Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [19]
“Well, you're the eyes and ears around here,” I replied. “What have you got for me?”
“Hm,” she said, tapping a black fingernail against her chin. “What former Most Likely to Succeed has fallen on hard times and graced Pineville High with her superior, Ivy League presence?”
“Har dee har har,” I said. “Is Paul here?”
“Don't you know?” she replied. “He ditched PACO. He's in New Hampshire organizing meet-ups for Howard Dean.”
I'd had several hello/good-byes with Paul at Columbia, but little beyond it. His former group, People Against Conformity and Oppression, had a lot of campus protests this year—against the climate of racism and intolerance, the mistreatment of TAs, the lack of vegan entrées served in John Jay, and so on. I didn't get involved with those fights against injustice, but I did join Paul and millions of others across the globe in the all-time largest antiwar demonstration. This, of course, proved to be less successful than the campaign against the dining hall, which now serves wheatless, meatless soy-cheeze pizzas nightly.
Every time I saw Paul, he had a picket sign in one hand and Luis's hand in the other. Paul was never without this new boyfriend—who is Latino and muscular and painfully gorgeous. Paul was my high school crush-to-end-all-crushes, so this was not easy for me to get used to, which is totally stupid because—HELLO, DOLLY!—he's gay. Anyway, Paul and I were always shouting promises to hang out across the campus, but never did. The point is, I had no idea that he had left the extremely unfocused PACO to channel his activist energies into something so specific.
Before I could express my surprise, Principal Masters's voice rumbled from the loudspeakers, reminding all graduates that they were needed in the auditorium at once.
“The evil one calls for the last time,” Taryn said. “I'll send you my final issue of The Seagull's Voice.”
“Sure,” I said. “I'd love to see what you did.”
“Our op-ed columnist was even better than you were,” she bragged. “No offense.”
And I assured her that none was taken. As an about-to-graduate senior in high school, Taryn's got hubris out the wazoo. And that's okay, because I was exactly like her just one year ago. I watched her and Pepe and the rest of the Class of 2003 strut across the stage and giddily grab their diplomas out of Principal Masters's hand, and I envied them. I wanted their confidence, their excitement, and their anticipation of the next step. I think about my salutatory address last June, in which I told a football field full of people that I was happy being me, yes, me . . . and it makes me cringe. Where did I get off being so confident?
I didn't know anything about anything. And the only difference between then and now is this: I may know more than I used to, but my wisdom pales in comparison to that which I've yet to learn. I assume this is what Professor Samuel MacDougall—the instructor from the summer writing program I attended before my senior year—had in mind when he quoted Confucius in my letter of recommendation for Columbia: “Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's own ignorance.”
Well, in that regard, I have surely exceeded my mentor's expectations.
the twenty-eighth
Tonight was our last night together before I take the two-and-a-half-hour trip to New York for my internship at True. Marcus and I thought about getting out and doing something that would inspire highly intellectual banter, but instead we stayed in and did some bang-a-langin'.
Sorry, I couldn't resist. Using Sara's word helps keep me in a state of ironic detachment about my life. It's where I often place myself when I'd rather not feel real.
“Maybe I shouldn't do this True thing after all,” I said, tracing the thin lines that bracket his mouth like parentheses. “I don't know if I can handle living with Bethany and G-Money for a month.”
“Think of all the quality time you'll get to spend with Marin,” Marcus said.
“I've got two more summers to pad my résumé,” I said. “And I'm