Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [13]
Honestly, I don’t get what Bethany and her fiancé, Grant, see in each other. Big whoop: They’re virtually indistinguishable from a Barbie and Ken wedding-cake topper. And he turned new money into even newer money with some Wall Street wheeling-dealing. (Hence his nickname, G-Money.) He’s jetted between Silicon Valley, California, and Silicon Alley, New York, for a few years. After the wedding, the happy couple will follow the Techie gold rush and settle for good in the Bay area, ground zero for venture capitalists.
I guess there are worse reasons to get married. After all, my parents have been together twenty-eight years simply because Dad was "Dar the Star," All-County point guard for the basketball team, and Mom was the captain of the rah-rah squad. Ack.
What Bethany and G-Money really lack is oomph. I see zero passion. I don’t mean that they should have their tongues down each others’ throats 24-7. But as a couple, they don’t add anything when they enter a room. I’ve never heard them have anything other than a mind-numbingly inane conversation.
Bethany: I hope this beautiful weather lasts all day.
G-Money: Me, too.
Bethany: I don’t want it to get too hot.
G-Money: Me either.
And since they got engaged two and a half years ago, they don’t even discuss current events anymore. All they talk about is the wedding.
Bethany: I hope we have beautiful weather on our wedding day.
G-Money: Me, too.
Bethany: I don’t want it to get too hot.
G-Money: Me either.
If I get a husband—hell, if I get a boyfriend—I never want to have a conversation like this. This is why I will never date Scotty. I need my boyfriend to be the male equivalent of Hope. My best friend. If I could have the same relationship with my boyfriend that I have with Hope and have deep, meaningful sex—well, that would be perfect. Whether it’s possible, I have no idea.
"Regardless of who you invite," Bethany said, breaking the silence, "You should be more concerned about the part in your hair than you are about wearing it up."
"What do you mean? My part is just fine," I said, immediately looking in the mirror for a confirmation. My hair was tucked back, curling just under my earlobes, with a silver barrette clipped to the right side of my head to keep my bangs from falling into my eyes. Same as always.
"Well, sure, it looks fine in the mirror."
"And that’s fine because that’s what I look like."
"No it isn’t," she laughed.
Then she sprung the bit of big sister torture she’s probably been saving for years.
I knew that numbers and letters were backward in the mirror, but I never thought the same principle could apply to faces. I never realized that what I see in the mirror is my reverse image. Bethany positioned me in front of a set of mirrors that bounced off each other in a way that let me see the reverse of my reverse image—which is what I really look like.
What a shock. Bethany was right. I do part my hair on the wrong side. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Suddenly, the unevenness of my nostrils jumped out at me: The left one kind of comes from the front, while the right one sort of comes from the side. I always thought that I didn’t photograph well, but it turns out that’s how I appear to others.
I tried holding my hand mirror up to the bathroom mirror so I can get ready for school with my real face in mind. There’s nothing I can do about my nostrils. But I’ve been trying to use styling goop, a paddle brush, and a hair-dryer to train my part to hang a left instead of a right, but it’s just not working. The part is already sixteen years in the making.
the eighth
We have a new girl in the honors track. Her name is Hyacinth Wallace. She told us to call her "Hy." Every teacher thought it was positively hysterical when he or she said, "Well, hi, Hy!"
Everyone is all freaked out about her. First, she’s from New York City, which is about as exotic as you can get at PHS. Second, she is gorgeous in a dark-eyed, olive-skinned, nonsuburban way that