“All you have to do is be yourself,” Mac told me last summer. But anyone who has been to high school knows that being yourself is probably the most impossible thing in the world.
the twenty-eighth
This day ended up nothing like I thought it would, which is pretty much par for the course for me.
“Well, aren’t you up with the sunshine this morning,” my mom sang as I walked into the kitchen.
“I didn’t think we’d see you until noon,” my sister chimed in. Bethany is a huge and permanent fixture in our household as her due date draws near. This has made it much easier for me to go about my shady business, since my mom is too busy being a future grandmother to pay attention to me.
“Today’s the day I’m going to see Hy in New York with Bridget,” I said.
This, as you know, is factually accurate but not really true.
“New York?” my mother gasped, placing her hand to her chest. “Jessie! You didn’t mention that the bookstore was in New York!” She started fanning herself, as if it were noon in August on the sun. “I don’t like the idea of this!”
“Mom,” I said. “You encouraged me to mend fences with Hy. Well, this is my opportunity.”
“Why can’t you do it closer to home?”
“Ever since her little undercover investigation, Hy breaks out into hives whenever someone so much as mentions New Jersey,” I replied. “So until the entire state becomes hypoallergenic, I doubt she’ll come back.”
“Oh, I don’t like this. Bethany, what do you think?”
“Is she taking mass transit?” Bethany asked my mom.
My mom turned to me. “Are you taking mass transit?”
“You can tell Bethany that yes, I am taking mass transit.”
“Oh,” Bethany said. “I’ve never taken mass transit. Grant always hired a car service.”
Fortunately, Bridget breezed in through the back door, radiating a golden aura that has a spellbinding effect on my mother and my sister. I really think that deep down, my mother and sister are convinced that Bridget and I got swapped in our infancy, when all babies look identically red and squishy.
“Good morning, Mrs. Darling. Hey, Bethany,” Bridget said. “Jess, are you ready?”
“Bridget,” my mother said, “you know your way around the city, right?”
“Oh, sure,” Bridget said, waving a porcelain limb. “Like the back of my hand.”
My mom and my sister sighed in relief.
“Bring the cell and call if you have any problems,” my mom said, kissing me on the cheek.
“I will.”
“And don’t talk to strangers.”
“I won’t.”
“And keep your eye out for any suspicious individuals.”
“I will.”
“And don’t leave Bridget’s side.”
“I won’t.”
“And—”
“Mooooooooooooooooom . . .”
“Okay. Go. Have fun.” My mom got up and kissed me on the cheek again. “While your mother sits here and has a heart attack all day.”
When we were in the car and out of earshot, I was ready to goof on my mom.
“Your mom—” Bridget began.
“I know, she’s a total freak,” I replied. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” she replied. “It’s nice. She cares. My mom, like, never knows where I am ninety percent of the time because she’s always working at the restaurant.”
“You think it’s nice because you don’t have to live with her,” I said. “And she only seems to care when it’s convenient for her, like when she’s not buying bassinets, binkies, and other baby crap for Bethany.”
“Well, it is, like, a big deal, the first grandchild and all. Aren’t you excited about being an aunt?”
“Not really,” I replied. “We’re talking about the Bethany and G-Money’s spawn here. Perpetuation of the beautiful species. Ack.”
“I’m, like, sure her mommy instincts run deeper than that,” Bridget said.
She’s right, you know. Just the other day I actually asked Bethany why she wanted to be a mother, when she had seemed so uninterested in a vocation that would put an end to her string-bikini days.
“What greater joy can there be than bringing a baby into the world, a little person who loves you unconditionally?”
“Okay. But kids can be pains in the ass,” I said. “I mean, I’m not even bad and I’m a pain in the ass.”
“Yes, I know,” she replied, rubbing her belly. “But the benefits far outweigh the troubles.”
Maybe my parents would have an easier time seeing things that way if I had been planned.
Anyway, Bridget and I arrived at the bus station with just a few minutes to spare. Bridget warned me that the post-rush-hour weekday bus trips into New York are generally full of Highly Irritating Passengers. Again, she was balls-on.
An Incomplete Catalog of Highly Irritating Passengers on NJ Transit Bus #76
Species: Snotnoses Rugrattus
Distinguishing Characteristics: Under three feet tall. Will cry and shriek if not given candy, or toys, or attention, or whatever it wants. Too immature to control his or her own bowel movements, yet sophisticated enough to master a Game Boy.
Natural Habitat: Chuck E. Cheese.
Species: Showtunicus Lionkingus
Distinguishing Characteristics: Dressed in “fancy clothes,” i.e., shiny, artificial fabrics. Will chatter on and on about all the musicals he/she has seen. Often sings songs from said shows, particularly “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserables, which the Showtunicus Lionkingus invariably calls “Les Miz.” (Note: On return trips, is never seen without a yellow-and-black Playbill.)
Natural Habitat: The sound track section of Borders.
Species: Nasticus Pervertus
Distinguishing Characteristics: Trench coat, greasy hair, and dark sunglasses. Will sit across from the most attractive teenage girls (who happen to be the only attractive travelers) and leer silently. Has the uncanny ability to give one the willies.
Natural Habitat(s): Porn shops and playgrounds.
Bridget and I didn’t talk much during the trip because we were all too acutely aware that simply hearing the voices of teenage girls gives Nasticus Pervertus a boner. We couldn’t get to the Port Authority and off that bus fast enough.
“So you know where you’re going, right?” Bridget asked.
“I know.”
“Just take the one or the nine straight up to 116th Street, the Columbia University stop.”
“I know.”
“Don’t get off any sooner.”
I sighed. “Did you swallow my mom?”
Bridget giggled. “Remember, I’ve got my cell and you can meet me at Union Square if the Snake March, like, sucks.”
“It won’t suck,” I assured her.
Famous last words.
I was about to head for the subway when Bridget turned and asked me a question that, quite frankly, startled me.
“Like, whatever happened with you and Columbia?”
“What? How did you—?”
“Last summer, remember? You had your big moment with Paul Parlipiano at the coffee shop.”
“Oh, right,” I said. I had totally forgotten that I had ever told Bridget about Columbia.
“So, what happened? Did you end up applying there?”
Bridget has never lied to me. Never, ever, ever. So the least I could do was return the favor. Wasn’t I going to have to face the truth within the next five to thirty days, anyway?
“Yeah, I did,” I said. “I’m still waiting to hear.”
Bridget raised an expertly tweezed eyebrow. “Your parents are going to, like, kill you.”
The truth hurts, doesn’t it?
“Go get her,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, rubbing her palms together. “I will.”
Throughout the twenty-minute trip uptown, I hoped and wished and prayed that it was the first of countless times I’d be ta
king this ride in the future. I didn’t feel the least bit nervous about traveling by myself. I felt like I knew where I was going, even though I had never been to the address Paul Parlipiano had e-mailed me, the one I had printed out and clutched inside my coat pocket like a talisman. I wasn’t freaked out by the ride, simply because I was too busy imagining what it would be like if I got into Columbia and Paul Parlipiano became my fabulous gay best friend in New York City, the Will to my Grace. We would go shopping at swanky shops on Fifth Avenue that neither of us could afford! We would squeal with delight and hit the dance floor whenever we heard the intro to Erasure’s “Chains of Love”! We would dish about boys we liked and bitch about ones we didn’t! We would be more devoted, dependable, and dedicated to each other than any mere boyfriend could ever be!
This fantasy would prove to be even more far-fetched than the one that involved us getting married and having many babies.
PACO HQ was a graduate student’s apartment. I buzzed the intercom three times before anyone responded.
“What?” said a very shrill female voice.
“Uh . . . I’m here for the Snake March.”
“You sure?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
She buzzed me up without saying another word.
The door to apartment 3B was open, but I could barely make it inside because there were protest signs on the floor and leaning against the walls blocking the doorway. WE WALK FOR THOSE WHO CAN’T, said one. WALKING NEVER HURT ANYONE, said another. These slogans were hardly any better than the ones on the lame signs Scotty and Manda held during the unsuccessful Homecoming Walk-Out. However, since I was the novice here, I kept my opinion to myself. One thing was for sure: There seemed to be more signs than people to hold them.
“Are those jeans from the Gap?” I heard Paul Parlipiano’s mellifluous voice ask. Not exactly the greeting I was hoping for, but whatever.
I swiveled around, actually convinced that the aesthetics of my new ass transcended sexual preference. “Yes, they are!”
He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Gap is Crap!” he said.
On instinct, anyone within earshot instinctively repeated his chant. “Gap is Crap!”
Then he went on to explain how the Gap relies on sweatshops that break about a bizillion child labor laws.
“I didn’t know.”
“Ignorance is no excuse, Jessica,” he said.
“Uh, okay. Sorry.”
Then things were okay for thirty seconds as Paul introduced me to some of the other PACO members: an African-American, buzz-cut, hippie-skirted lesbian named Kendra; an elfishly short, goatee-sporting Hispanic hipster named Hugo; a dreadlocked, Birkenstocked granola white boy named Zach. For people so concerned about human rights, they seemed pretty much uninterested in my very existence.
I fortified myself with a swig of Coke from the bottle in my backpack and was about to volunteer to do something when Paul said, “Are you drinking Coca-Cola?”
I looked at the label dumbly.
“Choke on Coke!” he shouted.
“Choke on Coke!” shouted Kendra, Hugo, Zach, and everyone else.
He went on to explain how Coca-Cola is the most insidious promoter of corporate imperialism. I wasn’t used to seeing Paul Parlipiano outside of Pineville’s oppressive environment. The freedom made him very . . . opinionated, to say the least.
“Sorry,” I replied. “I didn’t know.”
He gently rest his hand on my shoulder with great pity. “Ignorance is no excuse, Jessica.”
“Why not?” I asked. “How could I know something if I, uh, didn’t know it?”
Duh. Genius debate, Jess.
Then Paul Parlipiano launched into this whole pedagogical argument about how it is our generational imperative to celebrate the ties that bind our society instead of the differences that divide us, that all the peoples of the world should aspire to live as One in global unity and blahdiddyblahblahblah. It was exactly the line Haviland gave me when she told me my divergent opinions would no longer be needed for The Seagull’s Voice.
“What do you have to say to that?” he said when he was finally finished.
What did I have to say to that? WHAT did I have to say to THAT?
“Well . . .”
There he stood, Paul Parlipiano, my crush-to-end-all-crushes, the gay man of my dreams, looking down his nose at me like I had an extra chromosome. He was getting off on his cosmopolitan superiority, but hell, I knew where he came from.
“I think that kind of thinking promotes conformity.”
Paul Parlipiano’s deep, deep brown eyes bulged out of his perfectly symmetrical skull.
“What?!”
“PACO is all about accepting people of different races, religions, and lifestyles, which is good. But when it comes down to it, you’re a bunch of like-minded people who want to talk to other like-minded people.”
He just stood there, eyes still half out of his handsome head.
“You don’t want anything to do with anyone who doesn’t share your politically correct point of view. You filter out any opposing thoughts that might undermine your cause, whatever it is.”
I felt the whole room glaring at me, but I pressed on.
“I mean, you don’t even know what you’re protesting today, so you’re protesting everything!”
An icicle dripped from the tip of my nose in the subzero silence.
“To single out any injustice for the purposes of our protest would be insulting to all those who suffer in the world,” responded a flabbergasted Paul. “How can we measure one’s oppression versus another’s?”
“But you’re not really taking a stand against anything !”
“You are wrong,” Paul said, finally regaining his calm.
“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’m entitled to my opinion.”
“Not if your opinion is wrong,” he said.
“It’s my opinion,” I huffed. “By definition it can’t be wrong.”
“Well, it is,” he said.
How could this be happening? This was Paul Parlipiano, my former obsessive object of horniness, gay man of my dreams, my crush-to-end-all-crushes.
At that moment, I discovered a fundamental truth about this and all crushes-to-end-all-crushes: It’s so much easier to convince yourself you’re madly in love with someone when you know nothing about him. Now that I’ve seen Paul Parlipiano in his element, and have really gotten to know him, I’ve realized that we are truly not meant to be. You think the whole gay thing would’ve tipped me off to that inevitability, huh? No, that just wasn’t a big enough deal breaker for me. I could’ve dealt with his physical revulsion at the sight of my vagina. But what couldn’t I deal with? His preachiness. I just don’t like people telling me what to do.
“Paul, I never thought I’d say this, but I don’t think you and PACO are for me. I’m out of here.”
His response threw me off guard. “Are you venting your anger about my sister?”
“Taryn? Why would I have any reason to be mad at her?”
He pursed his lips. “Well, that’s something you need to find out from her,” he said, showing me the door.
“Okay, fine.”
“No hard feelings,” he said, regaining his impeccable manners.
“Maybe I’ll even see you around here next year.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, wondering whether Columbia was such a good idea after all, if this is how people here react to me and vice versa.
“I must say, though, that I am disappointed in you, Jessica.”
“Likewise, Paul. Likewise.”
I tried calling Bridget’s cell phone, but she didn’t pick up. For all I knew, she was still on the subway, so swift was the PACO in-andoutraduction. I figured I’d meet her at the bookstore, even though I had no desire to see Hy. Of course, when I got there Hy was in my face and all over the place. Huge pictures of her and blow-ups of that hot-pink book jacket covered all the store’s windows. I took a deep, bracin
g breath before I walked in.
I followed the sound of Hy’s voice, amplified by a microphone, until I found her. There were about fifty people—mostly college-age girls— lined up, waiting for Hy to sign their copies of Bubblegum Bimbos.
Bridget was not among them.
Hy looked just as non-Jersey as she did back when she was undercover at PHS. Her glossy black hair was spliced with shades of pink (surely to match the cover of her book) and cut in a piecey bob (which looks like bedhead but requires the touch of a celebrity stylist). She wore a peasant top and leather skirt that had a thrift-shop vibe (but were no doubt kustomized-with-a-k, which, I know from reading Bridget’s Vogue over her shoulder on the bus, is vintage stuff that’s been given a new zipper or a new hemline so the “designer” can jack up the price a bizillion percent). Her skin was tan and her cheeks were rosy, as though she had just come back from vacation. (Or “holiday,” as her kind call it. Bali, no doubt. Or some island that isn’t even on the map.) Her very white, very perfect teeth provided a stunning backdrop for her shiny hot-pink lips. Lips that were talking about Jenn Sweet, the cooler-than-I’ll-ever-be version of me.
I stood patiently in Science Fiction until Hy had finished signing everyone’s copies of Bubblegum Bimbos. When the last girl walked away with an autograph, Hy looked up and waved me over. She had a smile on her face, like she was genuinely happy to see me.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, girl,” she replied, standing up and leaning across the table to hug me. Much to my chagrin, I let her. “I always hoped you’d show up at one of these things.”
“Well, uh, yeah.” I. Am. So. Slick.
“You checked it, right?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“And?”
And.
“And . . .”
And what, Jessica? What?
“And . . . I read it expecting to hate you more than ever,” I said. “But . . .”
“But?” she asked curiously, somewhat surprised that I wasn’t going to continue on the hate trip.