"I read your poem," I croaked. "’Fall.’"
Then something I never thought would happen, happened: Marcus Flutie was shocked by something I said.
"You did?" he said. "I thought you lost it!"
"Well, someone found it for me. Where do you get off saying," I lowered my voice, "we’ll be naked without shame in paradise?"
He didn’t open his mouth.
"I know what that means, you know. Who do you think I am?"
He didn’t open his mouth.
"We are never going to be naked without shame in paradise."
He didn’t open his mouth.
"We’re NEVER going to have sex," I whispered, clearly overstating my case.
He didn’t open his mouth. The mouth that he used to bite mine.
"And I’m just going to forget about that biting thing from the other night," I said.
He looked me right in the eyes. If he’d focused hard enough on my pupils, he could’ve seen his own reflection, his own face smirking at me.
"You couldn’t forget it if you tried," he said, before walking away.
He’s right. And I don’t know if I hate him or love him for that.
the twelfth
I can’t stop thinking about sex.
Specifically, that everyone at PHS has had sex except me. I mean, even Pepe Le Puberty used to grope his pixie chick like un homme qui a beaucoup de sexe.
Am I a dysfunctional freak for not doing it?
I’m not a prude. I’ve just never imagined myself being devirginized by just any guy. It’s not that I’ve been suckered into that why-marry-the-cow-when-you-can-get-the-milk-for-free? crap. And I don’t cherish my virginity as a precious jewel, or a delicate flower, or any other of the corny metaphors used to describe it by Holy Rollers. I just have high standards, that’s all.
I’ve always wanted to have sex with the first guy I had a Hope-like conversation/connection with. The vast majority of boys are too farty and horny and corny all the time. (Scotty, Burke, Rob, P.J., etc.) Why would I want anyone sticking anything on his body into anything on my body if I can hardly stand to talk to him for more than thirty seconds? Most of the time when they’re sweet and smooth, they’re only being sweet and smooth so they can get into my pants. (Cal.) Then there are the worst kind of guys. Guys who’ve got a good game and therefore think that the few dozen girls who’ve been inside their boxers are representative of all femalekind. (No example necessary.)
Oh, I see right through them all. Why doesn’t everyone else?
the fourteenth
Hallelujah. I’m not a shriveled-up spinster-in-the-making.
This morning, I rediscovered the real reason why I’m not a ho-bag. One that I’ve never told anyone. Not even Hope. Here it is:
I’m what Cosmo would call a "highly orgasmic woman."
I know. Certifiable, right? Especially since I’m in a hormonal shutdown that has no signs of starting up again. (I’m not thinking about that right now.) But you haven’t heard the really insane part: I don’t even masturbate. It’s true. And not because I think I’ll go insane or grow hair on my fingers. I don’t think masturbation is nasty or dirty or a one-way ticket to hellfire and damnation. I know that it’s "a safe and healthy way of getting in touch with [my] burgeoning sexuality" (page 92, Learning About Your Body, copyright 1998). But the fact is, all my forays into self-stimulation have been failures. I can’t get over the ridiculousness of rubbing one out.
No matter; I can have orgasms without so much effort. I used to get off just by having XXX-rated Paul Parlipiano daydreams. (That era has ended.) Sometimes I don’t even have to try to think sexy thoughts—my subconscious takes care of it for me. I’ve woken up numerous times to that telltale throb in the middle of the night, the girlie equivalent to nocturnal emission, I guess. And don’t ask me why, but I always feel one coming on whenever I do push-ups, which can be problematic at track practice.
I have orgasms so easily that for the longest time I didn’t even realize they were orgasms. It’s not something they teach you in Sex Ed. And women’s mags make such a big O fuss that I figured that my below-the-belt thumping just meant that I was really turned on. The hard-to-get orgasm had to be on a whole other level than what I’ve experienced since I was eleven and discovered scrambled soft porn on cable, right? The thought kind of scared me, to tell you the truth. Last year when I overheard Carrie P. describing them as "waves of sensation so [fucking] intense, so [fucking] insane, they almost hurt [like fucking hell]," I realized I’d been having them all along.
So I’m not sexually dysfunctional. I’m sexually self-sufficient. My body takes care of biz all by itself. I’ve got a built-in sexual-tension escape valve that will stop me from doing it with a total loser. I can get off without any boy’s help, so what’s the point of getting one involved when he’s only going to disappoint me later?
There’s just one teensy-weensy detail that I’ve conveniently left out: It was a full-on freaky-deaky dream about Marcus that helped me come to this conclusion. (Ha. In more ways than one.)
the twenty-second
I got in trouble today. But this time I really didn’t do anything. Sort of.
The intercom call came during homeroom: "Mr. Ricardo. Could you please send Jess Darling down to the counselor’s office?"
PHS is nothing, if not discreet.
Even though Marcus and I hadn’t talked to each other since our awkward hallway showdown, I instinctively shot him a look as I got up to leave. He shrugged. I glanced at Sara. She smirked. Something was up.
In the eleven months since our last rap session, Brandi had grown out her foot-high bangs in favor of a shaggier metal-head mane. Think: Bon Jovi, Slippery When Wet tour, 1987. She was as supernaturally perky as ever.
"Your teachers and peers are a bit concerned about you, Jess," she began.
I sneered. "My peers?"
I knew it. This had Sara all over it. This was a way of getting back at me. She had looked too pleased in homeroom not to have something to do with this.
"Right!" bubbled Brandi. "It seems that they’ve seen you talking to some (ahem) unsavory characters."
This wasn’t fair. There was only one (ahem) unsavory character, not unsavory characters plural. And we haven’t even been talking much lately. But it just goes to show you how out of touch the powers-that-be at PHS really are.
"You mean Marcus Flutie."
"Right! Marcus Flutie!"
I didn’t say anything.
"You see, Jess, you’re a role model for the younger students," Brandi said.
Me. The most ridiculous role model ever. Hadn’t my editorials taught them anything about me?
"And it worries the administration when someone as bright as you gets caught up in a bad crowd."
Marcus Flutie. A bad crowd of one. How bogus was this, since he hadn’t even done anything bad since he got back to school. No matter. They still saw him as Krispy Kreme, even though he’d been totally reformed. Well, drug-wise, at least.
"Are your new friends pressuring you to say the things you say in your editorials?"
I almost fell out of my chair. The administration did read my editorials. But they didn’t think they were mine. They believed that I was a mouthpiece for Marcus Flutie. That the subjects of my editorials were coming from his heart, not mine.
This was too much.
I knew I could’ve bullshitted my way out of this like the last time I was dragged down here. But I realized I could probably cause a bigger scene by speaking up. If Brandi wanted to judge me by my rah-rah-sis-boom-bah, so be it.
"Are my grades going down?"
"Well, they don’t seem to be. No."
"Am I ranked number one in my class?"
"Well, you seem to be. Yes."
"Does Miss Haviland have a problem with what I’ve written in the paper?"
"Well, no …"
"There’s no problem here," I said, flouting authority in a way I never had before. "And I don’t apprec
iate being pulled out of class to be told who I can and can’t talk to."
I gathered my books and left.
I was too angry to enjoy my moment of rebellion. PHS is so goddamn hypocritical. I get called down to the office for merely talking to Marcus Flutie. Christ, if the administration found out that the number-one-ranked student was banging the captain of the football, basketball, and baseball teams, they’d probably throw us a fucking parade.
Ha. Make that, a Fucking Parade. With a capital "F."
Still, the meeting wasn’t a waste of time. It made me realize that I need Marcus back in my life. Anything met with disapproval by the PHS authorities must be good for me. When I called Marcus tonight, I told him just that.
"I’m glad you feel that way, Jessica," he said.
Unfortunately, he’s visiting his brother in Maine for the holidays. So I can’t have him back in my life until next year. Next year is really next week. Just ten days away. But saying "until next year" sounds more traumatic. As traumatic as it felt when I realized that Hope and Marcus are due back in Pineville on the same day and I’m not sure who I need to see more. If Marcus is the male equivalent to Hope that I’ve always dreamed of, does that make her obsolete? No. It can’t. I won’t let it.
It’s so unfair that I have tons of room in my life for people I hate, yet have to choose between the only two real friends I’ve ever had. Why can’t I have both?
the twenty-fourth
In the mail today arrived the best card ever, folded into the shape of a star, postmarked Bangor, Maine.
WISHING YOU A MERRY XMAS
’Tis the season
for fireproof evergreens
covered in pine-scented
aerosol snow
Hip-hop carols
performed by prepackaged teen divas
backed by one-man synthesizer orchestras
Drunken Santa Clauses for
every gas station
And the latest in nativity scene technology:
"Hear the baby Jesus cry!"
Do genuine kisses exist
in a world of plastic mistletoe?
Merry xmas ’00
the twenty-fifth
Bethany and G-Money have already departed, barely twelve hours after their arrival—eight of which were spent sleeping. They’re headed for the airport, where they will hop on a plane to Turks and Caicos, where they will be staying with G-Money’s family through New Year’s Day.
Bethany neglected to tell my parents this until after we had opened each other’s presents and were about to sit down for breakfast. Nat King Cole crooned. The house smelled of pine needles and cinnamon buns. The tree twinkled. Everyone was warm with holiday cheer, so it was the perfect moment for Bethany to Grinch it up.
Upon hearing the news, my father grabbed his coat, bolted to the garage, and hopped on his bike, muttering Goddammits under his breath. G-Money just sat at the kitchen table, useless as usual. This left me alone to deal with my mother.
"I can’t believe you, Bethany!" my mother shouted. "You promised you’d spend the holidays with us! Why didn’t you tell us sooner?"
"We did not tell you because we knew that you would overreact."
Sometime since our last conversation, Bethany had dropped her faux Euro accent in favor of the clipped, crisp, over-enunciated dialect favored by the Mid-Atlantic upper class, which was just as ridiculous since she lived in California now.
"Overreact?" screamed my mother, in tears. "I haven’t seen you since your wedding and you can’t even bring yourself to spend an entire day with us! It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake!" She stormed out of the kitchen and locked herself in the bathroom.
Bethany pouted. "It was a lot of trouble get-ting out here at all. And this is the thanks I get for trying to be the good daughter."
The good daughter. Ha! I don’t know if either of us qualified as the good daughter, but the way she was outbitching herself, I was definitely coming out ahead.
"You know what, Bethany? Do us all a favor and don’t try so hard next time."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"It means, don’t burden yourself by gracing us with your presence if you’re going to be such a bitch about it."
The insult whizzed right past her. She had already focused on something more important. "Enough talk!" she snapped, waving her diamond-dripping fingers in my face. "We must get Mother out of the bathroom."
"That’s the first decent thing you’ve said since you’ve been home."
Maybe Bethany isn’t such a monster after all, I thought. Maybe she’s capable of thinking about someone other than herself.
"My makeup is still in there. I desperately need it for my vacation."
At that moment, I decided that no matter how much my parents pissed me off—which was sure to be a sizable amount—I would never be like this. Never.
Makeup be damned, my mom stayed in the bathroom until after Bethany and G-Money’s hasty departure. Eventually, I was able to persuade her to come out with the promise of hot cider and a plate of cookies. She slowly opened the door.
"You called your sister a bitch.…"
Great, I thought.Grounded again. Is there no justice in this world?
She jerked her fingers through her hair, as though she were about to rip it out.
"I’m glad you said it before I did."
My mom and I sat in front of the Christmas tree, sipping cider and biting the heads off gingerbread men. We surveyed all the super-pricey presents Bethany and G-Money had given us.
"You know she hired a personal shopper to pick out these gifts," my mom said, rubbing a pink silk robe against her cheek. "She didn’t have time to do it herself."
"That explains why these presents are so perfect," I said, picking up a slick leather journal and fountain pen. "The personal shopper knows us better than she does."
Mom smiled, shook her head, and said, "Why do you have to be so smart?"
"As long as I’m not a smart-ass, right?"
Mom gently brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. "Then you wouldn’t be you."
I held up the journal. It was so shiny that I could see the reflection of my mom and me laughing together on the couch. And even though I know that’s not what we really look like, it was close enough.
the twenty-eighth
The operator said, "Collect call from Marcus. Do you accept?"
As if I had a choice in the matter.
"I accept."
"Thank you," said the operator and Marcus simultaneously.
"Marcus, where are you?"
"Still in Maine with my brother."
"Why are you calling?"
Was he calling just to chat? Was he calling for no reason at all? Just because … ?
"Mia broke up with me," Marcus said. "This is a first for me."
My head pounded, knowing that this meant things were about to become a lot more complicated. Or easier. Depending on the way you looked at it.
"She did? When?"
"She mailed me a Merry Christmas-I’m-Breaking-Up-with-You card. I’ll read it to you," he said. He cleared his throat. "Dear Marcus. Merry Christmas. I’m breaking up with you. Mia."
"It does not say that."
"You’re right," he said. "But it would be so classic if it did."
"So why did she break up with you?"
"Well, she said it’s because I’m no fun. I don’t drink or drug anymore, so I’m no fun. I go to AA meetings instead of hanging out, so I’m no fun. And I do homework instead of having sex, so I’m no fun. I guess she wanted to break up with me before New Year’s Eve so she could finally have fun."
I was too busy thinking about him doing homework instead of having sex to reply.
"The reason I’m calling is because I need to spend New Year’s Eve with you."
Need. Not want. Need.
"Why?"
"Can’t you hear the devastation in my voice?"
"No," I said. "You sound holly-jolly to me." He rea
lly did.
"It’s all an act," he said. "I need to be consoled."
"By who?"
"By who?" he said, insulted. "By you, of course."
Of course. Consoled. Consolation prize. Runner-up. Second best. Oh, wait. Not sloppy seconds. Sloppy firsts.
"So I’ll see you on New Year’s Eve," he said, hanging up before I could refuse.
the twenty-ninth
Reasons Why I Should Not Have Sex with Marcus Flutie
1. I don’t want to ruin my friendship with Hope by telling—or not telling—her.
2. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of fulfilling the "Fall" prophecy.
3. I don’t want to be just another donut—I’d rather be remembered as the one girl he couldn’t have.
4. I don’t want to destroy this weird whatever relationship we have.
5. I don’t want to end up proving the naysayers right.
6. I don’t want to embarrass myself with my lack of ability.
7. I don’t want him to see my sorry boobage.
8. I don’t want to get pregnant. (This is highly unlikely since I haven’t ovulated in over a year, but knowing my luck I’d get knocked up anyway.)
9. I don’t want to catch some nasty-ass STD that he has possibly contracted from one of his Hoochiest lays.
10. I don’t want to get caught because no way my last name will save me.
Reasons Why I Should Have Sex with Marcus Flutie
1. I want to. Oh, God, do I want to.
the thirty-first
So it was settled. New Year’s Eve was Devirginization Day. D-Day.
I even had the perfect outfit. The anti-homecoming dress. Just one long unzip down the middle and I was ready for action. In theory, that is.
"I told you you’d have a reason to wear that," said my mom, popping her head into the bathroom as I wiped off the mascara I had just jabbed onto my cheek. "Who is this boy you’re going out with?"
"He’s just a friend from my classes, Mom." I hoped she didn’t notice how badly my hands were shaking.
"Does this friend have a name?"
I hesitated. I’d already lied about our destination—a party at Scotty’s house—and I didn’t want to push my luck. If I didn’t tell her, she’d torture me until I did.
"His name is Marcus," I said, reapplying the lip gloss I had already chewed off. "Marcus Flutie."