I don’t even need to tell you how completely sick and inappropriate that is.
She was followed by a trio of Hoochie hip-hop dancers who should’ve known better than to wear white spandex. (They put the "boom" in boom-shaka-laka-shaka-laka-shaka-laka.) A posse of Wiggaz rapped about da thug life outfitted in the bangingest, bling-blingingest ghetto superstar gear available at the Ocean County Mall. There was also a juggler and a Grateful Dead cover band named Long Strange Trip.
There were a few more acts but I’ve blocked them out. No emotion is more squirmy than feeling embarrassed for someone else.
The final act was Percy Floyd, a Double-A Elvis impersonator. After thirty seconds of anticipation-building Vegas-style vamping and spotlight swirling, The Black Elvis took the stage like a tornado. Like all Elvis impersonators worth their Quaaludes and fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, he chose to give homage to the jelly-bellied, sideburned, rhinestone-jumpsuited Elvis, the one who sadly lost the vote for the commemorative stamp.
The audience went nuts.
I was laughing and clapping and cheering along with the rest of the audience as The Black Elvis crooned his way through "Suspicious Minds." It was only when he whipped off his huge tinted sunglasses to wipe his brow with a red scarf that I discovered the shocking identity of The Black Elvis. I nearly fainted in the aisle—which would’ve been a nice dramatic touch.
"Holy shit!" I screamed. "I know that kid!"
"Who is he?" yelled Hy.
"He’s Pepe Le Pew!"
"Who?"
"Pepe. Pierre. This kid in my French class who has a crush on me."
Pepe must have stuffed his jumpsuit with about a dozen pillows. But fake fat aside, he was pure King. He did mock karate chops. He even had two burly "bodyguards" come out and throw a cape over him. The final touch? An announcement over the loudspeaker that Elvis had left the building.
I was so proud of him when he won.
I don’t know how I didn’t recognize him instantly. While a few hundred Wiggaz front like boyz and girlz in da hood, there are only twenty-five real black students at PHS. And there’s only one black kid in my French class who has a crush on me, for Christ’s sake. Maybe the reason I didn’t immediately recognize Pepe is because he’s such a gifted chameleon. I’ve been observing him lately. He’s one of the few kids at PHS who defies categorization. He wins the talent show and wrestling matches. He speaks English, French, and Ebonics. He hangs with Double-As and Wiggaz, 404s and Dregs, Jocks and I.Q.s. I wish I felt as comfy with one clique as he seems to be with them all.
the seventeenth
Things are getting really weird.
Greg Mahoney was shot at a kegger last night. Greg is a Dreg–Hick hybrid, a burnout who blasts country music and decorates his pickup truck with a Confederate flag and an I’m A Piney, From My Head Down To My Heiniebumper sticker. (Translation: I’m proud to live off a dirt road in the middle of the woods.) Anyway, this wasn’t another tragic teenage rampage. No one had a gun. Greg found some loose bullets in his truck that, for reasons that remain unclear, he drunkenly decided to throw into the bonfire. The bullets exploded and shot up Greg’s ass.
I heard about it in homeroom from Sara, who just loves sharing gossip like this.
"Omigod! Only a total idiot would try to, quote make fuckin’ fireworks unquote."
"That’s why he did it?"
"That’s what I heard."
"I bet there wasn’t any thinking involved at all," I said. "Greg did it because that’s what Dregs do. It’s his contribution to society."
Then I heard a voice say, "Excuse me, Miss Don’t-Get-High-and-Mighty …"
I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. And when I did look up and saw him zooming in on me from two rows over, I was proven right.
"What’s your contribution to society?" Marcus asked.
I giggled. Jesus Christ, that’s annoying.
"Omigod! Ugh. Mind your own fucking business," Sara said.
"Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?" Marcus countered. "You weren’t at the party, were you?"
And that’s when our homeroom teacher, Rico Suave, got involved.
"What’s my rule about foul language in this room?"
"Well, if you’re going to bust me, bust her, too," he said, pointing at Sara. "She said ’fucking’ before I did."
Before Sara even had a chance to protest, Rico Suave said, "I didn’t hear her. I only heard you. Out."
"You’ve got to be kidding me," laughed Marcus.
"Out!"
It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t fair.
Marcus didn’t take his eyes off me as he gathered his stuff to go down to the principal’s office. That’s when I realized that Sara and I hadn’t been talking that loud. Marcus had been listening to our conversation on purpose. And he wanted me to know it.
Why? He had pretty much ignored me since the office incident. And I had done my best to ignore him, too. I don’t know what he’s doing with me, but he definitely did it again. Now I can’t stop thinking about it.
the nineteenth
Sara and Manda undoubtedly killed time on their flight to Mexico today by (a) analyzing Marcus’s outburst and (b) hypothesizing about my role in it. I’m telling myself that there’s nothing I can do to stop this, so there’s no point in getting all hung up on it. I’m doing an okay-to-sucky job.
Only two thirds of the Clueless Crew are spending spring break in Cancún. (All expenses paid for by Wally D.) Sara and Manda tried to keep it a secret from me via a half-assed hush-hush that I can only compare to a stage whisper. DON’T LET JESS FIND OUT ABOUT OUR TRIP. They thought I’d be crushed when I found out they were bonding without me.
Uh, no.
Ironically, once they found out that I had found out, they had no problem dishing about their trip in front of Bridget. Bridget masked her pain for thirty seconds before she lost it.
"How come I didn’t get invited?!"
"We assumed you wanted to spend all of your time with Burke," said Manda.
"Yeah!" said Sara.
"We can’t help it if you’re lucky enough to have a great boyfriend to spend spring break with and we don’t," said Manda, who conveniently dumped Bernie as soon as Sara offered her the trip.
"Yeah!" said Sara.
I guess Bridget decided that she was indeed the lucky one. So she forgave them and there were hugs all around. Typical Clueless Crew conflict resolution.
Spring break is stressful. All that freedom freaks me out. It’s like I’m expected to do something cool with all this free time. Maybe that’s why I slept in until 3:37 P.M., throwing my sleeping schedule even more out of whack. But no matter how bored I get, it’s better than being in school.
the twentieth
My mom came home from work last night and asked how my day was.
"Amaya is boiling bunnies over Colin …"
"Who? What?!"
"And Ruthie is an alkie in denial. And Justin …"
"Jessie! What are you talking about? Who are these people? Are they friends of yours?"
"Uh, not really," I said. "They’re from The Real World."
My mom sighed and said, "Jessie, I asked you how your day was."
That’s when I realized I had gotten too attached to the TV.
When Scotty invited me over to his house today, I thought,Okay. Here’s my chance to be social. I rode my bike over. When I arrived, I rang the bell and waited for someone to come to the door. No one did. I could hear noises coming from inside, so I knew they were in there. I rang a few more times before I just let myself in.
Shouts led me to the basement. Besides Scotty, Bridget and Burke were there, and Scotty’s baseball buddy P.J. The guys were huddled around the TV, playing a wrestling videogame. Bridget was standing over Burke’s shoulder, watching intently.
"Hey, guys!" I shouted.
"Waaaaazzzzzzuuuuup!" shouted Scotty.
"Smackdown!" shouted P.J.
"Three s
ixteen! Three sixteen!" shouted B. and B.
I tried talking to Bridget, thinking she might be grateful for the arrival of someone without a Y chromosome. But she gave me one-word answers, eyes superglued to the screen.
I can’t believe we used to be best friends.
The Royal Rumble went on for ten more minutes before Burke "Stone Cold" Roy was declared the winner. Only then did they acknowledge my presence.
"Hey Jess, did you see how I made Glazer my bitch?"
"Bee ess! Don’t believe that muther effing see sucker."
"You got spanked! You pussy!"
And then Scotty twisted P.J.’s arms around his neck and made him beg for mercy.
I was stupid to think that they would turn off the game and—I don’t know—talk or something. Instead, they just popped in another game. This one involved riding on skateboards and blowing each other up. I was used to this for an hour or two on Saturday nights. But I realized that they were going to do this all day. Girls will get together just to get together. Guys need an activity as an excuse. Otherwise it’s too homo for them to handle.
Just then, I heard a toilet flush—not with a whoosh, but with a long, labored belch. Rob emerged from the bathroom, zipping up his fly, Lysol in hand.
"Dude, I just destroyed your shitter," he said with scatological pride.
Rob’s assplosion was, literally, the final blow, so I said good-bye. Scotty handed his controller off to Bridget—who squealed "I can’t play this!"—and walked me out to the driveway.
"Sucked for you, huh?" he said.
"Not really."
"Yeah, right."
Pause.
"What are you gonna do now?"
I didn’t know. But I didn’t want to come right out and say I didn’t know.
"I think I might go over to Hy’s for a while," I lied.
"You two are becoming pretty good friends, huh?"
"I guess."
"Sorry it sucked for you."
"Yeah, me too."
And I meant it. Things would be a lot easier if it hadn’t.
the twenty-second
I made the mistake of promising my mom that I’d help her and Bethany prepare invitations for the big day. This is how desperate I was for things to do.
At first, my mom and my sister did what they do best: Torture me about Scotty.
"So are you taking Scotty to the wedding?" my sister asked.
"Uh, I don’t know yet."
Her nostrils flared with a sharp, annoyed exhalation of air. "You don’t know?" she asked. "Mother?!"
My mom intervened.
"Jessie, when are you planning to ask him?"
"I don’t know," I said. "The wedding is still three months away."
My sister was about to pop a blood vessel.
"What do you think we’re doing right now? We’re preparing invitations. How can I know whether to send him one if you haven’t decided if you’re taking him?"
"He won’t care if he doesn’t get an invitation," I said.
"I don’t care if he doesn’t care," snorted my sister. "It’s the proper thing to do."
I’m sure this would have gone on for hours if my sister hadn’t picked up an invitation to wave in my face. Before she put it back on the pile, she glanced at the writing. That’s when the blonde bond broke down and things got ugly. I mean really ugly, to the point where it wasn’t even fun to watch them go at each other.
"You call that calligraphy, Mother?"
"What do you mean?"
"The addresses are all running downhill!"
"No one is going to notice."
"Everyone is going to notice! I only let you do it because you promised it would look professional!"
"You think I enjoy doing this? If Grant didn’t insist on inviting three hundred people, we might have been able to afford professional calligraphy."
"Don’t blame Grant."
"Well, his family is twice as large and has ten times more money than we do. It would be nice if they helped out a little."
"That’s not the groom’s responsibility, Mother."
"This is the twenty-first century; it’s time for traditions to change. The bride’s family shouldn’t have to pay for everything anymore."
"Well it’s just too bad you don’t have a boy …"
Matthew Michael Darling. Born August 16. Died September 1.
I don’t know what fell faster, my sister’s face or my mom’s tears. Mom ran out of the room but my sister stayed put, knowing there wasn’t anything she could do or say that could take it back.
"You are such a bitch," I said in that quiet, calm way that makes vicious words sound even worse.
Bethany’s mouth went slack. She couldn’t believe what I had said.
I couldn’t believe it myself. I’d never said anything like that to anyone in my family before. I got up and went to my room before I found out what would happen. No way could I stay there, though, sticking Lovestamps on the envelopes.
About a half hour later, my mom came up and told me that what I had said to my sister was totally inappropriate. Her eyes were rimmed red.
"And like what she said wasn’t?"
"She’s got a lot on her mind," my mom said, running her finger along the dust on my dresser. "She didn’t mean what she said. You did. Which is why I want you to apologize."
"You’re right, I did mean it," I said, bitterly. "But I’m not going to apologize. No way. I’m not sorry. I wouldn’t expect you to understand."
"And why not?"
I wanted to say, Because you’re exactly like her.
"Because Hope is the only one who understands."
Then my mom did her combination There’s no use talking to you–Stop moping over Hope speech and told me I wasn’t allowed out for the rest of the night, which, of course, was a blessing in disguise.
the twenty-fifth
I had to get away from my mom. So today I gave hanging out with Hy a try.
"I’m amped that you called," she said. "I was supposed to chill with my girls, but my aunt is being a bizotch and won’t drive me to the bus station. So I’m stuck here."
"Sorry," I said. "I’ll be right over."
Hy’s aunt lives on the far side of Hope’s old neighborhood. Her house is the same model as Hope’s except all the rooms are on the opposite side: Hope’s kitchen is on the left, Hy’s kitchen is on the right; Hope’s living room is on the right, Hy’s is on the left.
You get the idea.
Anyway, I had such a feeling of topsy-turvy déjà-vu that I thought, Omigod! Maybe Hy is destined to be my best friend. Maybe she’s the Bizarro Hope. Then I started collecting supporting evidence:
Hope has natural red hair.
Hy has black hair with (currently) artificial blue streaks.
Hope is 5 feet 11 inches tall.
Hy is 5 feet 1 inch tall.
Hope used to play the baritone horn.
Hy used to play the flute.
I just about had myself convinced. But then, in a perfect example of how I can make the ludicrous legit, I thought, Wait—if she were Bizarro Hope, her initials would be W.H., not H.W.
And that ended that.
I kind of enjoy going over to someone’s house for the first time because I can check out her or his bedroom. A bedroom reveals a lot about what’s important to a person.
Bridget’s room: Highlighted newspaper clippings, mushy greeting cards (on the inside of every one: To B., Love Ya, B.), and dried carnations tacked to a bulletin board. Football practice jersey (Roy 33) hanging on the back of her door. Countless couple pics in frames, wedged in her mirror, loose and waiting to be put in a photo album, including: B. and B. at homecoming, B. and B. in front of a Christmas tree, and B. and B. in the black-and-white photo booth on the boardwalk.
Conclusion: We’re all in trouble when B. and B. break up.
Manda’s room: Millions of tiny holes in the walls, the only sign that they used to be covered with tons of kissable pics of hot hun
ks, gorgeous guys, and studly celebs torn out of Bop and Sixteen magazines. These fantasy photos have been replaced with wallet-size school pictures of all her past boyfriends. They look like mug shots. She’s not in any of them. Above her bed? A poster: Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History.
Conclusion: Boys, boys, boys and Women’s Lib—perfect together.
Sara’s room: Crucial communication devices (cell phone, headset phone, two-way pager, Palm Pilot, laptop) within reach of her bed—a queen-size model with a white- and gold-flecked marble frame, scalloped seashell headboard, and a black velvet duvet. YM, Twist, Seventeen, CosmoGirl!, Cosmopolitan, Vogue, Entertainment Weekly, People, National Enquirer, and many other mags and rags sink into the ankle-deep crimson carpet. A professionally framed collage of skeletal models and actresses is the only wall hanging that doesn’t fit in with the die-hard faux-rococo décor favored by her stepmother, Shelly.
Conclusion: Poor little rich Eye-talian girl wants to be a size zero—and will gripe about that or gossip about anything else to anyone who will listen.
My room: Walls the color of a week-old bruise from when Hope and I tried to slap gray over the hot pink paint my parents picked when I was a baby. Dozens of dusty plaques, trophies, and ribbons unceremoniously toppling over each other on a shelf in the far corner. Several "new classics" movie posters (Sixteen Candles, Stand by Me, Say Anything). Mind-blowing mosaic of two smiling friends.
Conclusion: Obviously on the brink of schizophrenia.
Hope’s (old) room: Girlie flowered wallpaper covered up by dozens of paintings, sketches, and works in progress. Framed snapshot of a little boy with a crew cut, wearing overalls, struggling to carry a crying baby with flame-red hair, a funeral mass card for Heath Allen Weaver tucked into the corner. Small bookcase, packed with art books of Monet, Picasso, Warhol.
Conclusion: I’ll never know her new room as well as the old one.
I got only the briefest glimpse inside Hy’s psyche. She’s staying in her aunt’s guest bedroom until her mom’s transfer, so her room isn’t really her room. (Her aunt’s guest room: Page 12 from the Pottery Barn catalog—from the trundle bed to the brass curtain tiebacks, from the area rug to the arrangement of fresh lilies in the vase. Conclusion: She makes a decent amount of money, but doesn’t have a lot of time or imagination.)