"Ewwww!" said Manda and Bridget in unison.
"Yeah, he said they call herquote Stucco Buttunquote behind her back."
Sara all too frequently utters the phrases "Omigod!" and "quote, unquote." To her credit, Sara has stopped making the double-finger-bending gesture that traditionally accompanies the latter. She loves the sound of her own voice, one of dulled consonants and nasal vowels, as though her whole cranium is clogged with a bizillion pounds or gallons or whatever unit measures mucus. Her father, Wally D’Abruzzi, owns Winning Wally’s Arcade, Wally D’s Sweet Treat Shoppe, and other boardwalk gold mines, so she is also the most moneyed chick at Pineville High. This isn’t such a feat in our middle-/working-class district. She could go to some pricey private school, but she begged her parents to let her go public. Here, her family’s extra buckage gives her some social leverage. At a super chi-chi school full of bizillionaires, she knows she’d be a scrub.
I glanced at the covercow in question. She wasn’t skinny, but she definitely wasn’t fat. She looked curvy. Sexy. Strong. I thought about Sabrina, without eyelashes, in a turtleneck. I decided to come to the model’s defense.
"I bet the editors put her on the cover to make us feel good about ourselves. To show that you don’t have to be perfect to be pretty …"
"Puh-leeze, Jess," Manda said, pushing her glasses past the bridge of her nose so she could look down at me over the rims. "Stop being so Naomi Wolf, already."
Manda thinks that reading feminist manifestos makes up for her borderline ho-bag behavior. I’m pretty sure that’s why she wears Poindexter glasses instead of contacts, so she seems less sexual and more intellectual. She’s not fooling anyone, though. Hope and I called her The Kissing Slut because she’d made out with thirty-one different guys by her fifteenth birthday. That’s when she decided it was time to move on to manual stimulation, so we christened her Lend-A-Hand-A-Manda. And when she turned sixteen, well, let’s just say she earned the title The Headmaster.
Manda calls herself an "extreme" virgin and intends on keeping it that way until she finds someone who meets all her criteria: six feet tall; drives a Jeep; lean and cut, but not meathead muscular; blond; surfs in summer, skis in winter; flosses daily. She knows this is a tall order—especially at Pineville—so she settles for messing with one Mr. Wrong after another until Mr. Right comes along.
The Clueless Crew continued flipping through the magazine, taking swigs from their Diet Cokes and passing one-word judgments on the images on each page.
"Nasty."
"Foul."
"Hideola."
Suddenly, Bridget slapped her hand down on a page.
"Now that girl has like, a totally kickin’ bod!"
"Totally!" agreed Manda and Sara.
She was a stick figure with balloon boobs—a body that rarely, if ever, occurs in nature.
They complained about how they could do toning exercises until Y3K and they would never, ever look like she did. They discussed their so-called flaws with enthusiasm. Bridget has a covergirl face, but her "huge ass" is holding back her career. (I’d kill for a less bony butt.) Manda "hates" her infamous DD-cup rack. (Yet she continues to show it off in tiny tees and tight sweaters, much to the delight of Pineville’s male population.) And let’s not forget Sara, whose self-deprecation stems from her belief that she looks like "a butchy softball player instead of a ballerina," an image reinforced by her nickname, "Bruiser." (Her self-esteem has been permanently trashed since her stepmom sent her to fat camp for her fourteenth birthday.)
Finally, Manda said, "Well, Jess would look like that if she got a boob job." And they all looked me up and down.
I would never get a boob job. It’s a disgusting procedure—I saw one performed on The Learning Channel. The surgeon went in through the belly button. The belly button! He stretched her skin like it was a wad of Bubble Yum and just pushed and shoved them into place. Ka-Boom: Va-va-va-voom.
"All we’re saying is that your abs, ass, and legs are like, totally perfect," Bridget said. "You should take it as a compliment."
I knew where this was headed: a calorie–fat analysis of my lunch followed by aHow-can-you-eat-so-much-and-stay-so-skinny? interrogation.
"That pepperoni pizza has at least five hundred calories.…"
"And twenty-five grams of fat.…"
"Not to mention like, two hundred fifty calories’ worth of non-diet soda.…"
I have pointed out numerous times that while they are doing whatever it is they do after school once cheerleading season is over, I am at track practice. And there, I spend two and a half hours notsitting on my ass, daydreaming about how perfect it looks in my bun-hugger uniform, but hauling it around the track. But they refuse to see how all the food I pack in makes it possible for me to do that. So instead of repeating that useless argument, I made a false confession.
"All right. You got me. I’m bulimic."
Manda was unfazed. "Puh-leeze. You’re no bulimic. Binge-and-purgers are usually on the chunky side," she paused. "Right, Bruiser?" Manda winked. Sara winced—almostimperceptibly—before flipping Manda the bird.
These are supposed to be my friends. But more often than not, I can’t stand them.
Well, if I’m not bulimic, why do I have the urge to puke right now?
That’s what I should have said. But I didn’t. Instead, I just grabbed my backpack and left, without saying a word.
I stood alone in the bathroom until the bell rang. I pressed my forehead against the cool mirror, fogging it up with bursts of hot breath. I drew a smiley face on the mirror with my finger, then wiped it away. Finally, I looked at my reflection and thought,If Hope had been there, I wouldn’t be here.
the tenth
Earlier tonight Scotty came over to snap me out of my pissy mood at the request of the Clueless Crew. An interwenchion, so to speak. It had taken less than two weeks for them to come to the conclusion that I’m (in their words, via Scotty) "milking the whole Hope-is-gone misery for way too long." This was hilarious, considering how much I’ve been holding back. They had no idea how much worse I could be.
"They think you need to stop acting like agee dee bee and get over it."
Scotty is the most self-censoring foulmouth I know. Like every other Jock, he worships Opie and Anthony—the afternoon talk-radio duo and misogynistic masterminds behind "Whip ’Em Out Wednesdays" (female motorists are encouraged to titty-flash any male driver with aWow sign on his car) and "Guess What’s In My Pants" (a female caller rubs a phone against her most private of areas, and male contestants try to guess whether she’s sporting a "Brillo," a "Triangle," a "Hitler," or a "Wood Floor"). Like O and A, Scotty has gotten into the habit of substituting curses with initials. So "a gee dee bee" means "a goddamn bitch." It’s kind of endearing in a way, when I’m not in a foul mood. And I’ve been in a particularly foul mood lately for the obvious reasons, plus a protracted case of PMS that’s two weeks in the works.
"What do you think?" I asked.
He hesitated for a second, rubbing his jaw before answering. His jaw is strong and square, like a comic-book hero’s.
"I don’t think it’s a bad idea …"
That pissed me off. So I went off on how Hope is not so easily forgotten because I’d have more fun with her pinkie toe than with anyone else because it alone had more kick-ass qualities than the whole school put together …
This made no sense.
But I was too upset to think straight, and even though I knew I was sounding psycho, I resented the idea of having to explain myself. And with Scotty, I always have to explain myself.
My tears came all of a sudden, catching us both off guard. Scotty stood there watching me for a few moments with a panicked look on his face.
"Muther effer," he said to himself.
But then he sat next to me until I calmed down. This was better than screwing up the moment by saying something corny.
Despite my antisocial tendencies, I don’t want to be the sophomore class pariah. While I’m feeling less than warm and fuzzy about the Clueless Crew, I promise to make an effort. After all, you can only be in a bad mood for so long before you have to face up to the fact that it isn’t a bad mood at all. It’s just your sucky personality.
I’m grateful to Scotty for helping me come to this conclusion. He means well. I just wish he hadn’t told Hope about his feelings for me before she left. He knew she would tell me. And it was so classic Scotty for him to be so serious about it, all,Now that you’re gone, Jess and I will grow closer and she will finally realize that we’re meant to be together. Ack. So every time he does something nice—like come over to my house for the sake of preserving my social status at Pineville High—I think,You’re only doing this because you like me. That pretty much trashes it.
I have no idea why Scotty insists on carrying a torch for me. I got to know him much too well in middle school for anything to happen between us now. He was my first and only boyfriend. We went out for exactly eleven days in eighth grade. If I had ignored him back then, I might be able to see the bulging biceps of a stud in bloom. But I just see Scotty. I see the chronic bed head that made his black hair branch off his head like a bunch of twigs. And how he would blow his nose and point out all the colors in the tissue. And the hard-ons (!) that used to poke through his sweatpants whenever he saw me in my track-and-field uniform. Jesus Christ!
And then there’s the infamous Frenching incident. I can stillfeel that. We were in the parking lot right before the buses were about to pull away and Scotty totally tried to ram-jam his tongue down my throat during an "innocent" good-bye kiss. Thank God the bus driver slid the door shut on me before Scotty swallowed me whole. Up to that point, we had simply pecked good-bye. But without any warning, he decided to put an end to the hassling the basketball team was giving him to "slip me the tongue." I had no idea he was going to do it until I suddenly felt this wet thing flip-flopping around my mouth like a landlocked fish. So saliva-sloppy. And—goddamnthisisgrosserthangross—the scratch of his smudgy, prepubescent mustache on my upper lip. Ew! It was as prickly as a daddy longlegs. I can’t imagine kissing him again. No way. Never.
The thing is, I don’t want to go out with Scotty just to guarantee that I’ll have something to do on Saturday nights now that Hope is gone. Of course, everyone—my mom, my sister, the Clueless Crew, to name a few—thinks I’m insane for not jumping at the chance to become the girlfriend of the future captain of the football, basketball, and baseball teams. He’s already made varsity as a sophomore. (Well, baseball season hasn’t begun yet, but the varsity coach is already bodychecking Scotty into lockers whenever they meet in the halls. I’m told this is a good sign.) It’s a given that when he’s a senior he’ll be the PHS role model for strength, spirit, and sportsmanlike conduct. And like his predecessors, Scotty is sure to make empty promises about persuading the administration to get rid of our "embarrassing" mascot: The Seagull. (I’m apparently the only athlete who thinks it’s hilarious that our founding fathers chose a rat with wings as our school symbol.)
Personally, I find it a bit scary that Scotty is following in the Nike-clad footsteps of Rob Driscoll, his close personal friend and this year’s captain of the überjock triumvirate. Rob’s recent claim to fame is that he celebrated an away-game victory by persuading a freshman cheerleader to hide under his Seagulls varsity jacket and suck him off in the backseat of the bus. Go team,go.
But the biggest reason why I can’t go out with Scotty is because I’m way too busy being obsessed with a senior who doesn’t know I exist.
Paul Parlipiano and I have spoken exactly once. (He bumped into me on the buffet line at last year’s indoor track banquet. He said he was sorry. I giggled like an idiot, then dropped my plate of macaroni and cheese on the floor—too long after for the fumble to be the result of the collision.) Yet, I know he is the only one worthy of my virginity. He’s been accepted by early decision to Columbia University, so he’s supersmart. And when I see him without a shirt at track practice I’m overwhelmed by the urge to lick the sweat off his six-pack. Yum-yum.
Lately, I’ve been having a special Sweet Sixteen variation on my standard Paul-Parlipiano-and-I-get-stuck-in-an-enclosed-space-together-and-the-trauma-bonds-us-sexually-and-otherwise daydream. In this one, it’s my birthday and Paul Parlipiano and I have gotten locked inside the gym closet. (As always, how we got trapped is inconsequential.) At first, he’s none too happy to be in there with me of all people. And though I’m secretly thrilled, I pretend to be totally bummed out because it’s my Sweet Sixteen and who would want to spend a Sweet Sixteen trapped in a closet full of athletic equipment?
Eventually, he talks to me because we’ve been trapped in there for hours, and he’s already juggled the soccer ball long enough and there’s nothing more for him to do. Paul Parlipiano and I end up having what is the most fun, enlightening, intelligent, and all-around awesome conversation of both of our lives. Then, after a brief silence, he says,
"So is this still the worst birthday you’ve ever had?"
And I say, "No, not anymore."
And he says, "I can think of one way to make it even better."
And then he slowly walks over to me, cups my (totally zit-free) face in his hands and ever so gently kisses me on the lips. We break away for a brief moment, look each other in the eyes, and smile. We start kissing again, but with more passion. Then we tumble onto the gymnastic mat that is conveniently lying on the floor and have the sweetest sexual experience ever to occur within the hallowed halls of Pineville High.