district. Or maybe hes a confused foreign-exchange student who needs a native Jerseyan like myself to give him a glorious guided tour of the Garden State.
Mere milliseconds later, I didnt give one goddiggitydamn about reaching Nirvana anymore. Because next to this Honors Hottie, I saw
The person I had hoped to see in homeroom, but didnt, because our messed-up schedule had replaced some of the Ds-through-Fs with kids from all over the alphabet, reassigning some of the Ds-through-Fs (and one F in particular) to homerooms unknown.
I saw
The Boy Who Shall
Oh
Screw it.
SCREW IT. I GIVE UP.
My mind games arent working. Removing his name from my vocabulary has not removed him from my memory. This cognitive behavior therapy crap I read about in my Psych book is officially over. Done. And to prove it, I will say and write his name.
Marcus Flutie.
Thats when I saw Marcus Flutie.
There, I wrote it. I said it.
MARCUS FLUTIE! MARCUS FLUTIE! MARCUS FLUTIE!
Christ, that feels good. But not as good as if felt to lay eyes on him. I gasped when I saw him, sucking enough air into my lungs to suffocate everyone else in the stadium.
Oh, Jess, Bridget said. No.
Oh, Jess. Yes.
No, she said, quietly but firmly.
Yes.
Not Marcus Flutie again, Bridget said.
Yes. Marcus Flutie. Again. Andagainandagainandagainandagain-andagain.
His shirt-and-tie uniform had been replaced by a plain white short-sleeved T-shirt, with something too distant, too blurry for me to read printed across his chest. The summer sun had brightened his russet hair to a new-penny shade of copper, and hed grown out his buzz cut, so tufts rise off his scalp like a rooster. OOOH. Cock-a-doodle
Dont.
Cock-a-doodle-dont.
What is it about him that makes you, like, totally lose your shit?
I wish I knew. Its more than the late-night conversations we used to have about everything and nothing, the only thing besides running that helped calm me down and get a decent nights sleep. Its more than the way he seems to make things so complicated, yet helps me see things so clearly, like through new eyes. Its more than the fact that he is the only guy I have ever almost had sex with.
Its probably because I know there is no way we will ever be together.
Im supposed to remind you that you, like, hate him.
I like/hate him. I love/hate him. I love him. I hate him.
I hate him.
Bridget sighed. Yes.
Bridget is the only one at school who knows that I came thisclose to letting Marcus Flutie devirginize me last New Years Eve. Shes the only one here who knows that I didnt because he had the nerve to come clean about how his desire to sleep with me started out as a game, just to see if the infamous male slut of Pineville could bed the class Brainiac, then evolved into a genuine longing. Shes the only one who knows how I tortured myself every day afterward, wondering how I could have even considered sleeping with Marcus when he had been drug buddies with Hopes brother, and seemingly unapologetic about Heaths overdose. Shes the only one here who knows about the destroyed journal from the sick, obsessive second half of my junior year, the one that covered these Marcus-related issues (and many, many more) in psychotic detail. Shes the only one here who knows how, despite my guilt, and how tired I am of being toyed with,I cant stop thinking about him .
Ive made her promise not to tell anyone about any of these truths, and I know shell make good on it. What Bridget lacks in depth she more than makes up for in honesty. Bridget does not lie. That quality alone makes Bridget my closest PHS ally, which really isnt saying much because my options are quite limited.
How about this? Bridget said all of a sudden, with renewed vigor. Say everyone in the world had to be put in, like, one of two bins, a fat bin or a thin bin. Which bin would Sara be in?
This is going to
Mere milliseconds later, I didnt give one goddiggitydamn about reaching Nirvana anymore. Because next to this Honors Hottie, I saw
The person I had hoped to see in homeroom, but didnt, because our messed-up schedule had replaced some of the Ds-through-Fs with kids from all over the alphabet, reassigning some of the Ds-through-Fs (and one F in particular) to homerooms unknown.
I saw
The Boy Who Shall
Oh
Screw it.
SCREW IT. I GIVE UP.
My mind games arent working. Removing his name from my vocabulary has not removed him from my memory. This cognitive behavior therapy crap I read about in my Psych book is officially over. Done. And to prove it, I will say and write his name.
Marcus Flutie.
Thats when I saw Marcus Flutie.
There, I wrote it. I said it.
MARCUS FLUTIE! MARCUS FLUTIE! MARCUS FLUTIE!
Christ, that feels good. But not as good as if felt to lay eyes on him. I gasped when I saw him, sucking enough air into my lungs to suffocate everyone else in the stadium.
Oh, Jess, Bridget said. No.
Oh, Jess. Yes.
No, she said, quietly but firmly.
Yes.
Not Marcus Flutie again, Bridget said.
Yes. Marcus Flutie. Again. Andagainandagainandagainandagain-andagain.
His shirt-and-tie uniform had been replaced by a plain white short-sleeved T-shirt, with something too distant, too blurry for me to read printed across his chest. The summer sun had brightened his russet hair to a new-penny shade of copper, and hed grown out his buzz cut, so tufts rise off his scalp like a rooster. OOOH. Cock-a-doodle
Dont.
Cock-a-doodle-dont.
What is it about him that makes you, like, totally lose your shit?
I wish I knew. Its more than the late-night conversations we used to have about everything and nothing, the only thing besides running that helped calm me down and get a decent nights sleep. Its more than the way he seems to make things so complicated, yet helps me see things so clearly, like through new eyes. Its more than the fact that he is the only guy I have ever almost had sex with.
Its probably because I know there is no way we will ever be together.
Im supposed to remind you that you, like, hate him.
I like/hate him. I love/hate him. I love him. I hate him.
I hate him.
Bridget sighed. Yes.
Bridget is the only one at school who knows that I came thisclose to letting Marcus Flutie devirginize me last New Years Eve. Shes the only one here who knows that I didnt because he had the nerve to come clean about how his desire to sleep with me started out as a game, just to see if the infamous male slut of Pineville could bed the class Brainiac, then evolved into a genuine longing. Shes the only one who knows how I tortured myself every day afterward, wondering how I could have even considered sleeping with Marcus when he had been drug buddies with Hopes brother, and seemingly unapologetic about Heaths overdose. Shes the only one here who knows about the destroyed journal from the sick, obsessive second half of my junior year, the one that covered these Marcus-related issues (and many, many more) in psychotic detail. Shes the only one here who knows how, despite my guilt, and how tired I am of being toyed with,I cant stop thinking about him .
Ive made her promise not to tell anyone about any of these truths, and I know shell make good on it. What Bridget lacks in depth she more than makes up for in honesty. Bridget does not lie. That quality alone makes Bridget my closest PHS ally, which really isnt saying much because my options are quite limited.
How about this? Bridget said all of a sudden, with renewed vigor. Say everyone in the world had to be put in, like, one of two bins, a fat bin or a thin bin. Which bin would Sara be in?
This is going to
Similar Books
