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In the eleven months since our last rap session, Brandi had grown out her foot-high bangs in favor of a shaggier metal-head mane. Think: Bon Jovi, Slippery When Wet tour, 1987. She was as supernaturally perky as ever.

"Your teachers and peers are a bit concerned about you, Jess," she began.

I sneered. "My peers?"

I knew it. This had Sara all over it. This was a way of getting back at me. She had looked too pleased in homeroom not to have something to do with this.

"Right!" bubbled Brandi. "It seems that they’ve seen you talking to some (ahem) unsavory characters."

This wasn’t fair. There was only one (ahem) unsavory character, not unsavory characters plural. And we haven’t even been talking much lately. But it just goes to show you how out of touch the powers-that-be at PHS really are.

"You mean Marcus Flutie."

"Right! Marcus Flutie!"

I didn’t say anything.

"You see, Jess, you’re a role model for the younger students," Brandi said.

Me. The most ridiculous role model ever. Hadn’t my editorials taught them anything about me?

"And it worries the administration when someone as bright as you gets caught up in a bad crowd."

Marcus Flutie. A bad crowd of one. How bogus was this, since he hadn’t even done anything bad since he got back to school. No matter. They still saw him as Krispy Kreme, even though he’d been totally reformed. Well, drug-wise, at least.

"Are your new friends pressuring you to say the things you say in your editorials?"

I almost fell out of my chair. The administration did read my editorials. But they didn’t think they were mine. They believed that I was a mouthpiece for Marcus Flutie. That the subjects of my editorials were coming from his heart, not mine.

This was too much.

I knew I could’ve bullshitted my way out of this like the last time I was dragged down here. But I realized I could probably cause a bigger scene by speaking up. If Brandi wanted to judge me by my rah-rah-sis-boom-bah, so be it.

"Are my grades going down?"

"Well, they don’t seem to be. No."

"Am I ranked number one in my class?"

"Well, you seem to be. Yes."

"Does Miss Haviland have a problem with what I’ve written in the paper?"

"Well, no …"

"There’s no problem here," I said, flouting authority in a way I never had before. "And I don’t appreciate being pulled out of class to be told who I can and can’t talk to."

I gathered my books and left.

I was too angry to enjoy my moment of rebellion. PHS is so goddamn hypocritical. I get called down to the office for merely talking to Marcus Flutie. Christ, if the administration found out that the number-one-ranked student was banging the captain of the football, basketball, and baseball teams, they’d probably throw us a fucking parade.

Ha. Make that, a Fucking Parade. With a capital "F."

Still, the meeting wasn’t a waste of time. It made me realize that I need Marcus back in my life. Anything met with disapproval by the PHS authorities must be good for me. When I called Marcus tonight, I told him just that.

"I’m glad you feel that way, Jessica," he said.

Unfortunately, he’s visiting his brother in Maine for the holidays. So I can’t have him back in my life until next year. Next year is really next week. Just ten days away. But saying "until next year" sounds more traumatic. As traumatic as it felt when I realized that Hope and Marcus are due back in Pineville on the same day and I’m not sure who I need to see more. If Marcus is the male equivalent to Hope that I’ve always dreamed of, does that make her obsolete? No. It can’t. I won’t let it.

It’s so unfair that I have tons of room in my life for people I hate, yet have to choose between the only two real friends I’ve ever had. Why can’t I have both?

the twenty-fourth

In the mail today arrived the best card ever, folded into the shape of a star, postmarked Bangor, Maine.

WISHING YOU A MERRY XMAS

’Tis the season

for fireproof evergreens

covered in pine-scented

aerosol snow

Hip-hop carols

performed by prepackaged teen divas

backed by one-man synthesizer