Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [138]
“You did a genius job with the game,” Bethany said, breaking my thoughts.
Marin agreed. “Genius, Auntie J!”
“Thanks,” I said. “Bethany . . .” I sucked in a lungful of air. “I've been wanting to talk to you all night . . .”
She waved her hands in front of me to stop but I kept going.
“No, please. You were kind enough to offer help and I selfishly . . .”
I hadn't intended for that to be the end of my apology. But Bethany's tackle-hug stopped me.
“I don't need to hear any more!” Tears skimmed her cheeks.
“Are you sure? Because . . .”
“I'm sure!”
When we declinched, I braced myself for the next part of my impromptu speech.
“So . . .” I fiddled with the satin ribbon on my skirt. “I was wondering . . .”
“Yes!”
“Yes!” mimicked Marin.
“Yes . . . what?” I asked.
“Yes, you can live with us!” Bethany wrapped her arms around me again. Only this time Marin joined in, clasping my lower legs.
“How did you know I was going to ask . . . ?”
“I know because sisters know things.”
Even sisters who have as little in common as we do.
“Oh!” I overheard my mom burble. “Look at them!”
“Our girls!” my dad exclaimed.
“Our girls!” she repeated. “I'm so proud of them!”
At first I didn't get what was making my parents so misty. But then I looked down at Marin clinging to my calf and thought about how proud I was of the cool little kid she was becoming. And she's just my niece—I can't even imagine what it would be like if she were my own daughter. Seeing my parents so weepy with love and admiration, it wasn't so hard to believe that, despite it all, they really do have my best interests at heart. Unfortunately, they've never been very good at understanding what those interests are. I can't really blame them for that, though, because I barely understand them myself.
But I'd like to think I'm getting better at it.
the thirty-first
I was shocked to find an e-mail from one Professor Samuel MacDougall in my mailbox. Since becoming a finalist for the National Book Award for Acting Out, he's been highly sought after by universities. And even if I had known he'd been hired by Columbia, I would have never expected him to remember a little high school kiddie he taught four summers ago, let alone go out of his way to contact me. His letter of recommendation was a big reason I got in here, but I was sure that he'd written dozens, if not hundreds, of such letters over the years.
But it's not every day that one gets an invitation from an author the New York Times describes as “a gay Dave Eggers . . . only smarter, funnier . . . and better.” So I took the train from Bethany's place in Brooklyn up to 116th Street, found his office, and knocked cautiously on the door, having no idea what this visionary could possibly want with me.
He enthusiastically swung open the door.
“Hi! It's been a long time!” I said.
“‘I don't think of the past,'” he said. “‘The only thing that matters is the everlasting present.' W. Somerset Maugham.”
“The everlasting present,” I repeated, somewhat freaked out that one of his trademark aphorisms so eerily summarized what I've been thinking lately. Synchronicity? Or bullshit?
“Come in, come in,” he said warmly, before I had a chance to decide.
I edged my way through the tiny, cramped office. On the fourth floor, it had a small muck-covered window that opened up to the brick face of another building.
“You have to win a Pulitzer to get a view around here,” he said.
I laughed, not sure if he was kidding.
“So!” he said, clapping his hands together. “What have you been up to? Writing-wise?”
I decided to confess.
“I didn't major in English or take a single writing class besides L&R freshman year. I didn't join the newspaper because it seemed too intense and competitive and I hated my summer internship at True magazine and I barely had the energy to write the occasional letter to my best friend, though more often I'd write to my boyfriend, which turned out to be a colossal waste of