Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [0]
a novel
MEGAN McCAFFERTY
Crown Publishers
New York
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Other Frontmatter
january
february
march
april
may
june
july
august
september
october
november
december
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
For Christopher
January 1st
Hope,
I guess your move wasn’t a sign of the Y2K teen angst apocalypse after all. I’m still here. You’re still there. Fortunately, I’ve been way too busy basking in the golden glow of adolescent adulation to be the least bit depressed about your departure.…
I’m kidding. Sort of.
The pathetic truth is this: I have become somewhat of a Pineville High celebrity in the eighteen hours since our good-bye. Everyone is paying more attention to me. Of course, I still lack the Oscar-caliber star power that would win me instant acceptance into the Upper Crust or make Paul Parlipiano worship and adore me. No, mine is a Z-level celebrity, comparable to an actress who makes her mark in Lifetime made-for-TV movies with titles like Daddy, May I Dance with Danger?
The real reason I’m writing this letter is because I want it to get to your new zip code before you do. I figure you’d want something other than your grandmother’s Shalimar-soaked hug to greet you upon your arrival at your new Home Sweet Home. Plus, there’s no better way to ring in this oh-so-Happy New Year than by exercising my right to make good on the first of our Totally Guilt-Free Guidelines for Keeping in Touch:
1. Snail-mail once a month.
2. Call once a week.
3. E-mail/IM once a day.
Remember: ONLY IF YOU WANT TO. The minute our correspondence becomes obligatory, there’s no point in keeping touch at all. I miss you. Already.
Quasi-famously yours, J.
january
the second
Tonight I’ve been thinking about the mosaic Hope gave me the night she U-hauled ass out of Pineville. I wasn’t supposed to open it until my birthday, but I couldn’t wait. I tore off the wrapping paper and finally had an explanation for the mysterious slivers of shredded magazine pages all over her carpet. For months, Hope had been tearing out pictures of school buses and pumpkins to capture the color of her curls. Hershey bars and beer bottles for my bob.
I hung it on the wall next to my bed. I’ve been staring at it, trying to figure out how she glued all those tiny pieces of paper so they would come together to re-create my favorite photo: Hope and me at four A.M.—wide awake and laughing, waiting to sneak out to watch the sunrise.
I remember that summer sleepover at Hope’s house two and a half years ago more vividly than anything I did today.
We watched the video of her Little Miss Superstar dance recital. She was the most coordinated of the dozen or so yellowbikini-clad four-year-olds shuffle-ball-changing to a Beach Boys medley. (Hope’s review: Hello, JonBenét Ramsey!)
We tried to outdo each other in round after round of "Would You Rather" Eat nothing but fish sticks OR wear head-to-toe *NSYNC paraphernalia for the rest of your life? French kiss your dog, Dalí, OR have sex with the Chaka, the Special Ed. King? Be zit free forever OR fill a D-cup bra?
We flipped through our eighth-grade yearbook and decided that being voted Class Brainiac (me) and Class Artist (her) just about guaranteed geekdom in high school. We thought that Brainiac Who Will Actually Make Something of Her Life and Not End Up Managing a 7-Eleven and Artist Who Will Contribute More to This World Than Misspelled Graffiti sounded so much better. Then we literally rolled on the rug laughing as we stripped other Class Characters of their titles and gave them what they really deserved …
Scotty Glazer: from Most Athletic to Most Middle-Aged Yet Totally Immature
Bridget Milhokovich: from Best Looking to Best Bet She’ll Peak Too Soon
Manda Powers: from Biggest Flirt to Most Likely to End Up on Jerry Springer
Sara D’Abruzzi: from Class Motormouth to Future Double Agent Who Would Betray Her Country for Liposuction.
Mrs. Weaver made German pancakes with lemon juice and confectioners’ sugar for breakfast. Hope’s