Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [8]
“The seminar will culminate in a reading at Blood and Ink,” he replied in a subvocal growl.
This meant nothing to me. “Where?”
“Blood and Ink.”
Me, expressionless as a lifetime of Botox injections.
Grim Reaper turned to the shadowy figure sitting next to him.
“She’s never heard of Blood and Ink.”
You wouldn’t think that a girl with eight barbells in her face could be so easily horrified. I would say that all the color drained from Barbella’s face, but I was pretty sure that the vampire girl sitting in back of her had drained her veins already.
Thankfully, Mac stepped in before I was ritually sacrificed.
“Blood and Ink is a performance space located in the East Village in Manhattan. It is one of the last bastions of oral storytelling. Historically, it has always been a forum where writers blahdiddyblahblahblahblah . . .”
I think the other reason I’m the only one Macking out is that my fellow students can only be bothered by the deepest, most intellectually rewarding pursuits.
“Now that you know what I expect of you in these next five weeks,” which I didn’t, because I hadn’t been listening, “I’d like to find out what you hope to get out of this program. Francis Bacon said, ‘Write down the thoughts of the moment. Those that come unsought are commonly the most valuable.’ For the next fifteen minutes, I want you to write in the moment. Answer these questions: Why are you here? Why did you willingly sign up for a program that traps you inside a classroom all summer long, while your friends are at the beach? More important, why do you want to write? I expect you to share your responses with the class.”
A hand shot up next to me. It was attached to another black-clad lump of a person, with skin so pale that her veins gave her a blueish hue. A vision of the Lump frolicking in the sand made me chuckle, which was not a very cool thing to do when you should be trying to make friends.
“Must I use prose? I’m a poet.”
“You can write in whatever form you feel is best for self-expression,” Mac replied.
So what did I write about? How did I account for my presence at SPECIAL? Well, without totally plagiarizing my application essay, I basically wrote that I wanted to escape another summer catering to attitudinal tourists at Wally D’s Sweet Treat Shoppe but my parents are putting every extra penny toward my college fund and would only send me to a summer program that cost little (cross-country camp) or nothing at all (SPECIAL), so I chose mental exertion over physical and applied to the writing program because I can’t sing, act, dance, paint, play the piano, or do anything else of artistic merit.
This response was deemed unacceptable by everyone in the room.
“Is that your idea of satire?” asked a guy who—literally—had the word LOSER tattooed in tiny letters across his forehead.
“Do you know how many serious writers were dying to get into this program?” grumbled the Grim Reaper.
“I know her type,” murmured the Lump. “She’s here so she can put one last accomplishment on her Harvard application.”
And Mac clicked his tongue. “Tch.”
I deserve this abuse, but not for the reasons they thought I did. My essay was the biggest pack of lies this side of Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace. It’s one thing to lie to my (hot!) teacher. But I know I’ve sunk to a truly sad state when I’m tempted to lie in here, in the effort of making myself look better to the hypothetical reader in the future who has nothing better to do but pour over this journal. (Wouldn’t you rather beam yourself to another planet, or something twenty-third century like that?)
So in the spirit of full disclosure and unflinching honesty (that is totally unnecessary for anyone who has been reading this notebook from the beginning and sees my confession coming), I will reveal the truth. I am here for one reason.
Because He isn’t.
He.
Him.
HIM.
He Who Shall Remain Nameless . . .
ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH.
This self-prescribed cognitive behavioral therapy isn