Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [14]
“Is the Universal Ministry of Secular Humanity anything like Pastafarianism?” Jessica asked.
Bridget and Percy had anticipated Jessica’s every argument and verbally climbed all over each other in presenting their counterarguments.
“We actually looked into getting you ordained by the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster …”
“But it seems that you can only be ordained by a real church, not a heretical parody of a church …”
“The Universal Ministry of Secular Humanity, however, is the best alternative because it makes a big deal out of being nondenominational and supportive of all religious practice—including the right not to practice …”
“Its emphasis is on this life and simply doing what’s right…”
“And once you get ordained, you can perform weddings throughout the United States, including the Virgin Islands, which is where we want to get it done …”
“Why go through all this trouble?” Jessica asked, flattered by how much effort they had already put in.
“We want you!”
“After all,” Percy added, “you were the first to know.”
“How old were we?” Bridget asked.
“You were a junior. I was a sophomore. Sixteen? Seventeen?” Percy said.
“Omigod! How can it be possible that we’ve been together that long? That’s crazy!”
“Crazy …”
Where was Jessica during this conversation? Cross-legged on a quilted, garishly floral-patterned bedspread sprinkled with crumbs that had escaped the exorbitantly priced bag of chips from the hospitality bar. She had tuned out of the conversation briefly to calculate the cost of those crumbs, then soon realized that an accurate estimate would require math skills she hasn’t used since filling in the last bubble on the SAT with her number two pencil. The bag of chips, the bedspread, the beige walls, the framed reproductions of unmemorable landscapes. A hotel room, obviously. But where?
She reviews all the cities she traveled to in the last two years: Los Angeles. Minneapolis. Phoenix. Seattle. Atlanta. She rarely has time to spend in the cities themselves, just enough to land at the airport, get the rental car, and drive to the suburban residence hotel closest to the next high school on her itinerary, to the next group of girls—some boys but mostly girls—who signed up for the ten-week Do Better High School Storytellers project. That’s what they call themselves: girls. Not girlz, or grrls, which are misguided marketing terms, and certainly not young adults, young women, or young ladies, as they are usually called by parents, teachers, coaches, counselors, and others of their clueless ilk. Jessica is paid to encourage the Girls—who have attained capital-G status in her mind—to speak up, speak out.
Jessica has heard dozens of stories, and they come to her now—still on line at the Clear Sky customer service center—in bits and pieces. A story about a designated driver, the only sober one at the party, who slipped, fell flat on her face, and cracked her front tooth trying to steal her wasted boyfriend’s keys. A story about a fourth-grader shaving off her eyebrows after the class bully compared them to squirrel tails. A story about watching a father throw a favorite porcelain doll on the floor just to prove that it wouldn’t break, but it broke. A story about eating frog legs at an elegant five-star restaurant in Paris and insulting the chef with a request for ketchup. A story about discovering Ayn Rand and railing against the “second-handers.” A story about passing a joint to a secret crush and getting higher from being one degree of separation from his lips than from the marijuana itself. A story about former best friends who looked the other way in the hallway. A story about a spitball landing in a laughing mouth. A story about how a star mathematician’s skills were wasted on anorexic word problems like “How many hours on the treadmill does it take to subtract an apple, a slice of cheese, and four almonds?” A story about going on a roller coaster for the first time,