Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [16]
Finally, today, Monday, as the class took a break for lunch (me) and ceremonial bloodletting (everyone else), Mac held up the wrong journal and said, “ ‘The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray.’ Oscar Wilde.”
“Uh.”
“Let’s discuss this.”
Sure, let’s discuss that he’s thirtysomething and I’m a minor and I’m lusting after him in a totally inappropriate student/teacher “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” kind of way that ruins reputations and gets people arrested and now we’re alone in a classroom together and no one is around and it’s very hot and sweaty and he’s talking about leading me astray and I’m not wearing that much clothing and—
“Don’t be embarrassed about the things you wrote about me,” he started.
I wanted to say, Oh no, I am not embarrassed at all. I believe in articulating one’s deepest thoughts and feelings, even those that may be unconventional or, yes, illegal. After all, what use is a mind if we disallow freedom of expression?
But it came out like this: “Nuhhh.”
“You are familiar with my work, right?”
“Uh, sure! Of course! I love your books!” I lied. I’d never heard of him or his work before I showed up at SPECIAL.
“Then you know that my first novel, Mama’s Boy, was a semiautobiographical account of my struggle to come out of the closet.”
Out of the closet.
“And that it was dedicated to my longtime lover. . . .”
Lover.
“Raul.”
Raul.
“So you know I’m gay. . . .”
Gay.
He’s . . . gay.
Of course.
OF COURSE HE’S GAY.
Why would I ever lust after someone who isn’t gay? First Paul Parlipiano, now Mac. Are all Manhattan hotties gay? How many more until I’m officially a princess among queens? This would only happen to me.
“Which means there’s no reason for you to be embarrassed or uncomfortable about what you wrote.”
He said it matter-of-factly, to make it so, even though he knew the exact opposite was true. I felt like a busted horse’s ass, one whose only redeeming quality was that it could be shot and turned into glue.
“Now that that’s out of the way, I’d like to talk to you about what I read. Why is it that nothing you’ve written for me in class holds up to what I read in this journal?”
I wanted to say, What do you mean? But instead it came out: “Wuhhh?”
“I want more of this,” he said, handing my journal back to me. “This is real. This is you. If you want to be a writer, you need to stop censoring yourself. You need to write like this.”
He massaged his scalp, waiting for some kind of multisyllabic response that I couldn’t give him.
“The Noir Bards, as you aptly describe them, are more concerned with the stereotypical, self-loathing trappings of being a writer. But they all lack the one thing that you have: a writer’s soul.”
Jesus Christ. It was like Miss Haviland all over again.
“You’re as bad as my English teacher,” I said. “I’m here because I didn’t want to go to cross-country camp or work on the boardwalk.” Mac’s eyebrows shot up in doubt. That’s when I remembered that he had read the truth. So I switched gears. “Who says I want to be a writer?”
He removed his hands from his head. “ ‘We are what we pretend to be.’ Kurt Vonnegut.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You already are a writer,” he said. “All you have to do is be yourself.”
Huh. All this time, I thought Mac hated me and my writing. I told him this.
“The only thing you lack is life experience. Your life so far has been lived in one of those self-contained, shake-it-up-and-watch-it-snow globes. You owe it to yourself to go explore beyond your picture-perfect suburban surroundings. You owe it to the rest of us to go out into the world and describe what you see and feel from your unique point of view.”
Okay. My surroundings are far from picture perfect, but I got the point.
“I pushed you because you were better than all the other kids in the class. You’ve only got two weeks left here; don’t waste it. Don’t blow this opportunity by being what everyone else wants you to be. Are you afraid