Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [99]
“Helen . . .”
“I'm a corpse,” I said, staggering across their gleaming floors to the guest room. “I can't hear you anymore.”
As if my relationship with my parents wasn't already on shaky ground. Without their money, I took the maximum twenty-two credits last semester in the hopes that I'll be able graduate a semester early and save myself about $15,000 in loans. On top of this death wish of a class schedule, I worked two jobs. One was in the Psychology Department, cataloging narratives for the Storytelling Project, which means I was paid to watch the tapes and enter a brief description into a database, i.e.,
Name: JESSICA D.
Sex: FEMALE
Race: CAUCASIAN
D.O.B.: 1/19/1984
Occupation: COLLEGE STUDENT
Story category: SEX
Synopsis: WALKS IN ON PARENTS ENGAGED IN SEXUAL INTERCOURSE AND PERFORMS OWN CLITORIDECTOMY WITH PULL TAB FROM COCA-COLA CAN
This was a difficult job because I was constantly reminded of Bastian, who, thankfully, returned to his wife and kids in Spain. So the only awkward moments I suffered were inside my own head. Which was plenty enough.
The other job was at the I SCREAM!, a frozen confectionery near campus. I have to keep this a secret from my family because Wally D's Sweet Treat Shoppe hasn't opened up a branch in Morningside Heights and working for a rival franchise would be considered an unforgivable betrayal. It was a logical choice, though, what with a summer's worth of boardwalk experience in the industry. If the economy doesn't improve and I am unemployable after graduation, I've always got my peerless scooping skills to fall back on. And as G-Money knows, custard and donuts are fail-safe.
So I've got that going for me.
And to think I survived this deadly workload, only to be murdered by the sight of my parents' bare asses, a tragedy that gives a whole new meaning to the word assassination.
the twenty-fifth
Christmas sucked. It suuuuuuucked. And it's not even over yet, which means that there are still a few hours left in which my parents can explore the limits of suckiness.
First, the presents. Now, before you go off on how spoiled I am and how I should be grateful that my parents buy me presents at all, let it be known that I did not want any gifts. My parents (meaning, really, my mother) bought me presents because they (meaning she) never listen to me. I told my parents that all I wanted was money for next semester's textbooks. When my mother refused (“Christmas gifts do not come in envelopes! They come in beautifully wrapped boxes! Don't you have any sense of tradition?”), I sent her a wish list from cheapbooks.com. This morning I found out she summarily ignored that in favor of J.Crew's entire winter catalog.
The moment of ironic truth came when, after opening box after bookless box, I reached in my Christmas stocking and pulled out . . . an envelope! I thought maybe, maybe, maybe it would contain a check, which would, if not quite restore my faith in my mother—because that would imply that there was once faith to begin with—but make me more optimistic about the future of our historically rocky relationship.
But no, it was not a check. It was a gift certificate to a spa.
“For a mother-daughter day of pampering!”
My hands were shaking with . . . shock. Rage. Malnutrition. Poverty.
“Not even a thank-you?” she asked.
“For what?” I asked, my voice quivering. “For something I didn't ask for? For something I don't want?”
“How could anyone not want a trip to a spa?”
“A day of beauty is so unnecessary in my financial situation! Did you know that I've recycled cans to afford the luxury of ordering something that isn't on the McDonald's Dollar Menu? Did you know that I've survived on nothing but ice cream and bagels for weeks at a time?”
“I thought . . . ,” my mom began.
“These gifts cost waaaaay more than the textbooks would have! For the cost of a day of beauty, you can feed a starving college student for a whole semester. So this wasn't about not wanting to spend money. This is about