Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [109]
“Are those jeans from the Gap?” I heard Paul Parlipiano’s mellifluous voice ask. Not exactly the greeting I was hoping for, but whatever.
I swiveled around, actually convinced that the aesthetics of my new ass transcended sexual preference. “Yes, they are!”
He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Gap is Crap!” he said.
On instinct, anyone within earshot instinctively repeated his chant. “Gap is Crap!”
Then he went on to explain how the Gap relies on sweatshops that break about a bizillion child labor laws.
“I didn’t know.”
“Ignorance is no excuse, Jessica,” he said.
“Uh, okay. Sorry.”
Then things were okay for thirty seconds as Paul introduced me to some of the other PACO members: an African-American, buzz-cut, hippie-skirted lesbian named Kendra; an elfishly short, goatee-sporting Hispanic hipster named Hugo; a dreadlocked, Birkenstocked granola white boy named Zach. For people so concerned about human rights, they seemed pretty much uninterested in my very existence.
I fortified myself with a swig of Coke from the bottle in my backpack and was about to volunteer to do something when Paul said, “Are you drinking Coca-Cola?”
I looked at the label dumbly.
“Choke on Coke!” he shouted.
“Choke on Coke!” shouted Kendra, Hugo, Zach, and everyone else.
He went on to explain how Coca-Cola is the most insidious promoter of corporate imperialism. I wasn’t used to seeing Paul Parlipiano outside of Pineville’s oppressive environment. The freedom made him very . . . opinionated, to say the least.
“Sorry,” I replied. “I didn’t know.”
He gently rest his hand on my shoulder with great pity. “Ignorance is no excuse, Jessica.”
“Why not?” I asked. “How could I know something if I, uh, didn’t know it?”
Duh. Genius debate, Jess.
Then Paul Parlipiano launched into this whole pedagogical argument about how it is our generational imperative to celebrate the ties that bind our society instead of the differences that divide us, that all the peoples of the world should aspire to live as One in global unity and blahdiddyblahblahblah. It was exactly the line Haviland gave me when she told me my divergent opinions would no longer be needed for The Seagull’s Voice.
“What do you have to say to that?” he said when he was finally finished.
What did I have to say to that? WHAT did I have to say to THAT?
“Well . . .”
There he stood, Paul Parlipiano, my crush-to-end-all-crushes, the gay man of my dreams, looking down his nose at me like I had an extra chromosome. He was getting off on his cosmopolitan superiority, but hell, I knew where he came from.
“I think that kind of thinking promotes conformity.”
Paul Parlipiano’s deep, deep brown eyes bulged out of his perfectly symmetrical skull.
“What?!”
“PACO is all about accepting people of different races, religions, and lifestyles, which is good. But when it comes down to it, you’re a bunch of like-minded people who want to talk to other like-minded people.”
He just stood there, eyes still half out of his handsome head.
“You don’t want anything to do with anyone who doesn’t share your politically correct point of view. You filter out any opposing thoughts that might undermine your cause, whatever it is.”
I felt the whole room glaring at me, but I pressed on.
“I mean, you don’t even know what you’re protesting today, so you’re protesting everything!”
An icicle dripped from the tip of my nose in the subzero silence.
“To single out any injustice for the purposes of our protest would be insulting to all those who suffer in the world,” responded a flabbergasted Paul. “How can we measure one’s oppression versus another’s?”
“But you’re not really taking a stand against anything !”
“You are wrong,” Paul said, finally regaining his calm.
“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’m entitled to my opinion.”
“Not if your opinion is wrong,” he said.
“It’s my opinion,” I huffed.