So I say, "No problem. I’ll do it."
And though I don’t see myself do it, I guess I go for it.
Then Paul Parlipiano says, "Thanks. Now I’ll have sex with you," and he turns off the lights.
Then I guess we start having sex, though I don’t actually see us having sex.
A moment later, I hear a girl’s giggle and the sound of the doorknob turning. The lights flash on.
It’s Kelsey, laughing and pulling Scotty into the room by his hand. Though they don’t say it, I just know they were going in there to have sex.
Scotty sees me having sex and yells, "How could you screw Marcus Flutie?"
I scream, "But it’s Paul!"
Then I look into Paul Parlipiano’s face, only it isn’t Paul Parlipiano anymore. Scotty’s right. It’s Marcus Flutie.
Now that’s what I call a mindfuck.
Needless to say, I was a walking anxiety attack when I got to school. I’d had all weekend to worry about the Marcus thing and I was on the brink of a breakdown. I prayed that Marcus would show up in homeroom, because that meant that everything had worked out and that I wouldn’t get caught. Then I could finally stop feeling so psychotic.
An armada could’ve set sail on my sigh of relief when Marcus strolled past my desk in homeroom this morning.
Throughout the Pledge of Allegiance, attendance, and PA announcements, I looked over at him, hoping he’d make eye contact with me. But he just kept his head bent over his notebook until the bell rang. Marcus was playing it smart. He knew any out-of-the-ordinary behavior on either of our parts would arouse suspicion.
As I was walked into the hall, I felt a gentle shove from behind. I looked back, and for the first time I wasn’t surprised to see Marcus. He apologized with that grin of his, pressing one hand into the small of my back and the other on my waist to "steady" himself. Before I even had achance to ask what had happened (not that I would have) he passed me by, a gleam in his eye, leaving behind his sweet, woodsy smell.
"Omigod! He’s so messed up, he can’t even walk in a straight line," snapped Sara.
You have no idea how much I wanted to tell her to—omigod!—shut the fuck up.
I’d only taken a few steps when I felt a bulge in my back pocket. Fortunately, Sara saw the Clueless Crew down the hall and ran to catch up with them. In those split seconds of solitude, I reached back and sure enough, there was a piece of notebook paper, folded into an intricate origami square that opened and closed like a flower. Or a mouth.
Marcus! I was dying to open it.
But at that moment the Clueless Crew were coming right at me from the other end of the hall. Damn them! I stuffed Marcus’s present back into my jeans. I needed privacy for whatever he wanted to tell me.
The huge irony of ironies is this: For someone who feels so alone, I couldn’t get a moment by myself all damn day. Every time I tried to slip away—to my locker, to the bathroom, to a shower stall before gym—someone would find it absolutely crucial to strike up a conversation with me. That note burned a hole in my back pocket for almost six hours. I was in such anticipatory agony that I didn’t even change back into my school clothes after last-period gym class—I ran straight home and up to my room.
"Jessie, I want to talk to you," my mom said as I dashed up the stairs.
"Give me a minute!" I yelled back as I locked the door.
I opened up my backpack and pulled out my jeans. I stuck my hand into the back pocket and pulled out … lint.
"Jessie?" my mom called from the kitchen.
I quickly shook out the other pockets, though I knew I hadn’t stuffed Marcus’s note in any of them. Then I rifled through my backpack, eventually dumping out its entire contents onto the floor.
"Jessica!" my mom yelled.
Now I started to panic. My ears got hot and I started to sweat. Where could it be? Whose hands could it have fallen into? I got on my knees and picked through every object on the floor: jeans; striped V-neck tank; bra; Chucks;The Catcher in the Rye ; two spiral notebooks; Chem book; Student Council schedule; three Baby Ruth wrappers; calculator; highlighter; stick deodorant; Carmex; brush; an assortment of pens.
No origami mouth from Marcus.
"Jessica Lynn Darling, get down here!"
I went downstairs, clutching my stomach—this time for real. A ball of anxiety was bouncing up and down inside my body, but I lied and said it was my period. Mom was so relieved by this news that she let me go without a struggle when I asked to be excused to my room. Here, I have rifled through the aforementioned objects approximately a bizillion times for the past ten hours.
How could I have possibly lost the most important thing that has ever been given to me? The only logical explanation is this: There neverwas an origami mouth from Marcus. I made it all up just to drive myself crazy. In fact, I made this whole thing up. I never peed in the cup. No way. Not me. Why would I do something as totally insane as that?
Maybe if I keep telling myself this long enough, I’ll believe it.
the sixth
I arrived at school today with a mission: To find out the message inside the origami mouth. I knew there was no hope in retrieving it, so there was only one option left. An option simultaneously terrifying and titillating.
I’d ask Marcus what it said.
This would be a big deal for all the obvious reasons (I’m me, he’s Marcus Flutie.… It could draw unwanted attention to my crime.…) plus one more. See, this would mark a dramatic departure from our previous exchanges. Up to this point, he had initiated all contact between us. But today I would be the one to decide that it was time to talk. I would be the one in the powerful position.
If I didn’t projectile-vomit all over him.
So I lingered outside the door to homeroom, hoping to catch him as he walked in. I waited through the five-minute bell. I waited through the warning bell. At the final bell, I went to my seat. I told myself that it wasn’t uncommon for him to shuffle to his seat a minute or two late. But by the time we got to the pledge, I’d lost all hope.
Marcus never showed up for homeroom. Maybe I would’ve known that if I hadn’t lost the mouth.
Of course, it was Sara who broke the news.
"Omigod! Did you hear about Kripsy Kreme? He got some girl to fake his drug test last week!"
I almost launched my Cap’n Crunch.
It turns out that therewas a way for the docs to tell that the pee came out of a girl and not a guy—a hormonal thing. It took them a few days to get tipped off. Marcus must have been called down to the office right after he gave me the origami mouth. There, his parole officer, Principal Masters, and good ol’ Brandi confronted him about the faked sample. They knew it wasn’t his, but they wouldn’t know who it came from unless he told them.
"So far Marcus has refused to tell who he got it from," said Sara, positively beside herself with this juicy gossip. "They threatened him for hours, supposedly. But he wouldn’t cave."
"How do you know all this?"
"My dad went golfing with Principal Masters."
"Oh."
"And he asked me for ideas on who it could be, you know, since I’m a fountain of information."
Jesus Christ.
"I suggested his girlfriends, the ones I could remember," Sara continued. "It’s probably not any of them, though."
"Why?"
"Because the faked sample was drug-free."
"Really?"
"Which means his partner in crime was someone likeyou …" She paused, for approximately a half hour. "Or me."
At that moment, I knew that I was going to get caught. And my life was going to be destroyed. And for what? To prove to everyone they were wrong about me? Brilliant. But I wasn’t ready to fess up. Not yet.
It took every ounce of strength that I had to act normal and respond to conversation about this subject as though I were a totally uninvolved observer.
"What kind of chickenhead would help him pass his drug test?" said Hy.
"An insecure one," I said.
"He must be really good in bed," said Manda.
"I doubt he promised sex," I said.
"Burke says that he’s seen Marcus in the locker room and that he’s got like, ten inches of New Jersey Whitesnake," said Bridget.
"What?" all four of us asked.
"He’s got a huge penis."
"Oh," said Hy.
"Oh!" said Manda.
"Oh?" said Sara.
"Whoa," said I.
It was exhausting.
The Clueless Crew aren’t the only ones talking about it. Everyone has theories on what Marcus said to the secret donor—that he promised her drugs, or a date. Of course, I didn’t correct them. I didn’t tell them that I know he wouldn’t be so crude. That he justasked her in a way that only Marcus could ask. Putting his hand on her knee. Promising to return the favor. Grinning.
the ninth
I have survived the most nerve-racking five minutes of my life.
I had gotten used to acting innocent around the Clueless Crew and everyone else. It was as easy as breathing.
Then I got called out of class.
"Could you send Jess Darling down to Principal Masters’s office immediately?" said the fuzzy, disembodied voice of Mrs. Newman over the PA system.
The whole class looked at me with wonder. I made a big deal out of shrugging and wearing aWhat’s this all about ? expression.
On the walk to the office, I kept hearing Marcus’s words over and over again:I won’t narc on you. I won’t narc on you. I won’t narc on you.…
When I got to the office, Principal Masters was waiting for me. He greeted me with a smile and a "So sorry to pull you out of class." But I knew from watching enough interrogation scenes on TV cop shows that his warm countenance could be a setup.
"I’m sure you’ve heard about this incident with Marcus Flutie, correct?" Principal Masters asked as soon as I sat down.
"Yes."
That’s good. Keep it simple. Don’t elaborate.
"Nurse Payne says that you were in the recovery room that afternoon."
"Yes."
Good. Simple. Good.
"What were you doing there?"
"Oh. I had some, uh … feminine problems …"
"Oh!" he exclaimed, looking embarrassed. "Sorry."
He shifted in his creaky leather chair and stroked his bushy gray beard. His ample stomach strained against his cheap brown polyester suit.
My life is about to be destroyed by a fat man in a cheap brown polyester suit.
"The reason I’ve asked you here is because you were the only one in there about the time that Marcus was called down for his test …"
Here it comes. He’s moving in for the kill. I’m dead. Done. Toast.
"Did you see him with anyone? Don’t be afraid to tell me."
What?
"I know that these troublemakers might have put pressure on you …"
Is he suggesting what I think he—
"They might have even threatened you physically …"
Hallelujah!He didn’t suspect me at all. Once I understood the goal of our meeting—to rat out the troublemaker who did this—I was able to speak more freely. I told him that no one had threatened me. I was asleep the whole time. I hadn’t seen Marcus or anyone else.
"I wish I had, so I could help you out," I said.
"I wish you had, too," he said.
My cutesy last name and straight As had saved me again.
the thirteenth
My conversation with Principal Masters had calmed me down quite a bit. But I knew that until they found the culprit, I’d never be completely off the hook.
Today, they got one. And no one was more stunned than I was.
"They found out who peed in the cup!" Sara cried in homeroom.
"They did?"
"Yeah. A total nobody named Taryn Baker."
Taryn Baker is a dweeby freshman, so desperate for notoriety that she voluntarily confessed to the crime that she didn’t commit. At band practice yesterday, she bragged to a bunch of her fellow clarinet players thatshe was the one who had peed in the cup. They turned her in because they were sick of her ego trip. Band nerd betrayal.
The administration is so thrilled to have a guilty party that they aren’t even checking out her story. Marcus didn’t confirm or deny it. Of course, poor, insecure Taryn couldn’t help but do whatever the cold, calculating Marcus told her to do, so she’s getting off relatively unscathed: suspension for the rest of the year. While I certainly appreciate her voluntary scapegoating, I can’t help but pity her. Doesn’t she know about Pineville’s short-term memory? That the name she’s making for herself today will be forgotten when she comes back next year?
The evil Marcus, on the other hand, is being sent to Middlebury. Word is he won’t be coming back. His parents are sending him to military school. I know I’ll never hear from him. He’s too smart to trust the confidentiality ofany form of correspondence.
I keep telling myself that even if I had had nothing to do with this, the end result would’ve been the same. He would’ve ended up in rehab. I wish I knew that was the best thing for him. I can’t help but think about what happened to Heath. Getting kicked out of school didn’t help him. That special high school for "high-risk" students didn’t straighten Heath out or keep him off the streets. Or even save his life.