Sloppy Firsts

by Megan Mccafferty

  I snapped out of my walking coma. "What did you just say?"

  "I said, it was hilarious when Bruiser downed three shots of tequila and danced like a big booty video ho," said Manda.

  "Our girl Bruiser was toe-up," laughed Hy.

  "But Sara wasn’t at the prom," I said.

  There was a pause. They all looked at each other with an expression that I can only describe as oops.

  "She hooked up with us at the Surfside party," Hy said finally.

  "We would’ve invited you," said Sara.

  "But we thought you had a track meet on Sunday," said Manda.

  "I’ve never had a track meet on a Sunday," I said with a meekness so unlike my normal voice that it depressed me.

  "Oh," they all said, in unison.

  This was no oversight. This was an intentional slight. It was official. The Clueless Crew had ousted me in favor of a new member.

  I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of a hasty retreat. So I sat there for the rest of lunch, trying to get back into the zone. No success. I heard every word.

  Since I’m already depressed, I might as well say one more thing about the prom. Then I will never mention it again. Ever.

  Carrie P. showed me her pics. In one five-by-seven: her table. Number 18. Paul Parlipiano and Monica Jennings are one of four other couples. He’s wearing a classic black tux with a silver satin tie and vest. Those pink lips in a broad smile. Flushed cheeks. Dimples. Hair flopping into big brown eyes. Hands resting gently on Monica’s sun-kissed shoulders, leaving fingerprints behind in the body glitter.

  His hands belong there.

  the twentieth

  The Senior Class Last Will and Testament was published in today’s school paper.

  I, Paul Parlipiano, do hereby leave to Chris, a Thanksgiving feast during the drum solo; to Carrie, pimp lessons from Pinky La Rue; to Monster, a dozen Nutcrackers; to Gibbs, The Waif on the left (loser) side; to Ry, a Mr. Tapeworm bootleg; to Fitz I and II, a last-chance powerdrive; to Nancy, Angela’s Ashes dentistry; to Jeannie, a rock-star kit; to Erika, an impromptu disco dance party; to Katy, eleventh-row memories; to Laurie, Victor/Victoria and Some Like It Hot; to T. J., "Studs I Have Known."

  Inside jokes, obviously. But they sound witty and wise and wonderful. Like him.

  But that’s not why I’ve been reading it over and over again. Okay, this is a bit twisted. I keep reading his will because I want so badly to understand what it all means. I’m hoping that if I analyze it enough, it will suddenly make perfect sense. I’ll be able to crack the complex master code that spells out a message just for me—the secret info I need to unlock Paul Parlipiano’s heart.

  Incidentally, Kelsey left Scotty a "tongue twister." I don’t even want to know how to translate that.

  No one left me anything.

  the thirtieth

  I didn’t buy a yearbook, which is a criminal offense at PHS. This is all I’ve been hearing: Sign my yearbook. Don’t you want me to sign your yearbook? Why didn’t you get a yearbook? Everyone gets a yearbook.

  No. Not everyone gets a yearbook. We’re all coming back next year. And the year after that. Do I really need to spend seventy-five dollars to be wished a "kick-ass summer" by people I’m going to spend June through August trying to forget? The unfair thing about this is that I’m expected to exhaust what energy I have trying to come up with nice things to write in everyone’s books, when I don’t get to suck the life out of them in return.

  So I came up with a handy list of all-purpose archetypes that could get me out of awkward signing situations.

  jessica darling’s guide to yearbook clichés

  Opener

  Body

  Closer

  This year went by so fast

  Our times in (fill-in-the-blank) class were the best

  Have a kick-ass summer!

  Whoo-hoo! We’re halfway through.

  I hope you always remember (fill-in-the-blank).

  See ya next year!

  Just mix and match from each column and I had the perfectly sincere-sounding sentiment suitable for just about anyone. And I didn’t feel bad about using them. That is, until Pepe came up to me.

  "Would you sign my yearbook, ma belle?"

  That took guts. I mean, you don’t see me going up to Paul Parlipiano and asking him to sign my hypothetical yearbook, do you? So I wrote:

  Pierre,

  I’ve always admired your ability to conjugate a verb. And I’ll never forget the night I found out the true identity of The Black Elvis. See you in French II.

  A bientôt,

  Jessica

  The grin on his face was a mile wide. It was as if I had written:

  Pierre,

  I’ve always admired your ability to fill out a pair of tightie-whities. And I’ll never forget the night I found out that you know your way around a clitoris. See you in my wettest, wildest dreams.

  Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?

  Jessica

  I wanted to write more, about how I respected that he did his own thing and how I wish I were able to blur boundaries as easily as he did, but I thought that might be too weird. Besides, what I wrote was sufficient. Pepe’s gratitude was the highlight of a hellacious past few weeks. My morose mood is exacerbated by the fact that the four members of Clueless Crew are even chummier than usual. It’s a blitzkrieg bond-a-thon: shopping, trips to the beach, weekend keggers. Jesus Christ, why do I even care?

  And as I walked home today, I caught Scotty and Kelsey kissing each other in her car at a stoplight. I passed right by them in the crosswalk and he didn’t even see me. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had. We don’t talk anymore anyway. According to Sara, via God only knows, Kelsey is threatened by me.

  That’s a laugh riot. I’m weaker than I’ve ever been.

  June 1st

  Hope,

  My parents suck ass. Banning me from the phone and restricting my computer privileges are the most assholic parental gestures I can think of. Don’t they realize that you’re the only person who keeps me sane?

  No. They don’t. That’s the problem.

  I don’t see how things could get any worse. After seeing my attempts at normalcy blow up in my face, I’m less motivated to fit in than ever.

  But I still fake it.

  Everyone is obsessing about all the graduation blowouts. I bitch about having to miss them because they’re the same weekend as Bethany’s wedding. Of course I’m relieved. Not hitting the party circuit because I have something else to do is socially acceptable. However, not hitting the party circuit because I’d rather sit at home and squeeze all the gunk out of the humongous pores in my nose, well, isn’t.

  I don’t think I’m fooling anyone, though.

  Congrats on getting that job at the visual arts camp. Sounds cool. Maybe we’ll get to see each other when it’s over, before school starts up again. But I can’t think that far ahead right now.

  Take care of yourself.

  Morbidly yours, J.

  june

  the second

  My Psych book says that prolonged lack of sleep will drive a person insane. I am living proof. What else could’ve made me risk ruining my reputation? My life?

  From the beginning:

  We had a substitute in French today, which meant that we were going to waste the period watching a subtitled Gérard Depardieu video. No way I was going to miss this opportunity to steal some sleep. So I faked a cramp and got a pass to the nurse’s office.

  Nurse Payne wanted to soothe my ovaries with an electric heating pad, but I insisted that all I needed was to lie down and wait for the PMS pain reliever to kick in. She didn’t argue because a Hick-on-Wigga brawl had just been broken up and she had minor abrasions and lacerations to treat.

  She hurried me to the private recovery room. I had it totally to myself! For forty-five minutes! I fell asleep within two seconds of crashing on the cot.

  The next thing I knew, I felt a soft tickle on my cheek.
Someone was whispering, "Wake up, sleepyhead …"

  Whoever it was flipped the light switch, blinding me with florescence. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw a dark figure in the shape of a person … then a male figure … then a male figure in a Dawson’s Creek T-shirt … then Marcus Flutie.

  Marcus Flutie!

  I went from REM to ready-for-action in a millisecond.

  "What are you doing in here?"

  "Hey, Cuz," he said. "I need to ask you for a favor."

  He needed a favor. Marcus Flutie needed a favor from me. Why did Marcus Flutie need a favor from me?

  "A favor? Why do you need a favor?"

  He bent over and looked like he was going to tie his shoe. Instead, he unrolled the six-inch cuff in his jeans and pulled out a plastic Dannon yogurt container. Vanilla.

  "Is that how you always carry your lunch?" I giggled. Damn. I chewed on my bottom lip. Double damn.

  He took the top off the yogurt. It was empty inside. Then Marcus made what is without a doubt the most bizarre request that has ever been made of me.

  "I need you to piss in this."

  "What?!"

  He said it again. "I need you to piss in this."

  I said it again. "What?!"

  He sat down next to me, much closer than was necessary.

  "My parole officer showed up for a surprise urine test," he said. "I know you think that I’m a Dreg, a worthless piece of garbage who deserves to be busted. But besides a few blunts and a few hits of E …"

  "You want me to fake your drug test? Are you insane? I don’t even know you!"

  "I know you better than you think."

  I snorted. "How do you know me?"

  He answered by putting his hand on my knee.

  I freaked out. I was sure that if the nurse came in and saw Marcus and me just sitting next to each other on the cot with his hand on my knee and that grin on his face, that alone would be enough to get us detention, or suspended, or something worse.

  "Wait a sec. Isn’t this a violation of your constitutional rights?"

  "As a minor and a repeat offender, I have no rights," he said, snickering. "Call the ACLU."

  I looked at the yogurt container, then the clock on the wall. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  "Payne will be back here any second. If you don’t do this, I’ll get kicked out of school for good."

  Couldn’t he make this argument without his hand on my knee?

  "You’ll be keeping me off the streets."

  Shouldn’t I shake it off?

  "You’ll be saving my life. I’ll owe you a favor, and I never renege on a promise."

  Wouldn’t they be able to tell that the pee came out of a girl?

  "I can’t," I said, looking away.

  Marcus got up and walked to the door. But before he left, he turned and said the most infuriating thing.

  "I knew you wouldn’t do it."

  I can’t even describe the fiery rage that came over me.

  I was so tired of everyone telling me what I would and should and could do and not do. My parents. The Clueless Crew. Hy. And now Marcus. Anger that had been simmering inside me for months, years, my whole life, boiled over and spilled out all over Marcus.

  "How do you know what I’ll do?"

  The next thing I knew I was grabbing the yogurt container out of his hand and heading to the private bathroom to pee in it. And I did. Then I handed the warm cup back to him. He was standing there, silenced by this unexpected turn of events, not knowing what to do. Finally, he said, "I won’t narc on you."

  Then, without saying another word, he walked out. I hyperventilated on the cot for the next twenty minutes, until the bell rang. When I walked into the main room of the nurse’s office, Marcus was nowhere to be seen.

  I spent the rest of the day in a daze, worrying about whatever was going to happen to him—to me. I wondered how long it took to get results from a urine test. Maybe he peed on a stick and it instantly turned purple for pot, like a home pregnancy kit.

  I waited for the cop cars to pull up in the parking lot, sirens wailing. I waited to see Marcus cuffed and kicking and screaming as they threw him in the back of the squad car to haul him off to Middlebury Clinic, one of the state’s best in-patient detox/treatment centers. I waited for everyone in the school to hear him screaming, "Don’t worry, Cuz! I won’t narc on you." For weeks, everyone would wonder who "Cuz" was.

  But nothing happened.

  I can still feel the heat of his hand on my knee.

  the fifth

  If it weren’t for this dream, I would’ve sworn I was wide awake all weekend.

  I’m in the recovery room of the nurse’s office, sleeping on the cot. Only this time, I’ve left the light on. So when the door opens, I can see right away that it’s Paul Parlipiano.

  He sits down next to me and says, "I need your help."

  I say, "My help? Why do you need my help?"

  Then he pulls a yogurt container out of the cuff of his khakis.

  He says, "I need you to piss in this."

  And I say, "No problem. I’ll do it."

  Then he says, "If you do it, I promise to have sex with you."

  Then I say, "No problem. I’ll do it."

  And he says, "And I never renege on a promise."

  So I say, "No problem. I’ll do it."

  And though I don’t see myself do it, I guess I go for it.

  Then Paul Parlipiano says, "Thanks. Now I’ll have sex with you," and he turns off the lights.

  Then I guess we start having sex, though I don’t actually see us having sex.

  A moment later, I hear a girl’s giggle and the sound of the doorknob turning. The lights flash on.

  It’s Kelsey, laughing and pulling Scotty into the room by his hand. Though they don’t say it, I just know they were going in there to have sex.

  Scotty sees me having sex and yells, "How could you screw Marcus Flutie?"

  I scream, "But it’s Paul!"

  Then I look into Paul Parlipiano’s face, only it isn’t Paul Parlipiano anymore. Scotty’s right. It’s Marcus Flutie.

  Now that’s what I call a mindfuck.

  Needless to say, I was a walking anxiety attack when I got to school. I’d had all weekend to worry about the Marcus thing and I was on the brink of a breakdown. I prayed that Marcus would show up in homeroom, because that meant that everything had worked out and that I wouldn’t get caught. Then I could finally stop feeling so psychotic.

  An armada could’ve set sail on my sigh of relief when Marcus strolled past my desk in homeroom this morning.

  Throughout the Pledge of Allegiance, attendance, and PA announcements, I looked over at him, hoping he’d make eye contact with me. But he just kept his head bent over his notebook until the bell rang. Marcus was playing it smart. He knew any out-of-the-ordinary behavior on either of our parts would arouse suspicion.

  As I was walked into the hall, I felt a gentle shove from behind. I looked back, and for the first time I wasn’t surprised to see Marcus. He apologized with that grin of his, pressing one hand into the small of my back and the other on my waist to "steady" himself. Before I even had a chance to ask what had happened (not that I would have) he passed me by, a gleam in his eye, leaving behind his sweet, woodsy smell.

  "Omigod! He’s so messed up, he can’t even walk in a straight line," snapped Sara.

  You have no idea how much I wanted to tell her to—omigod!—shut the fuck up.

  I’d only taken a few steps when I felt a bulge in my back pocket. Fortunately, Sara saw the Clueless Crew down the hall and ran to catch up with them. In those split seconds of solitude, I reached back and sure enough, there was a piece of notebook paper, folded into an intricate origami square that opened and closed like a flower. Or a mouth.

  Marcus! I was dying to open it.

  But at that moment the Clueless Crew were coming right at me from the other end of the hall. Damn them! I stuffed Marcus’s present back into my jeans. I needed privacy f
or whatever he wanted to tell me.

  The huge irony of ironies is this: For someone who feels so alone, I couldn’t get a moment by myself all damn day. Every time I tried to slip away—to my locker, to the bathroom, to a shower stall before gym—someone would find it absolutely crucial to strike up a conversation with me. That note burned a hole in my back pocket for almost six hours. I was in such anticipatory agony that I didn’t even change back into my school clothes after last-period gym class—I ran straight home and up to my room.

  "Jessie, I want to talk to you," my mom said as I dashed up the stairs.

  "Give me a minute!" I yelled back as I locked the door.

  I opened up my backpack and pulled out my jeans. I stuck my hand into the back pocket and pulled out … lint.

  "Jessie?" my mom called from the kitchen.

  I quickly shook out the other pockets, though I knew I hadn’t stuffed Marcus’s note in any of them. Then I rifled through my backpack, eventually dumping out its entire contents onto the floor.

  "Jessica!" my mom yelled.

  Now I started to panic. My ears got hot and I started to sweat. Where could it be? Whose hands could it have fallen into? I got on my knees and picked through every object on the floor: jeans; striped V-neck tank; bra; Chucks; The Catcher in the Rye; two spiral notebooks; Chem book; Student Council schedule; three Baby Ruth wrappers; calculator; highlighter; stick deodorant; Carmex; brush; an assortment of pens.

  No origami mouth from Marcus.

  "Jessica Lynn Darling, get down here!"

  I went downstairs, clutching my stomach—this time for real. A ball of anxiety was bouncing up and down inside my body, but I lied and said it was my period. Mom was so relieved by this news that she let me go without a struggle when I asked to be excused to my room. Here, I have rifled through the aforementioned objects approximately a bizillion times for the past ten hours.

  How could I have possibly lost the most important thing that has ever been given to me? The only logical explanation is this: There never was an origami mouth from Marcus. I made it all up just to drive myself crazy. In fact, I made this whole thing up. I never peed in the cup. No way. Not me. Why would I do something as totally insane as that?