Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [1]
My brother would’ve been in the same grade as Heath. Hope and I always thought that was a really freaky coincidence. I never knew him, though. Matthew Michael Darling died when he was only two weeks old. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. No one in my family talks about him. Ever.
Mr. and Mrs. Weaver made countless excuses for the sudden move back to their tiny hometown (Wellgoode, Tennessee: Population 6,345, uh, make that 6,348). They hadto get Hope down there in time to start the third marking period. They had to move in with Hope’s grandmother so they could afford to pay for college. But Hope and I saw through the lies. We knew the truth—even if we never said it out loud. The Weavers wanted to get Hope out of Pineville, New Jersey (pop. 32,000, give or take three people), so she wouldn’t end up like her brother. Dead at eighteen.
Now I—I mean, we, Hope and me—have to pay for his mistakes. It’s not fair. I know this may sound a little selfish, but couldn’t they have waited another seventeen days? Couldn’t they have waited until after my birthday?
I told my parents not to even dare throwing me a Sweet Sixteen party. The very thought of ice-cream cake and pink crepe paper makes me want to hurl. Not to mention the fact that I can’t even imagine who would be on the guest list since I hate all my other friends. I know my parents think I’m being ridiculous. But if the one person I want to be there can’t be there, I’d rather just stay home. And mope. Or sleep.
Besides, I have never been sweet. Maybe not never, but definitely not after the age of three. That’s when my baby blond hair suddenly darkened—and my attitude went with it. (Which is why my dad’s nickname for me is "Notso," as in Jessica Not-So-Darling.) Whenever anyone tried to talk to me I’d yell BOR-ING and run away. I probably picked it up from my sister, Bethany, who was fourteen at the time and spent hours in front of the mirror rolling her eyes and practicing pissy looks to advertise her so-called angst. Of course, the difference between Bethany and me is that I’ve never had to practice.
the fifth
When I was a kid, I loved playing with the Charlie’s Angels dolls I inherited from Bethany. I’m talking the old-school Angels: Sabrina, Kelly, Jill—even Kris. (They never made dolls for Tanya Roberts or Shelley Hack.) They all wore a navy blue scarf and matching go-go boots but their polyester jumpsuits came in different colors: Sabrina’s in red, Kelly’s in yellow, Jill’s in white, and Kris’s in green. I thought they were so cool, even though everyone else I knew played with Barbie and the Rockers.
This was back when I wanted to be my pretty, popular older sister more than anything, back when I was young and impressionable and stupid. I loved everything she loved. Anything she thought was cool, I thought was cool. Though my Bethany-worship was short-lived—thank God—her pop cultural impact lives on. She is directly responsible for my freakish lack of interest in nearly all forms of entertainment targeted at my own generation (Gen Y? Gen i? Gen What-ever?) in favor of all things anachronistic.
The irony does not escape me.
One day when I was brushing the Angels’ hair, getting them ready for their next bad-guy-whupping adventure, I noticed that Sabrina didn’t have eyelashes. All the Angels had painted-on eyelashes but Sabrina. First I thought it was a mistake—like I’d gotten a messed-up doll. But then I asked Bethany if her friends’ Sabrinas had eyelashes and she said she didn’t think so. I tried to figure out what it was about Sabrina that would make her undeserving of eyelashes. I never did.
Until last night. I caught a rerun on TV Land in which Kelly and Jill went undercover as