Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [38]
“Speaking of all things true, you must tell me about the internship!” she gushed as she stepped into the Volvo. “If you didn't have the best time ever, I will kill you.”
“Uh, it was a job, J. Like any other job . . . ,” I said, keeping my eyes on the rearview mirror to avoid her scrutiny.
“Oh sure, just like any other job at the coolest, funniest magazine in the universe! Like any other job that a bizillion girls are dying to put on their résumé!”
When she put it like that, it almost made me jealous for the person lucky enough to snag that job, until I remembered that the person was me and that the job sucked.
“Well, it really wasn't that fun.”
And then I explained how I was ignored all summer, and the only way to get attention from anyone was to be catty and snarky and, of course, game for anything and everything that Tyra deemed cool, which was a complicated classification, one that included giving a blow job to a suction-cupped dildo in front of a dozen people in the middle of the afternoon.
“You what? That's hilarious!” Jane cackled.
I tried explaining that it wasn't funny at all, that it was degrading and weird and uncomfortable and gave me an icky uh-oh feeling like you get warned about in antimolestation videos in elementary school.
“You walked out on them?” Jane slapped both hands on the dashboard in shock. “But you love that magazine! How can you suddenly decide that it's not you! It's funny! Ha-ha! Funny! Jokes! Remember jokes? Remember laughter?”
“Har-dee-har-har,” I replied.
She popped in a CD mix that she had made for me. An Eminem/ Depeche Mode mash-up burst from the speakers: It'd be so empty without me . . . I just can't get enough . . . I just can't get enough . . .
“So! When do I get to meet the famous Marcus Flutie?”
“Tomorrow.” I smiled at the thought of it. “He's giving us ‘girl time' tonight.”
I've been looking forward to introducing Marcus to Jane, for educational purposes. Jane is a very together chick, and there is only one thing about her that I do not get at all: her boyfriend. First of all, he's got a chin-warmer; you know, all bushy below the mouth but completely naked above it, a peculiar facial-hair fashion that has never worked on anyone in any period of history. And he'll wear the same thrift-shop corduroy blazer every single day until the elbows rub down to a greasy sheen. He's undertall and underweight and would need to gain about fifty pounds before he'd look healthy enough to achieve heroin chic. Finally, his face always has that flared-nostril, openmouthed look of a person about to yawn.
But I'd forgive his physical flaws if his personality wasn't so beyond redemption. He's so godawful that I hate saying his name because it provokes a visceral puke-in-my-mouth repugnance, which is sad because it's the same as a certain cinematic hottie who has provided me with many a sexual daydream. Which means Jake (bleeech!) has all but ruined Sixteen Candles for me.
Need proof? There's the time he heaved a heavy sigh and hesitated for a few moments before joining us in the cab taking us to Roseland to see the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, because “New York City hasn't made a significant contribution to the music scene since The Ramones.” At the club, he slouched in the corner, arms crossed and unsmiling, until Jane took him out of his (our) misery midway through the set.
Or the time a bunch of us went for Italian at Carmine's and Jake (bleeech!) got so bored with our conversation about all the antiwar protests on campus that he literally rested his head on the table like he was taking a nap. He only snapped to attention when Jane turned the conversation toward a topic he likes: himself.
Or the time I introduced myself.
I said, “Hey Jake! [Bleeech!] I'm so happy to finally meet you.”
And he said, “Uh-huh.” Then he turned his back on me, walked into Jane's room, and slammed the door in my stunned face.
As a self-appointed “Poli-Poetics” major at Brown, he wasn't around to foul us with