Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [73]
There was no need to encourage Bridget’s Hy-steria today. I tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, the only place my mind has been since the Anti-Homecoming. Just as Bridget’s insanity has intensified with every day it got closer to BGB arriving in bookstores, my own mental stability gets shakier as the deadline for Columbia draws near. January first is not that far away. I’ve got to make up my mind.
“So Taryn actually talked to me yesterday,” I said.
“Really? I thought she was, like, a mute or something.”
“She usually is, but she went out of her way to tell me that Paul was very disappointed that I decided not to apply to Columbia.”
“Why are you, like, bringing this up?”
“I don’t know. . . .”
She looked at me seriously. “It’s like you’re looking for, like, permission or approval or something.”
My argument got stuck on the tip of my tongue. She was right. I have been looking to other people to tell me that I should apply and accept admission. I’ve been looking for as many people as possible to assure me that if I decide to attend a school in New York City, I won’t die, because at this point in history, anyone’s opinion is as valid as anyone else’s. Since 9/11, no one knows anything about anything. All bets are off. Pundits can talk and talk and talk, using this piece of data and that bit of evidence to assure the American public that this is all going to play out in our favor. But when it comes down to it, they’ve got about as much credibility as Miss Cleo.
I was—and still am—completely unprepared for true tragedy. I don’t think any of us can be ready for it, and those who say otherwise are lying. I didn’t know what to say on that infamous day because I couldn’t wrap my head around the enormity of it all. I knew life would never be the same again, but I didn’t know how. So I did what I always do when I can’t handle something: I made it manageable by being petty and small. I’m not proud of how superficial I sounded in the days after 9/11, but I won’t destroy the evidence. I’ll hold on to it because it was real. Flawed and fucked up, but real.
Kind of like this journal as a whole.
Anyway, now that things are eerily “back to normal,” I have even less of an idea of what the future will be like, which is why I have no idea what to do about Columbia.
“Well, like, Percy and I both think you should go for it,” Bridget continued. “What’s the harm in applying? If you get in, you, like, don’t have to go.”
See, that’s where she’s wrong. If I get in, I’ll have to go. If only to fulfill my fate. But if I don’t apply, I don’t have to worry about getting in, going, and dying. She and Pepe just couldn’t convince me to apply, but I thanked her for her opinion, anyway.
Later, when I brought it up to Len before Health and Human Sexuality, he told me I should definitely apply to Columbia because it’s ahead of Amherst, Piedmont, Swarthmore, and Williams in the latest U.S. News and World Report rankings, plus its Ivy League cred will go very far with recruiters in whichever field I wish to pursue after I graduate.
That wasn’t enough, either, which is why I am not a good girlfriend.
When Len was talking, Marcus shifted in his seat, as if he was about to say something to me. I really wanted to hear what he had to say. Another reason I’m not a good girlfriend.
“Marcus,” I boldly ventured. “Do you have something to contribute to this conversation?”
This was a big deal. It was the first time either one of us had gone out of our way to get the other’s attention since Len and I started going out. We’d even stopped our daily parody of a conversation.
Marcus turned halfway around.
“I don’t,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, more defeated than I had wanted to sound.
“But,” he surprised me by continuing, “Gladdie might. You should talk to her about this. She gives good advice.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I replied flatly.
“You