Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [117]
“Some are freer than others,” I said, slipping out of my Chucks.
“We're all free to exercise our autonomy,” he said, pulling his T-shirt over his head.
“What about the tens of thousands of babies who were wiped out in the tsunami? Or the comparable number who die every single month from totally curable diseases like malaria? How can you tell me that they have free will?” I said, unbuttoning my jeans.
“They can choose how they wish to perceive their reality,” he said, unzipping his pants.
“They're babies!” I shouted, unhooking my bra.
“They're human beings!” he shouted back, sliding on a condom.
“You're an assclown,” I said, stepping out of my skivvies.
(I'm not proud to say that arguments like this fueled the hate fucks that were the cornerstone of our sham of an ex-relationship.)
Later, when we were finished and Kieran was asleep, I lay awake and thought about my brother, Matthew, who died when he was only two weeks old. What free will did he have?
It's Matthew, and more recently, William, who remind me how lucky I am to simply exist. Though I might have trouble remembering that next semester when I'm bunking on a bench in Riverside Park with a crackhead named Shifty-Eyed Pete.
the eleventh
I was startled out of my slumber this morning by the sights and sounds of my mother waving an unidentified object in my face.
“Jessie. Jessie! JESSIE! JESSIE!!!” my mother yelled with escalating urgency.
Despite a long history of her needlessly waking me up in this manner, I instinctively sprung out of the sheets, ready to make an emergency evacuation in my underwear. “Holy shit! What's wrong?! Is everyone okay?!”
“Phone for you,” she said sweetly.
I fainted into the goose down duvet. “You've got to be kidding me,” I said. “I know I don't get many phone calls, but do we really need all the drama?”
“She said it was of crucial importance,” my mom said, handing over the cordless. Her eyes shined with excitement. She lives for this ridiculousness. She really does. I am a big disappointment in this arena because I keep my melodrama to myself.
“Who is it?” I asked.
My mother gave a thoughtful pause. “I don't know.”
I pressed the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Omigod!!”
I waved at my mother to let her know that her presence was no longer required. She pouted before descending the stairs.
“Sara?”
“Omigod! Who else would it be?”
Uh. I could name about a bizillion people I would expect on the line instead of her. I cannot remember the last time Sara called me. Definitely not in this millennium. I'm pretty sure Ricky Martin was still livin' la vida loca at the top of the pop charts. That's how long it's been. Considering how his career is faring these days, I would have been less surprised if Señor “Shake Your Bon Bon” himself had called to say, “Hola.”
“Have you heard?” she shouted into the phone. I could barely make out what she was saying. It was like talking to a faulty squawk box.
“I'm sure I haven't heard or you wouldn't be calling me,” I said as I scraped the polish off my toenails for amusement. “Let's end the suspense.”
“Len and Manda broke up!” she shouted.
I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly and deeply, trying to extend the sigh as long as I could. Then I inhaled and did it again. That's how bored I was by this conversation.
“Len and I were over three years ago. Why would I care about this?” I was about to hang up.
“Manda cheated on him!” she shouted.
“Again, none of this is surprising,” I replied, flicking the red specks of nail polish onto the city-country (or was it country-city?) bed quilt. They looked like dried blood.
“MANDA CHEATED ON HIM WITH A GIRL.”
“Oh, whatever,” I said with a yawn. “Straight girls kiss each other all the time. It makes guys hard.” I've never gone girl-on-girl for show, but I'd seen enough drunken faux-lesbo makeout sessions to speak with authority.
“Okay,” she said tartly. “But how many straight girls GO DOWN ON EACH OTHER?”
If I were able to speak,