Perfect Fifths

by Megan Mccafferty

  Like a pro, Jessica reviews her performance, the reel of highlights and lowlights unspooling in her mind. As much as she didn’t want to, she couldn’t stop herself from talking about Sunny. It’s so goddamn Freudian of her, to babble on about the one subject that she wants to keep sacred for herself. And isn’t it just like Marcus to assume that her half-told story was all about protecting him? Of course, this conclusion might stem less from narcissistic than from altruistic motivations. His half-told story about the sweater, the watch, The Beard, etc., was surely edited to protect her feelings, a certainty that leaves Jessica feeling less unsettled than she’d expect from such an intimidating intimation.

  Sunny would be positively thrilled to serve as a subject of discussion between Jessica and Marcus. Would it help if Jessica called right now and asked Sunny’s parents to press the phone to her ear? Marcus Flutie knows about you, Sunny. You’re a story worth telling. Would that be enough to make Sunny’s eyes open? Would she grab the phone out of her mother’s hand and demand, “PUT MARCUS ON THE PHONE NOW”? And if a little teaser wasn’t enough to coax her back into consciousness, there was so much more Jessica could tell Sunny now than when she first considered calling from the airport restroom.

  Jessica could start by telling her how Marcus pretended not to know anything about their minor impact on contemporary pop music. This is a near-impossible claim of ignorance, coming from someone who lived on a college campus that had, just three months earlier, hosted the Mighties on a double bill with a Princeton-based band named Steampunk Dandy. It’s a 100 percent impossible claim of ignorance coming from someone who, toward the end of their two-hour conversation, actually quoted from the infamous song, a song that is in heavy rotation on Sunny’s own iPod, without acknowledging that those lyrics (You have stopped the arrow of time / There’s no meaning to this rhyme / Because my song will never mean as much as the one / He once sang / For you, yes, you …) were in fact written by (a) Len Levy (b) about them.

  She could also tell Sunny how Marcus went out of his way to press her on the subject of her friendship with Manda, whom he must know was the one who ramblingly revealed their identities as the subjects of the aforementioned song to the Mighties’ modest but rabid blogospheric fan base. This was a development that Sunny herself first reported to Jessica within minutes of this praecoxal post to a fansite called TheMightiest.com in response to the question from an approved commenter screen-named Len’sGirl2010: does ANYONE know who MY SONG is about? i’m DYING to find out and Len won’t tell!

  Couchsurfeminist commented: i went to high school with everyone in MY SONG. i was so fortunate to date LEN (so sweet, smart, sensitive—a male feminist!) and i am not exaggerating when i say that if any man were worth conforming to the oppressive heterosexual monogamous paradigm for, it’s him. we might still be together if it weren’t for my former roommate JESSICA DARLING (not the porn star, but she still exploits her body to get what she wants), who I know for a FACT is the YOU in MY SONG. JESSICA DARLING fucks LEN whenever she gets horny or bored or whenever anyone else (like me or any commenters;^*) shows an interest in him and she feels threatened that he might not worship her the way he has since the third grade because she, sadly, is only as powerful as the men who love her. the HE of MY SONG is a walking phallus named MARCUS FLUTIE who ONCE SANG a song for JESSICA DARLING before senior prom that made her spread for the first time, which was such a MOMENTOUS OCCASION because she was the only virgin left in our entire high school because she thought her TWAT was a precious jewel or a rare flower or whatever crap pushed by the patriarchy to suppress the female orgasm. MARCUS FLUTIE slept with just about every girl on the Eastern Seaboard except ME though he tried to get into my panties when i was a freshman but I turned him down because i will not disempower myself just for a few clit twitches. MARCUS FLUTIE actually proposed to JESSICA DARLING and she said no (which is shocking because what better proof of female value is there than BEING A BRIDE, RIGHT?!). anyway i guess she got all panicky that no one else would ever love her (her identity being all caught up in the male gaze) because not too long after that she briefly rebounded with Len, who was so traumatized by this last attack from her VAGINA DENTATA({X})—that our sweet, sensitive, sexy Len had to exorcise the demons by writing MY SONG. if you don’t believe me, i’ve got photographic proof on my blog: http://bloggist.com/couchsurfeminist

  A feminist is any woman who tells the truth about her life.

  —Virginia Woolf

  Jessica could tell Sunny that the worst part about Couchsurfemi-nist/Manda’s loopily vitriolic rebuke was not how it bordered on slander but how it was totally justified and almost entirely true in essence, if not in actuality. For example, Couchsurfeminist/Manda neglected to mention that her time in the heterosexual monogamous paradigm ended immediately after Len innocently walked in and interrupted a Sapphic entanglement in Manda’s dorm room. This shocking betrayal and convenient omission had as much to do with their breakup—if not more—than any lingering feelings Len had for Jessica. Jessica had been tempted, for the briefest of moments, to assign herself a screen name and defend herself against Couchsurfeminist’s accusations:

  NotThePornStar commented: How dare YOU of all people make such libelous smears about other people’s promiscuity? You who taste-tested half the dicks in Pineville before deciding that vagina was the only meat on your menu.

  What kind of example would that set? This was precisely the kind of debased public grievance-airing that Jessica tried to persuade the Girls to keep offline and private, best left for black-and-white-speckled composition notebooks. (In fact, Jessica begged a certain commenter screen-named SunnyDaze not to launch a counterattack to defend her mentor’s honor, then overpraised said teen for being so worldly and mature beyond her years when she grudgingly agreed.) What’s more, was Couchsurfeminist/Manda so far off the mark in her scathing summarization? Hadn’t Jessica callously disregarded Len’s feelings for her—and, to a lesser degree, Manda’s feelings for Len—over the years?

  As much as Jessica hated to admit it, Couchsurfeminist/Manda was right in that regard, and it didn’t even matter if she portrayed herself as an innocent victim. After reading that post, Jessica understood that Manda truly believed Len could have been the Great Love of Her Life, just as she truly believed Jessica was the sole reason why it hadn’t turned out that way. After all, as Jessica told Sunny and all the Girls in the program: “The tales we tell ourselves about ourselves make us who we are … and who we might be.” If it made Manda feel better to buy in to her self-delusion, then Jessica could certainly accept the blame as penance for the very real pain she had caused. Jessica had wounded Manda; therefore, she couldn’t blame Manda for pushing her revisionist history on an audience all too eager to believe it.

  Jessica felt far worse about how she had mistreated Len, who really was as sweet, smart, and sensitive as Couchsurfeminist boasted. Len, who, to his never-ending credit, disavowed these online rumors. (“The song is fiction but is inspired by universal truths about breakups and broken hearts.”) Len, who had never done anything wrong except for the fatal, natal error of not being born into this world as Marcus Flutie. Len, whom Jessica had conned into believing would finally have the grown-up relationship he had always wished for and always deserved. Len, who, when so callously informed otherwise (“It was just a one-night thing, Len”), coped with his pain and jealousy the only way he knew how. There’s no doubt in Jessica’s mind that Len is even more surprised than she is that his therapeutic outpouring has gone so very public.

  Just twenty-four hours ago, Jessica couldn’t think of anything to say to Sunny. But now she’s convinced she could station herself by the hospital bed for hours, telling stories. If Len’s song was the most prominent omission from their conversation, she could tell Sunny about how the opposite was also true, that Marcus had conspicuously asked or spoken about major and minor characters from their past—Bridget and Percy, Scotty and Sara, Paul Parlipiano and Mac, Bethany and Marin, her parents, her emp
loyer/founder of Do Better, her landlady in Brooklyn, even her AP English teacher, Ms. Haviland, for Christ’s sake—before bringing himself to ask about the person he’d known longest (longer than Jessica, even) and best (though not better than Jessica): Hope. And even more revealing than his reluctance to ask about Hope was Jessica’s shameful first response (“She dropped out of school!”), which was by far the most negative and least significant part of her best friend’s life. Not only did Jessica still feel irrationally threatened by Hope’s status as the Nice One, but Marcus had sensed as much, a truth that seemed so unfair to Jessica, as if this one stubborn flaw in her character proved she hadn’t evolved at all in the three years since she and Marcus had parted ways.

  Yes, Jessica could squeeze a valuable life lesson out of this unflattering confession (I tried to make Hope look bad to make myself look better. This strategy never works, Sunny. Never.), one that could teach her teenage mentee about the complicated dynamics of friendship between two women of any age, one Sunny could draw upon should she ever be in the position to forgive her own best friend (a girl named Leah, who, like Hope, is the shyer, more unassuming, and nicer of the two) the next time she does something (like being nice for no good reason) that tests their bond. Jessica would also have to point out—darkly, sardonically—how such tedious pedantry isn’t necessary for the likes of Hope or Leah because such forgiveness comes naturally to them. Signing on as the primary beneficiary of their best friends’ compassion is the great advantage to being the Not So Nice One, but also the greatest burden. That so much niceness ultimately contributes to feelings of guilt and inadequacy is something Jessica knows only too well.

  Many friends and family members have tried to perform what Jessica called “interwenchions” to save her from a lifetime of bitching and bitterness. Even Marcus, who always told her that he loved her for who she was, often tried to make her see how oppressive her bad attitude could be. Though it was never said, Jessica had always assumed Marcus wished she could be just a little bit more like her optimistic, open-minded best friend. Why can’t you be yourself but just a little bit nicer? It was this unspoken question that at the time, but even more so afterward, Jessica found so insulting, as if she didn’t understand the depressing downside of going through life with such a personality defect. That she had been born with a bleak streak was inarguable. As for what to do about it, that was a question Jessica has struggled with for too many years, still struggles with, but less often since she started working for Do Better. Jessica was always uncomfortable with the idea of being a role model, and she still cringes at the term because anyone who allows herself to be placed atop such a pedestal is begging to get knocked off it. When Jessica voiced such objections, Sunny pointed out what should have been self-evident:

  “You’re a role model because you’re not perfect. You were a mess when you were my age, but you turned out okay. You give me hope! Just don’t tell anyone or they might mistake my optimism for one of those rare brain disorders you’ve told me about.”

  Imperfections weren’t enough to endear Jessica to the Girls—after all, there are plenty of repugnant fuckups out there. It’s her gift for storytelling, Jessica’s uncanny ability to enlighten and entertain with tales of past mistakes, that made her a hero among the tart-tongued eye-rollers like Sunny. Jessica wishes she could talk to her right now, taking full advantage of another opportunity to serve by flawed example.

  Jessica hadn’t noticed it yesterday, surely because she was going out of her way not to take in too many specifics of the whole gruesome situation, but she wondered whether Sunny was hooked up to a machine that monitored her brain activity. Wouldn’t such information be useful to Sunny’s doctors? Jessica remembered studying colorful brain scans in her advanced psychology classes at Columbia, where certain zones lit up in response to different stimuli. If such a real-time mind map were possible, Jessica could have edited and embellished her tales to increase blood flow in key regions, all to Sunny’s maximum medical benefit. In fact, Jessica can perfectly visualize the explosion of primary brights—Mondrian meets Pollock—in Sunny’s hypothalamus as a response to the following sentence:

  Marcus Flutie is slowly getting naked right in front of me. And I’m not going to stop him.

  five

  Marcus starts with the sweater, seizing it gently at the hem, then raising it up and over his head in one graceful, fluid movement. This sweater has meant nothing to him, really. But now it’s become something more: a symbol. It’s the symbol of what can’t be shared, the start of stories that go unfinished. He takes the sweater by the arms and stretches it out in front of him. In this moment, the sweater and Marcus look like dance partners, about to take a grand ballroom spin. It’s a bold gesture, one he would not be making if he were in this hotel room all by himself.

  He clasps the arms of the sweater together, first halving it in a hug, then folding it once more into quarters. He’s making a big production out of putting away this sweater, a sweater he normally rips over his head and throws into a ball on the floor, forgotten until the next time temperatures dip low enough to need it. Marcus places the now meticulously cared-for sweater on his bed, which is located three footsteps away from hers. There is an unobstructed sight line between Jessica and this sweater. He doesn’t want Jessica to forget about the sweater. He’s waiting for her to ask about the sweater. He’s waiting for her to ask for the rest of the story, and he wants her to suffer through its telling. He’s waiting for her to ask about Greta. To encourage the question, he unclasps the dumb-ass watch and places it right on top of the sweater as an extra visual aid. It doesn’t help.

  His eyes meet her silent, heavy-lidded stare. Mildly unnerved by her implacable expression, he clears his throat and turns away in a false show of modesty. The room is silent save for the muted roar of airplanes taking off and landing not far from their window. His back is to her as he begins with the top button of his tasteful blue-striped dress shirt, origin unknown. The cotton parts as he finger-picks his way down, providing a peek at the letters printed across the T-shirt he’s wearing underneath. The text is revealed in a manner that might be enjoyed by lovers of word games —NT, ENTS, BENTSP, EBENTSPO, HEBENTSPOO—before the dress shirt is peeled wide open to reveal all the letters spelling out the name of a popular Princeton ice-cream shop: THE BENT SPOON. An anticlimactic message, Marcus thinks. If he had known when he got dressed this morning that he would be here in this hotel room with Jessica Darling, Marcus would have chosen a more meaningful T-shirt, such as the red YOU. YES. YOU. shirt he had taken off the first time they’d made love. This was the same T-shirt Marcus was wearing when he sang the song immortalized in Len’s song, a topic that Jessica blatantly dodged even after Marcus dropped hints so clunky and unavoidable that they could not accurately be defined as hints.

  No, no, no. Wearing that T-shirt would have been the wrong way to go: red shirt as red flag. Not that he had even considered wearing it this morning, because it sits in the bottom of a drawer in Princeton, unworn for many months because he dislikes answering questions about it. (“Me? Yes? Me?” was a popular line of flirtation.) Such a gesture would have been too obvious. Too calculated. Too much of the same-old-same-old over-the-top Marcus Flutie bullshit that drove Jessica to distraction when they were together. Wearing the YOU. YES. YOU. T-shirt would’ve validated that he hasn’t changed at all over the last three years, that he’s still compelled to pull stunts to get and keep her attention.

  Oh, shit, he thinks. I’m lasso-dicking again.

  At once he remembers the ticket for tomorrow’s flight to St. Thomas and wonders how Jessica might react to its existence: bittersweet reunion or restraining order? As of right now, he imagines this $895 reconciliatory gesture sinking him into credit card debt wouldn’t go over too well. To hide the anxiety now coursing through him, Marcus goes out of his way to appear more relaxed than ever. This masquerade is much easier to pull off with his back to her, his afflicted face hidden from view. He rolls his head ar
ound on his neck, releases his taut shoulders, then, without a care in the world, shrugs off the dress shirt and hastily tosses it aside. It clings to the edge of the duvet for a moment before slipping to the carpet on the far side of his bed, out of Jessica’s view and therefore in no competition with the sweater.

  Ask me, he silently urges Jessica. Ask me so I can tell you.

  He clutches his T-shirt and jerks it up and over his head. It launches into the air and lands in an ignoble heap in the farthest corner of the room. Now that he is nude to the waist, his own unwashed smell is hitting him, and he knows that it will be only a few more seconds before it reaches Jessica.

  He had underpacked for New Orleans, finding himself with three more days than pairs of boxer briefs. So he’s not wearing any underwear. Only a pair of corduroys separates him from stark nakedness. Jessica has seen him unclothed so many times before, what should it matter now, especially when she has made it abundantly clear that there is no sex to be had? If she’s so intent on chastity, seeing him naked shouldn’t be a trigger for arousal. But does he dare? Or should he excuse himself to the privacy of the bathroom?

  Maybe I should just ask Jessica if she wants to hear the rest of the story, he thinks. Or maybe I should tell it without asking her first. After all, if she doesn’t have to ask permission to say anything, then the same should hold for me.

  A contented moan comes from behind him, followed by a ruffle of pillows. With thumbs poised at the top of his fly, he turns toward the sound, toward her, and discovers that all questions and answers, all truth and dare, will have to wait for the time being.

  Because Jessica Darling is sound asleep.

  six

  Jessica is walking along a white sand beach. Under her arm, she holds a small white-gift-wrapped box all tied up with an enormous, perhaps overcompensatory, white bow. She is wearing a familiar red T-shirt and nothing else. She isn’t in much of a hurry. She’s taking a leisurely stroll near the water’s edge, but not so close that the tide washes away the scattershot trail of footprints that Jessica is definitely, if distractedly, following. She’s so taken with the brilliance of the blue sky and the even bluer sea that she hardly notices when she abruptly happens upon the bridal party that led her here. At the center of this group is the beautiful, beaming Bridget, who is elevated several feet above the crowd by means obscured under the whitest, widest, and most wildly overwrought wedding dress in the history of wedding dresses. Despite the farcical attire, Bridget is unabashedly happy. Woo-hoo! Nous nous marierons demain! Percy has scaled a stepladder to reply to his future wife, also in French. J’épouse un phénomène. Un beau phénomène. Back on the ground, surrounding the gown on all sides, are the bridesmaids and the matron, all as underdressed as Jessica. Wearing red Crocs and a Pineville High Class of 2002 T-shirt is Sara D’Abruzzi-Glazer, who has just finished bib-tucking layers of lace under the drooling chins of the infant twins screeching on her hips. Something new! Sara cries out before turning her attention to the nose-picking three-year-old at her ankle. Destiny! Use the hem as a hankie; blow the boogie-yuckies out of your nose! Jessica winces as the toddler more than happily complies with a liquidy honk. Jessica continues to orbit the gown and meets up with Hope, who is wearing a thin paint-splattered tank top. Hope is using a large swath of satin as a canvas for her latest masterpiece. Something blue! Hope cries out enthusiastically as she hurls another cerulean brush-blob of paint onto Bridget’s gown. You don’t think it’s too derivative, do you? Hope asks no one in particular. Too Mondrian meets Pollock? As Jessica progresses around the dress, she catches a fleeting glimpse of Manda backward-burrowing beneath the voluminous train. Curious to see what Manda is doing under there, Jessica uses two hands to lift up the weighty bugle-beaded fabric. She ducks her head under multiple crinolines and comes face-to-face not with Manda but with Len Levy, wearing the Mighties official fan club T-shirt. The acoustics are. Um. Excellent, he says. He strums his guitar and begins to sing. Something old … Something cold … Someone I used to hold … Jessica involuntarily sways to the music. She refused his band of gold … Jessica knows the chorus and can’t help but sing along. But my song will never mean as much … As the one … He once sang … For you, yes, you … She wants to watch the whole performance and congratulate Len on his success, but she’s being lulled away from his voice by an insistent tap on her shoulder. When Jessica turns around, she sees Manda kissing none other than Marcus Flutie in the sloppy, unselfconscious manner of the newly in lust. When the lascivious twosome finally break apart, Manda smiles at Jessica and says smugly, Something borrowed. Manda is wearing a red YOU. YES. YOU. T-shirt that is identical to the one Marcus is wearing, which makes it also identical to the one Jessica is wearing, or rather, was wearing, because when Jessica looks down at her body, she discovers that she isn’t wearing it or anything else.