Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [66]
“I wanted to tell you right away,” Bethany said, patting her still-flat stomach. “So you wouldn’t think I had gotten fat.”
I don’t know how many times I’d heard her declare that her uterus was a baby-free zone for that very reason. “As soon as wives pack on the pregnancy fat, their husbands leave them,” she’d say. “That’s not going to happen to me.” Her fear of flab would overcome thousands of years of biological programming. Or so I’d thought. I couldn’t resist bringing this up.
“Bethany, I didn’t think you wanted to have a baby.”
Big mistake. You should have seen the looks of revulsion and loathing. It was as if I had screamed: I HATE BABIES. KILL ALL THE BABIES. ALL BABIES MUST DIE, DIE, DIE!!!!!!!!!
I now know what it’s like to be O.J. or Taryn Baker—shunned. No one talked to me until we sat down to enjoy our Thanksgiving meal, at which point Gladdie got on my case about not visiting her lately. It turns out that my absence at Silver Meadows for the past month was more conspicuous than I had thought.
“So why ain’t ya gracing us with your face lately?”
“I’ve been busy with, uh, tutoring,” I said, lamely.
“That’s not what Tutti Flutie says,” she cawed.
“Really? And what does Tutti Flutie say?”
“He says ya got yourself a boyfriend!”
Up to this point, my mother hadn’t added much to the Thanksgiving Day conversation other than shouting “My baby’s having a baby!” at random intervals that grew more frequent as Chardonnay replaced the blood in her veins. But upon hearing the word boyfriend, she suddenly gave me her full attention.
“Jessie! You’ve got a boyfriend! Who is it?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend, Mom.”
“That ain’t what I heard,” said Gladdie.
“Me neither,” chimed in Moe.
“Well, you can’t believe everything you hear,” I responded. “Especially if it comes out of Marcus Flutie’s mouth.”
“I’m sorry, kiddo! But he said that you and this Len fella were going to the big dance,” Gladdie said.
“YOU HAVE A DATE TO HOMECOMING?” shouted Mom and Bethany simultaneously.
“No!”
“That ain’t what I heard. . . .”
Then I had to go on to explain that Len had asked me to homecoming, but it was canceled, so we organized some Anti-Homecoming festivities for tomorrow night instead.
Just imagine the eviscerating shrieks of horror as my mother and Bethany contemplated a world without homecoming.
“I don’t know about this Len fella,” Gladdie said after the wailing had quieted down. “But that Tutti Flutie is a firecracker, ain’t he?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “He is.”
“Too bad Tutti Flutie ain’t interested in you.”
Her words hit me harder than Tyson off his Prozac.
“Uh . . . Uh . . .” I stammered, much like Len. “He, uh, said that?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “He likes your brain, J.D., but he ain’t attracted to you, which is just a cryin’ shame, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
No. How could I mind the truth? It was a cryin’ shame, and my tears almost dripped right into my stuffing. No matter how much it hurt to hear it, this is good news, right? Now I know for sure that Marcus doesn’t want me anymore. His intentions with Len are pure.
“That Len fella, he’s got hot pants for you,” Gladdie said with a snicker and a wink of a wrinkly eye.
Then she, Mom, and Bethany launched into a fit of giggles.
Throughout this conversation, G-Money, Moe, and my dad were totally engrossed in their own discussion about Michael Jordan’s return to the game. It’s at times like this that I wish everyone in my family had nads. Myself included.
the twenty-third
The Anti-Homecoming will go down in Pineville High history as one of the all-time biggest, best, and most debaucherous blowouts.
The Anti-Homecoming will go down in my personal history as one of the all-time bizarro nights of my life, from the moment Len picked me up to the second he drove me home, and including all the moments