Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [49]
“Dr. Frank says I need to diversify my psychological portfolio,” G-Money continued, without so much as a nod in my direction. When I first met him, I thought he didn’t talk to anyone because he was painfully shy. But I’ve since learned that self-absorption is his defining characteristic, and he simply can’t be bothered by anyone else’s existence.
“You also need to recontextualize your belief system,” Bethany chimed in.
It was an unusually multisyllabic comment for my sister, so I couldn’t help but quiz her.
“What the hell does that mean?”
G-Money answered for her.
“It means,” he said, “that I’m going to invest in the life assets to which Dr. Frank and I have assigned the highest Nasdaq-proof valuations.”
“Which means?”
G-Money sighed. “It means,” he said, looking around at his fellow cultists for sympathy, “I’m going on more ski trips this year.”
Well, there you have it. How can you argue with spiritual transcendence through self-indulgence? Bethany and G-Money represent everything foreigners hate about our country. While no amount of vitriol justifies mass murder, I can’t blame them for feeling it because sometimes I feel it, too.
Normally, I could use cross-country practice or the newspaper as the excuse to get me out of the trip, but now that I’ve quit both, I can’t use them as a catch-all excuses for avoiding activities that I want no part of. Tutoring sucks up Monday through Friday after school. But the weekends are still still problematic. I still need to work on that.
Incidentally, dabbling in ancient Eastern disciplines has taught me one important lesson already: I suck at yoga. Good thing it isn’t a competitive sport, which I now realize is why Hope recommended it in the first place. When I lie down on my stomach and attempt to arch my torso into the cobra asana—which is practically the easiest pose that has come out of six thousand years of practice—each and every muscle fiber holding my anatomy together screams in protest: WHAT IN GOD’S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?????
I know it’s not supposed to hurt like that, but I kind of like the pain, in that masochistic hurts-so-good kind of way. I can definitely forget about achieving the enraptured state of mind-body-spirit for a very long time. I’ve got about a bizillion poses to get through before I can reach my toes, let alone enlightenment. I tell myself to breathe, Jessica, breathe, and curse all those years of running for winding my leg muscles tighter than my hymen.
The book says there is definitely a correlation between my inflexible physicality and unbendable personality. I think the book is right.
the twentieth
I was amazed at our generation’s ability to just bounce back after the recent tragedies. Since we’ve never experienced any real hardship, I think we assume that whatever is wrong with the world will just work itself out. It’s our inalienable right to live worry-free lives. (It’s my opposing take on life that makes me more of a Gen-X kind of girl, hence my love for all things eighties. But I digress.)
Until global chaos hit locally.
“Omigod! Did your SATs quote get the ’thrax unquote?” Sara asked.
“What SATs? What ’thrax?”
“Did the SATs you took last month get stuck in an anthrax-contaminated post office?”
“I didn’t have to take them this month,” I said. “I rocked them the first time around.” That second part was unnecessary, but there are few opportunities to brag about my brain. Bonus: I knew it would piss Sara off.
“Omigod! I hate your guts! If I have to take them one more time, I’m going to kill myself.”
I doubt she’d be so kind. The fact that she brought up the SATs at all suggests that she is very unstable right now. The SATs are one topic Sara usually avoids like a vegan shuns a Whopper. The D’Abruzzis have already shelled out the cost of a college tuition by hiring a one-on-one “Test Prep Professional” to help boost Sara’s scores. She’s more than 200 points shy of the 1200 she needs to get into Rutgers, where she and Manda (1210) have already