Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [33]
This isn't something I brag about. It's something new friends only find out about me through a third party, usually a Pineville resident who is proud of being immortalized with an ISBN number. I'm too embarrassed about not living up to the high standards set by my supercool fictional self. Yes, I trash people privately in the pages of this journal. And yes, I get a schadenfreudian lift from reading about people being trashed in the pages of True. But I think the reason I'm incredibly uncomfortable with doing the public trashing myself is because I know firsthand what it's like to have my trust violated in that way.
Of course, if I had submitted my editorial “Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace: Just Another Poseur” along with my internship application, Tyra would know this already. But I was down to my last copy and I was too lazy to go to Kinko's and I had other Op/Ed samples ready, so I sent it without. See how one innocent decision comes back to haunt me?
“Cinthia Wallace is writing a piece for us,” Tyra said.
“She is?”
“Jiminy Cricket! Yes! She's studying sociology and political science at Harvard. And she's using what she's learned there, plus her innate investigative skills, to write an in-depth piece exploring the reclamation of the term ‘guido' from a pejorative to a positive.”
My mouth just hung open.
“What do you think of that?”
What do I think? I think I'm being ripped off, that's what! That was my idea! Mine!
Of course, I didn't actually say any of this.
“Holy horse hockey! What about your piece about Persuasions?”
My chin was getting a nasty case of rug burn. But I was still too shocked to speak. How could Tyra give away my idea right in front of me?
“Nothing about Persuasions was worth writing about?”
Still dazed by Tyra's news, I shook my head.
Tyra leaned back in her chair, studying my face. I concentrated on the cartoon sperm swimming on the poster above her desk: SAVE THE WIGGLEPUPPIES.
“I'm disappointed,” she said.
Now I was really confused. If this is how she really felt, then why was Hy writing my essay? And it got even more baffling.
“When I read the editorials from your high school paper, I thought, Jeepers creepers. Here's someone who is onto the joke of her suburban New Jersey existence. Here is someone who is brave enough to expose the artifice of the culture that has made her what she is. Here, I thought, is someone True!”
I took this all in and thought, Are you kidding me? I have no idea when anyone around here is being real or ironic. Genuine or game. All or none of the above.
One thing I do know is this: If I were really True, I would have confronted Tyra about my connection to Hy and my stolen idea. But I didn't. So I guess I'm not.
the nineteenth
Today is Marcus's birthday. We had agreed that we would celebrate in the city.
Instead, I got a dizzying phone call.
“Come here,” he said, without saying hello. This isn't unusual. He doesn't call much, but when he does it's because he has something very specific to tell me and can't wait for social conventions like hello.
“Marcus, what are you talking about? And why aren't you on your way?”
“Come here!” he said again, ignoring my question, his voice sunnier than the California sky.
“Marcus, I know it's your birthday, but you were supposed to come to me. So why do I have to come to you?”
“Why are you focusing on what didn't happen instead of what can happen next?”
“Why are you answering my question with a question?”
“It's a Buddhist thing,” he said, keeping his tone light.
This is his half-joking stock response whenever Marcus talks about concepts too complicated to explain without sounding preachy. I felt a nauseous thud of emotion, one I don't like to admit to: annoyance.
“My dad is depressed