My thoughts were interrupted by the whoosh of the front door downstairs.
“Your mom?” I asked.
Bridget barely shook her head. Two sneakers pounded up the stairs and showed up as crimson footprints all over Bridget’s neck.
“Good morning, mon amie!”
In this context—specifically, Bridget’s house at nine A.M. on a Saturday morning, I couldn’t quite place the voice. Even when I saw Pepe in the doorway, I still had trouble piecing things together.
Bridget’s face was redder than a thermometer in a heat wave. They shot each other nervous looks before Pepe finally said, “Look who it is. My two favorite Anglican Princesses!”
The ease with which Pepe had entered the bedroom made it clear that he had been here many, many times before. Then it hit me. This wasn’t a hapless crush. This was real.
“Holy shit! You two are going out!”
Pepe and Bridget exchanged sheepish smiles.
“BRIDGET! YOU LIED!”
She bashfully held up her palms in resignation.
I still couldn’t get over this. Not so much that they were a couple, but that Bridget had lied about it. About anything. Bridget NEVER lies.
“YOU LIED!”
Pepe sat down next to her on the bed and held her hand.
“She did,” he said.
“You lied,” I said again, quieter.
“We both did.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since the play,” she said. “October.”
“Holy shit! You’ve kept this quiet since October?”
“Trying to,” Pepe said. “But Pinevile Low isn’t making it easy.”
“But why? Is it, uh, because of the interracial thing?”
They both laughed.
“Why, my Caucasian friend, I never pegged you as a Klansman,” Pepe said, smiling.
“Not me, I don’t care, but you know, Pineville at large . . .”
“We didn’t do it because of the black/white thing,” Bridget said.
“We did it to keep it real,” Pepe said.
“So no one would, like, get in our business.”
“So no one would spread rumors.”
“So Skankier wouldn’t jump his bones.”
“That girl is busted. I’d never leave you for her,” Pepe said while tenderly stroking the inside of her wrist.
“A girl has got to be on guard, though, because it’s, like, only a matter of time before she gets tired of Len,” Bridget said.
I sat there for a moment, still taking all of this in.
“Why don’t I ever see anything coming?” I asked, almost to myself.
“What?” they asked.
“I mean, I consider myself to be a pretty observant person. I see too much going on, which is why I can’t sleep at night. But why am I always shocked by people, even when their behavior seems so obvious after the fact?”
It was a rhetorical question, really. I hadn’t expected Bridget or Pepe to have an answer, which just proves my point.
“Maybe it’s because you’re, like, too busy thinking about yourself,” Bridget offered.
I must say that I was taken aback by this attack on my character.
“Excuuuuuuse me?”
Bridget tugged on her ponytail. “You kind of, like, see people as you want to see them, as they fit in with your view of things,” she said. “And you’re so busy seeing people from that angle that you can’t see what’s really going on.”
“Do you agree?” I asked Pepe.
He nodded.
“Like with Len dumping you,” Bridget continued. “You were so busy worrying about Manda sleeping with Marcus that you didn’t even notice how much attention she was laying on your boyfriend.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And with us. I think you were, like, so set on seeing Percy as your little French friend who had a crush on you, and me as someone who only dates pop stars and football players, that you couldn’t accept us as a couple, even though we didn’t do much to hide it in front of you.”
I wanted to change the subject because I did not like the fact that Bridget of all people had just psychoanalyzed me with such accuracy. Maybe she should study to be a shrink in college.
“But you lied,” I repeated dumbly.
“I, like, had to,” she said, turning to Pepe. “He was worth lying about.” Then she went on to explain how she hated how personal things got so public. Like how last year, everyone in school found out that Manda slept with Burke when he was supposedly so true to Bridget, or how her one stupid, insignificant date with Kayjay Johnson was still inspiring Hummers to drag her reputation through the dirt. She was tired of it. So when she and Pepe started falling for each other, they figured the best way to keep their love from getting tainted by outside influences was to keep it to themselves.
“You won’t tell anyone, right?” Bridget asked when she finished.
“Of course not,” I replied.
Then Pepe leaned over and kissed Bridget on the cheek, which skeeved me out.
It’s not just them. I can’t handle seeing any people I know sharing any form of intimacy. No surprise when it comes to nasty couples like Manda and Scotty, Manda and Len, or Manda and anyone, for that matter. But even with sweet couples that I’m rooting for, like Pepe and Bridget, I get grossed out when I see them holding hands or exchanging the driest kisses.
I used to think that my inability to deal with others’ PDAs meant that I was jealous, or maybe just incredibly immature—that is, until I caught a glimpse of myself in action, and got even more freaked out than I did when I saw someone else. I’d catch glimpses of Len and me fooling around in his rearview mirror and it was like, EWWWWWWWWWW. Who are those people?
I knew not to open my eyes yesterday, because if I caught a glimpse in the mirror and saw what I was doing and what Marcus was doing— what we were doing—I knew I wouldn’t do it anymore, even though every last cell in my body was telling me to please, please, please keep going, going, going . . .
Gone.
the fifth
You are not going to believe this. I still don’t believe it myself.
Gladdie left behind nearly a half-million dollars in cash and investments.
No one in my family knew she was so loaded. Not even G-Money, whom she had consulted for financial advice years ago. He had no idea that she’d actually listened to his investment strategies. What’s more, unlike G-Money, she had the sense to cash out before the crash.
An even bigger kick in the head? Her financial savvy was well known at Silver Meadows.
“She loved the stocks,” Moe said.
“She did?” asked my dad, mom, sister, and I.
“It was a hobby for her,” he said.
“It was?” we asked.
“She’d spend hours pouring over the bulls and the bears in the Wall Street Journal,” Moe said. “That’s what she called the stock indexes. The bulls and the bears.”
“Really?”
“And she never missed the Money Honey on CNN,” he said.
“Gladdie loved that gal.”
The Darling/Doczylkowski family just stood there, mouths agape. Some money was left to charities, but most of it was for the four of us, the next of kin, with a huge chunk of it—50K!!!!—going to yours truly.
And in classic Gladdie fashion, she was very specific about how I should use it:
“This money is to be spent doing what it is that you want to do, J.D. If you don’t know what that is, don’t spend it until you figure that out. And don’t let your parents try to talk you into using it how they want you to use it.”
To me, this meant one thing: college.
Fifty grand would pay for tuition, room, and board for about three and a half semesters at Columbia. I could take out loans and do work study for the rest. I don’t need my parents’ permission, approval, or pocketbook. I can—and will—do this on my own if I have to.
Finally, I can be free.
> So why do I still feel trapped?
the sixth
To me, the revelation about Gladdie’s secret pastime is ultimately more shocking than the money itself. It started me thinking about how little you can actually get to know about a person. You can talk to someone, spend time with that person, share experiences and emotions and bond in all the ways that we like to think we’re bonding or whatever, but it still doesn’t get you any closer to someone’s secret self. All couples through the ages have been kidding themselves. No one ever really gets to know anyone in this world. It’s a collective delusion that makes love (or lust, for that matter) possible.
All of these thoughts have everything to do with the fact that I had to face Marcus in school today.
I kissed Marcus, but do I know him any better now than I did before? Not at all. I only know the Game Master, but that’s not really him. He doesn’t know me any better now, either. I wasn’t really me when we were fogging up the bathroom mirror. I was, as Bridget pointed out, under emotional duress, which means Marcus was taking advantage of me at my weakest. That was a really shady thing to do, wasn’t it?
We kissed. So what? Kissing is nothing these days. Kindergarteners kiss. Did it really mean anything? No. Did it bring us any closer? No. Do I understand him any better? No. Does it make a difference in our lives? No.
Since this was a totally insignificant nonevent, I decided that I wouldn’t say anything about it at all. I would just ignore that it happened. I would say “Hey” to Marcus as usual, maybe even thank him for coming to Gladdie’s wake, but that’s as far as it would go.
Why I thought the Game Master would make it that easy is beyond me.
“Hey, Jessica,” Marcus said in a voice that was softer, more careful than usual.
“Hey, Marcus,” I replied casually. “Thanks for coming to Gladdie’s wake. It was very nice of you.”
I gathered my books to head to homeroom, but he stopped me in my tracks, simply by standing there with his hands rattling inside his pockets.
“You okay about . . . everything?”
“Uh . . . I’m still sad, of course.”
“Naturally,” he said. “But I meant, you know . . .”
I tried to avert my eyes, not wanting to go where he wanted to go with this conversation. So I took an alternate route.
“Did you know Gladdie was a financial genius?”
His posture relaxed, but his hands stayed in his pockets.
“Everyone knew.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
His clasped his hands in front of his chin, as if in prayer.
“Because you told me to stay out of your business,” he said.
I snorted. “That never stopped you before.”
He squeezed his hands tighter. “Jessica, I want to talk about what happened.”
“No,” I said, getting hot and jumpy. I don’t know what it was about his not telling me about Gladdie that had anything to do with anything. All I knew was that I was upset by the notion of his knowing something about my own grandmother that I didn’t.
“I want to talk about this. You claim that you want to stay out of my business, but then you go ahead and get involved, anyway.”
“I can’t believe you’re getting upset at me. I only wanted what was best for you.”
“That’s not your responsibility,” I said.
“And why not?” he asked, his body rigid with tension.
“Well, you’re not my boyfriend.”
“Being your boyfriend will not make this any more real, Jessica. I’ve been the boyfriend of dozens of other girls, and none of those relationships were real.”
“Well, neither is this one.”
He took a step toward me, and I backed away. He leaned in so only I could hear him.
“When are you going to stop doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Pushing me away.”
“I am not pushing you away,” I said shakily. Gladdie had accused me of doing the exact same thing.
“Oh, yes you are,” he said, louder this time, placing his large, calloused hands on my shoulders to keep me in my place. “You are doing your best to push me away. And you know what? I’m finally going to do you a favor and not push back. You want me out of your life? Consider me out.”
Then he walked away.
“Omigod!” Sara screamed. “Holy shit! I knew something was up with you two! The quote Class Brainiac and Krispy Kreme unquote.”
I ran down the hall, out of the building, across the campus, past my house. I ran as far, as fast, and as long as I could. But it wasn’t far, fast, or long enough to escape his words repeating themselves over and over again inside my head.
the fifteenth
Ever since Marcus’s very public declaration of whatever he was claiming to “feel” for me, I’ve become the subject of countless finger-pointing rumors.
I heard he’s taught her everything he knows, so she can do every position in the Kama Sutra at college.
They meet every morning at her house for a pre-homeroom hump.
He’s turned her into a nympho.
Bridget and Pepe assure me that there is no such talk going around school, that it’s all my imagination, but I know better. As long as Sara is alive and in possession of vocal chords, such bullshit is an inevitable part of the Pineville High experience.
At any rate, I thought for sure that Pinevile Low would have something to say about Marcus and me, which is why this Marcus-related item was so bizarre.
WHAT FORMER DREG AND ALLEGED GENIUS FINALLY THANKED THE JUNIOR WHO CONFESSED TO FAKING HIS DRUG TEST BY MAKING HER HIS LATEST DOUGHNUT?
HUH?! Marcus and Taryn?!
I didn’t buy it for one second. (And not for any reasons that had anything to do with me and whatever “feelings” Marcus was allegedly having about me.) No, I didn’t believe it for this reason: Why would anyone bother to write about Taryn, someone so insignificant? Even if it was—against all odds—true, why would anyone care, really? Why would the Mystery Muckracker, who, up to this point, only chose high-profile students to out in her column, suddenly shift gears and write about someone who would make little to no impact on Pineville High’s psyche? Any salacious interest generated by Marcus would be negated by Taryn’s minus-zero status. Not to be cruel, but really. The Dannon Incident proved that no one cared about Taryn Baker. So who would care now, nearly two years later?
Then it hit me with the force of a Sumo wrestler after an all-you-can-eat buffet binge. I suddenly understood what Paul Parlipiano had meant when he made that strange comment about getting back at his stepsister. It all made sense: The only person who would write about a nobody was the nobody herself.
I cornered Taryn in the library.
“Pinevile Low.”
When she shriveled like a Shrinky Dink, I knew I was right.
TARYN BAKER IS THE MYSTERY MUCKRACKER BEHIND PINEVILE LOW.
“Why?” I asked.
“Paul,” she said, in her typical one-word fashion.
“What?”
“Paul,” she repeated, cowering down in shame. “And you.”
“What?! Me?!”
“You.”
“You’re going to have to give me a lot more than that,” I said.
Taryn sat hunched over in her chair and stared at a stain in the carpet as she spoke.
“Paul was always getting on my case about not taking a stand against anything,” she said. “He can be very—”
“Pushy,” I added.
“Right,” she said, brightening a little. “I also admired how your articles took a stand and make a difference. You told it like it was. And I wanted to do that, too. When you stopped writing, I wanted to take your place, in a way. I knew I needed another forum, so I sent e-mails instead. Only I wasn’t as brave as you because I couldn’t bring myself to take credit.”
I’d never really thought of myself as brave before. I always saw myself as more obnoxious than brave.
<
br /> “If you admire me so much, why did you write about me?” I asked. “Why didn’t you just stay out of my business?”
“I do admire you,” she whispered. “That’s why I only wrote stuff I knew was true.”
“The thing you wrote about me and Len and homecoming wasn’t true,” I said.
“It was true when I wrote it,” she said. “About him.”
“Really,” I said. “And how did you know that?”
“I overheard him telling Marcus about it in study hall,” she replied, smiling wanly.
“Well, just because something is true doesn’t mean you should broadcast it to the world. I used to think just like you, Taryn. I’d just go off on people just for the joy of pointing out their faults to the world.”
Then I babbled on and on about a yogic practice called satya that I learned about from the book Hope gave me. It’s about telling the truth all the time, but in way that doesn’t hurt people’s feelings. Basically, choosing words carefully so they do the least harm and the most good. I know I’m not perfect, because my words still tend to piss off their targets. But you know what? Sometimes—like with Paul and Hy—it has worked, which is a very encouraging start.
“Otherwise, what’s the point? So you piss people off by pointing out their faults. But there’s got to be more to it than that.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she said solemnly.
I was feeling very superior in my maturity. “So how did you find out all this stuff, anyway?”
“You’d be amazed the things people say right in front of someone who isn’t really there.”
“What?”
“People speak openly right in front of me because they either didn’t notice I was there or just didn’t give a damn.”