“I have no sympathy for you, Darling, Jessica,” said William, pausing to tongue the ring in his bottom lip. “I know all about your so-called tortured past.”
“You do?”
“I Googled you.”
“You Googled me? Why?”
“I Google everyone I meet,” he said.
“That's neurotic,” I said.
“That's smart,” he responded. “We should all know about the company we keep. Of course, with you, Darling, Jessica, I had to get through about 150,000 porn sites first.”
This is true. Go ahead and Google me. And the result is what happens when you share a name with a porn star whose film credits include Grand Theft Anal, Weapons of Ass Destruction, and, of course, the celebrated Booty Duty, Parts One and Three. (Which of course begs the question, was the script for Part Two not up to her high standards?)
“Eventually, I found local newspaper articles about how you were this big track star, and about your involvement in student council and all those other rah-rah activities for popular people.”
“Did you find anything about how I hated all my popular friends because they were dumb and slutty?”
“So you were in the popular crowd,” Tanu said accusingly.
“Well, sort of, but no, not really,” I stammered. “I really hated them.”
“But did anyone hate you?” asked William. “Did anyone throw garbage at you in the cafeteria?”
No matter how I tried to explain it, my high school years came off all wrong, in that they seemed all right. I was lusted after by the most popular meathead jock in our class. I had a boyfriend for several months, a hot one who was also smart enough to beat me out for valedictorian and get into Cornell. True, he dumped me, but it freed me up to be with my first real love, a former sex and drug addict genius who says I changed his life, one who wrote poetry and sang love songs. . . .
“If you don't mind me saying,” Jane said. “It sounds like you lived a goddamned charmed life to me.”
Everyone else nodded in agreement.
“So shut up about it.”
I admired Jane's bluntness. No wonder she became my best friend at school.
I've always known that my high school experience was only terrible because something inside me—my mucked-up brain chemistry, most likely—made me feel that way. So I was a bit surprised when being on the football field just one year after my own high school graduation made me strangely nostalgic for a time that I know is not worthy of such reverence.
The déjà voodoo really hit me when I saw Taryn Baker, stepsister of the former gay man of my dreams and current peer at Columbia University, Paul Parlipiano. I'd forgotten that Taryn was also graduating today.
“Heard any good gossip lately?” she asked.
Taryn had e-mailed me a few times last year, but I hadn't seen or talked to her since I graduated. So I barely recognized the voice, or the person who went with it. Gone was the mousy whisper, replaced by a Marlboro red pack rasp, and her hemophilic paleness served as an unnerving backdrop for a female faux hawk that was tarlike both in color and texture. Now she's a pinup punkette just daring people to ignore her. But when I tutored her in math as a sophomore and junior, she was a fade-into-the-paint wallflower. Taryn was so easily missed that she was often witness to shady behavior, which she eventually put to her advantage. Inspired by my own critical editorials in the school newspaper, and fed up with her outsider status, she launched Pinevile Low, an anonymous e-mail gossip rag devoted to the school's dirtiest hookups, breakups, and fuckups. No one was safe from her scrutiny—not even me. (To this day, she's the only one who knows that I once helped Marcus fake a drug test by peeing into an empty yogurt container.)
While revealing herself as the mystery muckraker didn't launch her into the Upper Crust, it did make her a bit of a hero among Pineville's most unappreciated subcultures. She had no problem persuading a band of misfit wordsmiths to join her on The Seagull's Voice staff, making the school paper the cool activity for the uncool. She'd even improved her grades to the point that she could get accepted by Loyola in New Orleans. I was proud to have served as her inspiration.
“Well, you're the eyes and ears around here,” I replied. “What have you got for me?”
“Hm,” she said, tapping a black fingernail against her chin. “What former Most Likely to Succeed has fallen on hard times and graced Pineville High with her superior, Ivy League presence?”
“Har dee har har,” I said. “Is Paul here?”
“Don't you know?” she replied. “He ditched PACO. He's in New Hampshire organizing meet-ups for Howard Dean.”
I'd had several hello/good-byes with Paul at Columbia, but little beyond it. His former group, People Against Conformity and Oppression, had a lot of campus protests this year—against the climate of racism and intolerance, the mistreatment of TAs, the lack of vegan entrées served in John Jay, and so on. I didn't get involved with those fights against injustice, but I did join Paul and millions of others across the globe in the all-time largest antiwar demonstration. This, of course, proved to be less successful than the campaign against the dining hall, which now serves wheatless, meatless soy-cheeze pizzas nightly.
Every time I saw Paul, he had a picket sign in one hand and Luis's hand in the other. Paul was never without this new boyfriend—who is Latino and muscular and painfully gorgeous. Paul was my high school crush-to-end-all-crushes, so this was not easy for me to get used to, which is totally stupid because—HELLO, DOLLY!—he's gay. Anyway, Paul and I were always shouting promises to hang out across the campus, but never did. The point is, I had no idea that he had left the extremely unfocused PACO to channel his activist energies into something so specific.
Before I could express my surprise, Principal Masters's voice rumbled from the loudspeakers, reminding all graduates that they were needed in the auditorium at once.
“The evil one calls for the last time,” Taryn said. “I'll send you my final issue of The Seagull's Voice.”
“Sure,” I said. “I'd love to see what you did.”
“Our op-ed columnist was even better than you were,” she bragged. “No offense.”
And I assured her that none was taken. As an about-to-graduate senior in high school, Taryn's got hubris out the wazoo. And that's okay, because I was exactly like her just one year ago. I watched her and Pepe and the rest of the Class of 2003 strut across the stage and giddily grab their diplomas out of Principal Masters's hand, and I envied them. I wanted their confidence, their excitement, and their anticipation of the next step. I think about my salutatory address last June, in which I told a football field full of people that I was happy being me, yes, me . . . and it makes me cringe. Where did I get off being so confident?
I didn't know anything about anything. And the only difference between then and now is this: I may know more than I used to, but my wisdom pales in comparison to that which I've yet to learn. I assume this is what Professor Samuel MacDougall—the instructor from the summer writing program I attended before my senior year—had in mind when he quoted Confucius in my letter of recommendation for Columbia: “Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's own ignorance.”
Well, in that regard, I have surely exceeded my mentor's expectations.
the twenty-eighth
Tonight was our last night together before I take the two-and-a-half-hour trip to New York for my internship at True. Marcus and I thought about getting out and doing something that would inspire highly intellectual banter, but instead we stayed in and did some bang-a-langin'.
Sorry, I couldn't resist. Using Sara's word helps keep me in a state of ironic detachment about my life. It's where I often place myself when I'd rather not feel real.
“Maybe I shouldn't do this True thing after all,” I said, tracing the thin lines that bracket his mouth like parentheses. “I don't know if I can handle living with Bethany and G-Money for a month.”
“Think of all the quality time you'll get to spend with Marin,” Ma
rcus said.
“I've got two more summers to pad my résumé,” I said. “And I'm not even sure I'm all that into publishing.”
“That's the point of an internship, to find out if it's something that you'd like to do for a living,” he said, pushing my bangs off my forehead with his fingertips. It was a gesture that was supposed to let me know that he didn't care about my hair, but it made me feel more self-conscious about it than ever.
“Stop,” I complained, flicking his hand away from my face.
He rubbed his temples. “Stop pretending this has nothing to do with me.”
Total body clench. “What do you mean?”
“You don't want to be the type of girl who doesn't do things because of her boyfriend. But I'm the only reason you don't want to go.”
Marcus placed his hands on my shoulders and gently kneaded my defenses right out of me.
“You're right,” I admitted. “I don't want to be that girl. I hate that girl. But I hate being away from you even more. So why don't I spend this summer with you? We've never been able to spend more than a few weeks together before being separated . . .”
Marcus laid placidly in the pillows, waiting for me to finish before asking, “Why do you want to do this internship?”
I thought about it for a moment. And then I told him.
True is the only magazine for women that is satirical and irreverent and funny about the types of things that I really think about. It's Cosmo with a brain cell. Bust without the in-your-face feminism. The Onion with ovaries. As a free publication only available on the coasts and nowhere in between, its marketing strategy reflects an inclusive yet elitist worldview that I can relate to.
True devotes each issue to a single topic. The first I ever saw was True on Computers. On the cover was a photo from the early sixties of a bunch of scientists with crew cuts in horn-rims and lab coats examining data on a floor-to-ceiling-sized machine. What sucked me in was an essay about the tyranny of IM, how it's not just the content of the message that's being scrutinized, but the message behind the message, and how responding too quickly or too slowly or two long or too short can destroy an otherwise solid relationship. There was a page of blog reviews, all comprised of minutiae (“kings of leon are **sex.** i stuck my used tampon inside a sour patch kids wrapper and put it in my wastepaper basket because i'm too tired from slaving away at taco hell to get up off my futon and walk to the bathroom and flush it in the toilet. do you think the followills would love me any less? ;)”) that is interesting only to the self-important writers who put them out there for the blogosphere in the hope that they will get noticed by and linked to other self-important blogs. Finally, there was a Q&A with a twenty-five-year-old guy named Duane who spends eight hours a day playing a MMORPG called ZooKwest. His avatar, a half-man, half-wolf warrior named AlphaLupis, is the most powerful in the Kingdom of Animals and has insane orgies with online groupies (“zoopies”) of all sorts of half-and-half permutations of the species. In the “dead world” otherwise known as real life, he's an aspiring assistant manager at Kinko's.
Subsequent issues—True on the 80s, True on Politics, True on TV—were as perfect as the first. I read this magazine and wanted to be friends with all the editors because every issue was filled with the kind of snarky thoughts that fill my letters to Marcus and Hope, and my journals. I felt like they were writing for me, which, in turn, inspired me to write for them. When I saw an ad for interns in the back of the magazine, I wrote a fawning letter, enclosed clips from my Pineville High editorials, and hoped they wouldn't notice that I hadn't published a damn word at college.
When I finished talking, Marcus put his mouth in the bony valley of my clavicle.
Then he lifted his head and said, “You really want to do this.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then you should,” he replied.
“But—”
“Go.”
And so I will.
* * *
June 30th
Dear Hope,
I'm waiting for Marcus to arrive in the Caddie. He's driving me to my sister's place. I've convinced her to let him stay overnight so we can add another eight hours to the whopping total of twenty-three days we got to spend together before yet another separation.
Of course, this doesn't compare to the four months since I last saw you. But I've gotten used to not seeing you. So much so that when we said good-bye after your whirlwind forty-eight-hour trip to NYC last spring, I was comfortable with the idea of not seeing you again for a long time. Our reconnections feel more like continuations, as if our friendship has never suffered an interruption.
It should be the same with Marcus, but it's not. I don't think I'll ever get used to not seeing him. And when I do see him after a separation, I immediately get panicky about our next good-bye. I guess that's what happens when I get naked with someone. (I almost wrote “when you get naked with someone.” “You” as in a collective you, a universal truth directed toward all of humanity. But this would be inaccurate, as Marcus got naked with forty-something someones and has suffered no separation anxiety with them. But that's because they didn't matter and I do, right? RIGHT?)
I applied for the internship because I think True is a crack-up (as you could probably tell from all the articles I clipped and sent to you in lieu of actual letters) and to compensate for my lack of participation in any campus activities last year. Despite my misgivings about leaving Marcus, and my doubts about living with Bethany and G-Money for a month, I'm psyched about this internship. And excitement is something I rarely feel about anything. That in itself is, well, exciting.
One more thing: When you, meaning you, do finally choose that first and very lucky guy to have sex with, pick one that you don't have to say good-bye to. Pick one that will be there for you in mind and body. Because the alternative doesn't quite suck, but is definitely sucky.
He honked. He's here.
Zipadeedoodaly yours,
J.
* * *
the first
Bethany and G-Money's new home is a five-thousand-square-foot granite and brick Romanesque revival mansion built in the late 1800s. My real estate mogul mother went into raptures upon her first walk-through and started speaking in tongues. “Parquetfloorscrownmoldingtiledfireplacegourmetkitchenbackyardpatiohighceilingssunliiiiiiiiiiiiiight . . .” The House That Obesity Built would be a truly impressive domicile even if it wasn't located on the promenade in Brooklyn Heights with breathtaking views of Manhattan. My sister and I don't have much in common, so I'm not sure if it says more about the allure of New York City or the repellant powers of Pineville that we've both ended up here.
“Don't get pregnant,” Bethany said as she showed Marcus and me to the guest room. “Mom and Dad would kill me.”
Kill her?
Bethany didn't have to worry about preserving the sanctity of my womb because I'm having my period and there's no way any impregnating activity would happen anyway. This sucked, but the alternative is far worse. When you're nineteen and totally not ready to be a baby mama, a period is never, ever a bad thing.
I couldn't sleep. I wasn't used to having a warm body in bed next to me, and I kept getting sweaty and overheated (not in the sexy way, but literally). And Bethany's sheets are just too smooth and I was sliding all over the mattress. And Marin was shrieking, “PEE! POO! PEE!” from her crib. And well, I guess I was nervous about starting my first real job. Well, as real as a job can be when the salary consists of a weekly MetroCard.
I guess I eventually fell asleep, because at 8 A.M. I shot up from the sheets, shocked by the alarm clock. Marcus slept right through it.
It didn't take me long to get ready. Since Bridget's makeover I'd never gone out without a headband. Today's was cut from the arm of an old T-shirt. I was going for a creative urban youth look: pleated mesh tennis skirt, shrunken denim blazer, pink-and-red-striped tissue T, Chucks. My mother would be horrified by my outfit, but would be proud of my one nod to traditionalism: I was
wearing a bra, though it was a totally unnecessary formality given my negative cup size.
Marcus was still in bed asleep when I leaned in to kiss him good-bye.
I'd never been in True's editorial offices, located in the industrial wastelands of East Williamsburg. According to Bethany, this area is composed mostly of renovated lofts and studios filled with aspiring artists and musicians. It's pretty grungy now, but is already being touted as “the new Williamsburg.” I hope the hype isn't for real because you can't swing a trucker hat in the old Williamsburg without hitting an annoying unwashed hipster in a JESUS IS MY HOMEBOY T-shirt.
While I was in school, I rarely ventured below 110th Street. This is very sad, but true. A combination of too much work and too little money was partly to blame. But I think the biggest reason I rarely left Morningside Heights is because I was too overwhelmed by the everythingness of the city. Sometimes I'd wander the streets searching for my day's purpose. I'd stroll past the run-down café where the nutty aroma of coffee poured out of French doors flung open wide; past the gated park square nestled between uptown and downtown traffic where outdoor opera singers perfected their soaring laments for spare change; past the neighborhood's most unfortunate denizens and their sidewalk piles of woebegone wares—cowboy boots with scuffed toes and worn-down, triangular heels; record players with broken, duct-taped arms; out-of-print novels with pages as delicate as moths' wings . . . I'd walk all over the neighborhood, but no matter where I went, I always had this left-out feeling, like there was something better going on very nearby, if only I knew about it. I'd eventually just head back to my dorm, flagellating myself for having done nothing special with my time. I hoped that being an intern at True would give me insider's knowledge, if only for a month.
I had no trouble finding the HQ because the word True is graffitied all over the exposed brick wall on the side of the building. I got there at 10:02 A.M., paranoid about how those two minutes would negatively affect their first impression of me. It was irrelevant because no one was there.
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