Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [51]
“Like, Scotty wasn’t freaked out,” Bridget quietly pointed out.
Thankfully, Len didn’t hear her. Her comment was unnecessary but true.
Scotty was the only person I envied last spring because he was totally chillaxed about the SATs. He had already been wooed to play b-ball for the Patriot League, the only Division I conference a reasonably skilled, five-foot-eleven Caucasian from the ’burbs could hope for. All he had to do was fill in his name correctly and he had the score he needed in order to accept the scholarship Lehigh was dangling in front of him. Sure enough, he got 1170. He’s as hooked-up as a King should be.
After struggling through 5:50 1600s and 2:35 800s all spring, I knew no such athletic ride was in the cards for me. Yet I kept the dream alive for my dad and Kiley, promising to train hard all summer to get back into my formidable form. I sort of meant it, too.
That is, until I got my scores.
Nevertheless, my success has brought on a new problem. As Len pointed out, I am one of a handful of students in the history of our school whose scores might provide PHS bragging rights via a scholarship to a particularly prestigious university. Therefore, I am asked the Question approximately a bizillion times a day. Teachers I’ve never had. Custodians. Lunch ladies. You can’t not give an answer to the Question when you’re Jessica Darling, which is why I’m back to saying:
“Amherst, Piedmont, Swarthmore, and Williams.”
I decided to listen to my mom and have started putting together applications to the original final four, the ones Paul Parlipiano disapproved of. Surely he would understand my reasons for wanting to stay safe and sound and away from New York City. I even dared to bring it up with Taryn over geometry proofs yesterday.
“So Taryn, did your stepbrother ever mention meeting me over the summer?”
She didn’t lift her huge eyes off the paper.
“Well, we did. He told me that I should go to Columbia, which I had considered until, you know, everything that’s happening in the world.”
I could tell she wanted to pull her wool cap down over her eyes.
“Has Paul ever mentioned wanting to leave the city now, you know, because he’s afraid of what will happen?”
She peered out through her thick curtain of hair. She didn’t answer. I guess she wants to keep our relationship on a professional level.
I still can’t help but feel like none of these schools are quite right. I’m trying to convince myself that it’s safer for me to stay within what Mac called my “perfect suburban world.” Why would anyone bother bombing a snow globe?
the thirtieth
He was wearing the black shirt. It was the only exception to the days-of-the-week uniform. He’d stopped wearing that particular day-of-the-week shirt as a memorial to that unforgettable Tuesday, almost a month ago.
So it was still Tuesday when it happened.
One second, I’m lying on my bed, listening to Upstairs at Eric’s , thinking about how much less stressed I should feel because I finally sent out applications to the final four, yet not feeling the least bit relieved at all. Life, as ordinary as it can be.
The next second, magic! Enchantment!
“Hey, Jessica.”
Poof! MARCUS WAS STANDING IN MY BEDROOM.
Actually, he was leaning against my wall, six feet of long-limbed, tattooed, slouching insouciance.
My body got all tingly.
“Are you quiet because you’re surprised or because you’re repulsed?”
“Uh . . .” MARCUS FLUTIE WAS STANDING IN MY BEDROOM. “Not repulsed.”
Yet not quite surprised, either. Just . . . otherwordly. My arms and legs didn’t feel like flesh anymore. They felt like they were filled with helium, lighter than air, going up, up, up. My head wasn’t too solid anymore, either.
Marcus looked around my room, taking it all in. Then he turned to me. And that’s when I began to levitate.
“Look at you,” he said, taking his hands out of the front pockets of his threadbare jeans to point to the mosaic Hope had made for my sixteenth birthday. “Happy.”
He was right. I was a portrait of rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed