Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [101]
When I finished, there was applause. I was so taken with my tirade that I hadn’t noticed the crowd of onlookers. Bridget, Pepe, Scotty, Taryn, and a whole bunch of faces I didn’t even recognize were all clapping as Len slunk away, feeling every inch the huge sphincter he is.
The last bell rang, and the bodies scattered toward their respective homerooms. That’s when I finally heard his voice from behind.
“So much for quiet, dignified grace,” Marcus said, his lips pressed together, and his arms folded against the faded black MONDAY on his chest.
“Not my style,” I said. “I’m more of a loud, offensive mess.”
“Yes,” he said, slowly breaking into the grin I know so well. “Yes, you are.”
As we walked into homeroom together, I decided that his assurance of okayness was better late than never.
the ninth
I just came back from the innermost circle of hell, and it’s decorated in Laura Ashley florals.
My parents forced me go to the Piedmont University tea being held for New Jersey applicants they are trying to woo into their honors program.
“But I already told you, my first choice is Williams.”
“Jessie,” my mom said. “Piedmont is throwing money at you!”
“And as the ones footing the bill for your college education,” my father said, for the bizillionth time, “we are telling you to go.”
I should have told them about Columbia. I should have just ended this whole charade right then and there. But I didn’t. Because I suck.
“Fine,” I said with an exhausted sigh.
I dragged myself upstairs and got dressed.
I will take this opportunity to mention that all the months of no running and yoga have finally paid off. I’ve gained some weight, but in a good way. I don’t know how much because I never weigh myself, but it’s enough flesh to fill out the butt of my cords and stretch the straight and vertical lines of my ribbed turtleneck into two almost-A-cup arcs. Pepe actually commented on the former last week.
“Damn! Tu es belle!”
(“Damn! You are fine!”)
“Vraiment?”
(“Really?”)
“J’aime une fille avec un peu de jonque dans le tronc.”
(“I like a girl with a little junk in the trunk.”)
“Comment?!”
(“What?!”)
“J’ai dit, ‘J’aime une fille avec un peu de jonque dans le tronc.’ ”
(“I said, ‘I like a girl with a little junk in the trunk.’ ”)
“Il y a un problème avec ta traduction.”
(“There’s a problem with your translation.”)
“J’aime une fille avec un booty.”
(“I like a girl with a booty.”)
“Oh. Je le reçois maintenant.”
(“Oh. I get it.”)
“Oh, tu l’as reçu!”
(“Oh, you got it!)
Junk in the trunk must be why Pepe has this hopeless crush on Bridget, who has looked bootylicious and legal since seventh grade. It took me eighteen years, but I finally look like a girl, albeit one five years younger than I am, but even this is an improvement. The point is, when I looked in the mirror, I thought I looked pretty good. For me.
Unfortunately, I did not pass my mother’s white-glove inspection.
“You can’t go dressed like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a tea party, Jessie,” my mom said, “not a keg party.”
“But look,” I said, lifting up my leg. “I’m not wearing sneakers.”
“You go upstairs and change into something more appropriate this minute!”
“Mooooooommmmmm,” I whined unattractively. “I thought this was appropriate.”
Then my mom hustled upstairs and made a beeline for my closet.
“No, no, no, no . . .” she said as she pushed hangers from one side to the other until she reached the inner recesses of my closet, the darkened comers reserved for clothes I never, ever wear.
“Mom,” I said. “There’s nothing back th—”
“This is perfect!” she said, whisking out one of Bethany’s cast-offs, a charcoal-gray suit covered in dry-cleaning plastic.
“No way!” I shrieked. I was completely horrified at the prospect of looking like someone who works on Wall Street. Make that the non-working wife of someone who used to work on Wall Street.
“Jessie,” she said. “This is from Barneys. It’s a very expensive, very well-made suit. You’re lucky your sister got her colors charted and discovered that gray doesn’t suit her hair or