Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [76]
By the time I got home, I’d received a half-dozen E-mails.
Bridget’s said that she would never forgive me for keeping the truth about Burke to myself. (She never asked for the truth!)
Manda said she would never forgive me for ruining both her friendship with Bridget and her reputation just because I couldn’t handle such an aggressive exhibition of female sexuality. (She ruined them—not me!)
Sara said she would never forgive me for blabbing when everything was just fine the way it was. (Everything was not fine the way it was!)
Burke said I was a bitch who was just jealous because I didn’t get a chance to ride his hog. That is, if I were even interested in dicks. (This confirmed my suspicions: Burke is an asshole.)
Scotty said he didn’t hate me, but out of respect for Burke he can’t talk to me anymore. (Such a shocking revelation considering we didn’t talk to each other anymore anyway.) He also asked why I have to be such a pain in the ass all the time. (Valid point.)
Hope said some funny stuff about a guy she has a crush on that has nothing to do with any of this. (Which actually made me appreciate her absence.)
Instead of responding to the hate mail, I examined my pale, hairy, shriveled, sorry excuse for an extremity.
Some things are just too coincidental not to be a message from whatever higher power controls synchronicity. The comparisons between getting my cast off and getting the secret off my chest are inevitable: One is physical emancipation, the other an emotional one. Both are painful, yet they leave me feeling free, clean, and ready to build myself up and be stronger. Maybe even happier.
the twenty-seventh
I was in front of my locker this morning, bent over, adjusting the Velcro straps on my air cast, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Hi. Jessica. Um. I."
My first reaction was, Len Levy. Ugh. This repulsion is the result of years of Valentine’s Day resentment combined with intense head-to-head academic competition. But my conditioned response was quickly replaced by "Oh, hi, Len!" when I remembered that he might be my way in with Marcus.
"Um. Your article. Um. In the paper."
For as long as I’ve known Len Levy, I have never heard him utter a complete sentence. This has been confirmed in all my Len–Marcus eavesdropping sessions.
"Uh-huh?"
"It was. Um. Rad," he said. "And. Um. You said what. Um. A lot of people think. Um. But don’t say. And. Um. I’m looking forward to. Um. Future articles. And."
I managed to mumble some sort of thank-you before he walked away.
About two minutes later, I felt another tentative tap. This time I turned around to see a trio of band nerds, ID’d by the black music cases they clutched in their hands.
"You’re Jessica Darling, right?" asked one with an overbite and a red, pulsing pimple on her chin that looked like it could keep time with the music. A built-in metronome.
"Yes."
"Your article in the paper. My friends and I … think it’s cool," she said meekly.
"Thanks."
They scurried away.
I didn’t think my essay would have any effect on the student body. But when word got out that my editorial caused yesterday’s brawl, there was more interest in this issue of The Seagull’s Voice than ever before.
"There’s no excuse for violence," Havisham said to me before English class. "But if a little sensationalism gets students reading The Seagull’s Voice, so be it. I just hope your next editorial is as rabble-rousing as the first one. Power to the people!"
Right on, sista. But my next editorial? I hadn’t thought beyond the first.
As other freaks and geeks quietly thanked me for speaking out throughout the day, I realized that I was going to have to think about it carefully. "Miss Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace: Just Another Poseur" actually had a positive impact on those who felt most oppressed at PHS.
Who knew my editorial would even renew my faith in Pepe Le