Second Helpings

by Megan Mccafferty

  I declined with as much grace and dignity as I could muster.

  “Looks like you’re back in, Irene,” Moe said.

  Irene lifted her finger and twirled it in the air in the universal signal that means “Whoop-dee-do.” I think I would like Irene if I got to know her.

  “Gladdie, Moe, Irene, it’s been a pleasure. I’ll see you again soon.” Then I turned to Marcus. “May I have a word with you please?”

  “Sure,” he replied, without making a move.

  You know, I’d forgotten that Marcus can be a huge pain in the ass when he wants to be, which is all of the time.

  “Oh, you mean in private?”

  “Yes, I mean in private.”

  “Ohhhhh . . .” he said, as if all the world’s mysteries had just been answered. He gave everyone at the table a knowing glance. “It must be about Len, then.”

  Gladdie, Moe, and everyone else oohed and ahhed. Obviously, someone had already informed them about Len.

  “It’s not about Len,” I said. “It’s about you.”

  An even louder chorus of oohs and ahhs.

  “You know what? Forget it.”

  As I walked out of the rec room, I recalled how I once thought Silver Meadows was like college. I was wrong. It’s more like preschool. I’m now thoroughly convinced that maturity starts to reverse itself as you close in on a century of life.

  the sixth

  I had no choice. Really.

  I wanted to talk to Gladdie alone. I had to talk to her in person because she refuses to pick up the phone—the only proof of a genetic connection between us.

  I needed to know whether Marcus would be working today. If the answer was yes, I’d postpone my visit. Normally, I would ask Len. “Hey, Len. Do you know if Marcus is working at the fogues’ home today?” Simple as that. Only it wasn’t so simple anymore. Inquiring about Marcus’s whereabouts would be rather insensitive, you know, if what Marcus said about Len liking me is true.

  This is what happened when I called Silver Meadows to find out if Marcus Flutie was working today:

  “WHAT?!” a Geritolic gentleman’s voice yelled into the phone. “YOU WANT TO KNOW IF THE MARKET PHOOEY IS WORKING TODAY?”

  “No. I want to know if Marcus Flutie is working today.”

  “MARKET PHOOEY? WHAT IN THE HECK IS THAT? SOME KIND OF NEW-FANGLED SLANG?”

  “No. It’s the name of a guy who works—”

  The voice consulted someone in the background. “HEY, DORIS! DO YOU KNOW WHAT IN THE HECK THE ‘MARKET PHOOEY’ IS? I GOT A GAL ON THE PHONE ASKING IF THE MARKET PHOOEY IS WORKING TODAY.”

  I hung up the phone. They really shouldn’t let the residents answer the front desk phone when Linda is taking a cigarette break.

  So, as I said, I had no choice.

  “Hey, Jessica,” Marcus said, after the second ring.

  This totally threw me off. I hadn’t anticipated the possibility that the phone would betray my identity, which is moronic on my part, since it’s not like Caller ID is some super high-tech innovation in telecommunications. I had hoped he would pick up and say “Hello” like a normal person. And I would’ve said, “Yes. Hello. Is the Game Master there?” which would’ve shown him that I wasn’t intimidated one bit.

  “Jessica?”

  “Uh. Hey. Hi. Uh . . .”

  Damn that Caller ID!

  “I assume you’re calling to have our overdue conversation about Len,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that how it works?”

  “How what works?”

  “How it works. Dating.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “The girl goes through the best friend to get the guy?”

  Stumped. I knew I was the girl in the scenario.

  Stymied. But who was the best friend?

  Stupid. And who was I trying to get to?

  “I let you in on the open secret about Len’s affection for you. I did that because he isn’t too confident with the ladies and would never get around to telling you himself. That’s why I stepped in. He needs my wisdom. He needs my help.”

  Flashback: A conversation with Marcus last fall, back when our midnight phone calls used to soothe my insomnia. Subject: What Marcus did to pass the time now that he didn’t drink or drug anymore. Answer: “I use my wisdom to help Len get laid.”

  He’s using his wisdom to help Len get laid.

  “Are you using your wisdom to help Len get laid?!”

  He chuckled. “Hey, whatever happens between you two is your business, not mine. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about dealing with you, Jessica Darling, it’s that I shouldn’t get too involved in your personal, private business.”

  This was unbelievable. He’s crazier than Mariah Carey on the Glitter press junket.

  “Don’t you think it’s sort of a conflict of interest?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Less than a year ago, you wanted to get into my pants!”

  “That’s not fair, Jessica,” he said. “First of all, it was ten months ago, which is Paleolithic by high-school relationship standards. Second, your pants weren’t the only thing I was trying to get into. And third, when you said ‘Fuck you,’ I took it as a subtle hint that you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. So even if I wanted to get into your pants at one point in time, I had to stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Wanting.”

  “Oh.”

  “So there’s no conflict of interest.”

  Then he proceeded to tell me that he and Len have gotten tight over the past year, especially when he joined the band this summer. After many rehearsals, Len finally confessed to Marcus that he admired my intelligence and my bravery for standing up for myself in my editorials (R.I.P.). He also happened to think that I was “quite attractive.” So Marcus revealed that we had been sort of friends last year, and knew quite a bit about me. Then Len begged Marcus to help him woo me or whatever and Marcus agreed. Now here we were.

  “But I didn’t give him details about all the things we talked about,” he said. “I gave him generalities. Let him find out the juicy stuff for himself.”

  “Marcus, why are you doing this?”

  “Because that’s the way dating works. Len’s my friend. You’re my . . . well, we were friends, and now we’re friends on the mend. If I can help you and Len get together, why shouldn’t I?”

  Why shouldn’t he, indeed? There was no reason why this shouldn’t be true, other than the fact that it came from his lips. I couldn’t quite buy it. This whole conversation was just too logical to be right. His answers came too quickly, too correctly. It made the whole thing suspect. I just knew that Marcus wasn’t telling me everything, but I wasn’t about to beg him for details.

  “I guess so.”

  Then, right as the conversation was drawing to a close—BAM!— instantaneous mental clickage. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. This insight didn’t give me all the answers, but helped me muster just enough moxie to have the final word.

  “Again, I must compliment you on your costume.”

  “You liked it.”

  “You saw the DVD at my house, so you knew that I would,” I replied. “But there’s just one thing that doesn’t make sense.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Well, if you’re really looking out for Len’s best sexual interests, I can’t help but wonder why you didn’t tell him to dress like Leon to impress me. Think about that for a while.”

  And I hung up.

  Marcus doesn’t really want me with Len! He only wants me to think he wants me with Len!

  Why???!!! I have no idea! But it doesn’t matter right now! Victory is mine! I’m too excited! I must stop this abuse of exclamation points!

  Calm down.

  I won the phone call outright. By the way, it felt better than every first place in a race combined and multiplied a bizillion times over. It was only after I put the phone down that I reme
mbered that I never found out whether he would be at Silver Meadows today. I decided not to risk my champion status with a rematch and stayed home. Gladdie wouldn’t miss me. She’s got Moe to keep her company.

  the tenth

  Marcus has backed off ever since I blew a hole in his “I’m helping Len” alibi. Silently and simultaneously, we decided to take a nonantagonistic yet not-quite-tight approach to dealing with each other. We talk, but not really.

  “Hey, Jessica,” he says.

  “Hey, Marcus,” I say.

  “How’s Len?” he asks.

  “Len’s fine,” I reply.

  “That’s good,” he says.

  “I guess,” I say.

  And so it goes.

  At the same time, Len has stepped up. This is not a coincidence. He’s been going out of his way to talk to me more. In class. In between classes. At lunch. He’s called me twice. I did my part by not being phone phobic and picking it up when I saw his name. The second time, he asked me out on a sort of date. Not a real date. A sort of date.

  “Um. I know you can’t run anymore. But would you like to go hiking? Um. With me?”

  It was all very sweet, so I said sure. My defenses must definitely be down.

  So today—much to my mother’s delight—Len and I went for a long walk around the windy, sandy trails of Double Trouble Park. It’s really the perfect time of year to do something like this, because the leaves are as vibrant and varied as the sixty-four box of Crayolas. There’s that crisp hint of chill in the air that reminds you that winter is coming and you’d better get outside while you still can without freezing your ass off. Perfect cross-country weather. While I don’t miss the team one bit, I have missed being outside and moving my body and feeling alive.

  Len and I walked for two hours. And we talked. A lot.

  The actual content of our conversations isn’t necessary to rehash here, as they can always be traced back to the headlines in The New York Times. (If you’re interested, just check the NYT archives for November 7 through November 10, 2001.) Len’s end of the conversation always takes one of two forms: (1) long-winded and rambly or (2) start-and-stop stuttery. He’s very dependable in that way.

  My reaction varies.

  Sometimes I can get past the shoddy presentation and focus on what he’s saying. When I listen, I appreciate that Len’s observations are intelligent and almost scientific in their factual accuracy. Spontaneous or emotional, they are not. Still, they are a far cry from the gaseous emissions that pass as conversation among his male peers. I come away from the conversation better informed about current events.

  Other times, I purposely tune out so I can just appreciate his cuteness. I try to forget that this cute guy with the cute bangs falling oh-so-cutely into his cute eyes is Len Levy.

  This is harder to do on the phone.

  Most times, I think about how much easier my life would be if I could just fall madly, passionately in love with Len already. The end result—our mad, passionate love—would more than make up for its less-than-romantic roots. Falling madly, passionately in love with Len would compensate perfectly for the fact that I only let him into my life to annoy Marcus, who, I’ll repeat, just for the sake of clarity, doesn’t really want us to be together, but only wants to make it seem like he wants us to be together, for reasons I can only attribute to the brain-fry incurred from his falling into one K-hole too many in middle school.

  About halfway through our hike, we hit the Graffiti Bridge. I have crossed it a bizillion times on training runs, but I’d never stopped there before.

  “Let’s take a break for a second,” I said.

  We braced ourselves on the beam overlooking the water. The wood was weathered gray and carved with almost illegible initials and names. Len and I looked at the water in the kind of comfortable silence that only exists between good friends. It was nice, actually. The mud floor and cedar foam made the creek look like a dark, bitter brew swirling around in a cauldron.

  I turned to him and said, “Do you remember breaking my heart in second grade?”

  “Um. I did? What? Um.”

  “You did.”

  Then I reminded him how I gave him a Valentine and he didn’t give me one in return, the first devastating event of my loser love life.

  He looked at me very seriously. “I’m sorry I did that. Um. I would never do that to you now.”

  It was a very sweet thing for him to say. And if he felt like kissing me, it would have been the perfect moment for him to do it. But he didn’t.

  the fifteenth

  Now that my college applications are out to the original final four, I don’t have much else to do to pass the time in school. There’s only so much energy I can funnel toward making sure that Paul Parlipiano’s silent, sociopath stepsister doesn’t flunk her junior year.

  I was looking forward to a little Marcus-Len intrigue. Marcus may not want us to really be together, but I don’t think it has anything to do with him wanting to be with me. I mean, if Marcus wanted to be with me, I think he would just say something, or do something. Why get Len involved? So I kept waiting for Marcus to do something, anything, when he saw me and Len together. But he did absolutely nothing.

  Life around PHS had flat-lined. Boring, boring, boring. I was dying for something to happen to anyone, if not me.

  Today I was rewarded with more cranial commotions than one person can deal with. Now I can’t think straight. It’s not like I need my brain for anything else right now, so it’s better than being bored.

  It all started, as most scandalous things do, with a bitchy bulletin from Sara in homeroom.

  “Ornigod! So you’ve found a new way to vent now that you’re through with The Seagull’s Voice, huh?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “A quote temporarily ectomorphic scandalmonger whose college acceptance will be purchased at no small price by her Mafioso father unquote?”

  I laughed. “That’s pretty funny,” I said. “Who said it?”

  “You did.”

  “I wish,” I replied. “But I didn’t.”

  “Omigod! Who else would write something like that? Who else would call Manda a quote pseudo-feminist who has fellated her way into the upper echelons of high-school society unquote?”

  I laughed again. “Where did you read this?”

  “The e-mail,” she said, in about as close an approximation of a whisper as she can get, which is still an eardrum banger.

  I check my e-mail once every day, at night, to see what Hope has to tell me. The fact that I have no interest in 24/7 two-way communication is another prime example of how I was born about a decade too late. Regardless, there had been nothing out of the ordinary in my in-box lately.

  “What e-mail? If it’s hot nude pix of Haviland and Rico Suave getting it on, I don’t want to see it.”

  Sara shushed me. “The newsletter,” she said. “ Quote Pinevile Low unquote.”

  “Bruiser, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She scrutinized my face for eight loud exhalations. A total mouth breather, Sara can’t even aspirate without being annoying.

  “Then why weren’t you slammed?” she asked, finally.

  “Why wasn’t I slammed where?”

  “In Pinevile Low,” she hissed.

  “What is Pinevile Low?” I practically screamed, gathering the attention of the rest of homeroom, even Marcus, who rarely looks up from his notebook, which is brimming with lyrics for Chaos Called Creation, something I know via a secondary source. Len.

  “SHUT UP!!!”

  Sara looked like she was about to have thirty-six back-to-back heart attacks. After she regained her composure, she said, “I’m going to drop this until I gather enough evidence to prove it isn’t you. I can’t take any chances.”

  At this point, I was still convinced it was someth
ing lame, or that Sara was messing with me. Yet that didn’t stop me from lingering in my seat long enough after the bell rang to time my exit out the door with Marcus and ask him about it.

  “Did you know what I was talking about?” I asked.

  “Usually, yes,” Marcus replied. “But in this case, no.”

  Then I realized that even in the spirit of making peace with the past, I can’t tell when Marcus is being straight with me. So it was a pointless question, really. I decided to ask a more reliable source.

  “Bridget,” I said loudly, getting her attention in the crowded hallway. “What’s with Pinevile Low?”

  She shushed me even more violently than Sara. “You didn’t get it?” “I don’t think so.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “Listen to me, Jess. Don’t say another word about this until you get home and check your e-mail.”

  “So you got the e-mail, too? Why didn’t you say something this morning?”

  “Because, like, I can’t,” she said. “I was pretty much spared and I don’t want it to get worse. But, like, that’s all I can say until later.”

  “What the hell is going on? Is it a conspiracy?”

  “I’m serious! Not another word,” she replied, teeth gritted into a nervous smile. “Go home, check your e-mail, and then we’ll, like, talk. Maybe.”

  This was getting annoying. My only choice was to turn to the one person who wouldn’t be able to withhold information from me, what with my irresistible feminine wiles and all. It might take him six hours to spit it out, but I’d get it from him.

  “Hey, Len,” I said. “Do the words Pinevile Low mean anything to you?” I had the answer before he even cleared his throat. His blank face told me that he hadn’t gotten it, either.

  “Forget it,” I said, before he got his first word out. I was about to turn on my heels and hurry to class when he called after me.

  “Um. Jess?”

  “What is it, Len?”

  The warning bell rang.

  “Later.”

  “Okay.”

  The rest of the day was very strange. It was like Sara, Manda, Scotty, and everyone else in our class was making an extra effort to act normal. There was a falseness to all the talk about homecoming and the big Thanksgiving football game. It was like the new reality entertainment trend that Bridget has told me about, in which real people play the fictional roles they inspired. It was like everyone was cast as themselves, but weren’t giving very convincing performances.