Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [134]
Later, as we headed back to our separate cars, I had one more question for Len.
“Did you tell your mother about . . . you know . . . it?”
I would die if his mother knew about what had happened. I don't mean that metaphorically, either. I would literally, physically, die. And that's because Len's mother would hunt me down and kill me because she has always hated my guts because she felt I was leading her pure, innocent son astray, which I guess I kind of did. So I guess her loathing wasn't so misplaced, now was it?
Len giggled. “If I've learned anything in the past three years,” he said, “it's that the less my mother knows, the better.”
Well, at least he's learned something. That's one more thing than me. According to those theories, I shouldn't worry too much about my idiocy. There's no need for me to go back in time and change any of my past mistakes because in one of my alternative worlds I've made all the decisions that add up to bliss. I'll try to take whatever comfort I can in knowing that somewhere, some version of me is getting it right. It's unfortunate, however, that this Jessica Darling isn't in that perfect part of the multiverse.
the sixteenth
Today I was sitting on the bench closest to the Shoppe during my break, ignoring the itch of an impending sunburn and watching the bennies walk by.
The world never stops changing, and yet, like Helga's, the Seaside Heights boardwalk remains remarkably the same. The pungent, greasy-sweet aroma of zeppoles and sausage and pepper subs. The ZERO TO HORNY IN SIX BEERS T-shirts. The competing bump-bump-bump bass lines throbbing from every stand, all demanding your aural attention. The miraculous proliferation of paranormal experts who will always see love and riches when they look at the lines of your palm. The regurgitative whirl of the Himalaya, the vomitous swoop of the Buccaneer, the pukey plunge of the Tower of Fear. All of it, unchanging. Year after year after year . . .
And then, without any specific trigger, I remembered: Matthew would have been twenty-five today.
My parents' doleful behavior usually marks this impossible-to-ignore occasion. But they seemed totally normal this morning as I left for work, my mom chattering on the phone about paint chips while my dad cursed at unsatisfactory scores in the sports section. I wasn't in Pineville on the last anniversary, which is probably why I had almost forgotten the significance of the date. So maybe, in a similar way, moving into the new house has created a physical and emotional distance from the tragedy for my parents. Of course, I'd never ask.
I used to think that it was unhealthy for my parents not to be up front about Matthew. As their daughter, wasn't I entitled to find out about the dead brother I never knew? I didn't respect my parents' need for privacy simply because they were my parents, two people who couldn't possibly have inner lives as expansive and messy as my own. Of course, now I know better. We're all affected by life's random outbreaks of beauty and brutality. I now defend everyone's right to keep the most moving memories sacred.
“So you're really smart, huh?” Sully asked, interrupting these thoughts as he plunked himself down beside me on the bench.
“Oh, I don't know.” I wasn't being modest. I was being honest.
“You gotta be real smart to get into Columbia,” he said. “Boss told me so.”
“Well, that's what they want us to believe,” I said.
“See, me?” he said, tapping his oversized, misshapen head. “I ain't too bright upstairs.”
He wasn't sad about it or anything. He was merely stating the facts.
“So when you're off doin' your smarty-pants job next summer, come back and visit ol' Sully.”
“I may not get any job, let alone a smarty-pants job.”
He snorted. “You go to Columbia,” he said. “You get some kinda job if you come outta a school like that. It don't have to be no perfect job,