Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [55]
“Get over it. He’s a dreg.”
“But he doesn’t use anymore,” I argued.
“Once a dreg, always a dreg,” she said.
Bridget was just expressing the opinion shared by the Pineville High majority. Once you’re put into one of PHS’s neat little categories— be it Upper Cruster, Jock, Groupie, I.Q., 404, Wigga, Hoochie, Hick, or Dreg—it’s difficult, if not impossible, to get reassigned.
“And Len?” I asked.
“He’s cute. He’s smart. And he’s a virgin,” she said. “You’re, like, a match made in heaven.”
“How do you know he’s a virgin?”
“Everyone knows Len is a virgin,” she said, as matter-of-fact as ABC and 1-2-3. “Just like everyone knows you’re a virgin.”
I was outraged. “And how does everyone know I’m a virgin? Maybe I shared very specific intimate moments with the Lucky Seven this summer! Is that so unfathomable?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She laughed. “If you were getting laid, you wouldn’t be so, like, tense,” she said. “And neither would Len.”
This is coming from my closest friend at Pineville High. In all of New Jersey, actually. Make that the Northeastern Seaboard. Very sad.
Then again, maybe she has a point.
“So you still haven’t, like, talked to your grandmother yet?”
“No.”
“Well, you should. You never know what that freak might talk to her about.”
“Or vice versa!”
Gladdie has never been discreet. Throw two strokes into the mix and there was no telling what she would say. Or what she had already said. Once I realized this, I couldn’t drive over to Silver Meadows fast enough. Literally. By the time I got there, I was already too late.
“This is the dollface I’ve been telling you about, Tutti Flutie,” Gladdie bellowed. “My granddaughter J.D.!”
Marcus, Gladdie, Moe, and a very sour-looking woman wearing a Richard Simmons Sweatin’ to the Oldies sweatshirt were in the middle of a card game. Cards are a spectator sport at Silver Meadows, as is anything that involves my grandmother.
“You’re here on purpose,” I said.
“Well, yes,” he replied.
“Aha!” I blurted, thrusting an accusatory finger in his face. “So you admit it!”
“Of course I’m here on purpose,” he replied. “I work here.”
Duh.
“You two know each other?” Moe asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, glaring at Marcus. “We know each other.”
“Well, that’s just swell because now you can replace Irene here, and we can get down to playing a real game of hearts.”
“Would you, Jessica Darling, care to join me in a game of hearts?” Marcus asked, wearing an expression that was as aggressively innocent as those posters of babies dressed up like bumblebees and sunflowers.
Game of hearts. Har-dee-har-har.
“Well,” I replied, “you are the Game Master, aren’t you?”
“What? You don’t like hearts?” Moe asked, oblivious to the stare-down. “Then let’s play poker.”
“You with your poker,” chastised Gladdie. “You just don’t like it when I shoot the moon.”
Marcus sat there, coyly batting his eyelashes at me.
“You liked my costume, huh?”
“Yeah, I liked it as much as I like your days-of-the-week T-shirts,” I said. “What’s with that, anyway?”
“Well, I’ve always admired days-of-the-week underwear,” he replied.
I’ll bet he has. I’ll bet he’s admired many pairs of days-of-the-week underwear. Three dozen girls’ worth.
“But, you see, I don’t wear underwear.”
Gladdie and Moe rocked with ribald merriment.
“Whoo-wee!”
“Yowza!”
“I’m just joshin’,” Marcus said when the din died down. “See?” He then lowered the waistband of his jeans so we could all get a totally gratuitous look at his boxers. More whoops, cackles, and wolf whistles, but only from Gladdie this time.
“So are ya in or are ya out?” Moe asked, holding up the cards. He was clearly put out by Gladdie’s fondness for the youthful patch of flesh above the boxers and below the navel. And so was I, quite frankly. So was I.
“Thank you, Moe, but I’m not in the mood for cards. Gladdie, do you mind if we escape to your room for some good old-fashioned girl talk?”
“But it’s so pleasant out here with the boys!” Gladdie said, flirtatiously placing one hand on Marcus’s hand, and the other on Moe’s. “Don’tcha want