Sloppy Firsts

by Megan Mccafferty

  "All we’re saying is that your abs, ass, and legs are like, totally perfect," Bridget said. "You should take it as a compliment."

  I knew where this was headed: a calorie–fat analysis of my lunch followed by a How-can-you-eat-so-much-and-stay-so-skinny? interrogation.

  "That pepperoni pizza has at least five hundred calories.…"

  "And twenty-five grams of fat.…"

  "Not to mention like, two hundred fifty calories’ worth of non-diet soda.…"

  I have pointed out numerous times that while they are doing whatever it is they do after school once cheerleading season is over, I am at track practice. And there, I spend two and a half hours not sitting on my ass, daydreaming about how perfect it looks in my bun-hugger uniform, but hauling it around the track. But they refuse to see how all the food I pack in makes it possible for me to do that. So instead of repeating that useless argument, I made a false confession.

  "All right. You got me. I’m bulimic."

  Manda was unfazed. "Puh-leeze. You’re no bulimic. Binge-and-purgers are usually on the chunky side," she paused. "Right, Bruiser?" Manda winked. Sara winced—almost imperceptibly—before flipping Manda the bird.

  These are supposed to be my friends. But more often than not, I can’t stand them.

  Well, if I’m not bulimic, why do I have the urge to puke right now?

  That’s what I should have said. But I didn’t. Instead, I just grabbed my backpack and left, without saying a word.

  I stood alone in the bathroom until the bell rang. I pressed my forehead against the cool mirror, fogging it up with bursts of hot breath. I drew a smiley face on the mirror with my finger, then wiped it away. Finally, I looked at my reflection and thought, If Hope had been there, I wouldn’t be here.

  the tenth

  Earlier tonight Scotty came over to snap me out of my pissy mood at the request of the Clueless Crew. An interwenchion, so to speak. It had taken less than two weeks for them to come to the conclusion that I’m (in their words, via Scotty) "milking the whole Hope-is-gone misery for way too long." This was hilarious, considering how much I’ve been holding back. They had no idea how much worse I could be.

  "They think you need to stop acting like a gee dee bee and get over it."

  Scotty is the most self-censoring foulmouth I know. Like every other Jock, he worships Opie and Anthony—the afternoon talk-radio duo and misogynistic masterminds behind "Whip ’Em Out Wednesdays" (female motorists are encouraged to titty-flash any male driver with a Wowsign on his car) and "Guess What’s In My Pants" (a female caller rubs a phone against her most private of areas, and male contestants try to guess whether she’s sporting a "Brillo," a "Triangle," a "Hitler," or a "Wood Floor"). Like O and A, Scotty has gotten into the habit of substituting curses with initials. So "a gee dee bee" means "a goddamn bitch." It’s kind of endearing in a way, when I’m not in a foul mood. And I’ve been in a particularly foul mood lately for the obvious reasons, plus a protracted case of PMS that’s two weeks in the works.

  "What do you think?" I asked.

  He hesitated for a second, rubbing his jaw before answering. His jaw is strong and square, like a comic-book hero’s.

  "I don’t think it’s a bad idea …"

  That pissed me off. So I went off on how Hope is not so easily forgotten because I’d have more fun with her pinkie toe than with anyone else because it alone had more kick-ass qualities than the whole school put together …

  This made no sense.

  But I was too upset to think straight, and even though I knew I was sounding psycho, I resented the idea of having to explain myself. And with Scotty, I always have to explain myself.

  My tears came all of a sudden, catching us both off guard. Scotty stood there watching me for a few moments with a panicked look on his face.

  "Muther effer," he said to himself.

  But then he sat next to me until I calmed down. This was better than screwing up the moment by saying something corny.

  Despite my antisocial tendencies, I don’t want to be the sophomore class pariah. While I’m feeling less than warm and fuzzy about the Clueless Crew, I promise to make an effort. After all, you can only be in a bad mood for so long before you have to face up to the fact that it isn’t a bad mood at all. It’s just your sucky personality.

  I’m grateful to Scotty for helping me come to this conclusion. He means well. I just wish he hadn’t told Hope about his feelings for me before she left. He knew she would tell me. And it was so classic Scotty for him to be so serious about it, all, Now that you’re gone, Jess and I will grow closer and she will finally realize that we’re meant to be together. Ack. So every time he does something nice—like come over to my house for the sake of preserving my social status at Pineville High—I think, You’re only doing this because you like me. That pretty much trashes it.

  I have no idea why Scotty insists on carrying a torch for me. I got to know him much too well in middle school for anything to happen between us now. He was my first and only boyfriend. We went out for exactly eleven days in eighth grade. If I had ignored him back then, I might be able to see the bulging biceps of a stud in bloom. But I just see Scotty. I see the chronic bed head that made his black hair branch off his head like a bunch of twigs. And how he would blow his nose and point out all the colors in the tissue. And the hard-ons (!) that used to poke through his sweatpants whenever he saw me in my track-and-field uniform. Jesus Christ!

  And then there’s the infamous Frenching incident. I can still feel that. We were in the parking lot right before the buses were about to pull away and Scotty totally tried to ram-jam his tongue down my throat during an "innocent" good-bye kiss. Thank God the bus driver slid the door shut on me before Scotty swallowed me whole. Up to that point, we had simply pecked good-bye. But without any warning, he decided to put an end to the hassling the basketball team was giving him to "slip me the tongue." I had no idea he was going to do it until I suddenly felt this wet thing flip-flopping around my mouth like a landlocked fish. So saliva-sloppy. And—goddamnthisisgrosserthangross—the scratch of his smudgy, prepubescent mustache on my upper lip. Ew! It was as prickly as a daddy longlegs. I can’t imagine kissing him again. No way. Never.

  The thing is, I don’t want to go out with Scotty just to guarantee that I’ll have something to do on Saturday nights now that Hope is gone. Of course, everyone—my mom, my sister, the Clueless Crew, to name a few—thinks I’m insane for not jumping at the chance to become the girlfriend of the future captain of the football, basketball, and baseball teams. He’s already made varsity as a sophomore. (Well, baseball season hasn’t begun yet, but the varsity coach is already bodychecking Scotty into lockers whenever they meet in the halls. I’m told this is a good sign.) It’s a given that when he’s a senior he’ll be the PHS role model for strength, spirit, and sportsmanlike conduct. And like his predecessors, Scotty is sure to make empty promises about persuading the administration to get rid of our "embarrassing" mascot: The Seagull. (I’m apparently the only athlete who thinks it’s hilarious that our founding fathers chose a rat with wings as our school symbol.)

  Personally, I find it a bit scary that Scotty is following in the Nike-clad footsteps of Rob Driscoll, his close personal friend and this year’s captain of the überjock triumvirate. Rob’s recent claim to fame is that he celebrated an away-game victory by persuading a freshman cheerleader to hide under his Seagulls varsity jacket and suck him off in the backseat of the bus. Go team, go.

  But the biggest reason why I can’t go out with Scotty is because I’m way too busy being obsessed with a senior who doesn’t know I exist.

  Paul Parlipiano and I have spoken exactly once. (He bumped into me on the buffet line at last year’s indoor track banquet. He said he was sorry. I giggled like an idiot, then dropped my plate of macaroni and cheese on the floor—too long after for the fumble to be the result of the collision.) Yet, I know he is the only one worthy of my virginity. He’s been accepted by early decision to Col
umbia University, so he’s supersmart. And when I see him without a shirt at track practice I’m overwhelmed by the urge to lick the sweat off his six-pack. Yum-yum.

  Lately, I’ve been having a special Sweet Sixteen variation on my standard Paul-Parlipiano-and-I-get-stuck-in-an-enclosed-space-together-and-the-trauma-bonds-us-sexually-and-otherwise daydream. In this one, it’s my birthday and Paul Parlipiano and I have gotten locked inside the gym closet. (As always, how we got trapped is inconsequential.) At first, he’s none too happy to be in there with me of all people. And though I’m secretly thrilled, I pretend to be totally bummed out because it’s my Sweet Sixteen and who would want to spend a Sweet Sixteen trapped in a closet full of athletic equipment?

  Eventually, he talks to me because we’ve been trapped in there for hours, and he’s already juggled the soccer ball long enough and there’s nothing more for him to do. Paul Parlipiano and I end up having what is the most fun, enlightening, intelligent, and all-around awesome conversation of both of our lives. Then, after a brief silence, he says,

  "So is this still the worst birthday you’ve ever had?"

  And I say, "No, not anymore."

  And he says, "I can think of one way to make it even better."

  And then he slowly walks over to me, cups my (totally zit-free) face in his hands and ever so gently kisses me on the lips. We break away for a brief moment, look each other in the eyes, and smile. We start kissing again, but with more passion. Then we tumble onto the gymnastic mat that is conveniently lying on the floor and have the sweetest sexual experience ever to occur within the hallowed halls of Pineville High.

  What’s even more twisted is that I believe if I pray, acknowledging that I know it will never happen, it will somehow up the odds that this dream will come to fruition.

  I am hopeless. (Ha. In more ways than one.)

  But I don’t need demented daydreams to tell me that my obsession with Paul Parlipiano has gotten out of control. Today at track practice, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was jumping over hurdles. He was all smoothness and grace. He made it look easy—a sign of pure genius. OneTwoThreeAIR … OneTwoThreeAIR. I got so distracted by his poetry in motion that I wasn’t ready when my track teammate Carrie P. came at me in a full-on sprint to hand off the baton. She crashed into me and I dropped it. Coach Kiley was pissed. Thank God Kiley thinks he can’t scream at girls, otherwise Paul Parlipiano would have heard his embarrassingStop gawking at the guys! lecture.

  Later, in the locker room, Carrie P. brought me back to reality in the straight-talking way that only she can.

  "Jess, if you keep torturing yourself, I’m gonna kick your fucking ass."

  I think maybe she should. Kick my fucking ass, that is. I am hopelessly in love with a guy I barely know. If this doesn’t qualify me for an ass-kicking, nothing does. As a senior, Carrie P. has seen this kind of lame behavior a bizillion times before. I suspect that she’s figured out how I feel about him even though I’ve never said a word about it to anyone but Hope. In accordance with alphabetical destiny, Paul Parlipiano and Carrie P. have sat by each other in nearly every class since seventh grade, so I can’t ever confirm her suspicions.

  "I have no idea what you’re talking about," I said.

  the eighteenth

  I got in trouble today (technically, yesterday—but until I fall asleep, my day isn’t done). This was a big deal. I can remember every time I’ve been so much as reprimanded by a teacher.

  1. First grade. I’m running back to Miss Moore’s class from my accelerated reading group. I’m in a hurry because it’s Thanksgiving and we’re making mini-turkeys out of apples, toothpicks, marshmallows, and gumdrops. I’m about halfway there when I’m stopped by Mr. Buxton, whose villainous handlebar mustache automatically makes him the meanest teacher in school. He tells me that running isn’t allowed and asks for my name. I can barely say it because the snickering sixth-graders are so grown-up and intimidating. He writes my name down on his calendar and tells me that if he stops me again before he turns the page, I will have to take the late bus home. (The late bus is a pretty hefty threat because it’s for bad kids.)

  I cry all the way back to my classroom, where all the kids are making mini-turkeys and singing songs about Pilgrims and Indians. Miss Moore asks me what’s wrong and I tell her that I don’t like books anymore. For a while after that, I pretend to forget how to read so I won’t have to walk all the way to Mrs. Steinbeck’s third-grade class and miss out on all the fun my first-grade friends have with Miss Moore.

  2. Fifth grade. Someone has written Jess D. Is A Bitch in pencil on the door to the middle stall in the girls’ bathroom. This really upsets me. Bridget—who at this point in time is still my best friend and a very reliable source—tells me that it was written by Lisa Caputo. Lisa has been holding a grudge against me ever since I said that I don’t like sleeping over at her house because her father doesn’t wear any underwear underneath his bathrobe and sits with his legs spread wide apart at breakfast.

  So it’s recess and my friends and I are hanging out by the backstop, playing the fortune-telling game MASH like we always do. I’ve just found out that I’m destined to marry Screech from Saved by the Bell, have six kids, drive an olive-green golf cart, and live in a shack when Bridget suddenly grabs Lisa by the arms and says, Here’s your chance to get back at her! Kick her! I kick her. Lisa screams and then cries, which catches the attention of our teacher, Mrs. Cahill, who tries to get Lisa to tell her who kicked her. She tells her. Then I explain it was because she wrote the "B" word about me in the bathroom. Mrs. Cahill makes us both take the late bus. (The threat finally put into effect.)

  My dad is still reconfiguring a network, or whatever he does with computers when he isn’t riding his bike. My mom is showing a newly minted Wall Street millionaire a wildly overpriced beachfront property that will bring her a sweet commission. I know I’ll get home before either one of them, so I don’t worry about their reaction. They never find out about it.

  3. Eighth grade. Although I was pissed that we got caught, I never felt bad about anything Hope and I wrote in our Brutal Book. Thank God our English teacher only lectured us about using our hyperobservant brainpower for good, not evil. Whoo-boy! Imagine the shit that would’ve gone down if she’d read our character assassinations to the class.

  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 f
ace 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" heroin user, which sparked a McCarthy-esque paranoia that Your Child Could Be Next. See, Heath didn’t come from a "bad family." Mrs. Weaver was a nurse. Mr. Weaver was an elementary-school teacher and a eucharistic minister at Saint Bernadette’s, the Catholic church they attended as a family every Sunday. Both parents were active in the PTA and never missed a back-to-school night or ignored a bad report card. How could such a tragedy happen to such good people? Everyone wanted answers. And the only person who had one was dead.