Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [113]
“That would creep me out,” I said.
“Why?”
“I mean, there’s something very satanic about that.”
Sara flipped me the bird.
Sara was expected to memorize a song before she arrived, to be sung along with the seniors.
Harrington, Harrington
This is the song
That will be sung
By you, it’s true
Four years and forever
Harrington
“Are you sure you got accepted to a college and not a sorority?” I asked.
Sara flipped me the bird. Again.
Still, as much as Sandi Jones’s letter scared me, I couldn’t help but get a little jealous over Sara’s unadulterated excitement about the next four years of her life.
I’m insanely jealous over everyone’s acceptance letters. Hope and RISD. Len and Cornell. Manda and Rutgers. Scotty and Lehigh. Bridget even heard from UCLA, which is really unfair because until she got the acceptance, she had insisted that she wasn’t even going. But now that it’s here, guess what? She wants to go. That’s the great thing about being Bridget. Her mind is so uncomplicated that it doesn’t take much to change it. It’s great for her, but sucks for me because I was relying on her to be the one person who was not caught up in college excitement.
WHY HAVEN’T I HEARD FROM COLUMBIA YET????
the fifteenth
WHAT RECENTLY DUMPED BRAINIAC IS FUELING SAPPHIC RUMORS BY REJECTING THE MOST POPULAR, BEST LOOKING CLASS ATHLETE’S PROM INVITATION?
I hate the Mystery Muckracker. I really do. Why should my business be anyone else’s business? This violation of my privacy pisses me off. Jesus, I wish I could write an editorial. Something along the lines of “Gutless Gossip: Pinevile Low Author Finds Safety in Anonymity.”
While I’m hating people, I hate everyone who has been accepted to college.
I hate Mac and Paul Parlipiano for making me care so much about Columbia. I hate them for making me want this so much. I’m much better off when I don’t really want anything. Only then can I maintain the ironic detachment toward my whole life that keeps me from going certifiably insane.
Though this college thing has been a nice way to get my mind off of other things, like how Len and Manda are severely disappointing me by not breaking up. And how it kind of bothers me when Bridget isn’t home to field my Columbia freak-out phone calls. And how Marcus has been more distant and silent than he’s ever been.
the seventeenth
My Educational Options for Next Year
Since It Is Clear That Columbia Doesn’t Want Me
(and I don’t want to go to any of the other Schools
I’ve been accepted to)
Piedmont University. Room with Call Me Chantalle and major
in Hobagitry. I’ll just have to suck it up. (Ha. In more ways than
one.)
Ringling Brothers Clown College. My moniker could be Dinky
Dumbass.
McDonald’s University. I am very familiar with their Dollar
Value Menu.
the nineteenth
Ringling Brothers Clown College closed last year!
DAMMIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
the twenty-third
The mailman is Satan.
the twenty-Seventh
Why is it that I’m never allowed to get excited about anything?
I’ve been wired, wired, wired—so wound up that I couldn’t even do sun salutations without feeling like I was going to snap into a bizillion pieces. My body has been buzzing with excess energy and I knew there was only way to get rid of it. I tried to ignore the urge through deep-breathing techniques and mini-meditations, but nothing, nothing could stop me today from doing the unthinkable.
I laced up my sneakers and went for a run. That’s right. I’ve damned the downward dog to hell and have finally accepted the truth: I am not a yoga person. No one was home, so I figured