Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [10]
The other thing about Marcus is that crackheaded girls who don’t know any better think he’s sexy. I don’t see it. He’s got dusty reddish dreads that a girl could never run her hands through. His eyes are always half-shut. His lips are usually curled into a semi-smile, like he’s in on a big joke that’s being played on you but you don’t know it yet. He always has a girlfriend and he always cheats on her. Thus, Marcus is widely known by the moniker "Krispy Kreme" because he’s always "burnt to a crisp" and is rumored to have "bought three boxes of donuts." (In PHS lingo, that means he’s slept with at least thirty-six girls. A dozen donuts per box—get it?)
In short, Marcus Flutie is precisely the type of "unsavory character" that the Weavers wanted to get Hope away from. This really wasn’t necessary because Hope hates Marcus and the rest of Heath’s former friends almost as much as she hates drugs and alcohol. She would be profoundly disappointed if I associated with him or his vices, so I walked right past him. My hand was on the doorknob when he called out to me.
"Hey, Tongue-Kissing Cousin!"
Though I used to see him sometimes at Hope’s house, Marcus and I had never, ever acknowledged each other’s existence before. So I froze, not knowing whether I should (a) laugh, (b) say something, or (c) ignore him and keep on walking. I chose a brilliant combo of (a) and (b).
"Uh, yeah. Ha. Ha. Ha."
I turned around and saw that Marcus was smiling at me. It freaked me out. I mean, it wasn’t an unfamiliar smile. He smiled like he knew me and was used to looking at me full in the face even though I don’t remember him ever giving me so much as a lazy I’m-too-stoned-to-avert-my-eyes look when I walked past his desk in homeroom.
"I almost pissed myself out here," he said.
"Uh, thanks, I guess."
"You’re a natural con artist."
He was still looking right at me. I giggled. I always giggle like a girlie-girl when I get nervous. It’s my most annoying habit.
"What other secrets are you hiding?"
I chewed on my lip (my second most annoying habit) and flew through the door.
The thing is, he’s right. I get going on a lie and I can’t stop. This is a largely untapped talent. I could probably talk my way out of a bizillion sticky situations—if I only got myself into them. It was just weird hearing it from someone who doesn’t even know me.
the twentieth
My insomnia kicked in three months ago, right after Hope told me she was crossing the Mason-Dixon Line. Since then, I’ve learned to hate every inch of my body.
I’ll be lying here in the dark urging myself to sleep, when I’ll suddenly become excruciatingly aware of how sweaty my thighs get when stuck together in the fetal position. So I have to shift them. Then my thighs are okay, but a lock of hair falls across my forehead and I can’t stand the weight of it on my brow. So I brush it aside. Then my forehead is okay, but the toes of my right foot get all cramped up. So I have to crack them. Then my toes are okay, but I get an itch on my butt. So I have to scratch it …
This goes on for hours with every conceivable combination of body parts and complaints. I’ve tried warm milk, counting sheep, even the I-dare-myself-to-stay-awake reverse-psychology trick. Nothing works. I’ve stopped short of Tylenol PM because I don’t want to be a person who requires drugs to get in and out of bed. As if Heath weren’t enough of a warning, I’ve seen too many Behind the Musics to let that happen.
There is only one good thing about my middle-of-the-night restlessness. I have some crazy-ass dreams that are really easy to remember when I wake up. Take last night’s, for example:
I show up at a student council meeting wearing nothing but a pair of polka-dot panties. My nipples are doing a full-on, friendly How do you do? to everyone in the room. No one minds, as though I always show up for after-school activities nearly au naturel.