Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [26]
Conclusion: We’re all in trouble when B. and B. break up.
Manda’s room: Millions of tiny holes in the walls, the only sign that they used to be covered with tons of kissable pics of hot hunks, gorgeous guys, and studly celebs torn out of Bop and Sixteen magazines. These fantasy photos have been replaced with wallet-size school pictures of all her past boyfriends. They look like mug shots. She’s not in any of them. Above her bed? A poster: Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History.
Conclusion: Boys, boys, boys and Women’s Lib—perfect together.
Sara’s room: Crucial communication devices (cell phone, headset phone, two-way pager, Palm Pilot, laptop) within reach of her bed—a queen-size model with a white- and gold-flecked marble frame, scalloped seashell headboard, and a black velvet duvet. YM, Twist, Seventeen, CosmoGirl!, Cosmopolitan, Vogue, Entertainment Weekly, People, National Enquirer, and many other mags and rags sink into the ankle-deep crimson carpet. A professionally framed collage of skeletal models and actresses is the only wall hanging that doesn’t fit in with the die-hard faux-rococo décor favored by her stepmother, Shelly.
Conclusion: Poor little rich Eye-talian girl wants to be a size zero—and will gripe about that or gossip about anything else to anyone who will listen.
My room: Walls the color of a week-old bruise from when Hope and I tried to slap gray over the hot pink paint my parents picked when I was a baby. Dozens of dusty plaques, trophies, and ribbons unceremoniously toppling over each other on a shelf in the far corner. Several "new classics" movie posters (Sixteen Candles, Stand by Me, Say Anything). Mind-blowing mosaic of two smiling friends.
Conclusion: Obviously on the brink of schizophrenia.
Hope’s (old) room: Girlie flowered wallpaper covered up by dozens of paintings, sketches, and works in progress. Framed snapshot of a little boy with a crew cut, wearing overalls, struggling to carry a crying baby with flame-red hair, a funeral mass card for Heath Allen Weaver tucked into the corner. Small bookcase, packed with art books of Monet, Picasso, Warhol.
Conclusion: I’ll never know her new room as well as the old one.
I got only the briefest glimpse inside Hy’s psyche. She’s staying in her aunt’s guest bedroom until her mom’s transfer, so her room isn’t really her room. (Her aunt’s guest room: Page 12 from the Pottery Barn catalog—from the trundle bed to the brass curtain tiebacks, from the area rug to the arrangement of fresh lilies in the vase. Conclusion: She makes a decent amount of money, but doesn’t have a lot of time or imagination.)
The only personal items on display were a Sony VAIO laptop and a few pictures in silver frames. I picked up one of Hy hugging a wiry guy in phat pantz and a white sleeveless T-shirt with the words Why Too Kay? in all caps across his chest. His close-cropped hair was dyed yellow-bronze so it would glow under the strobes. Tattoo script crawled up his arm: P L U R. Peace Love Unity Respect. The Raver Mantra.
"That’s Fly," she said with an uncharacteristically giddy lift to her voice. "Raves are wack, but I love him anyway. You can see why my ’rents don’t."
I could see that. Then I thought about what she’d just said. Parents. Plural. She’d told me she never knew her father, so I assumed she lived alone with her mom. Maybe there’s a stepfather. I didn’t want to brave the tangled branches of her family tree, so I let it drop.
There was another photo of Hy wearing a slinky black dress lined up with six other girls in similar slinky black dresses. They were all hiking up their skirts to show off their legs. Hy’s hair had berry-colored tips that matched her lips.
If I’m using Hy as a Hope substitute, it’s clear that she’s subbing me for a whole clique. After spending the afternoon with her at her house, I now understand why Hy was so pissed about PHS’s anti-cell/pager legislation—she’s got a lot of friends to stay connected to. In three hours, Hy got no fewer than