Not Like I'm Jealous or Anything

by Marissa Walsh

  “Wow, I get about twenty-five hits a day on my Web site,” I told him one day, resigned, trying to make a joke of it.

  “Really, man? I get, like, four hundred,” he said.

  I gulped. I set to work on the Web site. The Driver did not let up. Now I get two thousand hits a day according to that stupid LiveStats software that probably counts people in the Philippines turning on their computers as hits, but I’m sure Marty gets more, no matter how you measure it.

  By the end of the year, Marty had sold his book; I never asked how much he got, but he complained about the advance. A funny thing had happened that summer I spent with my bête noire, though: we’d become friends. We had conversations that were like little books of their own.

  Marty: “So, would you rather be the world’s greatest novelist or a rock star?”

  I paused. “Can’t think of any reason not to pick rock star.”

  “Me too.”

  Another day: “I used to want to kill myself like Kurt Cobain, but that’s so passé. I’d like to die by assassination.”

  “Marty, writers don’t get assassinated.”

  “But thinkers do, Ned. Thinkers do.”

  Marty was rife with issues like I was rife with issues. He had problems with women like I had problems with women. His Driver was even worse than mine, driven as it was by fame. I was never interested in fame: I understood through a nasty scrape after high school that it killed people; it killed families; it made your life not your own. I was interested in success, in production, in adding to the culture instead of just sucking off it—not in being famous. Fame and writing, I felt, couldn’t mix. Even your most famous writer, he’s about as famous as Yo-Yo Ma. But Marty seemed destined to destroy that theory.

  The next year it got worse. Marty got an assignment from SPIN to interview Hunter S. Thompson, and he came to New York City and rode up to Thompson’s hotel and hung out with him and his girlfriend (and Marty had his girlfriend along, too, whom I had dumped the previous fall—a victory for my side) and did his interview. But Marty was no fool; while he had Thompson in the room, he got him to blurb his book.

  Marty Beckerman got a blurb from Hunter S. Thompson. Shit.

  Not much I could do about that one. When it came to places in history, to the race against death, a blurb from Hunter S. Thompson meant a lot. I was shattered. I called my dad.

  “I’m so jealous. I don’t know what to do. I’m a failure.”

  “Who cares what that old pervert Hunter Thompson has to say?” my dad responded.

  I laughed. “Well, lots of people—”

  “Did you ever think about something, Ned? Did you ever think about the fact that you’re the only one who can control what you do?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Why are you wasting time worried about someone else, then?”

  “Is that Ned?” my mother yelled from the background. “Tell him jealousy is a sin! God forbids it.”

  “Seriously, Ned. Where among these feelings of hopelessness do you hide the fact that you wrote a book too and that your agent is about to sell it?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. “It comes in somewhere.”

  “Right. Thinking about other people is a waste of time. Do your thing.”

  I hung up the phone feeling better. Not all the way, but pulled back from the deepest pit, holding on to the wall. A week later my agent did sell my book— for more money than I ever thought I’d see from my writing—and for a few months after that, the money cushion kept the Driver at bay. That’s how the world measures success, with money, and if I was getting it I was doing something right, right?

  But art isn’t judged by money. It’s judged by death. By a lack of money. So I’m back at the beginning again: a scrappy kid with everything to prove, trying to produce and not consume.

  Marty Beckerman is the hero and I am the also. He is the genius and I am the runt. But he’s also a cool guy, and maybe our summer affected him the way it affected me—made him know that this brutal, jealous life of art was the one for him, because the moments of triumph are so pure. Somebody likes your writing, sends you an e-mail: that’s a pure thing.

  Marty runs ahead of me, younger and better, but ahead of him is something better still: the grown version of me, the version I can become if I stick to this game, keep reaching. That’s who I’m really jealous of.

  WHY I’M JEALOUS OF NED VIZZINI

  Marty Beckerman

  Wow! Ned Vizzini has an Enormous _____!

  At least, that’s what I hear from the ladies. Of course, someday our biographers will ponder whether Ned and I ever shared a secret, passionate homosexual tryst—too shameful to admit, too delicious to resist—so I might as well admit it now: Ned Vizzini has an Enormous _____. At least, that’s what I hear from my ex-girlfriend.

  “It’s monstrous,” she once said. “I mean, like, yours is okay—don’t get me wrong—but Ned’s . . . wow . . . ”

  But this is a reminiscence of Ned’s many good, jealousy-inducing qualities, not the endless sensitivity of that sweet little girl whom Lucifer cursed upon my life. So I’ll start with the Question of the Day: Why am I jealous of Ned Vizzini?

  Well, there are the obvious reasons: He’s tall (5’11”) and I’m a fucking Jewish midget (5’5”), so he immediately gains Alpha Male status. He’s also scored with more chicks than I have; hangs out with cooler, more famous people; sells more books; gets invited to more parties; and has his own apartment in a trendy Brooklyn neighborhood. Also, Ned Vizzini has an Enormous _____!

  But the real reason I’m jealous of Ned, besides the fact that he has an Enormous _____ , is that nobody dislikes him. In fact, most people who know the guy consider him a great friend and charming lover, which is not quite the Story of My Life. (Actually, for the story of my life, you should pick up Gender Genocide, a novel from the 1970s about a planet of Feminist Lesbian Aliens who come to Earth and exterminate All Male Pigs.)

  Anyway, I’d estimate that—oh, I don’t know— ninety percent of the people I meet take an immediate dislike to my personality and sense of humor, whereas nobody has any complaints about Ned. This is probably because I’m a total asshole and he’s a nice guy; but why am I a total asshole and why is he a nice guy? Oh Lord Jesus, why did you make Ned Vizzini a better person? Oh Lord Christ, why did you give Ned Vizzini an Enormous _____?

  Indeed, this divergence of social aptitude is apparent whenever Ned and I walk into a party together: I’ll usually sit on a couch by myself, paralyzed by agoraphobia and misanthropy (it’s an interesting mix of Fear and Hatred for People), while Ned proceeds to control the entire crowd—even if he’s never met anyone in attendance—with his gregarious, self-effacing jokes and devilish good looks (and Enormous _____). And every time, I’m the bashful little guy who doesn’t talk to anybody; sometimes a Kindhearted Girl will approach the couch, trying to engage me in conversation.

  “Hey there,” this Girl will say. “What’s up? Are you having a good time?”

  “Go die, you fucking bitch,” I cry into my glass of Southern Comfort. “Lucifer’s little puppets, that’s all you bitches are, every last one of you.”

  What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I live my life like a TV comedy in which I’m both the studio audience and the main performer? Why do I say these things that entertain nobody but me, alienating everyone who might otherwise consider being my friend and/or lover? Is my instant gratification really worth the long-term misery and loneliness I’m causing myself?

  Questions, Questions! Questions that I’ve ignored for Too Long! And who could blame me? Who wants to look in the mirror every morning and see a despicable, worthless shrew of a human being stare back? Who wants to admit to the Wretched, Irredeemable Nature of His or Her Own Existence?

  But Ned! Oh Lord, Ned is different. Ned is the extraordinary kind of person who takes joy in other people’s accomplishments. Ned wants others to succeed. Ned wants the World to be a Good Place for everyone, not simply himself. And thi
s makes him beloved by friends, welcomed by strangers, and endlessly attractive to nubile strumpets.

  In La Casa de Ned, everyone is a Winner. In the House of Beckerman, all others are worthless, aimless sycophants upon the festering corpse of Human Existence. And even Human Existence is questionable under moral scrutiny: The World is a Horrible Place, filled with Horrible People doing Horrible Things to one another. No way in hell do I want most other people to succeed; I want most other people to Kill Themselves.

  Incidentally, all the girls I’ve ever loved in my life invariably think I’m pathetic, narcissistic, clingy, insecure, bitchy, codependent, insensitive, and a mistake to have ever loved/dated/met. And they’re probably all correct in these assessments. There is no good reason for my continued existence, but I’m too fucking in love with myself to commit suicide.

  Narcissistic? Shit, it’s not my fault that I’m the greatest writer of my generation, is it? It’s not my fault that I’m capable of literary feats that even Shakespeare would’ve salivated over, don’t you understand? It’s not my fault that I’m the only interesting person left in the World, wouldn’t you agree? It’s not my fault that when the Universe finally contracts upon itself and all life is reduced to Nothingness, the only two names that shall live on for All Eternity are that of Almighty God—the Creator Himself—and Martin Beckerman. It’s not my fault, you simpletons! Why can’t any of you process that information?

  Oh . . . Ned . . . right . . . this is all supposed to be about Ned . . . Ha! Ha! All about Ned, it’s always all about Ned. Well, Ned, that’s coming to an End, Ned. Because the letters of Ned rearranged spell End, just like it’s the End for Ned. That’s right, Ned. Just because people like you doesn’t mean that you’re better, does it, Ned? Just like you’re always better at everything. Aren’t you, Ned? Aren’t you better at everything? Fuck! Fuck! Shit! Fuck! _____! Shit! Fucking Piss! Balls!

  And that’s why I’m proud to say that Ned Vizzini is the best friend I’ve made since high school—my best friend with the Enormous _____. And I know, because I’ve been sucking it for a thousand words.

  SHE’S MINE

  Jaclyn Moriarty

  I just want a boy to hook his pinkies in my ears.

  I’m not sure why.

  “My Eustachian tube is not a guitar string,” I pointed out to Kara. “Leave it alone.”

  “Not until you leave my cochlea alone,” Kara shot back, very cold.

  She didn’t even have to check the ear diagram. She just remembered the word.

  We both looked up and found the cochlea, just above the Eustachian tube.

  It was shaped like a snail.

  “DON’T YOU EAT MY COCHLEA!” Kara yelled, before I got the chance, and then we nearly fell off our chairs.

  “Okay now,” said Mr. Bayley, but he said it in a happy way. I think maybe he was proud that his ear diagram had made us laugh.

  What I really wanted, though, was a boy to hook his pinkies in my ears.

  I thought about that on the way to assembly, which is after biology on Tuesdays.

  I didn’t care when it happened. It could be at assembly, right now.

  Only I had to be leaning back, lost in thought, and the boy had to approach from behind, stealthily, and place his little fingers in the upper part of my ears. (I mean the part that curls inward like the edge of a Frisbee.)

  And he had to tug on my ears as if to suggest, humorously, that he could lift me up and into the air, with nothing but his pinkies in my ears.

  Another thing: the boy had to be Nero Belmonte.

  At assembly, the chief librarian told the school about some amazing innovations in her borrowing procedures. A group of thin students played their flutes for us. The principal followed up with some amusing small talk, which I did not quite catch, as Kara was crunching on corn chips.

  I didn’t want any corn chips because I wasn’t hungry.

  I was angry.

  Here’s why: Nero Belmonte was way across the auditorium, leaning against the window ledge, making no effort whatsoever to put his fingers in my ears.

  And I didn’t think he ever would.

  Unlikely things do happen, see, but not if you imagine them first. If you imagine them, you make them so unlikely they evaporate. And it was clear to me that this was Mr. Bayley’s fault: if he hadn’t taught us The Ear that day, I wouldn’t have gotten the idea about Nero’s little fingers, and if I hadn’t gotten the idea, well, maybe it would have happened on its own.

  I fixed my gaze on Mr. Bayley. He was sitting up on the stage with the other teachers, his cleats stretched before him and his soccer ball resting on his lap. He’s the soccer coach at lunch times. He noticed me staring and waved, then shrugged to show that he, like me, found school assemblies boring and stupid. I gave him a mean sneer. That startled him.

  Then I felt guilty, so I started pulling strange faces, as if the sneer was just a part of my repertoire, and he seemed relieved and laughed. He even tried a half-hearted clown face of his own, and tossed the soccer ball into the air.

  At that exact moment, the principal finished his small talk, held the microphone close to his teeth, and announced: “Impromptu Time!”

  So everyone stopped breathing.

  It’s your first instinct when Mr. Kershaw announces Impromptu Time: stop breathing. Then you remember how difficult it is to hold your breath long enough to die.

  So you start breathing again, and you try one of the following techniques: (1) lower your gaze so as to stare at: your fingernails, your knees, or the knees of the person next to you; (2) lean over and untie your shoelaces, or the shoelaces of the person next to you; (3) drop to the floor and crawl underneath your chair. You can also stare Kershaw right in the eye, if you’re brave enough to try a double bluff. Or you can get up and run out of the room, if you’re stupid enough to believe no one is going to stick their sneaker out and trip you.

  If you have a friend like Kara, you use this technique: lean toward one another and make a curtain of your hair.

  So Kara and I were trying to unbraid Kara’s hair at high speed (her fingers were cheesy from corn chips), and giggling in a quiet, snorting way because we couldn’t believe Kara had braided her hair on a Tuesday. Mr. Kershaw was pacing the aisles.

  He was tossing his microphone from hand to hand like someone on American Idol. He passed us by with a “hmm,” wandered into the younger grades, and stopped a few rows back.

  He had someone.

  We both straightened up and breathed out, and Kara started rebraiding her hair.

  Behind us, Mr. Kershaw said, “You’re the lucky lady, and what’s your name?” and I got the strangest sensation. There was a gasping sound in the microphone, and then I knew for sure.

  He had my sister.

  Now, I should stop here and say that my sister does not have a single memory of our mother.

  I myself have exactly one.

  My memory is this: our mother is sitting on a pale mauve couch, and she’s leaning forward with her arms folded, and she’s saying: “That’s quite a cast!”

  That’s it.

  That’s where the memory ends. We never had a pale mauve couch, and I don’t know what she was talking about when she said: “That’s quite a cast!”

  But that’s all I have, unless you count my fifteen envelopes. My sister has seventeen envelopes, but that’s because she’s younger.

  My sister’s name is Tym, pronounced Tim, and my name is Jay, pronounced Jay, and that’s even though we’re both girls.

  In the auditorium, everyone was looking over their shoulders and over other people’s shoulders, trying to see who was gasping.

  Mr. Kershaw put the microphone back to his mouth and repeated the question: “You’re the lucky lady, and what’s your name?”

  This time there was not even a gasp. There was just quiet breathing.

  Beside me, Kara bit her lip and raised her eyebrows. I was sending a message to my sister: It’s Tym, Tym, all you’ve got to do is say
your name.

  Mr. Kershaw thought he’d be funny. “Hello? Earth to Tym? Is this thing working?” He tapped the microphone against his forehead.

  One or two stupid people laughed, and I sent another message, this time to Kershaw: You already know her name. Maybe hit your head a little harder with that thing.

  “Okay, let’s try this then. Can you stand up for me, Tym? It’s Tym Montagne, isn’t it? Can I ask you to do that?”

  So there was Tym standing in her place, and everyone was staring, and Kershaw was joking: “Turns out your legs work even if your mouth doesn’t seem to!”

  The envelopes our mother left us are labeled with instructions, like this: To be opened on Jay’s eighth birthday. Or: Only open when you turn twelve, Tym. Sometimes they contain helpful advice, such as: Don’t drink coffee just before you get your legs waxed, OK? And then a year later: Don’t get your legs waxed till you’re older.

  Other times the letters are surprising. Here’s a good example. On my tenth birthday, my letter said:

  Dear Jay,

  Happy birthday! Here’s a surprise: When you and your sister were born, I gave you each a secret name. The names you have now are actually just nicknames — your secret names are on your birth certificates! I chose them by closing my eyes, opening a random page of the dictionary, and seeing where my finger landed. (Your father agreed, eventually.)

  The birth certificates are in Dad’s filing cabinet.

  It’s up to you whether you keep your name a secret.

  I hope you like it. I think it’s rather lovely.

  Take care, Jay, and never eat too many Smarties.