"If we’re so alike, how come the only thing we can talk about is running? Otherwise we don’t talk at all."
"It’s the one thing he feels he has in common with you," she said. "It’s his way of trying to connect with you."
"But he puts so much pressure on me! I start to hate him and the sport, and I don’t want to do it anymore."
"I know," she said. "Just try to remember that every time he talks to you about running, it’s because he loves you, not because he lives to torture you."
Deep down, I already knew that. But that’s so much easier said than done.
"Thank you for showing me your editorials," she said, getting up to go. "That’s the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten."
the twenty-sixth
Hope called tonight, gasping, choking, sobbing.
Heath would have turned twenty today.
The most upsetting thing about it was that she’d been so caught up in the minutiae of private-school life that she forgot her brother’s birthday until her parents called to ask her how she was coping on this sad occasion.
"How could I let my life go on so easily?" she asked me. "How could I?"
I was silently asking myself the same thing.How could I?
Yes. How could I talk to Marcus, someone indirectly responsible for the death of my best friend’s brother, someone so indifferent about it that he’s never once brought it up? Never once apologized or expressed any grief or regret oranything .
And to think I almost caved in and called him last night.
How could I?
the thirtieth
So I haven’t heard from you in a week. What’s up?"
Marcus had tapped me on the shoulder before History class. He had fresh, faint Mia lipstick smears on his neck, right above his shirt collar. Brownish enough to blend in with his still-tanned skin, but clearly visible.
"Nothing’s up. I just haven’t called. That’s all."
Truth was, I had wanted to lift my moratorium on Marcus before it even began. But the guilt of our midnight phone calls ultimately won out over the need for sleep. Plus, I just couldn’t handle getting the details on the homecoming dance. I was starting to feel likehalf of his perfect woman. Mia was the body. I was the brains. And when I saw him and Mia together, they reminded me of the Twin Towers. I was any anonymous curb.
"Oh," he said. "So does this mean that you want me to call you?"
Did I want him to call me? Did I wanthim to callme ?
Yes. No. Yes?
"Don’t answer that," he said. "I know I want to call you. So I will. And if you want to talk to me, we’ll talk. If you don’t want to talk to me, you can hang up."
He held out his hand. "Deal?"
I hesitated. He reached for my hand. We shook on it, skin on skin.Yes .
Then a lightning bolt shot straight through my skivvies. Sha-ZAM!
December 2nd
Hope,
No charts necessary this month.
Bridget and I are talking again. And Manda and Sara are talking again, I assume in response to the fact that Bridget and I are talking again. Very, very lame.
Without Burke, Bridget isn’t so brainless. In fact, their breakup has brought on a sort of metamorphosis. Bridget actually quit the cheerleading squad and is trying out for the school play. She wants to take acting seriously. Rah-rah for her. Seriously.
Now if only I could get a boyfriend to break up with me so I could go through a similar life makeover …
I’m kidding.
All of this is just a way for me to avoid writing about what’s really on my mind right now anyway.
Could you really be here on New Year’s Day?
I can’t think of a better way to make up for last year’s suckfest.
Here’s the thing: Don’t say it unless you mean it. I don’t think I could handle another psych-up and letdown. I know it wasn’t your fault that we had to cancel my summer trip. I don’t blame you, but it was really hard to get over anyway.
So please don’t say you’re coming unless you know you’re coming. And don’t visit unless you really want to visit. Coming back when you really don’t want to would be even suckier than spending New Year’s alone. For me, anyway.
Brutally but honestly yours, J.
december
the fourth
Today is the one-year anniversary of the first day of my last period.
I’m not exactly celebrating.
When I lied to my mom about getting my period, it was just the easiest escape route at the time. I didn’t think much of it because I was sure that sooner or later, it would turn out to be true. So every twenty-eight days I take tampons out of the box under the sink and flush them down the toilet to make her think that I’m cycling as I should.
But I can’t tell her now that my ovaries still aren’t back from vacation. She’ll not only freak out and ground me for lying, but she’ll force me to go to the gyno. And the very thought of getting into the stirrups and letting a total stranger go elbow-deep and up to my uterus … Jesus Christ! I can’t handle it. I just can’t. I’d puke all over the exam table. I swear.
What is wrong with me? Will it ever come back? Why would my female equipment break before I even got a chance to use it? Why was my womanhood revoked? Why am I back to prepubescence?
Oh, the irony. I’m decades ahead of my classmates psychologically. Physically, however, I’m a goddamn kindergartner.
the sixth
PAUL PARLIPIANO IS GAY.
Jesus Christ O’Mighty.
Our whole school is buzzing about it. He came out to his family over Thanksgiving. His family tried to be supportive, but they didn’t want the news spread all over town. They wanted to keep it secret. But yesterday Mrs. Parlipiano ran into a neighbor at Super-Foodtown and broke down right in front of the deli counter. "My son is gay!"
Apparently, Paul Parlipiano had suspected his gayness for a very long time. But it wasn’t until he moved to NYC that he got in touch with his inner George Michael and was ready to be seen as the rainbow-flag-waving fag he is.
I know. Shame on me. How Slim Shady. I know I should be happy for Paul Parlipiano. He’s not lying to himself anymore. Yet I can’t help but be pissed. Not because I don’t have a chance with him now, because God knows Inever had a chance with him, even when he was "straight." No. I’m pissed because I can’t fantasize about him anymore. I’ve created this stellar little imaginary world around him and now he’s ruined it. It’s one thing to get all torqued up over a guy who doesn’t know you exist. It’s quite another to get all torqued up over a guy who doesn’t know you existand likes to take it where the sun don’t shine. One is fantasy. The other is just plain masochistic.
You only think you love me,he said.If you knew me, you would know better.
I’m starting to think I don’t know a damn thing about anyone. Or anything. My entire notion of sex and love is totally, completely, and irreversibly screwed.
the seventh
What does it mean when your true love turns out to be a homosexual?" I asked Marcus on the phone tonight.
"Well, Darlene, I’d assume that means he’s not really your true love."
Darlene is my alter ego. She was born last week. Marcus was lying on his bed, smoking a cigarette, waiting for me to call. He said he started saying my last name over and over and over like a mantra untildarlindarlindarlindarlin became Darlene. Marcus says Darlene has sort of a trailer-trash allure that makes her more fun than I am. Jessica Darling had always sounded too cute, a cheerleader or head of the Clueless Crew or someone else I’d hate. So I welcomed the mutilation.
I tried to explain how much I thought I loved Paul Parlipiano.
"I was totally convinced I loved him, even though I barely knew him."
I could hear Marcus suck on his cigarette. I pictured the orange tip growing and glowing, and Marcus closing his eyes and holding his breath.
"There’s an explanation," I said. "I learned in Psych that sometimes the sensory receptors send impulses straight to the amygdala, which controls emotional responses, bypassing the hypothalamus, which processes and relays the information to the brain."
There was a thoughtful pause.
"I’m not going to pretend I know what you’re talking about," he said. "But you’re basically blaming your love on biology."
"Biology," I repeated, imagining a thin ribbon of smoke reaching for the ceiling, the sky.
"That’s interesting …"
"What?"
"It just makes me wonder what subject you blame for talking to me every night."
I’m still settling on an answer for that one. Probably Chemistry.
Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I just wrote that.
the ninth
Marcus called me tonight and said, "Let’s do something."
We’ve been talking for two months. Not only have we never "done something" together before, but he’s never even called me on a Saturday night. It was understood: Weekdays at midnight were for me. Weekends were for Mia.
"Where’s Mia?" I asked.
"Mia?"
"Yeah, the girl you mack with in the hall every day."
"Oh,her ." I knew he was joking around even though he sounded serious. "Mia is in Philly for her grandmother’s birthday."
"Oh."
"So I was thinking, I’m free, why not see if you wanted to do something with me? Maybe go to Helga’s?"
My tongue inflated to a bizillion times its normal size. It must have, because I could barely breathe, let alone speak.
"Darlene, are you there?"
I had to be cool about this. I had to be his nonsexual female friend who could care less if he was asking me to do something on a Saturday night, which was the closest thing I’ve had to a date, uh,ever . I had to make a joke out of this. Or else.
"So I’m sloppy seconds, is what you’re saying."
"Oh no, Jessica," he laughed. "You’re sloppyfirsts ."
Have truer wordsever been spoken?
I sighed and told him I’d be ready in fifteen minutes.
Sixteen minutes later, we were cruising in the Caddie on Route 9. I was surprisingly not nervous. The Caddie was in the same exact condition it was in the last time I rode in it. Only noRoja . The fact that he hadn’t cleaned it up especially for me reinforced that this was no big deal. Just two friends, going to the diner on a Saturday night. The radio was busted, so Marcus popped Barry Manilow into the eight-track player. Rain pounded on the roof, and the volume was turned way up:
When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
"I know this song!" I shouted over the crescendo. "My mom plays it when she does housework."
"Did you know thatRolling Stone called him ’the showman of our time’?"
Wow. I actually did know that. It’s what my mom says every time I complain about Manilow on the stereo. But the fact that Marcus knew it freaked me out. I mean, how many seventeen-year-old guys know that Barry Manilow is the showman of our time?
Fortunately, we got to Helga’s Diner before I had a chance to obsess about this for another minute.
Marcus hopped out of the car and didn’t even attempt to open my car door for me. Good. Again, he reminded me that this was not a date.
We walked into Helga’s lobby. Bam! Mirrors everywhere. A million Marcus-and-me’s to remind us that we were actually doing this. We were going out in public on a Saturday night—together.
"Smoking or non," growled Viola, our waitress. She intimidated me pretty well for someone who came up to my chin.
"Non," I said before Marcus had a chance.
Non-smoking. Non-date,I thought.
We slid into our booth. He took off his wool pea coat and I was made instantly happy over his decision to ditch his shirt and tie in favor of an oldie but goodie.
"Backstreet’s back?!" I asked, pointing to the boys smiling on his chest.
"What?"
"No jacket and tie?"
"Nah," he said. "That’s just for show at school."
Helga’s was decked for the holidays in the sad but well-intentioned way that diners and gas stations and other public places often are.
"Fake Christmas trees depress me," I said, pointing to a shabby evergreen with plastic, toilet-brush-like branches.
"Me too," he said. "How about fake Christmas trees spray-painted with fake snow?"
"Yes!" I said. "How about fakeXmastrees spray-painted with fake snow?"
"Yessssssss! I hate that word," he said."Xmas."
Then we rattled off a list of things that depressed us about the holidays: pop divas who mess up holiday classics with their show-offy vocal gymnastics; fruitcake; when people don’t write anything but their names inside mass-produced greeting cards; Salvation Army bell-ringers; animatronic Nativity scenes …
"This would’ve been great to write about," I said. "Too bad I already turned in my next editorial."
"What’s the topic?" he asked.
"’Rudolph Revisited: A Red-Nosed Nerd’s Revenge.’"