“Jessica,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I’m going away.”
“What?”
“I won’t be around here next year. I’m going away to school.”
I thought he was joking. He had to be joking. So I joked right back.
“Ringling Brothers reopened the clown college?”
“It’s a new liberal arts school, Gakkai College.”
“But you didn’t even take your SATs.”
“I know. That’s the beauty of it. It’s founded by a Buddhist sect and doesn’t require SATs or any other admissions tests. All I had to do was write an essay about egalitarian ideals in the modern world. I guess they decided I was their spiritual brother because they offered me a scholarship.”
“So where is this idyllic, intellectual haven?”
“Nuevo Viejo, California.”
California. Of course it sounded a little Let’s put on our Nikes, drink cyanide-flavored Kool-Aid, and do the Helter Skelter to me. California is the cult capital of the world.
Black waves crashed into the sand.
“Be happy for me, Jessica.”
“That’s . . .” I started.
Horrible. Tragic. Devastating.
“Awesome!” I managed to blurt out.
He didn’t believe it for one second. Words that express excitement sound so weird coming out of my mouth. I am especially bad at expressing enthusiasm for others when I do not feel it myself.
“I’m not throwing my life away.”
He was right. Shouldn’t I want what’s best for him?
BUT I THOUGHT WHAT’S BEST FOR HIM WAS BEING WITH ME!
Goddammit, I’m selfish.
“Awesome. Wow. Awesome.”
“You are a terrible liar,” he said.
“How do you expect me to react?” I said, looking down at the swarms of bennies below us, all of whom were still having fun, fun, fun. “I thought we were going to have all this time together next year, and to find out that we aren’t is just . . .”
I gurgled with tears.
“Jessica . . .”
“Why . . . didn’t . . . you . . . tell me?”
He turned to face me directly, causing the car to quiver on the wire.
“Because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go. I knew that if I told you before I knew for sure, you would try to persuade me to go because it’s ‘the right thing.’ And I didn’t want my decision to be based on what you thought was the best thing for me, but what I thought was the best thing for me.”
“How do you know that I wouldn’t beg you to come to New York?”
“Because I know you.”
He was right. I would never, ever beg. No matter how much I wanted to.
“So when do you leave?”
“Well, that’s the thing.” He paused. “I’m driving out next week.”
“Next week? As in seven days from now.”
“Six, actually.”
“Six.”
“Yes, Thursday.”
I watched a frat boy try to urinate into a trash can.
“We won’t even have the summer?”
“No.” And then, very calmly: “But Jessica, we have all the time in the world.”
Marcus truly believes this. He believes we have our whole lives together. Forever.
I was going to say how this is easy for him to believe because he is a romantic. I was going to point out how I am a realist. Actually, how I am a defensive pessimist. I always assume the worst, so if the reality is even a wee bit better than my disaster scenario, it’s a cause for celebration.
I was going to say all of this, but then I thought, Marcus has never been wrong about anything so far. Couldn’t he be right about us, too?
I could fly out to see him next year when our family visits Bethany, G-Money, and the baby. Pepe and I could take a cross-country drive together to see him and Bridget. Maybe this is all irrelevant, since we will be if we are meant to be, regardless of how often we see each other. If my experience with Hope has proven anything, it’s that true friendship can survive, even thrive, despite the distance. Why can’t it be the same for Marcus and me?
I shut up my mouth and my brain. I put my head on his shoulder and vowed to enjoy the rest of the ride with Marcus, no matter how long it lasts.
the thirtieth
Graduation Day: I am officially free. I finally feel it, too.
As a reflection of just how much I don’t care, I totally neglected to mention that Len beat me out for valedictorian by two-tenths of a point. Even with our history, this was absolutely fine by me because being at the tippy-top of the class meant way more to him than it did to me. When we lined up in our red and white graduation gowns, numbers one and two leading the rest of the Class of 2002, I very graciously congratulated him.
“You worked hard,” I said. “You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Jess.”
“I mean, you really worked for it. You did hours of homework every night. I didn’t bring a book home all year.”
“Um.”
Okay. So I wasn’t thoroughly gracious. String me up.
Since I was number two, I got to give my speech first—you know, like the opening act to the headliner. As far as I was concerned, this was the advantageous spot. Despite my blasé acceptance of being second best, I wanted to blow Len’s speech away.
I took my own advice about not slamming people just for the sake of slamming people and opted against the tirade from a few pages back. Besides, that would’ve been too predictable. Instead, I surprised myself and the audience by saying something altogether unlike the Jessica they all thought they knew. I was inspired by Marcus’s graduation gift, a custom made T-shirt I wore under my gown that read: ME. YES. ME. I don’t think anyone will even remember that Len even got up there and stuttered his way through a very predictable quote from Thoreau followed by five minutes of canned “The future is ours” clichés.
The rest of the ceremony is a boring blur. As salutatorian, I got my diploma after Len, the second person out of 180. So I had a lot of time to sit and get hot under the blazing noonday sun. I might have fallen asleep if it weren’t for the frequent head-bonkings from the beach balls that my fellow graduates had smuggled in under their gowns.
In accordance with alphabetical destiny, I watched Sara D’Abruzzi, Marcus Flutie, Scotty Glazer, Bridget Milhokovich, and Manda Powers walk up the stairs to the stage. I watched each one walk toward Principal Masters in their red and white gowns. I watched them reach for their diplomas and wave to their parents in the bleachers, despite how corny it was to do so. I watched them turn their tassles from one side to the other. I watched them walk down the stairs on the opposite side, grinning with freedom. I watched them and thought, These are the people I went to high school with. Some, like Manda, Sara, and Scotty, will never amount to more than that. There was no last-minute redemption for them, simply because it was a perfect opportunity for final forgiveness and understanding.
As for the others . . . well, I hope it goes without saying.
One hundred and eighty caps flew into the air in celebration, and for a split second, the sky was red.
But not the same fiery orange-red I saw bounding toward me once the bleachers were cleared and the field was filled with camcorder-toting parents.
“Hey, you!” she yelled, from twenty yards away.
“You!” I screamed, sprinting toward her.
Hope. Hope was here.
“I wanted to surprise you!”
Roget could not come up with enough synonyms to adequately describe just how surprised I was to see Hope standing right in front of me.
“Omigod! Omigod! Omigod!” I shrieked as I bounced on my tippy-toes.
Hope’s face fell. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sara,” she said, gently mocking my Clueless Two–like enthusiasm. “I thought you were my old friend Jessica Darling. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her, you know. I apologize for the
error.”
She turned and started to walk away, but I grabbed her before she made it two feet.
“I’m just so happy and totally shocked to see you here,” I said. “I mean, this is even better than Jake Ryan—”
Hope knew exactly where I was going with this. “Surprising Samantha Baker after her sister’s wedding—” she continued.
“At the end of Sixteen Candles!” We finished the thought simultaneously, before tackling each other into a hug.
As we held on to each other, I thought about how this is all I had ever wanted. My best friend. Right here with me.
When we finally separated, we just stood there, having far too much to say to actually start talking. Then I saw her eyes drift over my shoulder. And I knew why.
I knew Marcus and Hope had spoken on the phone, that, in fact, she was responsible for the miracle of us getting together at all. I truly believed that she wanted us to be a couple. Yet I couldn’t help but worry about what would happen when the three of us were together for the first time. Would they see each other as competition? As the enemy? Or worse?
But then all the fear and guilt and worry washed out with one simple gesture.
Hope held out her hand. “Hey, Marcus.”
Marcus held out his hand. “Hey, Hope.”
I stood there on the grass, watching the Darlings chatting happily with the Fluties, my two best friends pressed palm-to-palm, and a wave of calm washed over me. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t thinking about what would happen in the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years to come. I was right there in the moment, my world finally, albeit briefly, complete.
And I was happy. Deliriously, deliciously happy.
Jessica Darling’s Graduation Address
Real-World Revelation: A Malcontent
Makes Peace with Pineville
I bet that a lot of you think I’m going to stand up here and go off on one of my anti–Pineville High diatribes, the likes of which I used to publish in the school paper, before I was unfairly silenced by the administration. I must admit that I’ve been looking forward to the opportunity to express my often controversial opinions in front of a captive audience, since I was unable to do so all year long.
But I’m not going to do that today. I’ve vented enough about the shortcomings of this school. What I haven’t done is consider what I gained from my experience here, and how going to Pineville High School has actually benefited me.
For the past four years, I’ve wanted nothing other than to escape this place. I couldn’t wait to graduate, go to college, and get out into the real world that exists beyond Pineville. I longed for the place where I could finally be free of the social inequities and teen trivialities that dominate high-school life.
But you want to hear something insane? I don’t think I would change a thing about my high-school experience. Not even the really bad stuff, like my best friend moving away, or my grandmother’s death. If you’re sitting next to two people having heart attacks right now, they are no doubt my parents, as this is probably particularly shocking news to them.
No doubt Pineville would have been a more pleasant place without all the backstabbing, social climbing, and cattiness. But the Jessica Darling standing in front of you today is the result of everything I’ve been through up to this point. Change one event, make a left instead of a right, and who knows where, or more specifically, who I might be at this moment. And here’s the thing: I like who I am. I like the person I’ve turned out to be, and I know I’m not done evolving yet.
I believe that what we get out of life is what we’ve set ourselves up to get, so there’s no such thing as an inconsequential decision. Our destinies are the culmination of all the choices we’ve made along the way, which is why it’s imperative to listen hard to your inner voice when it speaks up. Don’t let anyone else’s noise drown it out.
Looking back on my four years here, I’ve realized that my lowest moments were the direct result of paying more attention to what other people were saying than listening to my gut. That doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t ever take someone else’s advice, or turn to others for guidance— just be sure they have your best interests at heart.
If there’s one thing I’ve realized throughout my four years of Pineville High, it’s that the real world, whether we like it or not, is right here, right now. All of this, every day, is important. Everybody matters. Everything we do has an effect on others, directly or indirectly, whether we realize it or not.
But even those who aren’t looking out for you can end up helping you in the end. And as much as I don’t like to admit it, I have to thank the Pineville High School Class of 2002 for the influence you’ve had on my life. For better or for worse, you have helped me become the person I was always meant to be: me. Yes. Me.
Coming in April 2006 from Crown Publishers, Jessica Darling is finally back!
charmed thirds
June 1st
Dear Hope,
Whoever said that you can’t go home again was wrong. You can go home again. Just don’t be surprised when it totally sucks.
And so, I wait for the express bus to Pineville, New Jersey. To fake-and-bake salons and acrylic talons. To confederate flagged pickups. To DWI guys with suspended licenses peddling their fat asses on tiny bicycles. To the cross-breeding of pineys and bennies. To certain death by cerebral asphyxiation.
To home, bitter home.
I’m exhausted from dragging myself and two duffle bags down to 42nd Street. I took the subway, of course; it only feels like I trudged seventy-four blocks on foot. The first time I left Columbia’s campus for the Port Authority bus terminal—almost six months ago, for winter break—I thought there would be a waiting area with a section of seats attached to TV sets bolted into the floor and I’d be able to pay a quarter for a sitcom or half a talk show. At this point, I’m so brain-dead and bored that I’d pay $10 for thirty minutes if Jerry Springer had guests who degraded themselves in an entertaining way. I’m blaming the homeless for ruining this pleasure for the rest of us.
Is this an example of how New York City has made me as callous as Marcus fears I’ve become?
(A parenthetical anecdote to prove otherwise:
Stubby is a homeless man who sings Motown songs on a patch of sidewalk near the gothic, wrought-iron gates separating the relentless bustle of 116th and Broadway from the relative calm of College Walk. He’s short, as befits his name, and black. He could be twenty-five or seventy-five. He’s always wearing some form of Columbia University apparel—shorts and T-SHIRT in spring, wool varsity-style jacket and sweatpants in winter—surely donated by someone affiliated with the school. He’s there every day, clutching a grubby faux-Grecian WE ARE HAPPY TO SERVE YOU paper coffee cup, singing classic tunes like “My Girl,” “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch,” and “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg,” the last of which sung with a hint of irony. What once must have been a caramel-smooth tenor has been ravaged by misfortune. Everyone here knows Stubby; he’s as much of a campus presence as the grand statue of Alma Mater on the steps of Low Library. I’ve never passed him without putting at least a nickel in his cup, usually more. But that’s not the compassionate part. One day last winter, Stubby wasn’t in his spot. A bit worrisome, sure, but I tried not to think about it because it was during midterms and I had five thousand pages of reading to catch up on. The next day, another absence. And then another. As his no-shows accumulated, I got more upset. Was Stubby dead? Had he frozen to death? ODed? I would’ve asked my friends if they’d seen him around, but they all seemed too preoccupied to panic about anything other than midterms. Finally, about a week later, on the morning of my Art Hum exam, Stubby was back in his spot. He looked and sounded the same as always: R-E-S-P-E-C-T! Find out what it means to me! I remember wanting to ask where he had disappeared to, but I decided to R-E-S-P-E-C-T his privacy. I popped $5 in his cup that morning, which was a considerable percentage of my personal assets and therefore excuses me from any accusations that I
’m just a spoiled Ivy Leaguer trying to pay off my liberal guilt. Then I took my exam and got an A.
See? I do care about people! I am compassionate about the plight of the homeless! I’m going to close parentheses now before the contents get any more self-serving.)
So far I’ve taken the NJ Transit #76 Shore Points Express for two reasons: holidays, and for aid in nutritional or laundry-related emergencies, specifically, too little of one and too much of the other. On the laundry-related bus trips, I experienced the novelty of being the Port Authority passenger that no one wants to sit next to, as two duffels’ worth of moldy clothes made me an even less desirable neighbor than the unlit-cigar-chewing old-timer with the spooky glass eye who continually requested help with his TV Guide crossword puzzle.
As usual, I’ve allotted myself too much time for the type of mass-transit travel delays that only seem to occur when I’m not prepared for them. So with nothing else to do, I’ve spent money I can’t afford to squander. I blew $3.80 on a speckled black and white composition notebook to match the dozen or so speckled black and white composition notebooks that I have exclusively used for my journals since, well . . . since you moved one thousand miles to Tennessee in tenth grade. I don’t even know why I bought it, though, since my old one still has ten blank pages, and I hope that seeing Marcus for the first time since mid-January won’t provide more than ten pages of angst.
Speaking of, I promise you’ll get more mail from me once Marcus and I are reunited. You’ve been very kind not to remind me that I haven’t been sticking to our Guilt-Free Guidelines for Keeping in Touch. Especially when you wrote monthly, called weekly, e-mailed/IMed daily, and still found time to emerge as one of the most promising visual artists in the history of the Rhode Island School of Design. (I know you hate hype, but those black and white portraits of “notable nobodies” from your “(Extra)Ordinary” photography project were so tragicomically brilliant—even as mere
.jpgs via e-mail.) I’ll redeem myself over the next few months, you’ll see. You escaped more than three years ago, but I still consider you an honorary member of Pineville High’s Class of 2002 (a dubious honor, that). I’m sure you can’t wait to hear all about the former classmates I’ll try—and fail—to avoid all summer.