Maybe Hy had originally intended to get metafictional, then changed her mind after seeing Bridget’s lackluster audition. Or perhaps Hy planned all along to humiliate Bridget by telling her she wasn’t talented enough to play herself. All I do know is that as bad is it will be in four days when the book hits stores, the movie is going to be even worse. I don’t look forward to the day that Bridget innocently heads to the multiplex to see the new Julia Roberts romantic comedy and is driven to public suicide when the trailer for BGB seizes the screen.
There was no need to encourage Bridget’s Hy-steria today. I tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, the only place my mind has been since the Anti-Homecoming. Just as Bridget’s insanity has intensified with every day it got closer to BGB arriving in bookstores, my own mental stability gets shakier as the deadline for Columbia draws near. January first is not that far away. I’ve got to make up my mind.
“So Taryn actually talked to me yesterday,” I said.
“Really? I thought she was, like, a mute or something.”
“She usually is, but she went out of her way to tell me that Paul was very disappointed that I decided not to apply to Columbia.”
“Why are you, like, bringing this up?”
“I don’t know. . . .”
She looked at me seriously. “It’s like you’re looking for, like, permission or approval or something.”
My argument got stuck on the tip of my tongue. She was right. I have been looking to other people to tell me that I should apply and accept admission. I’ve been looking for as many people as possible to assure me that if I decide to attend a school in New York City, I won’t die, because at this point in history, anyone’s opinion is as valid as anyone else’s. Since 9/11, no one knows anything about anything. All bets are off. Pundits can talk and talk and talk, using this piece of data and that bit of evidence to assure the American public that this is all going to play out in our favor. But when it comes down to it, they’ve got about as much credibility as Miss Cleo.
I was—and still am—completely unprepared for true tragedy. I don’t think any of us can be ready for it, and those who say otherwise are lying. I didn’t know what to say on that infamous day because I couldn’t wrap my head around the enormity of it all. I knew life would never be the same again, but I didn’t know how. So I did what I always do when I can’t handle something: I made it manageable by being petty and small. I’m not proud of how superficial I sounded in the days after 9/11, but I won’t destroy the evidence. I’ll hold on to it because it was real. Flawed and fucked up, but real.
Kind of like this journal as a whole.
Anyway, now that things are eerily “back to normal,” I have even less of an idea of what the future will be like, which is why I have no idea what to do about Columbia.
“Well, like, Percy and I both think you should go for it,” Bridget continued. “What’s the harm in applying? If you get in, you, like, don’t have to go.”
See, that’s where she’s wrong. If I get in, I’ll have to go. If only to fulfill my fate. But if I don’t apply, I don’t have to worry about getting in, going, and dying. She and Pepe just couldn’t convince me to apply, but I thanked her for her opinion, anyway.
Later, when I brought it up to Len before Health and Human Sexuality, he told me I should definitely apply to Columbia because it’s ahead of Amherst, Piedmont, Swarthmore, and Williams in the latest U.S. News and World Report rankings, plus its Ivy League cred will go very far with recruiters in whichever field I wish to pursue after I graduate.
That wasn’t enough, either, which is why I am not a good girlfriend.
When Len was talking, Marcus shifted in his seat, as if he was about to say something to me. I really wanted to hear what he had to say. Another reason I’m not a good girlfriend.
“Marcus,” I boldly ventured. “Do you have something to contribute to this conversation?”
This was a big deal. It was the first time either one of us had gone out of our way to get the other’s attention since Len and I started going out. We’d even stopped our daily parody of a conversation.
Marcus turned halfway around.
“I don’t,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, more defeated than I had wanted to sound.
“But,” he surprised me by continuing, “Gladdie might. You should talk to her about this. She gives good advice.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I replied flatly.
“You know, you really should visit her more,” he said, fully rotating so I could look him in the face.
“How do you know? I could be there every day you’re not,” I replied. Linda, at my request, had provided me with his work schedule so I would know when it would be safe to visit.
“Because I know you’re not.”
He’d called my bluff. I’d only visited Gladdie once since Thanksgiving.
“Gladdie tells me,” he said. “She tells me lots of things.”
Before he could elaborate, Brandi held up this thing that looked like a sandwich Baggie.
“What is this?” she called out. No one answered, but that didn’t stop her. “Right! A bit of Reality! Reality female condom, that is!”
While Brandi sang the praises of alternative forms of contraception, I tried to imagine what Gladdie and Marcus talk about. Clearly, Marcus’s persuasive appeal spans the generations and Gladdie can’t stop herself from telling Marcus things the way that I can’t stop myself from telling Marcus things. Or used to, that is. Before I knew better. But Gladdie? She’s defenseless. I can only hope that Marcus doesn’t take the senile ramblings of a ninety-year-old stroke victim too seriously. And vice versa.
the fifteenth
To steal Hy’s gossipy thunder . . .
WHAT BUXOM CHEERLEADER’S AFFECTIONS HAVE TURNED AWAY FROM HER BALLER BOYFRIEND, AND TOWARD A RECENTLY REFORMED GUITAR GOD?
MANDA!!! And Marcus!!!
“Are you gonna drop me for that fucking Dreg?” yelled Scotty before Health and Human Sexuality.
“Scotty! Stop being such an alpha male! I will not tolerate this mental or physical abuse!”
“Are you?”
“Puh-leeze.”
“ARE YOU?” he said, grabbing her arm.
“Well, if I did drop you, it would be for someone with more feminine sensitivity!” Then she bit his hand until he let go, and ran to the classroom.
I guess listening to Brandi talk about fallopian tubes and foreskin for forty minutes made Scotty and Manda sufficiently hot and bothered for a reconciliation. As soon as class ended, they dry-humped and made up. They spent the rest of the day walking hand-in-bandaged-hand.
Still, I’m certainly not convinced that Manda is uninterested in Marcus. I couldn’t help but ask Marcus what he thought of the item.
“I didn’t get the e-mail,” Marcus said. “I guess I’m not part of the inner circle.”
“Um. What e-mail?” Len had overheard me.
Len hadn’t gotten Pinevile Low this time either, and it hadn’t even crossed my mind to tell him about it. I’m such a sucky girlfriend.
“Pinevile Low.”
“What did it say?”
“Well, among other things, that Manda wants Marcus.”
“Manda wants you?!”
Len’s voice crackled with fear. Of what? Manda ripping the band apart, just as things were getting good? Was Manda another Yoko?
Marcus shrugged.
“Why would she. Um. Want you?”
“It happens,” he replied lazily.
“But she hated you.”
“It happens,” he said again, only this time through a yawn.
Sure, it happens all the time, doesn’t it? Girls hate you, then want you. No big deal. Yawn. You’ve grown so weary of girls hating you, then wanting you, then maybe hating you again. You’re so tired of girls and their hating, wanting, hating that all you want to do is fall right into bed. And if Manda, or any one of the other girls who want you, just happen to be wa
iting, spread-eagled, under the sheets, well, it’s easier to fuck than it is to fight, right? Get her in and out of your bed. Yawn. To make room for the next girl who wants you.
Christ. This journal is dangerously close to becoming barbecue fuel.
Quick change of subject: I was kind of surprised that my hook-up with Len didn’t make it into the newsletter. But then I realized that the coupling of the Class Brainiacs isn’t exactly whoop-de-doo news.
Whoever is doing this knows a lot about technology. I know this because I asked my dad about it, since he’s about as wonky as they come. My curiosity was only half responsible for the attempt at communication. My mother had gotten on my case about us not talking, worried that this “silly cross-country thing” was going to cause “irreparable damage” to a “father/daughter relationship” that was already on “shaky ground.” Thus coerced:
“Hey, Dad?”
Grunt.
“I have a technical question for you.”
Grumble.
“About computers.”
“What is it?” he said, his voice bitter and his blue eyes dimmer—ever since that tragic day his daughter destroyed his track-and-field dreams.
I explained how Pinevile Low was sent anonymously from a public computer and the administration couldn’t trace it back to the author blahdiddyblahblahblah.
My dad perked up a little bit, and used terms like “compromised routes” and “free proxy” and “erased logs” until my eyes glazed over.
Then I said thank you and walked out of the room not really understanding the situation any better than before I had asked. If from nothing other than the length of my dad’s explanation, I did glean that it’s fairly sophisticated stuff. Whoever is doing this has done his or her homework. It’s probably the same person we have to thank for our messed-up schedules back in September, which resulted in an additional two weeks’ being tacked onto our school year in June.
Who could it be? I’ve already ruled out the two people at PHS who are smart enough to pull this off. Len has the brains but would never jeopardize his acceptance to Cornell. And Marcus loves mischief, but he’s about as anti-techie as I am. Quite frankly, Pinevile Low just isn’t his style.
All I know is this: If Manda and Marcus get together, it proves that there is no rhyme, reason, or meaning in life.
I’m exhausted, too. Between the possibility of Manda banging Marcus, the application crisis, Bubblegum Bimbos, and all the effort I have to put into being a good girlfriend, I’m . . . done.
the eighteenth
I wasn’t going to read it. I wasn’t going to give in. This lasted three days.
On day one, Bridget tried to respect my wishes by not saying anything much about it.
“Jess, it’s not, like, that bad.”
“Stop! I don’t want to hear anything about it!”
“Okay,” she replied. “But you have nothing to get upset about. It’s actually kind of flattering.”
“Not another word!”
“Okay.”
I knew this was a moot gesture, since no such command would shut Sara’s yap. Even she shocked me by saying how the characters in Bubblegum Bimbos weren’t like real-life people at all.
“Omigod! Quote Kara unquote is supposed to be fat. I am not fat! And my family has been loaded for more than three decades, so we are not quote white trash with new cheddar unquote.”
“Okay,” I said, her arguments not entirely convincing me that “Kara” and Sara were unalike.
“Quote Randa unquote can’t get any guys to fall in love with her, which is the exact opposite of Manda.”
“Okay.” This was closer to being inaccurate, but was, in essence, still pretty true. Manda doesn’t get guys to fall in love. She gets them to fall in lust.
“And quote Gidget unquote is really pretty, like Bridget, but she’s a pathetic loser. Omigod! Everyone knows Bridget is the most sought-after piece of ass in school!”
Knowing Bridget like I do, that sounded exactly like her. Bridget is the most sought-after piece of ass in school, but that hasn’t done much to help her feel any less lonely.
“But quote Jenn Sweet unquote is totally not you. She rocked her SATs, like you, but that’s about it.”
“Oh. Okay,” I replied.
“So . . .” Sara said, dangling the hot-pink-covered book in front of my face. “Don’t you want to read it?”
“No,” I replied, averting my eyes.
“Okay,” she said. “Your loss.”
On day two, I couldn’t get those hot pink swirls out of my eyes. I asked for more info.
“What’s Jenn Sweet like?”
“Omigod! She’s smart, but that doesn’t stop her from partying and being the coolest girl in school. Quote Rose-slash-Hy unquote even kind of worships Jenn.”
“Really?”
“Yes! So she’s NOT LIKE YOU AT ALL,” Sara said, with pleasure. “No offense.”
“Oh, none taken.”
How could I take offense? She was right. Jenn Sweet didn’t sound anything like me.
By day three, the neon blurs bouncing on my retinas had gotten too distracting. So I asked to borrow Sara’s copy.
“Omigod! I knew you would give in and read it!”
She handed it over. I glanced at the jacket copy:
Rose Karenna Williams was the undisputed don of the Madison Avenue Mob, the trendy “trustafarians” who tore through Manhattan nightlife the way that only pretty, unsupervised girls of privilege can. Rose is a Page Six favorite at thirteen. Illegal consort to underwear models at fourteen. Rehabbed at fifteen. Burned out by the whole scene at sixteen. The daughter of a billionaire banker father and a celebrated artist mother, she longs for the normal life she never had. She bravely goes undercover in the strip-mall wastelands of New Jersey to find out whether these simpleminded Bubblegum Bimbos and Assembly-Line Meatballers have it better than she does . . .
That kind of says it all plotwise.
Surreal is the only word I can use to describe the sensation of reading her “fictionalized” take on my world. I must have put the book down a bizillion times, not in anger, but in squirmy discomfort. How does one draw a line between fact and “fictionalized”? Even when Hy, the author, did make things up completely, her imagination seemed more true to life than the reality.
Despite the throw-down interruptions, I read BGB in three hours. I would’ve read it in half that time if I hadn’t stumbled over Hy’s pseudo-ghetto patois. Where’s my Russell Simmons Def-Jam Dictionary when I need it?
I learned a lot about denial by reading this book. Hy’s descriptions of Bridget/Gidget, Manda/Randa, and Sara/Kara could not have been more accurate. But they didn’t recognize the truth when they read it. Why? Because she exposed aspects of their personalities that they try to keep even from themselves.
Sara/Kara: “Fatty chickenhead who catches the vapors and can’t stop cluck cluck cluckin’.” (Bubblegum Bimbos, p. 22)
Translation: Overweight, ignorant gossipmonger who gets caught up in everyone else’s business and can’t stop babbling about unimportant nonissues.
Manda/Randa: “Siamese boo-boo head who will push up on your man before you can say ‘punany.’ ” (BGB, p. 43)
Translation: Two-faced whore who will try to have sex with your boyfriend before you can say “vagina.”
Bridget/Gidget: “Wack for thinking her golden grill is why she gets jerked.” (BGB, p. 18)
Translation: Crazy for thinking her beauty is the source of all her problems.
So you think Hy would’ve gone off on me, right? My neuroses could provide enough material for a trilogy, at least. Maybe even a Harry Potter–style octet.
But Hy didn’t exploit my angsty annoyingness. No. She did something far worse than presenting the real me, flaws and all.
Take this passage, for example:
JENN’S GOT MAD WISDOM AND STEELO. HER BEAN’S BOUNCIN’, SO SHE NEVER LETS TRIFLIN’ SHORTY BULLSHIT GET HER OFF THE HIZZY. SHE’S PIMPED THE
SYSTEM AND HER NAME TO BECOME THE SWEETEST FEMALE IN SCHOOL. BUT SHE’S THE ONLY GIRL WHO’S TOO FLEX TO CARE. (BUBBLEGUM BIMBOS, P. 89)
Translation:
JENN’S REALLY SMART AND STYLISH. SHE’S SO BRAINY THAT SHE NEVER GETS UNNERVED BY TRIVIAL HIGH-SCHOOL NONSENSE. SHE’S USED THE SYSTEM TO HER ADVANTAGE BY EXPLOITING HER NAME AND HAS BECOME THE MOST ENVIED GIRL IN SCHOOL. BUT SHE’S TOO COOL TO CARE.
No wonder no one would mistake Jenn Sweet for me. Jenn Sweet is the Jessica Darling I want to be. The me I could be if I only had the cojones. Maybe from now on, when faced with a dilemma, I should ask myself WWJD? What Would Jenn Do?
the twenty-third
Hy’s book has made me even more introspective than usual, if that’s even possible.
Other significant descriptions of Jenn Sweet, the girl I’d like to be:
“. . . goes balls-out in everything she does.” ( BGB, p. 57)
“...her eye is on success, the platinum ring, the only bling she needs.” (BGB, p. 93)
“. . . won’t let anyone jerk her.” (BGB, p. 198)
The realization that I am not any of these things—superconfident, clearly focused on my goals, or unaffected by the actions of others—coupled with the fact that the Columbia application clock is quickly winding down has made me more freaked out than ever about my future.
In search of an answer, I dug through all my stuff from SPECIAL to find that unopened envelope from Mac, my Columbia-only letter of recommendation. And this is what it said:
To Whom It May Concern:
As Jessica Darling’s writing instructor at the Summer Pre-College Enrichment Curriculum in Artistic Learning, I read her work with pleasure, exhilaration, and even envy. Her journals vibrated with the verve, energy, and life that can only be found in the young. Having her in class made me long to go back to that time myself, when I was emboldened by the unawareness of my own naïveté.