Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [49]
When I finally got my period, inexplicably twenty-seven days late, I had already ignored as many messages from Marcus. This wasn't something I wanted to talk about over the phone or e-mail. I was tired of telling him everything in absentia.
You, too. Which is why you're getting this letter now. And for that, and all of my other unspoken secrets, I'm sorry. So, so, so sorry.
Repentantly yours,
J.
* * *
* * *
To: jdarling@columbia.edu
From: flutie_marcus@gakkai.edu
Date: December 11th, 2003
Subject: Poetry Spam #32
coastal quarantine
inoculate, isolate
secret soul disease
—Original Message—
From: Pinky Webguy [mailto:AXQOI@mailbx.com]
Sent: December 10th, 2003
To: flutie_marcus@gakkai.edu
Subject: chevrolet quarantine marjoram fuzzy sprocket pocono
stairway cognition isolate imprudent tantalum denotation pipeline stomp analogy playwright durable centimeter wizard aristocrat inoculate rhododendron testicle asthma torpid ascendant cherry bunt silicone transmittable tool downcast lacy sallow imitable swathe wreck stadium bohemia secret educable soul acrobat morphology demystify bolshevik wyoming auburn pagan fear showmen ban editorial escapee harmful zone self heterodyne hitler synchrotron polytechnic ahoy attack disease convulsive soak broody basilar coastal prickle rio cogent recriminatory brazil ridge defunct exclaim
* * *
the seventeenth
Ah, there's no place like home for the hellidays . . .
“MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!” might seem like an improvement over my mother's usual first-glance, still-on-the-doorstep greetings (usually a recrimination or an accusation about my appearance). But in truth, her seasonal cheer was an affront to my humbuggy sensibilities. As was the house in general, which smelled like pine needles and cinnamon sticks and was all aglow in the tasteful, unblinking little white lights my mother favors. Surround-sound carolers contributed to the merriment. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-blah-blah-blah-bleech.
Mom grabbed me by the arm. “Let me show you your present!”
I was surprised that she hadn't commented on my wardrobe (third-day-in-a-row jeans, ratty black thermal), epidermal land mines (mostly clear), or hair (finally! finally! finally! long enough to twist into a sloppy topknot). I interpreted her haste as a sincere desire to spread joy to the world, one malcontent at a time. She guided me down the hall and then stood for a moment outside my room, blocking me from entering. And then, with a dramatic sweep of her arm, she opened the door.
“Ta da!”
Ta da! My room was gone! Gone! My mosaic from Hope, my snapshots of Marcus, my movie posters, my books, my CDs, my everything . . . GONE!
“Mom! What the hell happened to my room?!”
I guess it could have been worse. It could have looked like the results of one of those not-even-third-rate Trading Spaces rip-offs, with, like, seaweed stapled to the walls. It was all very tasteful. Very . . . beige. Natural wicker furniture, a polished wood floor covered with a sand-colored sisal rug, photographs of beach scenes on the creamy walls. It could be a hotel room, a room for anyone.
“Isn't it beautiful?” she said, pulling me inside. “It looks so much more spacious and sunny without all your stuff strewn about.”
“My stuff! Where is all my stuff!”
“Why are you upset? You were always complaining about how babyish your room was. You even tried to paint over the wallpaper, remember? I thought I'd surprise you with a makeover!”
She was showing a little too much enthusiasm. I tapped my sneaker in defiance.
“Don't get all huffy with me, Jessie,” she said, sounding a bit huffy herself. “I redid Bethany's room, too.”
“Now I'm really confused,” I said.
Then my mom went on to explain that she needed to redo our rooms as practice for what she hopes will be her new career as a professional stager.
“A what?”
My mother brightened. “A stager is real estate professional slash design specialist who sees the hidden potential in spaces and makes superficial yet strategic cosmetic enhancements