Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [52]
I was like this in high school, too—I was only as smart as my last exam—but I thought that maybe it was because my brain was in feast or famine mode. I'd stuff it with info for tests, but because it would be deprived of any sustenance on a day-to-day basis, it would get used up and forgotten. I was hoping it would get better at Columbia; that through Columbia's “legacy of cross-disciplinary scholarship,” I'd be “compelled to analyze and ponder thinkers from the past” so that I could “better contemplate and influence the future.” (Uh, like it says in the brochure.) However, I can barely remember anything from Contemporary Civilizations, a class I aced less than two weeks ago, yet I can recite every line of dialogue from The Breakfast Club. Other Columbians have room for this kind of arcane knowledge and the stuff their parents are paying for.
One could argue that it isn't any school's role to make you smarter per se, but better educated, because intelligence is innate. If that's the case—you're smart or you aren't—I know I am. But that old get-laid aphorism is totally true: Tell smart girls how hot they are, and hot girls how smart they are. I used to be okay with being well above average in intelligence, and just average in looks because I was still above average—a 3.0—for the total package. But after three semesters at Columbia, I now know there are plenty of girls out there who are A-pluses in looks and intelligence. (And they surely exist in California, too.) I already know Marcus loves me for my mind, so I think I'd get more out of him telling me that he loves me for my ass.
This is what I was thinking about when the doorbell rang.
My dad answered it, and there he was. Marcus Flutie. Marcus Flutie standing in the foyer underneath the mistletoe, as stretched out as his white T-shirt, as skinny as the thin wales of his corduroy pants. Standing as he had stood so many times before. Marcus Flutie, my boyfriend. More than that. My love.
And yet, he still seemed as ineffable to me as he did back when I'd see him with Hope's brother, when I knew nothing about him other than that he was just another one of Heath's dirty, dangerous, druggie friends. No matter how close I get to Marcus, I will never know exactly who he is. And the only reason that didn't send me screaming back up the stairs is the certainty that he will never know me, either.
Marcus didn't say anything when he saw me, only pointed upward to the beribboned sprig of greenery hanging above his head. I floated over to him. I opened my lips to say something. Hey, maybe. Merry Christmas, or I missed you.
It should have been I'm sorry.
But he pressed his mouth over mine and sent these and all words back where they came from. My apologies would wait.
the twenty-fifth
I get why people have kids, besides the whole propagation of the species thing. Kids give you license to do dorky things and have fun while doing them.
Before Marin, Christmas had kind of devolved into this depressing festival-forced holly jollity. YOU WILL HAVE A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS, GODDAMMIT. There were all these holiday traditions that simply had to be followed, even though they had lost all their meaning. For example, in the Darling household we don't put on any Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving. And the annual inaugural record is Johnny Mathis's first Christmas album, the one where he's wearing the red jacket in the snow, not to be confused with his many follow-up Christmas albums, all of which have synthesized instruments and suck. And the first playing of Johnny Mathis has to be the original record, as in vinyl, not a CD, because it has certain scratches that make the record skip in predictable spots that would be missed by key members of the Darling household. And so, we have kept a turntable in the house for this once-a-year event, just so we can all hear Johnny stutter the