Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [127]
“Apply to medical schools.”
“Which ones?”
“Weill Medical College of Cornell University. Yale.” Then he darted a look at me before saying, “Columbia.”
“And what do you foresee as your specialty?” I asked.
“Cardiology.”
I looked at my mom. “Anything else?”
My mother had rolled up the Restoration Hardware catalog so tightly that she could have used it as a weapon.
“I'll arrange for him to send you his MCAT scores when they arrive,” I called out before she could answer, ushering Len out the door.
“So. Um. We're seeing a movie?”
“No,” I said. “We're getting something cheap to eat. Cheap being the operative word there.”
“Helga's?”
Helga's. I hadn't been to Helga's since the last time I saw Len, which was when I'd gone there with Pepe after saying good-bye to Marcus . . . what? Two summers ago?
“Helga's,” I said, slipping into the passenger side of the Saturn. He's been driving the same car since we dated in high school, and though the new car smell had faded, it still looked fresh off the lot.
We didn't say much on the ride over, choosing to fill the silence with the CD player. I could have guessed the three CDs in random rotation: In Utero (Nirvana); Vs. (Pearl Jam); Rubber Soul (The Beatles). John Lennon sang about an irresistible girl, one he should have known better than to fall for:
“She's the kind of girl you want so much it makes you sorry / Still you don't regret a single day . . .”
I thought it might be like pouring salt on Len's open wounds. For his sake, I talked over the words.
“Do you still play?” I asked.
“Play what?” Len asked, keeping his eyes on the bumper precisely three seconds in front of us, as is recommended in Driver's Ed for cars traveling at 30 mph.
“Guitar.”
His Heineken eyes bulged in surprise. “Oh. Um. Guitar. Right,” he said. “I almost forgot I used to do that. No.”
“No?” I asked. “Why not?”
“School,” he said simply.
I didn't respond.
“Do you still write?” he asked.
Eddie Vedder sang: “I seem to recognize your face / Haunting, familiar yet can't seem to place it . . .”
“No,” I replied.
“Why not?”
I laughed quietly to myself. “School,” I lied.
Len tapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand as if to say, Well, there you have it, without actually having to say it.
“That's too bad about your guitar,” I said. “You were really good.”
“So were you,” he said. “Um. At writing. You know.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess.”
“It wasn't as much fun. Um. Once I stopped collaborating with Flu,” he said. Marcus's nickname. His face broke out in crimson panic. “Oh! Um! Sorry.”
“It's okay,” I assured him. “You can say his name. I'm over it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Len,” I said. “I am.”
“That's good,” he sighed as he pulled into Helga's parking lot. “Because I don't feel like I'll ever . . . Um . . .”
Eddie moaned. “Hearts and thoughts they fade . . . fade away . . .” And Len failed to finish his sentence, as if he interpreted these lyrics as a command.
With all the things that had changed over the years, Helga's was as refreshingly dingy as ever. We requested a booth way, way in the back. We ordered coffee. We sat quietly, without really looking at each other. I decided to break the silence.
“I went on Accutane, just like you,” I said, immediately recognizing that this was, perhaps, the most retarded conversation starter ever. Why remind him of his—of our—zitty history now that our complexions were clear?
“You did?” Len asked. “Why would you do that?” He seemed truly baffled, and curious to hear if there was a non-acne-related reason why someone might go on this particular drug.
“Cysts,” I said, hoping my curt response would close the topic I had stupidly opened in the first place.
“Oh?” he replied skeptically. But that was all he said, and I was grateful.
“So,” I tried again. “I'm thinking that you might be able to help me out.”
“How so?” he asked.
“Well, as the first of a string of guys to drop me,” I said. “Maybe you can give me some insight as to why I'm so dumpable.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, as if this gesture