Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [42]
Bridget wasn’t listening. She was too busy chowing down on what would normally be her ponytail, but was released from its elastic for the photos.
“Stop chewing on your hair, unless the saliva look is what you’re going for.”
She kept right on gnawing as we made our way to the stage.
Each Class Character photo is taken in front of the same red-and-white PHS logo backdrop, but with different props. For Class Motormouth, Sara yammered into a cell phone. For Class Flirt, Manda hung her hooters all over P.J., her prop/male counterpart, while Scotty glared off-camera. For Best Looking, Bridget and Scotty gazed lovingly at themselves in handheld mirrors. To her credit, Bridget rolled her eyes as she did it.
“Honey, this isn’t Class Clown,” the photographer said. “Now, do me a favor and look pretty, like you’re supposed to.”
Bridget called out to me, “See what I mean?”
It was quite nauseating.
Len was dutifully waiting for our photo, wearing a T-shirt I’d never seen him in before. Underneath a black-and-white pic of Einstein, read GREAT SPIRITS HAVE ALWAYS ENCOUNTERED VIOLENT OPPOSITION FROM MEDIOCRE MINDS.
“Cool shirt,” I said. It reminded me of something Mac would say. I wondered if he’d be disappointed in my decision not to apply to Columbia. He’ll never have to know.
Len cleared his throat, as is his custom, the signal that the babble was about to begin. “Not as perfect in its simplicity as Flu’s days-of-the-week thing that he has going, but it is a fashion statement in the truest sense of the word. Did you know that Einstein wasn’t a good student? In fact I doubt that he would have been voted Class Brainiac, because his teachers thought he had a learning disability, which is really ironic—”
“I get it,” I said, cutting him off.
I get very impatient with his blathering. Once he gets started, he can’t stop. It’s best just not to get him started at all. So we stood there for a moment not speaking, which is the way I like it with Len. When Len isn’t speaking, I can just gaze upon his hotness and begin to forget that he’s Len. I can get close to convincing myself that he’s this totally new cool, smart, and geek-cute guy, but as soon as he opens his mouth: Same old Len.
“This is getting to be a habit with us. You know, first the Seniors of the Month photo, now this. I have a feeling that there are going to be a lot of pictures of you and me together in the future. Um. Um. Um.” He suddenly got all tongue-tied. “Um. I mean, that you and I will be winning all the big awards throughout the year and will be asked to pose with each other a lot and so we should just . . . um . . .”
Mercifully, Haviland intervened. “Brainiacs, up! Most Likely to Succeed, on deck!”
For Brainiacs, Len and I were surrounded by textbooks. This was funny, since I get all my work done in study hall and haven’t lugged home a textbook since my sophomore year.
“Smile!” the photographer urged.
We smiled.
“Most Likely to Succeed, up! Nonconformists, on deck!”
“That’s us,” said Len and I, simultaneously.
“Most Likely to Succeed,” said I.
“Not Nonconformists,” said Len.
“No kidding,” quipped the photographer, dripping with sarcasm.
For Most Likely to Succeed, we held a blow-up globe over our heads, which I suppose represents our inevitable world domination.
“Smile!”
We smiled.
“Um. Jessica. Do you?”
“Nonconformists, up!” Haviland shouted.
Where was Marcus, anyway?
“Um. Jessica?”
I turned to Len. “Uh, what? I’m sorry.”
“How’s your. Um. Cross-country season going. And?”
“Ugh. It sucks. I suck.”
“Um. Do you have a meet on Saturday. Or?”
“Yeah. Every Saturday. I hate it. It sucks. I suck.”
“Um. Because I. Um . . .”
“Nonconformists, you’re up! Come on, Nonconformists!”
K8linnn Maxxxwell—who had her name legally changed to this Nonconformist spelling over the summer—hopped around the auditorium on her Nonconformist