Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [60]
"SMOKE YOUR BRAINS OUT!"
The cigarette-stand crowd never ceases to amaze me. The winners of the packs of their choice jump, holler, and high-five with unparalleled intensity, even by the boardwalk’s standards. They seem to forget that for the amount of quarters they bet, they could have purchased a carton, but I guess it was the thrill of victory that had them breaking dollar after dollar for change.
"TEEEEEBAAAAACO! TEEEEEBAAAAACO HEEEEEE-AH!" squawked the boy working the cigarette stand. Tonight he modeled a yellow plastic jacket with a picture of the now-retired phallic Joe Camel printed on the back. It could have melted off his body if the temperature rose above eighty-five degrees. The jacket came up short at his wrists, showing he was at that awkward age when certain body parts grow faster than others. He had the same pathetic smudge of a mustache that Scotty had during our eleven-day relationship. I wanted to tell Cigarette Boy that it was more sickly than sexy and that he should shave it off ASAP.
However, I didn’t tell him that, because all of a sudden, I had to know if Cigarette Boy had a girlfriend. I waited for him to start the wheel. It had all the months of the year on it, separated by the four seasons. Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall. It was the best cigarette odds on the boardwalk.
"Hey! At the cigarette stand!" About ten smokers turned away from the wheel to look at me. The boy did not.
"Not you. The kid who works it," I yelled above the cacophony.
The smokers turned back to the wheel. The boy looked at me but said nothing. He’s not allowed to talk beyond the bark for customers once he’s behind the counter.
"Yes. Cigarette Boy. You. Do you have a girlfriend?"
Confusion clouded his face first. Then he started to look smug. It was the smug look of a fourteen-year-old who had an older chick obviously hot for his bod.
"I’m not making the moves on you," I said impatiently.
He slumped.
"Quick. Do you have a girlfriend?"
He nodded.
I thought about me and Scotty, Bridget and Burke, Sid and Myrna, and I grieved for this boy’s future. I didn’t want to see him several summers from then, with his Myrna tattooed on his arm, mourning his lost love, cone after chocolate cone.
Break up, I wanted to beg. Before you’re in too deep.
But I couldn’t get it out.
The spinner stopped on Fall. The winners rejoiced. The losers slapped down more quarters. They tried again. The years on the wheel whizzed by.
the twenty-third
Today is Hope’s birthday. I couldn’t contain my excitement when the phone rang. I ran to pick it up because I thought it might be her. Caller ID flashed an Unavailablewarning that I ignored. Thus, the following conversation is my own fault.
"Jayssseeecahhh! Eeet’s meee!"
I almost hung up. "Who is this?"
"Eeet’s Baythahhhhneeee."
I should have known that after honeymooning in Europe for a month, my sister would adopt some bizarro affected accent.
"How aaahhhrrr yooo?"
Crackly static interrupted me before I could utter a clichéd phrase.
"Saaahhhree. Ahm own mah cehlee."
Her cellie. Of course. I bet she has them in all different colors, to coordinate with her outfits, or her cars. Apparently, the stock-market crash hasn’t cramped her style.
"Eeeeesss Mowthair thair?"
"Uh, no."
"Whaaahhht ahh peetee."
"Huh?"
"Whaaahht ahh peetee."
What a pity. Jesus Christ. This was worse than Madonna after Evita.
"Pleeeze geev hair theees maysaaahhhg."
"Sure," I said. "If I can translate it."
"Whaaahht?"
"Nothing."
"Grahnt ahnd ah cahnnot cohm tooo veeseet forrrrh Labohrrrrrr Dayee."
I personally could care less if G-Money and my sister couldn’t make it out for Labor Day. But my mother would be crushed. It’s all I’ve heard about since the wedding.
"No way," I said. "You tell her. She’s showing a house right now but should be …"
"Nooo caaahhhn doo," she said. "Ahm own mah waaaayeee tooo theee aaahhhrrrpohhhrt. Ah hahv a flaht too [static] … Ahm