Second Helpings

by Megan Mccafferty

  Rampant paranoia. No one knew just who knew what I didn’t know yet.

  Reread that last sentence. This is what senior year is doing to me.

  The only class that was somewhat normal was French III, and that’s because it’s filled with juniors. Apparently, the only nonsenior student at PHS who knew about Pinevile Low was Pepe. The cool thing about French class is that Pepe and I can talk freely and no one in the class has the skills to translate what we’re saying. This is one of the greatest advantages of our friendship. I’m glad that I waited until sophomore year to take French I as an elective, otherwise I would have never gotten to know him.

  “Tu l’as écrit!”

  (“You wrote it!”)

  “Quoi?”

  (“What?”)

  “Pinevile Bas.”

  (“Pinevile Low.”)

  “Il n’est pas moi! Je ne l’ai pas écrit!”

  (“It is not me! I did not write it!”)

  “Eh.”

  (“Eh. I don’t think so. I know you really wrote it, you filthy liar you!”)

  “Où est-ce que tu l’as vu?”

  (“Where did you see it?”)

  “Bridget m’a montré.”

  (“Bridget showed me.”)

  “Oh!”

  (“Oh! Why would she show you and not me? You’re my friend! Not hers! Why are you hanging out with her?!”)

  I must admit, I felt, well, not jealous exactly, but territorial. I’d known Pepe for three years now. He was my friend, not hers. Yet she shared the e-mail with him but she wouldn’t with me. I bet they even have their own inside jokes. I wondered if that’s just how things got when someone who has a crush on you asks you out and you turn him down for no good reason other than the fact that he’s not absolutely perfect for you.

  But who is, really? Who is perfect?

  No one.

  I guess I was thinking about that when Len came up to me at my locker after tenth period.

  “Um. Jess, can I talk to you? Um. Now?”

  “Sure.”

  And for the next forty-five minutes, Len proceeded to ask me to next week’s homecoming dance.

  I don’t need to go into detail, because it was a very underwhelming proposal that dwelled a lot on his apologies for asking me on such short notice, which really hadn’t occurred to me at all because homecoming isn’t something I waste any time thinking about. I guess the important thing for you to know is that I said yes.

  You’re shocked, aren’t you?

  I figured, why the hell not? I’ve already done the stay-home-on-homecoming-night thing for the last three years. Why not just go? And I bet Len will look cute in his suit. If the music is loud enough, maybe we won’t even have to talk.

  When I got home, I checked my e-mail. Sure enough, I had been left out. No e-mail from anyone about anything.

  “Why didn’t I get the e-mail?” I mumbled to myself.

  My dad happened to be in the office, looking for some wonky techie thingie.

  “What e-mail?” he asked, which were probably the first two non-running-related words he’s said to me since I ruined my life by renouncing my status as a Pineville High Seagull.

  “Oh, some e-mail that everyone got at school that I didn’t get,” I replied, as unsnotty as possible.

  “Did you check your bulk-mail folder?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve put a pretty high junk-mail filter on there, so it might have been funneled into that folder.” Then he intelligently exited the room, probably well aware that he’d be pushing his luck if he pursued a lengthier conversation with his daughter.

  I clicked onto my bulk-mail folder, and there, among the porn site spam (BARELY LEGAL LESBOS, REAL LIVE NYMPHOS, XXX!!! J. LO!!!XXX) was the message I was looking for. The subject: Pinevile Low. The sender: Blank. The message:

  I’VE UNCOVERED THE DIRT, THE SHAKY FOUNDATION THAT KEEPS THIS SCHOOL TOGETHER.

  Then, ten blind gossip items that were so exquisitely detailed that you knew exactly who they were about but that would probably hold up against defamation-of-character charges in court. Among the most notable (besides the items Sara had mentioned that slammed her and Manda) were the following:

  WHAT VIDEO VIXEN’S HEARTBREAK LEFT HER BELIEVING THAT PINEVILE BOYS ARE BENEATH HER, AND IS NOW RESPONSIBLE FOR A RAMPANT, RAGING BLUE BALLS EPIDEMIC?

  Bridget!

  WHAT POPULAR, BEST LOOKING, MOST ATHLETIC GUY HAS IMPRESSED COLLEGE RECRUITERS WITH HIS LAYUPS ON THE COURT, BUT CAN’T GET IT UP FOR HIS SEXUALLY DEMANDING GIRLFRIEND-OF-THE-MOMENT?

  SCOTTY!!

  WHAT TYPE-A BRAINIAC HAS VOWED TO FINALLY HAVE SEX FOR THE FIRST TIME ON HOMECOMING NIGHT?

  LEN!!!

  (And indirectly, ME!!!)

  Then, the comically ominous, sign-off.

  YOU WERE CHOSEN TO RECEIVE THIS E-MAIL FOR A REASON. SHARE THIS WITH ANYONE AND YOU’LL FIND YOURSELF OUTED, OR YOU’LL GET IT WORSE THAN YOU DID THIS TIME AROUND. AND THERE WILL BE A NEXT TIME. MY EYES AND EARS ARE EVERYWHERE.

  I could almost hear the Vincent Price laugher that comes at the tail end of Michael Jackson’s Thriller.

  I know this sounds insane, but I was kind of relieved that I wasn’t totally overlooked, as it proves that I register a blip on the Pinevile radar. As much as I don’t care about those things, I think it’s human nature to not want to feel totally insignificant. Besides, I’ve got nothing to worry about. There’s nothing to out about me. Besides pissing into an empty yogurt container to provide Marcus with a drug-free urine sample sophomore year, I’ve done nothing of any scandalous importance. No one knows about the Dannon Incident but Marcus and me, and I doubt anyone would believe him if he decided to narc on me after all this time. The point is, I’ll go unscathed for as long as I continue to lead this sad, sexless existence.

  And it will be sexless, too. I’m not taking what PL said about Len seriously. I mean, he can barely muster the courage to talk to me, and he blew a perfectly good opportunity to kiss me, so I seriously doubt that he has any designs on my bod. It was just someone’s idea of a joke. I forwarded it to him, though, because I think he deserves to know that someone is talking smack about him. I guess that’s the sort of thing that you’re supposed to do once you accept someone’s invitation to a formal. Maybe I should consult Bridget on the etiquette.

  the seventeenth

  This morning I called Len to talk to him about Pinevile Low. He needed to know that I didn’t think any less of him or anything. Plus, I was interested in knowing what he thought about it.

  “Um. Okay. Weird. I’m surprised you sent it to me. Um.”

  “Well, I thought you had a right to know.”

  “Um. Right.”

  “So don’t worry about it, okay?”

  “I’m not. Um. Worried.”

  “So we’re cool, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  After I got off the phone with Len, I went over Bridget’s to discuss who it could be.

  “You can drop the act, Jess,” she replied. “You wrote it, didn’t you?”

  “That’s exactly what Pepe said!” I cried.

  “I know,” she said. “We’ve already talked about it. We both know you pretty well and, like, we think it’s you.”

  “Bridget! It’s not me! Why does everyone think it’s me?”

  “Look at the evidence,” she replied.

  The Evidence

  The perp is probably not someone outed in the e-mail. (“ You weren’t outed in the e-mail,” Bridget said.)

  Yet to disguise his/her identity, he/she might have outed someone she was friends with in a benign way. (“Like me,” Bridget said. “What was said about me wasn’t all that embarrassing. And Len’s sexual quest makes you look kinda good.”)

  The perp is highly intelligent and/or has access to the kind of techie know-how that would disguise the sender. (“Hello, Class Brainiac! And your dad is a computer nerd,” Bridget said, with increasing Sara-variety know-it-allness.)

  The perp
has a way with words. (“You’re only the most infamous editorial writer in the history of Pineville High!”)

  And a hatred for the Upper Crust. (“Hello!?”)

  And needs a forum to vent. (“Who just lost her column in the school paper?”)

  By the end of her analysis, I was half-convinced that I had indeed written it. But I didn’t. Unless I’ve developed a whole new dozing disorder to replace my insomnia. Maybe I sleep-write, like those sleep eaters who scarf an entire fridge worth of food without revving out of REM mode.

  “Bridget,” I said. “I swear to you, it’s not me. I’d actually like to find out who it is.”

  This is the truth. Whoever wrote it seems like someone I’d like to get to know.

  the twentieth

  Pineville High makes the news again! The Pinevile Low e-mail made the front page of the Asbury Park Press. Oh, I’ll be so proud to tell my fellow college freshmen next year where I’m from.

  According to the article, an anonymous “concerned mother” was doing her daily snoop through her kid’s e-mail in-box, found it, then forwarded it to all the Pineville powers that be. Of course, this is the same group of technological geniuses who required almost a month to undo the hacked class schedules, so it’s no surprise that the sender of the e-mail has not been found.

  “Omigod! I’m totally gonna prove it’s you,” Sara hissed.

  “I’d like to see that,” I replied.

  In related news, the Big Walk-Out was scheduled to begin after homeroom, and it would last as long as it took for justice to be served. Hundreds of PHS students stormed the doors and flooded the parking lot, carrying painted signs saying, TWO WRONGS DON’T MAKE A RIGHT! and THE PUNISHMENT DOESN’T FIT THE CRIME!

  What were these rabble-rousers protesting? The war in Afghanistan? Hell, no.

  Listen to their cries of freedom:

  “WHAT DO WE WANT?” shouted Scotty.

  “HOMECOMING!” screamed the crowd.

  “WHEN DO WE WANT IT?”

  “FRIDAY!”

  It brought tears to Haviland’s eyes. Tears of despair. Marcus, Len, Bridget, and I watched the Big Walk-Out from Haviland’s classroom on the second floor. We were the only ones in honors who hadn’t joined the cause.

  Despite this never-before-seen show of solidarity, the administration stuck to their decision to cancel the homecoming dance for the first time in our school’s history. It was schoolwide retribution in response to the refusal of the person behind Pinevile Low to come forward and claim responsibility for the painfully public humiliation it caused our school district.

  Anyway, the administration’s widespread interrogation proved to be unsuccessful, so Principal Masters resorted to one of his favorite tactics: punishing everyone for one person’s crime. Hence, the protest. When it was in full swing, Masters made an announcement over the loudspeaker.

  “Any student who does not get back to class by the next period bell will be suspended.”

  No one moved. No one cared.

  “And will be permanently restricted from all after-school activities.”

  No one moved.

  “Which includes participation in all sports, and the big football game against Eastland on Friday afternoon.”

  I haven’t seen students run that fast since P.J. tested his lactose intolerance by chugging a milk shake.

  “We should do something else on Friday,” Marcus said, grinning down at the melee.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. What I really meant was, What do you mean by “do” and “we”?

  Bridget piped in, “Like, we should organize an alternative event to homecoming!”

  “Exactly,” Marcus said, nodding his approval.

  “Like what?” Len asked.

  “Len, I think this is the perfect time for Chaos Called Creation to get out of the basement.”

  Len turned green. “Um. Flu. Um. We’re not ready for a show.”

  Bridget jumped up and down with excitement.

  “What’s the point of being in a band if you don’t perform?” Marcus asked.

  “We perform.”

  “For the four walls of wood paneling in your basement. But I’m talking about people.”

  “I don’t know. Um,” said Len, glancing in my direction.

  “I think it’s a great idea, Len. I can’t wait to hear Chaos Called Creation.” I said the last few words with an unintentionally sarcastic emphasis that resulted in a spontaneous exchange of looks between Bridget and Marcus. Len didn’t notice.

  “Um. Okay. Where?”

  Silence all around.

  “I got it,” Bridget exclaimed. “Bruiser’s house.”

  Groans all around.

  “Her house is the only one that’s big enough,” Bridget said. “And she’s, like, the only person I can think of who will be able to promote the party on such short notice.”

  Bridget was right. Sara’s huge oceanfront homestead was the only domicile in the Pineville school district that actually looked like those colossal party houses in the movies. Everyone else threw parties in dark, damp, cramped basements or similarly crowded quarters with inadequate pissing facilities. Bruiser had become quite the party-throwing expert. She knew to set up several booze stations throughout the house so no one would have to wait in line to get liquored up. She knew to put party slip-covers on all the furniture, and to put temporary rugs on the hardwood floors and other high-traffic areas. She knew to lock all her parents’ valuables in an off-limits room, usually her dad’s home office because it didn’t have a bed, and all beds were always put to use at one of Bruiser’s parties. So I hear. I had stopped going to her bashes a long time ago.

  “You’re right. Um. But she’ll never do it.”

  “She wished death by overdose on Marcus, remember?” I chimed in.

  Marcus turned to Bridget and said, “These two make a perfectly pessimistic pair.”

  “They, like, totally do,” Bridget replied.

  Len and I just stood there awkwardly, praying they would get back to the original subject. Bridget finally did.

  “Look, Bruiser will do it because she’ll, like, be worshiped for rescuing homecoming. She’ll find a way to take credit for the whole idea. Be persuasive—you know, like the way you used to be in your editorials. Only not such a downer.”

  “Me? Why me?” Why was the fate of Pineville High’s homecoming weighing heavy on the shoulders of the most antisocial person in the history of the school? Besides Taryn Baker, that is.

  “Because you’re the only one of us she deigns to talk to,” Marcus said.

  The moment he said it, I knew he was right. Of course, I’d have to do it, since I was the only one of us on speaking terms with Sara—and that’s using the phrase loosely.

  “You’ll just have to, like, kiss her ass a lot.”

  “Lucky me.”

  Protestors straggled into the classroom, defeated.

  “I’m sorry,” Len said.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry I have to kiss Bruiser’s ass, too.”

  “Um. No. I mean that our plans are ruined. And. Um.”

  Oh, my tragic fate: I’ll never attend a Pineville High homecoming dance. He had no idea how much I didn’t give a damn.

  “I’m not crushed, really,” I said. “We can still have fun, I guess.”

  “We can?”

  Fun is a foreign concept to both of us. We really do make quite a pair.

  “Look, I didn’t go last year either and I didn’t care one bit. I even went out with my mom to buy an anti-homecoming dress—”

  Oops. As soon as I said it, I regretted it. I didn’t want anyone else in the room to remember the blue shirtdress I wore last New Year’s Eve, a relic from the Paleolithic era of high-school memory.

  “That’s it. Um. We’ll call it the Anti-Homecoming. If you don’t mind me swiping your idea.”

  “No, there’s no copyright on it.”

  “Um. Copyright. That’s so funny.”

  Nothing indicates un-
funniness more than the phrase “That’s so funny” unaccompanied by even the quietest peep of legit laughter. Len does this a lot with me.

  “You can even wear. Um. Your Anti-Homecoming Dress.”

  Marcus and Bridget nearly fell out of the window when he said that. I almost jumped.

  Oh, poor Len. He was the only one in the room who had no idea I sent that dress to the Salvation Army after its one and only wearing. He has no idea that I could never wear that dress again, because it reminded me too much of a night that changed my life, but not in the way I had planned, that it reminded me too much of, well . . . you know. Him.

  There’s no need for me to belabor the point, now, is there?

  the twenty-first

  I need a skin graft. My lips are permanently damaged from the amount of ass-kissing I did today.

  Bridget was right. Once I played into Sara’s ego as the savior of homecoming, she was all for hosting the party. It was not so easy to persuade her to let Chaos Called Creation make their debut.

  “Omigod! Why should I let Krispy Kreme set a freaky foot in my house?”

  It always sounds strange whenever someone refers to Marcus by his old nickname. He hadn’t dunked any new doughnuts as far as Len knows. Then again, why would Marcus be any more honest with Len than he was with me? Marcus could have banged any number of girls in his spare time and admired their days-of-the-week underwear.

  “I’m waiting for an answer,” Sara said, tapping her foot. “Why should I let in that freak?”

  Freak. Freak show. Aha!

  “Because a band will draw a major crowd to the party, just like the talent show is always SRO every year. Kids will come because of the freak factor. Many will come to see if Chaos Called Creation is any good. Even more will come to see if they suck.”

  Sara thought about this for a second. While I think my talent show argument was a strong one, I think the real reason she agreed is that she still thinks I’m the Mystery Muckraker behind Pinevile Low. She’s afraid that if she pisses me off, I’ll write something even worse about her, especially since I have been privy to many things about her that are indeed so much worse than what was already said.