Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [39]
Every time I hear myself described in relation to “my peers,” I can’t help but crack up.
“Don’t you see how this would be a challenge, one that, if you don’t mind me saying, you so greatly need to prevent complacency and boredom from making a waste of your senior year?”
Haviland, like Mac, wants me to bust out of the snow globe. I don’t think it’s a bad idea myself. But I’m worried about taking a nasty blow— instead of breaking through—when I hit the dome’s border head-on.
the twenty-ninth
I was feeling pretty hopeless when I was living in the most moneyed, peaceful, and trouble-free era in American history. So you can imagine how I’ve been since 9/11.
It’s affecting me on a physical level. I’m awake for twenty-three and a half hours a day, but not really awake. I’m kind of in a walking-sleep state that makes it impossible to do . . . anything.
I got a C on my AP Physics test. I’ve never gotten a C in my life.
And running? My race pace is a stroll with just enough bounce to distinguish it from a walk. I haven’t won a meet all season.
This has brought much grief to my father, but my mom didn’t worry until she realized that I wasn’t eating. I have never not been able to chow down.
“These tragic events have taken a toll on everyone,” she said, eyeing my barely touched bowl of Cap’n Crunch this morning. “I think you should talk to a counselor. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Ha! Our Professional Counselor has been unhinged lately herself. We’ve all seen Brandi in the parking lot behind the school, furiously sucking on cigarettes to cope with the onslaught of traumatized students who have sought her infinite wisdom.
“Don’t think so, Mom.”
My mother’s brow wrinkled with genuine panic. I hadn’t seen her this concerned since my sophomore year, when I told her about my MIA menstrual cycle.
We both sat at the kitchen table in silence for a few minutes. During this time, my mom stared at me while I stared at a fascinating green thread hanging from my place mat. I’m telling you, I’ve been the walking brain-dead lately.
Finally, my mother said, “I think you should visit Gladdie.”
She thought that going to Silver Meadows and talking to Gladdie and WWII vets about the 3 H’s—Hitler, Hiroshima, and the Holocaust—would give me—guess what?—perspective. Quite frankly, I didn’t have the energy to argue, so I took her suggestion. As much as I hate to admit it when my mother is right, she was.
At Silver Meadows, I was given the red-carpet treatment.
“Look who it is!” exclaimed the receptionist, a chubby, fortysomething lady named Linda with frosted Farrah Fawcett wings. “It’s J.D.!”
“Uh, hi,” I said. “How did you know . . . ?”
“Oh! Gladdie’s told everyone about her brilliant, boy-magnet granddaughter!”
I laughed weakly. Boy magnet. Har-dee-har-har.
“Just go upstairs and follow the noise,” Linda said. “You’ll find her in the recreation room.”
Sure enough, I could hear Gladdie’s strident voice rising above everyone else’s before I was halfway up the staircase.
“So I say to the fella, ‘You can’t make a burlap purse out of that sow’s ear!’ ”
Riotous, pacemaker-shaking laughter. They didn’t seem fazed by current events in the least.
Gladdie was sitting at a card table designed to seat only four people, but was surrounded on all sides by an elderly coterie. Whether they were the same group as the first time, I honestly couldn’t tell. I’m not ageist or anything, but old people have a tendency to look alike. However, I did notice that Moe, “the cat’s meow,” was sitting right next to Gladdie. A deck of cards rested on the table, untouched. The game had been indefinitely postponed.
Gladdie roared when she saw me.
“J.D.!”
Then, on cue, the whole group exclaimed, “It’s J.D.!” They were so