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By Root 284 0

so afterward, Jessica found so insulting, as if she didn’t understand the depressing downside of going through life with such a personality defect. That she had been born with a bleak streak was inarguable. As for what to do about it, that was a question Jessica has struggled with for too many years, still struggles with, but less often since she started working for Do Better. Jessica was always uncomfortable with the idea of being a role model, and she still cringes at the term because anyone who allows herself to be placed atop such a pedestal is begging to get knocked off it. When Jessica voiced such objections, Sunny pointed out what should have been self-evident:

“You’re a role model because you’re not perfect. You were a mess when you were my age, but you turned out okay. You give me hope! Just don’t tell anyone or they might mistake my optimism for one of those rare brain disorders you’ve told me about.”

Imperfections weren’t enough to endear Jessica to the Girls—after all, there are plenty of repugnant fuckups out there. It’s her gift for storytelling, Jessica’s uncanny ability to enlighten and entertain with tales of past mistakes, that made her a hero among the tart-tongued eye-rollers like Sunny. Jessica wishes she could talk to her right now, taking full advantage of another opportunity to serve by flawed example.

Jessica hadn’t noticed it yesterday, surely because she was going out of her way not to take in too many specifics of the whole gruesome situation, but she wondered whether Sunny was hooked up to a machine that monitored her brain activity. Wouldn’t such information be useful to Sunny’s doctors? Jessica remembered studying colorful brain scans in her advanced psychology classes at Columbia, where certain zones lit up in response to different stimuli. If such a real-time mind map were possible, Jessica could have edited and embellished her tales to increase blood flow in key regions, all to Sunny’s maximum medical benefit. In fact, Jessica can perfectly visualize the explosion of primary brights—Mondrian meets Pollock—in Sunny’s hypothalamus as a response to the following sentence:

Marcus Flutie is slowly getting naked right in front of me. And I’m not going to stop him.

five

Marcus starts with the sweater, seizing it gently at the hem, then raising it up and over his head in one graceful, fluid movement. This sweater has meant nothing to him, really. But now it’s become something more: a symbol. It’s the symbol of what can’t be shared, the start of stories that go unfinished. He takes the sweater by the arms and stretches it out in front of him. In this moment, the sweater and Marcus look like dance partners, about to take a grand ballroom spin. It’s a bold gesture, one he would not be making if he were in this hotel room all by himself.

He clasps the arms of the sweater together, first halving it in a hug, then folding it once more into quarters. He’s making a big production out of putting away this sweater, a sweater he normally rips over his head and throws into a ball on the floor, forgotten until the next time temperatures dip low enough to need it. Marcus places the now meticulously cared-for sweater on his bed, which is located three footsteps away from hers. There is an unobstructed sight line between Jessica and this sweater. He doesn’t want Jessica to forget about the sweater. He’s waiting for her to ask about the sweater. He’s waiting for her to ask for the rest of the story, and he wants her to suffer through its telling. He’s waiting for her to ask about Greta. To encourage the question, he unclasps the dumb-ass watch and places it right on top of the sweater as an extra visual aid. It doesn’t help.

His eyes meet her silent, heavy-lidded stare. Mildly unnerved by her implacable expression, he clears his throat and turns away in a false show of modesty. The room is silent save for the muted roar of airplanes taking off and landing not far from their window. His back is to her as he begins with the top button of his tasteful blue-striped dress shirt, origin unknown. The cotton