing at least twice as much down below. I almost make the mistake of mentioning Columbia, which I can’t, because one can never underestimate the power of the parental gossip pipeline. Even without Ivy League cred, I win her over with my wholesome, overachieving charm. (Ironic foreshadowing.)