“Yes. He’s my best friend at school. He can be an immature, er, dick, for lack of a better word, but that’s just part of his charm. He’s like the pain-in-the-ass little brother I was but never had.”
“Talk about strange but true.”
“You don’t know the half of it. Natty’s parents waged a campaign to have me kicked out of school.”
“Are you serious?”
“Serious. Of course, that only made Natty even more determined to be my friend, as these parental social interventions tend to do.”
“How did they try to get you kicked out? And why?”
“Why? They hated me on sight. And really, who could blame them, right? The Addisons of Alabama had spared no expense in molding their son—a mediocre student and hopeless athlete—into the very model of an Ivy League superachiever. They knew how much time, effort, and money it took to win a coveted spot in Princeton’s Class of 2010. One look at my dreads, my tats, my terrorist beard, and they were one hundred percent convinced that I was an impostor admitted to Princeton under fraudulent pretenses. There had been a few cases of older students with untraditional backgrounds faking transcripts and test scores to get into top schools, and Dr. Addison was damned before he was going to let another one besmirch his alma mater’s good name.”
“What happened?”
“They hired a private investigator to run a background check.”
“No!”
“Yes. My academic record has more holes than a paper target at a firing range. One incomplete after another. The Addisons tried to argue that I never technically graduated from high school and was therefore ineligible for enrollment as a first-year student.”
“Obviously, nothing came of it, right? Because you’re still graduating this spring.”
“Princeton investigated my application and ultimately stood by my acceptance.”
“That’s a relief.”
“It should have been.”
“What do you mean?”
“A big part of me agreed with the Addisons. I was a fraud. I had willfully deluded myself into thinking I was anything other than a deviant low-life dreg. They were right! I didn’t belong in the Ivy League! I didn’t deserve to walk among their privileged ranks! And why would I even want to?”
“Marcus, you’re being way too hard on yourself.”
“I second-guessed my reasons for applying in the first place. What was I hoping to gain from a diploma from Princeton that I couldn’t get anywhere else? Sure, a Princeton diploma is a passport to opportunities, but I was motivated by far more than job prospects.”
“Validation, maybe? That you had transcended your trashy roots? I felt that way after I got in to Columbia. After all, our town had semifamously become the representation of dumb, debauched suburban youth.”
“Maybe. But more of a redemption, I think. Applying to Princeton made me both a con artist and the conned.”
“How so?”
“I knew the Office of Admissions would come all over itself at the sight of my application. See? The American meritocracy is not a myth. I could serve as living proof that anyone who works hard enough can rise above his station into the upper tiers of society. Which, of course, is total horseshit. Because the moment I found myself among the elite, the elite—as personified by the Addisons—wanted no part of me. I kept asking myself: Does being here make me a better person, or even a different person, than who I was before? I felt like a fool, a millennial Fitzgerald simultaneously trying to fit in to and fight against the hypocritical foundations of the American class system.”
“Uh, wow. To quote you from earlier: You’ve obviously put a lot of thought into this.”
“And to quote you right back, Jessica: more than you know.”
“You said yourself that a lot of that dregginess was an exaggeration.”
“A lot but not all. Despite my best efforts to be the biggest fuckup I could be.”
“I don’t believe that you went out of your way to make bad choices when you were a kid.”
“I beg to differ, Jessica. I was held back in kindergarten. Do you know why?”
“You sexually propositioned the lunch lady?”
“That was fifth grade.”
“Late bloomer.”
“No, I was held back for being an underachiever. I was this close to being a kindergarten dropout.”
“Just like the book.”
“There’s a book?”
“Yeah, there’s a book. Kindergarten Dropout: Underachiever at Six, Unwanted at Eighteen, Unemployed at Thirty, Dead at Sixty. Or some crap like that. It’s a huge best seller. I’ve seen the MILFs poring over it at Bethany’s place.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. I wish I were. I think the child psychologist–slash-author–slash–evil genius appeared on Dr. Frank Show a few years ago. You obviously predate the book and the hysteria that followed it.”
“Gee, I’m so proud to be a part of the slacker vanguard. Let’s just say I scored extremely well on a pre-K IQ test, and my parents thought I wasn’t living up to my expectations in kindergarten. So they held me back to teach me a lesson, I guess. I needed a strong dose of discipline to rise to the standards of my IQ test. The only lesson I learned was that I was bad.”
“You weren’t bad. You were probably just bored.”
“You’re right. But I grew up feeling like I was always already in trouble for one reason or another. After a while I decided to live up to that rebellious reputation, since I was getting punished for it anyway. And guess what? It turned out that I was very, very good at being bad. Too good. And now, years later, that disreputable label still clings to me, Jessica.”
‘We are what we pretend to be. So we must be careful what we pretend to be.’
“Exactly. That’s exactly right. Who said that?”
“I can’t remember who said it first, but I heard it from Mac—you know, Samuel MacDougall—years ago, and I never forgot it. He has a habit of offering inspiring quotations for every occasion. I wish I could remember who originated the pretend-to-be quote. I like to give credit where credit is due. Especially when I come off sounding like a bumper sticker.”
“Or a bad tattoo.”
“Vonnegut! Kurt Vonnegut!”
“Now you can move on with your life. Again.”
“Yes, I can. Okay. So what I don’t get is… you were under eighteen when you got in the most trouble, right? You were a minor. Aren’t those youthful indiscretions considered privileged information? How could the Addisons access any of those records?”
“They had ties to the Bush White House. My kindergarten report card was clearly a matter of national security.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Barely. That’s the irony of the situation; they couldn’t even get their hands on the worst of it. They couldn’t get police reports or rehab charts or any psychiatric evaluations from that time period. Just my Pineville High transcripts.”
“They probably bribed Brandi in the guidance department to get those. Do you remember Brandi?”
“I can’t say that I do. Which one was Brandi?”
“She looked like she was auditioning for the role of Nympho Hood Ornament in an eighties hair-band video.”
“Hmm … I saw so many counselors and therapists and psychiatrists between the ages of twelve and eighteen that they kind of blend together.”
“Brandi was the only one I was ever forced to talk to. I guess that’s why I remember her so vividly.”
“Why did you have to talk to her?”
“My tenth-grade chem teacher thought I was suicidal.”
“You were suicidal?”
“No. I just enjoyed writing suicidal lyrics on my book covers.”
“Who doesn’t at sixteen?”
“Exactly. But my suicidal song lyrics were misinterpreted by my chemistry teacher as a desperate cry for help. So I had to go down to guidance and talk to Brandi about my feelings.”
“Oh
, man. Talking about feelings is the worst.”
“The worst. But it turned out not to be a complete waste of time.”
“How so?”
“Well… uh … Oh, never mind.”
“What? You can’t stop now. That’s not fair.”
“Do you remember bumping into me right outside her office?”
“Me? And you? Outside her office?”
“You don’t remember that?”
“I’m trying to remember, Jessica.”
“Oh, come on, Marcus. You remembered the titles of my editorials and our conversation in the Caddie. You remembered a story about Marin that you didn’t experience firsthand. You can’t remember this?”
“Honestly, Jessica, I can’t say that I do.”
[Cough. Sniffle.] “Oh, it’s no big deal.” [Sniffle.]
“I’m sorry, Jess—”
“Ha! Pay up, sucka!”
“Did you just trick me into apologizing?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Here. Now you’re one up.”
“Thank you. And for the record, I probably wouldn’t remember seeing you outside her office, either. Only … well… that’s the first time I ever wrote about you in my journal.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“And what did you have to say about me?”
“Hmmmm … I think I said that crackheaded girls who didn’t know any better thought you were sexy. Then I went on for many, many paragraphs doth protesting too much about how I just didn’t understand your appeal.”
“Doth protesting too much. That’s classic. I do believe that sums up a lot.”
“About what?”
“About… oh, wait, hold that thought. My phone is vibrating again. It’s Natty again. Only this time he sent—Dude.”
“What?”
“He sent a picture. Do you want to see it?”
[Pause.]
“Those are two of the biggest, fakest, roundest tits I’ve ever seen. Where was this picture taken?”
“New Jersey Transit.”
“Oh, nice. And did you see the message? ‘Venn Diagram: Ho/Hot.’ And look, he included an adorable little emoticon rendering of big, fake, round tits just in case we didn’t get the joke. Such clever use of parentheses as a visual aid. No wonder he’s a Rhodes Scholar.”
“You won’t get another dollar out of me, Jessica. I’m not making any apologies for his behavior.”
“Well, you told me he was an immature dick. It turns out he’s sexist, too!”
“Sometimes, yes. He is. But that has nothing to do with this picture. He sent it because he’s looking out for me.”
“Because he knows how much you appreciate a ginormous silicone rack?”
“No. He’s trying to embarrass me by association. He sent that picture to protect me.”
“Protect you? From what?”
“Not what. Who.”
“Who?”
“From you.”
“Me.? Why me? And how does he even know you’re with me?”
[Throat clearing.] “Er, he knows because I told him.”
“When?”
“Right after you ran me over but before you rescued me.”
“You called him?”
“I … told him. I needed to tell someone about it, to confirm that it had actually happened. Why, you didn’t tell anyone? Didn’t you say you talked to Hope earlier? You didn’t say anything to her?”
“Uh, no. Actually, I didn’t. But like I said, Marcus, I’m really, really distracted today. My brain is going in too many different directions.”
“Oh, sure, I can see how you could forget to mention seeing me for the first time in three years. I can see how that would slip your mind.”
[Pause.]
“So, Natty doesn’t approve of me, huh?”
“Not you as a person, just you as a … concept. He was there for everything that happened. And everything that happened afterward. [Throat clearing.] He’s really the best friend I’ve ever had.”
“Better than … uh … oh … ?”
“I assume that by ‘uh … oh’ … you mean Len?”
“I was trying to remember who else you were friends with.”
“There haven’t been too many. There was Hope’s brother, of course.”
“Right.”
“After Heath died, my options were limited. Len was the first one in our class who was willing to give me a chance, to get to know me. I’ll never forget that. And he was a good friend for a while … until…”
“Until… uh …”
“Let’s put it this way. It’s hard to be friends with someone when …”
“You’ve got [cough] competing interests?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
[Pause.]
“Well. Uh. I never thought you and Natty would get so tight. I had my doubts about your lasting a semester in the same room.”
“What about you and Manda?”
[Cough. Cough. Cough.] “What about me and Manda? What do you know about me and Manda?”
“Nothing. Just that you were improbable roommates for that year in Brooklyn.”
“We were hardly friends. Even on our best days, she was more like an amusing adversary than a friend. We lost touch. I haven’t seen her since Sara and Scotty’s wedding back in 2008. Anyway, I have no idea what she’s up to or where she is, and I don’t really care. So, no. Not friends. Not then. And not now. And really, not ever and—Why are you laughing?”
“No reason.”
“Seriously. Why are you laughing?”
“You won’t think it’s funny.”
“Try me.”
“Oh, Jessica. You’re doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“Doth protesting too much.”
“I am not!”
“You are.”
“Am not… Stop laughing!”
“I’m laughing because the more you say that, the more you’re doing it.”
“Why would I doth protest too much about Manda? There’s nothing to protest.”
“I don’t know why you are doth protesting. I only know that you are.”
nine
(arrested development)
“Do you hear that, Jessica?”
“Christ! That’s my phone again. Where is it?”
“Am I hearing what I think I’m hearing? Is that? Could it be?”
“Dammit, where is my phone? I can never find it when I need it.”
“Is that Barry Man—”
“Yes! It’s Barry Manilow, okay? I have a Barry Manilow ring tone. I keep mashing the wrong buttons on this damn thing today. I must have accidentally taken my phone off vibrate when I checked the message from Bethany. Get over—Oh! Here it is. Oh … It’s from Hope. She sent a picture of… OMIGOD! ACK!” [Laughter.]
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Let me see.”
“I’m warning you, it’s kind of… uh …”
[Laughter.] “Donkey porn?”
“It’s an inside joke!”
“And you had the nerve to accuse my friend of being a pervert?”
“I accused him of being a sexist, immature dick. Not the same thing.”
[Pause.]
“What if I make an apology for obnoxious behavior that legitimately deserves an apology? Will I still owe you a dollar?”
“All such exemptions will be made on a case-by-case basis. Why? To whom do you owe an apology?”
“Hope.”
“Hope? For what?”
“I wasn’t being fair to her earlier. I shouldn’t have been so eager to mention that she dropped out of school when she’s kicking the art world’s ass right now. I’m happy for her new relationship, too. But to give this apology its due respect, I will confess that, yes, it did rub me the wrong way when you assumed Hope was the one so altruistically toiling for disaffected youth. Hope deserves better from me. Especially
when she has so bravely faced her great fear of donkeys just to make me laugh. So, Hope, I’m sorry I was an undermining bitch. It was worth losing a dollar to apologize out loud.”
“Keep your money.”
“You sure?”
“I’m positive.”
[Pause.]
“You could call her.”
“I could, but…”
“You don’t want to talk to her in front of me, do you?”
“What?”
“You avoided your sister, you avoided Hope …”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t want anyone to know that you’re here with me.”
“Woooow! Where did that come from? You’re—”
“Presumptuous. Who am I to jump to such conclusions about you? Especially when I haven’t spoken to you in three years? Who am I to do that?”
“Actually, I was going to accuse you of being stuck in arrested development.”
“Stunted at seventeen.”
“Which means you, Marcus Flutie, are still the Poet/Addict Man-whore. And I, Jessica Darling, am still the Cynical Girl Who Has It All and Yet Has Nothing at All. And that makes Hope the Idealized Best Friend Who Isn’t Around Anymore and Would Never Understand My Relationship with Marcus Flutie.”
“Is that your subtle way of telling me I’m wrong?”
“Right.”
“Then why not call her back, if not to apologize, then at least to thank her for the donkey porn?”
“I figure I’ve got limited time to talk to you, and you know, I live with her, so …”
“You can talk to her anytime, but who knows when you’ll ever see me again. This is a one-time-only opportunity. It’s now or never again.”
[Cough.] “Uh, right.”
“May I ask you a serious question, then, since our time together is limited?”
[Pause.]
“Jessica?”
“Uh … yeah… uh … okay. Sure. Shoot.”
[Dramatic pause.]
“Why is Barry Manilow your ring tone?”
“Ha! That’s your big question?”
“Yup, that’s it.”
“Whew. I was worried there.”
“Obviously. But why?”
“I was just worried that you’d ask something I wouldn’t be capable of answering.”
“Such as?”
“Marcus, we have done a commendable job at keeping this conversation within a certain comfort zone. Let’s not ruin it by trying to …”