Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [67]
Let’s fast-forward past my mother and sister’s futile attempt at a fashion makeover, when I vetoed all of their superfemme sartorial suggestions in favor of my favorite dark rinse low-riders and a pristine, child-sized T-shirt from the Jacksons’ 1984 Victory Tour that I scooped up on eBay. Let’s just bypass the mortifying prelude, during which Mom, Dad, Bethany, G-Money, Gladdie, and Moe lined themselves up Brady Bunch–style on the staircase to watch me greet my “new boyfriend.” Let’s just skip right over the part where Len and I exchanged awkward pleasantries for the benefit of our viewing audience and headed out the door to the car. Len drives his dad’s navy blue Saturn, a very dependable vehicle that lacks the personality of, say, a Titanic brown seventies-era Cadillac.
Len started talking.
(Author’s note: Pay very close attention. When this entry is finished, you’ll probably want to refer back to this conversation, as well as my conversation with Len documented on November 17, to make sense of our misunderstanding.)
“Jess? I can’t do. Um. It,” he said as soon as he turned the key in the ignition.
“What? You can’t perform?” I was talking about his show.
“Um . . .”
“You can do it, Len!”
“It’s just a lot of. Um. Pressure.”
“I know this whole night is kind of riding on how good you are. . . .”
Len whimpered. I swear to God.
“Relax, Len! You’ll be great. You’ve been practicing a lot, right?”
Len’s hands shook on the wheel. “WHAT?!”
“Believe me,” I said, gently putting my hand on his shoulder, “you’ll be fine.”
He whimpered again, like a Doberman that just got its ass kicked by a French poodle.
Len had had the foresight to set up and do a sound check earlier in the afternoon, so all he had to do was chill until go time, a metaphysical impossibility in his torqued-up state. It only got worse when we arrived. Bruiser’s circular driveway was jammed with cars and kids. This party was well on its way to becoming a legend. Not only was the senior class in near-perfect attendance, but underclassmen and even some graduates had shown up for the sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Everyone was in a particularly festive mood because Pineville had beat Eastland in the annual Thanksgiving gridiron grudge match, 21 to 7.
“Omigod!” Sara screamed when she saw me and Len. “I’m so psyched to see you!” She planted a yeast-and-hoppy kiss on my cheek. She had obviously beer-blasted her brain cells.
“Omigod! Len! Tonight’s the big night, huh?” She elbowed him in the ribs, almost knocking him over.
“Um. I have to get away. Um. Until the show. Sorry. Okay.”
And he scurried off with his guitar slung over his shoulder. I don’t know where he hoped to get some time alone, as the house was packed. Within five seconds, I spotted Scotty—looking very unhappy in his suit—and Manda—looking very hobagity in a black jersey backless, almost-frontless, slit-up-to-the-crotch dress. It was so barely there that it seems more accurate to call it a dress concept, rather than an actual dress. Neither of them said anything to me, as they had their mouths full of each other’s saliva.
However, I knew that this party had reached mythological proportions when I saw that even Taryn Baker was in attendance. Guess who she brought with her?
“Hey, Jessica!”
“Hey, Paul!” I was quite proud of how cool I was. So cool that I would acknowledge Taryn, who was hovering silently and sullenly behind his shoulder.
“Hey, Taryn. How goes the quadrilaterals?” This, in reference to our latest tutoring session.
She shrugged and scanned the room as if she were searching for something specific, like she was on a scavenger hunt and would get ten points for finding Billy Bass the singing fish.
“So did you send your application to Columbia yet?” he yelled, in between sips of beer.
BEER! Oh, God. I hope that the concept of me and beer doesn’t bring back the visual of me puking on his shoes.
“Jessica?!” he shouted louder, thinking I hadn’t heard him. “Did you apply to Columbia yet?”
“Actually . . .”
He slapped his palms against his