Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [6]
It was during the GTKY Games that I looked into the face of pure evil. She wore blue eye shadow and hot-pink spandex leggings, and went by the name of Pammi. She had eighties soap-opera hair and a well-rehearsed bubbliness that instantly reminded me of Brandi, the school’s mental-health “expert,” with whom I had several run-ins last year. I swear Pineville’s Professional Counselor and Pammi were separated at birth, with only one brain between them. Pammi is one of the teachers in the acting program (lucky, lucky Bridget), but for last night she was the “Play Leader,” a sort of referee for these inane games. Her main responsibilities were (1) whoo-hooing at random intervals, (2) shouting the rules for the next GTKY game, and (3) blowing the start signal into the beak of a plastic whistle shaped—inexplicably—like a toucan.
For example:
“Whoo-hoo! Find each and every person in the program who shares your birth month! Go!”
Tweet!
Then I would have to find each and every person in the program who shared my birth month until all one hundred of us were in the proper zodialogical grouping.
Or:
“Whoo-hoo! Dance butt-to-butt with someone wearing the same color shirt as you but who is not in your birth month group! Go!”
Tweet!
And then I would have to dance butt-to-butt with someone who was also wearing a white shirt but was not born in January.
This went on for three hours.
They can’t possibly make us do this during Freshman Orientation next year, can they? I don’t get how this is supposed to help us fit in. In theory, you’re supposed to get everyone’s names and become lifelong friends. I literally had contact with half the kids here last night, but how in hell do they expect me to differentiate one of my butt-to-butt dancing partners from another? Am I supposed to randomly rub my buttocks up against people to see if we’ve bonded booties before? “Yes, the particular musculature of your ass does feel familiar. I remember you now!” Duh.
Now that I think about it, buttocks-bumping was an unintentionally appropriate prelude to the fun we have in store for the next month. The unspoken objective for the overwhelming majority of SPECIAL students has clearly revealed itself, and it’s a lot more straightforward than the enrichment crap listed in the brochure: GET LAID.
To this end, the girls on my floor have devoted much time to the creation of the Lucky Seven, an official designation of the most doable guys in the program. Girls outnumber guys seventy-two to twenty-eight, so the competition is fierce. SPECIAL is a haven for hetero boys whose interest in the arts has inevitably led to chants of “Fag!” and other homophobic taunts at their respective high schools. This is their chance to shine. But even after taking their hardships into consideration, only seven made the cut. Very lucky for them, indeed. Very unlucky for me. See, I made butt-to-butt contact with each and every one of the Lucky Seven, none of which was a gluteal love connection.
Take “the vocal music hottie,” Derek, for example. The mere mention of my name inspired him to break out into a Broadway show-tune version of the 1981 Rick Springfield tune “Jesse’s Girl.” This was unwise for two reasons: (1) I introduced myself as Jessica, not Jessie. I loathe being called Jessie. (Almost as much as I loathe it when my dad calls me Notso, as in Jessica Notso Darling. Har-dee-har-har. It’s even more hilarious now than it was the first bizillion times he said it.) (2) The song “Jesse’s Girl” is sung by a guy (Rick Springfield) who wants another guy’s (Jesse’s) girlfriend (name unknown). For the song “Jesse’s Girl” to apply to me, it would have to be a song about Rick’s lesbo envy, or something like that.
I tried explaining this to Derek, to which he replied, “Well, excuse me, Miss Buzzkill.”
I see my reputation has preceded me.
The only other notable Lucky Seven exchange was with “the saxophone player hottie.”
“I’m Mike,” he said, swiveling his