Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [7]
“Jessica.”
“Jessica what?”
“Jessica Darling.”
“Get the fuck out!” he yelled, bringing our butt-to-butt dance to a screeching halt.
“I will not,” I said. “That’s my name.”
He snickered.
“Seriously, what’s your problem?”
Snicker. Snicker. Snicker.
“What?”
“You look different in person. . . .”
I stood there with my hands on my hips, glaring.
“You usually look like a glazed doughnut.”
More glaring.
“Glazed doughnut. Get it?”
“I know we just met, but now you’re pissing me off.”
He held out his hand. “I’m honored to meet you, Jessica Darling, the Queen of Anal as voted by the 1997 Adult Video Awards.”
Jesus Christ. If telling a girl she shares a name with a porn queen who specializes in butt sex qualifies as wooing these days, I’m signing up for the nunnery tomorrow.
The upside to all this is that at least I know for sure, on Day One of Orientation, that there is no hope. Not one shred of hope that I will find my true love. Not one sliver of hope that I will meet the one who will permanently erase the memory of He Who Shall Remain Nameless.
It’s good to get that out of the way. Now I can just move on.
Of course, it would be much easier to forget He Who Shall Remain Nameless and move on if I stopped having XXX-rated dreams about him.
Oh, Christ. That’s exactly the type of thing that warrants a journal burning.
the sixth
The very notion of being defrocked by a teacher is nothing more than comedic fodder for girls in the Pineville school district. A sorrier assemblage of maleness is unlikely to be found anywhere in the world. Hope and I once tried compiling a list of the hottest teachers when we were sophomores, and it turned into a carnal cavalcade of freaks, starting with Mr. “Bee Gee” Gleason, the history teacher whose irony-free wardrobe consists of polyester bell-bottoms and butterfly collars, and ending with Mr. “Rico Suave” Ricardo, my homeroom teacher, whose party-in-the-back, all-business-up-front mullet is an engineering marvel requiring no small amount of technical know-how and a complex assortment of mousses, gels, and hair sprays.
I lamented the dearth of hot male teachers, but now I realize it was a blessing. My academic record would not be as impressive had I been distracted by the likes of Professor Samuel MacDougall, who can credit three novels, two works of nonfiction, and one hot piece of ass to his name. Finally! A new Obsessive Object of Horniness. OOOH!
“Call me Mac,” he said.
Mackadocious is more like it.
“For the next month, I will be your writing instructor. . . .”
Lip Macking Good.
“It was Alfred, Lord Tennyson, who said, ‘Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the Soul within. . . .’ ”
Big Mac Attack.
“Here, in the next five weeks, I hope you do more revealing than concealing. . . .”
Oh, I’ll reveal more than that if you want me to, Mac Daddy.
“You will read and write for six hours a day, five days a week. There will be a morning workshop lasting three hours. Then a break for lunch, followed by an afternoon workshop. You will be expected to share your writing and critique each other’s work, which will help you become more careful readers and better blahdiddyblahblahblahblah . . .”
That’s where I kind of zoned out. Maybe it’s the humidity, but Jesus Christ, Mac brings out the David Lee Roth in me. . . .
Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad . . . I’m hot for teacher.
What makes it worse is that I seem to be the only student who has fallen under his hypnotic spell. True, he’s not the obviously crushable type. He’s skinny with thick black glasses and kinky black hair that springs off his head in all directions: SPROIIIIINNNNNNG! See, my idea of cute comes with an IQ requirement. It’s geeky cute. It’s Rivers Cuomo, not Justin Timberlake. It’s Gideon Yago, not Brian McFayden. Jimmy Fallon, yes please! Brad Pitt, no thank you.
My mental undressing got as far as Mac’s boxer briefs when the class gasped in response to something he had said.
“What did he just say?” I whispered