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I remember thinking that as long as my hair looked good, Paul Parlipiano would have no idea that I was blitzed.

I remember thinking that my hair looked good.

I remember stumbling over to Paul Parlipiano and plopping myself down in the sand between him and Trekkie.

I remember saying, Heeeeeeyyyyy and Paul Parlipiano saying Hey right back and Trekkie saying nothing before getting up and walking away.

I remember him saying, You’re on the track team. Jessica, right?

I remember bonfire flames lighting up his face.

I remember a lightning bolt shooting straight to my crotch. Sha-ZAM!

I remember telling him about how I admired his smoothness and grace as he jumped over the hurdles OneTwoThreeAIR and the time I heard him cheering for me and how I couldn’t believe it because that meant that I existed in his world if only for a short while but it meant so much to me because I respected and yes even loved him even though logic and reason told me I had no business feeling that way about him but I didn’t care no I loved him and I wanted him to know it not because I expected him to reciprocate even though I really really wanted him to but because if someone ever loved me in that pure way I would want to know about it.…

I remember him smiling an I’m-embarrassed-for-you smile.

I remember acid swirling in my stomach.

I remember him saying words I’ll never forget: You only think you love me. If you knew me, you’d know better.

Blackout.

I woke up this morning on Sara’s bedroom floor with no memory of anything after that. Unfortunately, Sara gleefully filled in the Grand Canyon–size gap in my memory.

All you really need to know is this one horrifying thing:

I puked on Paul Parlipiano’s shoes.

After I pledged my love, but before I passed out.

I, Jessica Darling, puked on Paul Parlipiano’s shoes.

the nineteenth

I puked on his shoes.

I PUKED ON PAUL PARLIPIANO’S SHOES.

I will be forever immortalized in Paul Parlipiano’s mind as The Drunk Girl Who Puked on My Shoes.

I want to die. And not being able to tell Hope makes it even worse. I know she wouldn’t approve of my boozy idiocy. And she certainly wouldn’t give me the sympathy I need right now.

the twenty-second

Tonight was my last night of work. It rained, so it was dead. I had a lot of time to mull over my mortification in new and creative ways.

Paul Parlipiano is at Columbia now. I will surely be a subject in his can-you-top-this? getting-to-know-you storytelling sessions. I imagine him in his dorm, surrounded by new friends: You think that’s bad? Right before I left for school, this drunk girl I’d never talked to before in my life pledged her undying love, then puked on my shoes. SHE PUKED ON MY SHOES!

When torturing myself in this manner became exhaustive, I worried about what to tell Bridget about Manda and Burke’s Summer of Skankitude (S.O.S.). I still don’t know the answer. I don’t want to be mixed up in this gruesome mess. Then again, it’s my own fault. I could’ve said no. Instead, I made a promise—albeit reluctantly, and to someone I’m not even that close to anymore—and I feel obligated to follow through on it.

Plus, I think Bridget has a right to know that Manda picked her boyfriend as the lucky winner in the Devirginization Sweepstakes.

I’m seriously sickened by the whole thing. I know this is sexist and totally supports the stud–whore double standard for guys and girls and all, but I’m more mad at Manda than Burke. I mean, it’s a given that guys don’t have as much self-control as girls. They can’t help but pop insta-chubbies. But how psychologically messed up is Manda? She refuses to have sex with any of her own boyfriends, then snakes her best friend’s man? I never liked Manda much, but now I can’t look at her without wanting to hose her down with Lysol.

Maybe Burke and Manda will take the high road and tell Bridget themselves. But I think my best bet is Sara: She’s never kept a secret before. Why should this one be any different? And there still is the teensy-weensiest chance that Sara got this one wrong. Hey, you never know.

Needless to say, that occupied