Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [77]
"Bonjour, mademoiselle!"
It had been so long since he had said anything to me, that I was a bit taken aback by his greeting, even during a week when I’d been approached by people I’d never spoken to before in my life.
"Your editorial was off the hook," he said. "It made me think about the wack stuff I’ve been doing, you know, to fit in."
It was strange to hear Pepe talking to me again. Especially in English.
"En français, s’il vous plaît!" sang Madame Rogan.
Pepe paused, grasping for the right words. "Je n’ai pas eu … les boules … à casser vers le haut avec ma petite amie …"
What?
"Comment?" I asked. Either my French was off, or what he said made no sense.
He dropped his voice to a whisper, "I didn’t have the balls to break up with my girlfriend until I read it."
That’s what I thought he was trying to say.
"En français!"
Pepe looked up toward the ceiling, as if the right English-to-French translation were written there. After a few seconds, he shrugged and said, simply, "Merci, Jessica."
I can only imagine what my essay had to do with his breaking up with his girlfriend. Maybe he dated her only because he was under the same couple-up pressure that had made me consider getting back together with Scotty last spring. Maybe he thought he needed a girlfriend to prove just how testosterrific his new bod really was. Maybe, of all his identities—Percy Floyd, Pierre, Pepe Le Pew, The Black Elvis, The Geek—Pepe Le Puberty was one he didn’t identify with. Maybe he didn’t identify with any of them, which is why he jumped from persona to persona in the first place, hoping to find one that fit. Maybe that very realization is what defeated The Geek that night. Maybe the supreme self-confidence I envied in Pepe was nothing more than cleverly masked insecurity.
It’s irrelevant really. Because Pepe is clearly happy about his decision. And to think that I’m the one who helped him come to it. Cool. Maybe my op-ed pieces can make a difference.
Still, my newfound notoriety doesn’t change the fact that I’ve alienated my suck-ass excuses for friends and don’t have anyone to sit with in the cafeteria. I now spend my lunch periods rehabbing my leg with the athletic trainer. My father and Coach Kiley are thoroughly impressed by my Will to Win. Ha! Truth is, the flesh-ripping pain of the fifteenth and final rep on the Cybex leg press is preferable to sitting through lunch with another assemblage of pseudo pals.
I know I should be thrilled about all this success—¡Viva la revolución!—as Hy said, back when she was still Hy to me. Yet, I can’t stop thinking about the one person who apparently hasn’t read it. The one person I haven’t affected at all. The one person who inspired me to write it in the first place.
the thirtieth
A Titanic, ’70s-era brown Cadillac slowed down, then pulled over onto the shoulder right in front of me on my limp home from school today. The owner had tied a fake flower to the antenna for quick sightings in shopping center parking lots. Bumper stickers: Honk If You Love Your Grandchildrenand Sexy Grandpa. Five never-been-worn baseball caps were lined up against the back windshield, proudly on display. Sun glare on the windows made it impossible to see who was inside, but I was expecting a blue head to pop out and ask for directions to the local V.F.W. Naturally, that’s not who I got.
"Hey, Cuz. Need a ride?"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"I said, do you need a ride?"
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I thought Marcus would pull away. But he stayed there, with his head out the window, waiting for me to respond.
"Uhhhh … I live less than a half mile from here. Twelve Forest Drive."
Pause.
"So I don’t need a ride …"
Another pause.
"But do you want one?" he asked.
God, did I want one.
He knew it, too. He leaned over the front seat and popped open the passenger-side door. "Come on, I want to talk to you," he said. "I’ll drive around in circles if I have to." Happyhappyjoyjoyhappyhappyjoyjoyhappyhappyjoyjoyhappyhappyjoyjoyhappyhappy!