Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [23]
I was nodding more vigorously now.
“The admissions people know what they’re doing. If they think you’re smart enough to be accepted, then you’re smart enough to be there.” He paused. “From what I know about you, Jessica, you are definitely smart enough to be there.”
My head almost came off its neck hinges.
“I’m heading back to campus. Would you like to come with me? I could show you around before my next class. Maybe introduce you to some people from PACO . . .”
He totally misinterpreted the hideous facial contortion that resulted from my stifled happyhappyjoyjoyhappyhappyjoyjoyhappyhappiness.
“Oh, that’s right. You’ve got the reading at Blood and Ink.”
NO! I DON’T HAVE TO BE ANYWHERE BUT WITH YOU, PAUL PARLIPIANO, GAY MAN OF MY DREAMS!
“No, it’s not mandatory. So I don’t have anywhere else to be,” I replied as calmly as possible.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been so sure,” I said. “Can I use your two-way for a second?”
I really didn’t give a damn about Blood and Ink. I never wanted to read my stuff out loud in front of the Noir Bards anyway, because I am not a writer, no matter what Mac says. So I used Paul Parlipiano’s pager to tell Mac I wasn’t going to make it to Blood and Ink and that I’d find my own way back to SPECIAL. The program was almost over anyway. What disciplinary measures could be taken against me?
Then, for the next two hours, Paul Parlipiano and I took the ultimate campus tour. Ultimate. Meaning both best and last.
I’ll spare you an encyclopedic cataloging of my sensory experiences. Why? Because it wasn’t the sight of PACO members of every conceivable ethnicity debating and B.S.-ing on the steps of Low Library, or the sound of a homeless man singing a medley of New Kids on the Block songs on the corner of 116th and Broadway, or the smell of incense, pot, and taxicab exhaust, or the acidic, stinging taste of the free wine by the carafe that came with our greasy but delicious Malaysian food, or the fuzzy rush I felt thrumming throughout my body just by being in the place where Paul Parlipiano, my crush-to-end-all-crushes, belonged, and being told that I belonged there, too. It wasn’t any of these experiences that provided me with the final answer to the Question. It was all of them. And something more.
Okay. Let’s just clear the air here. I know how this looks. I know that anyone who has taken Psych 101 would say that I’m following in Paul Parlipiano’s footsteps because I’m still in love with him. But really, I am not holding out for a homosexual. Give me more credit than that.
Here’s my take on this situation. Maybe my obsession with Paul Parlipiano was orchestrated by whatever higher power in charge of these things, as a way of getting me to Columbia, or rather, New York City. Paul Parlipiano wasn’t the end, he was the means to an end. As an agnostic, I don’t know who or what or why this force is pulling me toward New York. Frankly, it’s beyond my comprehension. All I know is that when I set foot on that campus, I was so sure that it was where I was supposed to be. It wasn’t a shout that reverberated inside my body until I rocked with shock. No, it was a quiet but confident voice that I wasn’t used to hearing, one that assured me that I had just come to the place where I could be part of something great. It was the first time I’d ever felt that way in my life.
Actually, there was one other time I felt this way in my life. But it wasn’t a place that made me feel at home with myself, it was a person. A person who turned out not to be worth it. But I told myself I wasn’t going to write about that—about Him—anymore. So I’m not. So there .
the ninth
Whoo-boy! Was Mac pissed about my Manhattan vanishing act. First thing Monday morning, he took me by the arm and led me out into the hall to chastise me in pseudo privacy. I’m sure this was a huge disappointment to the rest of my classmates,