Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [8]
I tended to exaggerate for effect. On Bridget: Did the orthodontist remove half her brain along with her braces? On Sara: She kisses up to Manda and Bridget so much they’re crapping strawberry LipSmacker. But Hope only spoke the ugly truth. On Manda: If Manda keeps thrusting her ta-tas in Mr. Cole’s face, she just might ace Algebra after all. Observations like that made it clear to me that Bridget ditching me for Burke was the best thing that could have happened to me. Hope was the friend I’d always wanted, but never had.
To add to this list, today’s misdemeanor. When I get bored in class, I write sad song lyrics all over my book covers. I’m currently in an eighties phase—no surprise there. My current favorite is featured in Pretty in Pink, the third installment of the Molly Ringwald teen-queen trilogy (all of which I’ve enjoyed over and over again thanks to the programming execs at TNT, who seem to agree with my assertion that any John Hughes flick should be classified as a "new classic"):
Please, please, please … let me, let me, let me …
Let me get what I want this time.
The Smiths’ ode to yearning didn’t get me in trouble. In a less musical bad mood, I guess I scribbled: Life Sucks, Then You Dieon the cover of my Chemistry book. I don’t even remember doing it. But it raised the unibrow of Mr. Scherzer, who quickly informed my guidance counselor, Mrs. Glick, who called me out of Trig to meet Brandi, the school’s pseudo shrink. Her nameplate says "Professional Counselor," which I figure means she’s a few credits short of a legit Ph.D. She probably couldn’t find enough evidence for her doctoral thesis to prove that hugs are indeed better than drugs.
Brandi is mean skinny, the kind that doesn’t come naturally and makes her face look all hollow and scary. She tries to make up for this with a bug-eyed bubble and gush that I know better than to trust. She—like me—is a fan of the eighties, but her devotion has tragic consequences: Kentucky-fried bangs and suntan panty hose.
Every inch of space on the counseling office walls is covered with posters that are supposed to stop us from driving drunk, doing drugs, having sex, and sticking our fingers down our throats. Most of them are totally corny: There once was a girl named Lydia, who had sex and got chlamydia …
Others aim to depress the hell out of you. The best/worst one had a blowup of a girl’s yearbook picture. Her name was Lindsey Greenbush and she was pretty in an unimaginative JC Penney catalog sort of way, like Bridget. Underneath her pic is a list of her activities: National Honor Society, Field Hockey, Soccer, Homecoming Committee, French Club. Then underneath that it says in bold print: Two weeks before her yearbook came out, Lindsey was killed when she got into a car with a drunk driver.
I have to admit that it made me think about what would happen if I got killed by a drunk driver. I can understand why the Weavers won’t fly Hope in for my Bitter Sixteen, but I assume they’d pay for a flight for my funeral. Who else would make sure that my mom buried me in my denim halter dress—especially if I died in winter? I could see my mom arguing that it isn’t warm enough for me to wear something sleeveless, you know, because it’s very important for dead people not to catch cold.
Plus, I’d want Hope to make the show-stopping speech, "The Jessica You Never Knew." She gave a similar speech at Heath’s Mass, so I know she can handle it.
I don’t know how she handled it, to tell you the truth. Heath’s death went so public. The Weavers found themselves smack-dab in the middle of a local media feeding frenzy. Teen’s Death Exposes Town’s Secret Shame screamed the headlines of the Ocean County Observer. Youth Overdoses, Shocked Locals Call For Crackdown shouted the Asbury Park Press. In death, Heath became emblematic of the "atypical"