Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [64]
"Omigod! You’re not going to believe this!" she said. "Krispy Kreme is a quote genius unquote."
Apparently, the staff at Middlebury were flummoxed by Marcus’s complex philosophical takes on his self-destruction. So much so, that they ordered a battery of intelligence tests to see if he was gifted or just plain insane. It turned out to be the former: His scores put him in the top 2 percent of the population. The staff concluded that Marcus wasn’t being challenged in school, which is why he turned to drugs for amusement. With the support of his parole officer, Mr. and Mrs. Flutie threatened to sue the school system that had mislabeled him as a troubled kid way back in elementary school, and therefore did not encourage him to develop his many gifts. The administration caved, let him back in school, and placed him in our honors classes.
"He won’t be bothering us for long, though," Sara said, smugly.
"Why?" I asked, a bit too concerned.
"If he’s caught engaging in any illegal activity, he’s out for good," she said.
"What makes you so sure he will?"
"Get real," Manda said. "Like he’s gonna go straight-edge just so he can have the pleasure of sitting in our Physics class all year."
"Maybe he will, Manda," I said, wishing it were true. "Maybe he wants to turn his life around."
"Jess?"
"Yes?"
"Puh-leeze."
Puh-leeze. Please. Please, Marcus, please. If not for you, then for me.
the seventh
In the past week, I’ve received no fewer than two dozen urgent E-mails from nycinthiahotmail.com. I’ve sent every single one into the trash, unopened. Any message from Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace is more treacherous than the I Love You virus.
Still, every time I log on, I hope that in addition to my daily dose of Hope, there will be an E-mail in my inbox from a sender named krispykreme36hotmail.com, containing a message that is cryptic, yet significant. Something like …
I have no idea. I can’t even get inside Marcus’s mind long enough to make something up. Maybe that’s why I can’t hear what he says to me in my dreams. For the past few nights I’ve been having almost the same dream. The setup is identical: Marcus and I are sitting side by side on the cot in the nurse’s office. His mouth is moving. He’s saying something but I can’t hear him because there’s too much noise drowning him out.
The noise is part of the dream that changes from night to night. The first time it was PHS football fans chanting in the bleachers: PINE-ville! PINE-ville! PINE-ville! The second time it was a stereo blasting a medley of treacly hits from the Backstreet Boys’ first CD: "As Long As You Love Me," "All I Have To Give," and "Quit Playing Games (With My Heart)." Last night it was the boardwalk’s buzzers and bells.
The point is, if there is any secret message, I’m not meant to find it out. And he’s certainly not going to tell me. It’s only been two days, but I know that this is how it’s going to be for the rest of the year, or for as long as Marcus can stay on the level and in our honors classes.
the tenth
Be careful what you wish for.
Of all my twisted fantasies, why oh why did this one come true?
After falling asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow all summer, it took less than a week of school to restart my insomniac streak. Granted, as far as the first weeks of school go, mine were unbeatably bizarre. Every night I lay wide awake, trying to figure out what would be the next mind-blowing thing to happen—a slight variation on the bad-things-happen triptych.
Tonight I got my answer.
At about three-thirty this morning, I knew there was no chance I would fall asleep before sunrise. So I decided to go for a run in the dark, like I have dozens of times before, just not since the end of my sophomore year. Thankfully, it was as cathartic as ever. With each step, I felt more at ease