I’m still keeping my eye on Burke. The only girls I ever see him talking to are me, Manda, and Sara. He’d better keep it that way.
I see Scotty all the time, but I wish I didn’t. It reminds me of the whole Cal thing.
I was seven hours and thirty-eight minutes into my eight-hour shift when I saw Scotty for the bizillionth-or-so time last night. He was standing by a blinking neon sign that persuaded passersby to take ball in hand and Whack Our Kats. He was talking to the pruny man who had worked at that boardwalk stand for twenty-five summers and counting.
Scotty lifted his red Funtown Pier employee T-shirt up to his chest hair. There was a girdle binding his newly acquired beer bulge. He’s been kicking kegs all summer with the football team. The old man coughed a laugh as Scotty explained the need for the fat-sucking contraption. It was called a Gut Buster, the amazing machine that would sweat his gut away. He seemed okay with the fact that it would take an entire summer of intense weight training and wearing the Gut Buster to undo what it took only opening his mouth and chugging, chugging, chugging to do. The Whack Our Kats man watched and listened and laughed until it was clinically dangerous to laugh any harder.
I knew that this was the story that Scotty was relating. I knew the story because a few days ago, he had acted it out for me. Word for word, gesture for gesture—it was all the same. I had laughed, too. Seeing his repeat performance tonight, however, almost made me cry. Somehow it confirmed what I already knew: I’m no different than the Whack Our Kats man in his eyes.
This is a delayed reaction. I should have had this epiphany three weeks ago, when Scotty stopped carpooling with Burke, Manda, and me and started getting rides from a girl named Becky who goes to Eastland. There was no reason for it to bother me. So it didn’t.
Until last night, that is. We were stuck at the sixth of thirteen possible red lights on the route home when I realized that the person in the passenger side of the car directly in front of us was Scotty. I recognized his familiar superhero silhouette. He was violently thrashing up and down to the rap music blasting inside Becky’s car.
Becky’s dirty-blond braid poked through the back of Scotty’s maroon baseball cap, and the sight of it sent my stomach into spasms.
At that moment, I started wondering if Scotty’s enlarged gut has in any way affected his back crevice. Scotty had the best back crevice. I saw it whenever Manda rode shotgun and Scotty was stuck in the backseat with me. Scotty would lean toward the front seat to say something to Burke and his shirt would scooch up, revealing the muscular ridge cut from the middle of his back down to the elastic of his underwear.
I was thinking about Scotty and me together on that familiar road.
And I wanted to tell him this.
Suddenly the left-turn signal flashed red in my face. He and Becky were turning onto a road that didn’t lead to his house. It’s a road I’ve never been down before. As we passed them on the shoulder, he leaned across Becky to honk the horn with one hand and waved us away with the other. He knew I was behind him all along. More importantly, he knew I would wave back.
I’m being such a girl right now. I have no right to be jealous. Scotty isn’t my boyfriend. I barely let him be my friend, no matter how hard he tried. I guess I just didn’t want an in-the-face confirmation that I was right all along: our destinations differed from the get-go. Or perhaps I slammed on the brakes too early.
the twenty-ninth
I really need to get my period. I’ve got too many hormones stashed in my system. Or not enough. Whatever. All I know is that I’m out-of-control overemotional lately.
This evening’s two cases in point:
On my break, I decided to check out how The Geek was doing. The Geek is the main attraction of the skill game called, appropriately, Shoot the Geek. There is always a throng of testosterifically charged-up idiot boys lined up, dollar bills in hand, to fire paintball bazooka guns at The Geek. The Geek’s identity has always been anonymous, concealed by camouflage fatigues and an oversize mask in the likeness of the most maligned man of the moment. Past pariahs include Saddam Hussein and Ken Starr. This year The Geek is Bill Gates. For as long as I can remember, even before I started working here, The Geek was universally acknowledged as the most degrading job on the boardwalk.
Until this year.
This summer, The Geek was mesmerizing to watch. He rocked. Seriously. He was lightning quick and dodged those jackoffs’ shots with ease. Their inability to blast the hell out of him was an affront to their muy macho manhood. They screamed and yelled and pounded their fists in fury. But The Geek wasn’t intimidated in the least. In fact, he went out of his way to taunt his tormentors with obscene hand and finger gestures. He totally pissed them off. It was hilarious. The Geek never failed to cheer me up.
Tonight, of course, was the exception.
When I stopped by, The Geek was just standing there. He wasn’t egging on the enemy by giving them the finger or diving on the ground to dodge their blasts. The Geek just got battered, each hit splattering his camouflage fatigues. Red! Yellow! Blue! I couldn’t see his face, but it was clear by the way he slumped and shrugged that The Geek’s spirit had been broken. I suppose getting paid five fifty an hour to be pelted by paintballs triggered by attitudinal tourists would do that to the best of us.
I wanted to offer him some encouragement. "C’mon, Geek! Get up! Give ’em hell. You can do it!" This would’ve been for my benefit as much as his. Yet I kept my mouth shut and moved on.
Then I started thinking. What if this is the best job The Geek can get? That’s no joke. What if he’s a "lifer" like the Whack Our Kats man? One of those losers who works on the boards between Memorial Day and Labor Day, then collects unemployment the rest of the year? Or what if he’s one of the poor Europeans who have to travel thousands of miles just to get a job as sucky as the Geek gig, or serving up greasy eats, for that matter?
I realized that working at Wally D’s Sweet Treat Shoppe is probably the worst job I’ll ever have. I know I have a bright future ahead of me. But instead of feeling happy about my good fortune, I just felt guilty.
When I went back behind the counter at frozen custard central, I couldn’t even engage in my favorite work diversion: making fun of all the customers, the first of which was primo making-fun-of material. If Scotty needs a Gut Buster, this man required a Whole Body Buster. He really pushed the limits of his dishwater-dirty wife-beater T-shirt. When he pounded the counter to get my attention, the pudding flesh on his arm shook, making the tattoo of a top-heavy woman do the hula on his bicep. Scripted letters swayed beneath her tiny feet: Sid Loves Myrna.
"Wazzat custud?" Sid growled. "Izzat iscream aw smudder shit?"
I understood this language with zero difficulty. This scares me.
"It’s richer than ice cream," I replied. "It’s made with a heavier cream."
Normally, I would’ve called him "Sir." See, Sid had several important teeth missing. It usually amuses the hell out of me to call a man with no front teeth, "Sir." But like I said, I was too sad.
Sid leaned into my face, pressing his palms into the cash register. "I wanna chocklit. Lahge. Wit rainbuh sprinkuhs." He then unleashed a long beef burrito belch.
I was repulsed, but somehow I resisted any retaliation. I didn’t want him to have a hemorrhage and shoot his sugar-sticky blood all over my counter.
I made his chocolate cone and I got even more depressed than I already was. I mean, it was suddenly pretty depressing to make a large cone for this beyond-obese, toothless guy. I started to wonder about the quality of Sid’s life. I wondered if Myrna was a real woman somewhere. Did she love him? I wondered if she left him because he was fat or belched in public. Had her devastating departure left him no choice but to seek solace in cone after chocolate cone?
I handed Sid his treat. He opened up his cavernous mouth and took a huge hunk off the top. Sprinkles that escaped his mouth trickled to the counter. He shoved three pocket-sweaty bills at me and lumbered away, muttering
obscenities in between gulps. As I rang up his three dollars and grabbed the nearest rag to wipe the clump of drooly sprinkles off the counter, I tried to shake off my sadness. But I couldn’t.
I can’t believe people come here to have fun. This is about the least fun place on earth. Besides school, that is. If I get any more depressed about the human condition, I just might feel sorry enough for Tsylt to accept one of his numerous broken-English advances. He’s the most persistent of my European suitors, the one I’ve nicknamed "Woody" for reasons that I don’t want or need to explain.
Thank God I’m getting out of here in just a few weeks. I can’t believe I’m finally going to see Hope. I’m going to be there for her sixteenth birthday on the twenty-third. I really can’t believe it. It’s been more than six months. Even though we’ve been keeping in touch like we promised (with no guilt) I really want to see her surroundings for myself. Maybe seeing her in her element will be the thing that finally convinces me that she isn’t coming back.
August 2nd
Hope,
It’s not my imagination anymore. For the past week, Burke has started dropping me off before Manda, even though I live closer to him and it makes more geographic sense to take her home first. When I called him on it, he mumbled something about this being the route recommended by Yahoo! Maps. Bullshitbullshitbullshit. Then Manda told me that since I didn’t even have a learner’s permit (like she does!) I should just shut up and let him drive. She then proceeded to pat Burke’s knee and flutter those goddamn eyelashes of hers as the exclamation point on the insult.
What am I going to tell Bridget? I don’t have any hard-core evidence. But I’m not likely to get any. I can’t steal their uniforms and test them for DNA, can I?
No. I’m wrong. Waaaaaaay wrong. First of all, the only criterion Burke meets is the fact that he’s over six feet tall. Okay. I’ll admit. He does have a bod that could best be described as, fooooooyne. Maybe he flosses daily—I don’t know. But he’s not blond, doesn’t surf or ski, and drives a Ford Escort, not a jeep.
Plus, Manda wouldn’t stoop so low, would she? Flirting with Burke is one thing. Fellating him is another. That’s beyond skanky. That would officially make her a full-on skank of the first degree. And surely Burke loves Bridget. He’s strong enough not to whip out his junk just because Manda swings her jugs around … right? (Please say I’m right.)
There’s only one reason why I’m writing about this soap opera instead of my long overdue visit to see you in three weeks: I’m afraid that by writing about it, I’ll jinx it. And I can’t afford to jinx it. I really can’t.
Fingers crossingly yours, J.
august
the fifth
JUST EIGHTEEN DAYS UNTIL I SEE HOPE!
Every L.A.me E-mail I get from Bridget, every carnal carpool I share with Manda and Burke, every quote Omigod! unquote anecdote I endure from Sara intensifies my need to hang with Hope.
I’m going down there for her birthday. The twenty-third. The fact that she’d still rather celebrate her Sweet Sixteen with me than with anyone she’s met down there helps relax the paranoia I have about being replaced.
This worry will only get worse if she gets into the all-girls private school she applied to. It was a last-minute thing; one of her relatives has an in on the board of directors or something. It has an amazing visual arts program that will really help her build the impressive portfolio she needs to get into a first-class college. Great instructors, great facilities, great supplies. She sounded so psyched about it on the phone. More psyched than I have ever sounded about anything in my entire life.
For her birthday, I’m burning her a CD mix. It has to strike the right balance between sincerity and irony. Not too much Beck or too little Duran Duran. Can’t go heavy on South Park or light on Moby. I will focus all my brainpower on this project until it’s done. I need this present to be perfect. Probably more for myself than her. I need to prove that I still know Hope better than anyone else.
the fourteenth
I knew it was too good to be true. I really did. So I wasn’t shocked when my plans to see Hope fell through today. But I was shocked (and disgusted) by how I felt about the reason why they fell through.
Hope not only got in to the private school, but nabbed a scholarship. Huge deal.
I know that a true best friend would be happy for her. I know I shouldn’t be bothered by the fact that her new school starts two weeks earlier than the public school she would have attended, therefore null-and-voiding my visit. I know I shouldn’t be jealous because leaving Pineville may end up being the best thing that ever happened to Hope, while I’m still stuck here doing the same-old, same-old. Going nowhere. I shouldn’t be green that Hope is moving on so much better than I am.
But I am.
When I told my mom I wasn’t going to spend a week in Tennessee, she gushed, "Great! Now we can spend some quality time together!"
Needless to say, I won’t be quitting my job early after all.
I gotta go. I have to mail Hope’s present if I want her to still be there when it arrives.
the sixteenth
Matthew Michael Darling would have been twenty today.
As if I weren’t depressed enough.
I wonder if things were worse for Hope’s parents or mine. Hope told me that in a way, Heath’s death was a relief for her parents: They could stop waiting for it happen. My parents never saw it coming. How can you see something like that coming?
I’ve never been to his grave. My parents have never taken me. Can you imagine how it must have been for them? Instead of picking out stuffed animals they were picking out his burial plot. They do not talk about it. And I know not to acknowledge it.
My mom will be a zombie for the next two weeks. She pops Valiums starting today until September first—the anniversary of his death. Then she stops cold turkey. Mourning over. Supreme self-control.
My dad acts like nothing out of the ordinary is going on. He goes for his three-hour bike rides. He spends hours tinkering with the computer. Our conversations don’t go beyond him grilling me about how many miles I’ve run this week to gear up for cross-country season. Same as usual.
Sometimes I wonder what Matthew would’ve looked like. Would he be prematurely bald like my dad, or have perfect teeth like my mom? Would he have Bethany’s flawless complexion? Or would he be scrawny like me?
I see college guys with Greek letters on their chests and I wonder if he would’ve celebrated with them. Or would he have celebrated his birthdays alone? Like me.
I know I wasn’t planned because Gladdie told me so on my fourteenth birthday. In her uncensored senility, she informed me between bites of Carvel ice-cream cake that I was a "wonderful surprise" for my parents, who never thought they would "have the heart to try again." Of course, this was just a nice way of saying I was a mistake.
I think Bethany always considered me competition. A brother would have been a different deal. Maybe that’s why we’ve never gotten along. But it’s safe to say my parents were happy to have me—more so after I made it past the one-month mark. But sometimes, when they go overboard on the groundings and other assholic parental gestures, I can’t help but think they’re trying to "save" me because they couldn’t save Matthew. Maybe that’s the real reason why they’ve been particularly harsh since Heath OD’d. It’s not that they were afraid his bad habits had rubbed off on me, as I had thought. No, Heath’s death probably reminded them of their own loss, one they don’t want to experience again.
I think too goddamn much.
One thing I know for sure, if Matthew had lived, my parents would’ve been a lot more vigilant with birth control, thereby eliminating the possibility of a "wonderful surprise" like me. This knowledge comes directly from my mother, who refers to three or more kids in any family as a "litter." So I’m sort of grateful for Matthew’s death, which is an evil thing. A go-to-hell type of thing, if I believed in hell.
Right now I feel guilty to be alive. Why? Because
I’m wasting it. I’ve been given this life and all I do is mope it away.
What’s worse is, I am totally aware of how ridiculous I am. It would be a lot easier if I believed I was the center of the universe, because then I wouldn’t know any better not to make a big deal out of everything. I know how small my problems are, yet that doesn’t stop me from obsessing about them.
I have to stop doing this.
How do other people get happy? I look at people laughing and smiling and enjoying themselves and try to get inside their heads. How do Bridget, Manda, and Sara do it? Or Pepe? Or everyone but me?
Why does everything I see bother me? Why can’t I just get over these daily wrongdoings? Why can’t I just move on and make the best of what I’ve got?
I wish I knew.
the eighteenth
Last night was catastrophic.
Cataclysmically catastrophic.
In fact, the only reason I’m writing about last night at all is because I think it’s important from a purely historical perspective. I want my descendants to know what event cinched the last strap on my straightjacket.
About halfway through my shift, Manda came charging up to my stand as fast as her platform sandals would carry her.
"Can you get a ride home tonight?"
"No. Why?"
"Well there’s a huge blowout on Carteret Ave. tonight."
"And?"
"Aaaaaaaand," she exaggerated, as though my grasp of the English language were worse than Woody’s. "We want to go."
"We being … ?"
"Me," she said.
"And?"
"Sara."
"And?"
"Burke."
"Did you ever think that maybe I might want to go too?"
"Puh-leeze, Jess," she said. "You never want to go anywhere."
She was right. I never want to go anywhere. I had avoided going anywhere all summer and look how happy it had made me. I was more depressed than ever. Maybe some good old-fashioned mindless debauchery would do me some good. Liquid lubricant was just the thing to loosen up my torqued-uppedness. I was too uptight about everything. I needed to live a little.