Perfect Fifths

by Megan Mccafferty

  “Dakota isn’t a city.”

  “Um, I know that. But you try interrupting Sara when she’s babbling about her brood. It’s impossible. And because her family is all she ever talks about, it makes it very easy to uphold my side of the conversation.”

  “So you see them a lot?”

  “I’ve seen Scotty once or twice since their wedding. He works for Sara’s dad in some capacity. I’ve been told what he does, but it’s one of those job titles—junior vice president of marketing strategery—that goes in one ear and out the other. I always seem to run into Mrs. D’Abruzzi-Glazer when I’m doing errands for my parents. The Mrs. must park her SUV in the Pineville Super Foodtown lot every morning, just waiting to descend upon unsuspecting members of the Pineville High Class of 2012 to tell them all how getting accidentally knocked up at twenty-two was the best thing that ever happened to them both.”

  “Maybe it is the best thing that ever happened to them.”

  “Did I sound like I was being sarcastic?”

  “Well, no. But you tend to take a cynical view of such things.”

  “What things?”

  “Other people’s happiness.”

  “I won’t deny that. But in this case, I have no reason to be a cynic. Sara says she loves being a mom, Scotty loves being a dad, and they can’t wait to have more kids. She appears to be fully consumed and completed by her role as a wife and mother, and that’s great for her. Even when she’s being totally Sara and all patronizing and obnoxious—‘You’re still young! You have plenty of good eggs left in you! All this will happen for you, too, sweetie!’—I’m still happy for her. I’m happy that she’s found domestic bliss in the ’burbs. I’m probably happier for her and Scotty than I am for most people, if only because theirs is a type of happiness I don’t want for myself.”

  “Ever?”

  [Cough.] “Not right now.”

  [Pause.]

  “What was the name of Manda’s partner, the baggy-pants, break-dancing gangsta who didn’t conform to the gender binary?”

  “Shea. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought I saw her when I was in the city a few weeks ago. If it was her, she’s a bike messenger. Just as her face registered as familiar, she took off.”

  “Wait, you saw her in the city, as in New York City?”

  “Yes.”

  “The same city that you hated and never wanted to visit? The same city that provoked debilitating anxiety attacks?”

  “The same.”

  “So am I to assume that the city is something else you’ve learned to appreciate socially and in moderation?”

  “Something like that. Only I wasn’t there for social reasons. [Throat clearing.] So was it Shea? Is she a bike messenger?”

  “I have no idea. Manda and Shea moved out after the first year. It’s just me and Hope until Ursula decides to kick us out.”

  “Ursula! Oh man, this conversation is really getting nostalgic. I haven’t thought about her in years.”

  “You probably blocked out her memory. A common post-traumatic-stress response.”

  “She accused me of housing cockroaches in my dreadlocks.”

  “Yes, well, I assure you that she’s as charming as ever. Why, just the other day, she told Hope how she’s come to love us like the daughters she never had. ‘You almost make me regret getting all zose abortions.’”

  “Almost. That’s classic.”

  “So Hope and I still live in the same apartment, but we have our own rooms now. No more bunk beds for me! I bought a big-girl bed of my very own.”

  “Your parents must be proud.”

  “Oh yes. Very proud. They’ve put a picture of my big-girl bed up on the refrigerator. Not me, just the bed.”

  “What parent wouldn’t? I wish I could see it for myself.”

  “The picture on the refrigerator or the bed?”

  “For the sake of propriety, I’ll say the picture.”

  “Good answer, Marcus. Good answer.”

  [Pause.]

  “So… how is Hope?”

  “Well, she dropped out of school.”

  “She did? Why? I thought she wanted to get her master’s in art therapy. If there’s anyone meant to work with disaffected youth, it’s her.”

  “Ow.”

  “You okay?”

  “Damn cramps.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Uh. Anyway. Hope never really wanted to work with kids. Graduate school was just her fallback plan. She really wanted to be an artist.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “Cinthia bought a few of Hope’s paintings to decorate her new apartment, which is really like the equivalent of six apartments stacked on top of each other. You met Cinthia once or twice, right? So you know she’s a force of nature, someone who can singlehandedly cultivate or kill a trend without even trying. She threw a housewarming party, and a bunch of her well-connected friends saw the paintings and just had to get one or two or a few for themselves, and, well, Hope’s career just kind of blew up from there. She didn’t really see the point in continuing her education. She wants to open up a gallery that showcases and sells the work of young artists who wouldn’t otherwise have opportunities to do so.”

  “How many people can say they’re making a living doing what they would do for free?”

  “I know, right?”

  “Good for her.”

  “Yeah. It is. It really is. She’s totally in love, too.”

  “The same boyfriend from college?”

  “Nope. She broke up with—What was his name? Oh my God. I’ve forgotten that guy’s name. I totally overheard him engaging in the most intimate of acts with my best friend in the top bunk, and now I can’t even remember his name. How bad is that?”

  [Throat clearing.] “Oh, I can think of worse things to forget.”

  “This is really going to bother me. I’m tempted to call Hope right now and ask her. ‘Hey, Hope, what was the name of your college boyfriend, you know, the one you used to quietly have sex with in the top bunk in the middle of the night when you thought I was asleep?’ W-W-W-ade? It starts with a W, I think. W-W-Wyatt? Oh, what does it matter? He’s long gone. They broke up not too long after… uh … They broke up a few years ago. It was, like, the most mutual, untraumatizing breakup in history. As far as I know, they still…”

  “Still what?”

  “Keep in touch.”

  “I see.”

  [Cough.] “So. Uh. Yeah. Hope’s ex-boyfriend—Christ, what’s his name?—even introduced Hope to her new boyfriend, which made him feel better about his own new girlfriend, who I think was also a friend of Hope’s at RISD.”

  “It sounds very incestuous. You’d think with six billion people in the world …”

  [Pause.]

  “Uh. Yeah. So. Hope’s been seeing the new guy, Jonas—hey, at least I can remember his name—for a few months now. He’s a sculptor. Together they’re like this perfectly adorable artsy urban couple that advertisers should use to sell an edgy, ethical, eco-friendly product. Like a so-ugly-it’s-cute little car that gets a hundred miles to the gallon. Or something like that. Dammit, it’s right on the tip of my tongue …”

  “See? This is why you need to mind your tongue, Jessica.”

  “Christ. I don’t know why this is bothering me so much. What was that guy’s name?”

  “So the sculptor. The new guy. He’s a good guy? You like him?”

  “I don’t know him all that well, to be honest. But he calls when he says he’ll call, shows up when he says he’ll show up. He pays his own rent and hasn’t been caught in any compromising positions on MySpace. So I guess by today’s relaxed dating standards, that makes him a good enough guy. He makes Hope happy, which is what really matters, right?”

  “You and Hope are still close, though, even without the bunk beds?”

  “Oh yeah. We’re still very close, though my job requires a lot of travel, so I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like to
. I was looking forward to catching up with her in St. John. She’s down there already. I’m sort of jealous.”

  “About her getting down there before you?”

  “Right… Wynn! His name was Wynn! Oh, thank God. I feel so much better now.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “The whole world can collectively exhale.”

  “What a relief.”

  “Yes, I can finally move on with my life.”

  five

  (nothing meaning something)

  “Oh, man, forget Byron. I’m the asshole.”

  “Why are you giving me a dollar, Marcus?”

  “Advance payment for my apology.”

  “What apology?”

  “This one: I’m sorry that I haven’t even asked what you’re doing. You mentioned traveling a lot, and I realized I had absolutely no idea what you’re doing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh what?”

  “Nothing. You don’t have to ask me about my job just to be …”

  “Nice?”

  “Right. Nice.”

  “I’m asking about your job because I’m curious to hear what you’ve been up to for the past three years.”

  “You really have no idea what I’ve been up to?”

  “No, I don’t. Why, should I? Are you notorious?”

  [Cough.] “No!” [Cough.]

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Let’s talk about my job.”

  “Are you going to make me guess first?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “In the interest of fair play, sure.”

  “Okay. Go ahead and guess.”

  “Let me think. You travel a lot. And … let me see … well… you really haven’t provided any other clues.”

  “Go with your gut.”

  “My gut. Okay. My gut tells me you’re doing something involving psychology and writing. Some sort of research, maybe? Involving travel… hmmm… You’re studying … I don’t know… demographical differences in narratives?”

  [Pause.]

  “Am I close?”

  [Long sigh.] “Marcus.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Seriously, Jessica. What?”

  “Oh, come on, you know what.”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “If I say something that makes me sound like an asshole, I can blame it on Byron, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “When you guessed about my job … No, I don’t need to say this to you. It’s nothing.”

  “I swear I’ve never heard someone speak so much of nothing when she obviously means something.”

  [Pause.]

  “Have you Googled me?”

  [Pause.]

  “No. I haven’t Googled you.”

  “Not once?”

  “No.”

  [Pause.]

  “I choose to believe you.”

  “You should. Because I’m telling you the truth.”

  [Pause.]

  “Have you Googled me?”

  [Sigh.] “I confess that I have, though not recently. I quit cold turkey because it was always so … anticlimactic. You’re, like, one of the last un-Googleable people left on the planet. Or you were when I last tried it. Anyway, getting back to your guesses, you could make a killing as a mind-reader.”

  “I didn’t read your mind.”

  “I know that! But you did what any fake psychic does. You used what little you did know about me from what I had said throughout our conversation, and you made educated guesses based on those clues. Then you carefully watched my body language in response to those clues and made more educated guesses. It’s all Professor Marvel, Wizard of Oz bullshit.”

  “So you don’t believe in clairvoyance. You don’t believe that anyone can accurately predict events in the future.”

  “No reputable scientific study has ever supported the idea of a sixth sense.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Hmm, what?”

  “So I take it that my guess was pretty close, huh?”

  “I’m the cofounder and head of development for the Do Better High School Storytellers project, a nonprofit creative writing and mentoring program.”

  “Jessica!”

  “What?”

  “That’s amazing!”

  “What? My job? Or your guess?”

  “I was referring to your job. Though my guess wasn’t that far off, was it? No wonder you thought I Googled you.”

  “Though you missed the part about how I’m the one who works with disaffected youth, not Hope.”

  “Are you annoyed about that?”

  “About what?”

  “The assumption that Hope was the one working with disaffected youth and not you.”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “The furrow in your forehead. The tone in your voice.”

  “I’m MMS-ing, okay?”

  “Mmmmmm?”

  “Mid-menstrual-syndrome-ing. And what? You don’t think there’s enough disaffected youth for the both of us? There’s plenty, I assure you.”

  “By all means, assure me. Tell me more, because I’m already very impressed.”

  “Oh, don’t be too impressed. The whole thing wouldn’t even exist without Cinthia’s Do Better seed money.”

  “Jessica, stop being so modest. That’s just an underhanded form of apology. I’ll have to charge you a dollar if you do it again.”

  “Well, it’s true! Without Cinthia’s money, the idea wouldn’t have survived long enough to even qualify as an epic fail.”

  “Did Cinthia conceptualize this program?”

  “Uh, no. I did.”

  “Did Cinthia strategize? Organize? Put those concepts into practice? Make them a reality?”

  “No, no, no, and no. That was all me, too. With a team, of course.”

  “A team assembled by who?”

  “Okay. You’ve made your point. I am a genius! And you don’t even know what I actually do yet.”

  “You’re right. Tell me.”

  “Basically, I travel to high schools all over the country that have applied for and won High School Storytellers grants. Priority goes to schools that have lost funding for arts programs because of budget cuts.”

  “There are far too many to choose from, I’m sure.”

  “Hundreds. And we’re still pretty small; there’s only a half-dozen of us mentors so far. We work with the students a few times a week for about ten weeks—a marking period. Between us all, we can only hit about twenty schools a year.”

  “Still, Jessica, you’re doing something, which is better than nothing.”

  “Except when nothing means something, right?”

  “Ha! Of course.”

  [Pause.]

  “Since you’re so good at guessing games, guess what school, of all the schools in the entire country, was the first to benefit from the Do Better High School Storytellers project?”

  “Pineville High?”

  “It was no accident, of course.”

  “Jessica, there are no accidents.”

  “Wait. What? Did you just say there are no accidents? How can you really believe that, Marcus?”

  “As a fan of strange-but-true stories, Jessica, I would think that you, too, would believe in a causally connected reality.”

  “Spare me the quasi-Bodhi-shitty wisdom, Marcus.”

  “What wisdom?” ‘There are no accidents. We are all life, and all life is limitless. One is all and all is one. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are the walrus, goo goo g’joob.’

  “I was actually referring to Jung’s notion of the collective unconscious.”

  “Woooow.”

  “What now, woooow?”

  “Woooow, now look who’s getting all highbrow.”

  “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

  “Just a little bit.”

  “See what I get for trying to elevate myself to your level?”

  “Perhaps you sh
ould stick to the Rocky IV references from now on.”

  “I’ll keep that under consideration. However, since you’re a lover of strange-but-true stories, I’m sure you know this one: Carl Jung has a patient who dreams of a rare golden scarab, then a scarab flies in through his office window.”

  “Yes, it’s a fantastic if timeworn strange-but-true story, Marcus. But you don’t believe in accidents? Really?”

  “I believe …”

  “You could tell me a million strange-but-true stories, and they still cannot prove that we experience everything in life by cosmic design. And you know why, Marcus? Because there are accidents. Horrible, tragic accidents that hurt innocent people who don’t deserve it.”

  [Pause.]

  “If I said something wrong, Jessica, I’m sorry.”

  [Pause.]

  “You owe me a dollar.”

  [Pause.]

  “Seriously, Jessica. You seem upset. I’m sorry.”

  “Seriously, Marcus. You really suck at the no-apologies game. You owe me another dollar.”

  “Jessica …”

  “Just drop it, okay?”

  “Here’s your money.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I guess.”

  “And fuck you, Byron, wherever you are.”

  six

  (intriguing slush)

  “Now, Marcus, what was I saying before everyone within earshot rolled their eyes at the pretentious turn in our conversation?”

  “Pineville.”

  “Oh yeah. How I ended up back at Pineville High. Even after all these years, Cinthia still feels so guilty about Bubblegum Bimbos and Assembly-Line Meatballers and how it, you know, immortalized our high school as a symbol of all that’s dumb and debauched about suburban youth. She kind of forced me to go there first as a way of making up for past sins.”

  “I haven’t been within a half-mile of that place since we graduated. Oh, man, that must have been…”

  “Surreal. You thought navigating the cafeteria was treacherous? There’s a little place called the teacher’s lounge, my friend, and it is where the human spirit goes to die.”

  “I can’t even imagine. Are our old teachers still there?”

  “I think the Class of ‘02 might have forced them all into early retirement. Except for good ol’ Miss Haviland, who is still giving power to the young people, still rocking our nation back to its revolutionary roots one Honors English class at a time.”