Sloppy Firsts (27 page)

At midnight, as was our custom, I called again.

No answer again.

This was the first time Marcus had not been there for me and I was really rattled by it. I almost had to tape my hands together to stop myself from calling every five minutes until he picked up. The only reason I didn’t do it is because I don’t know if he has caller ID. I didn’t want him to see my number backlogged a bizillion times. That’s psycho stuff.

I was kind of glad this happened because it helped me to come to my senses: I will not call him anymore. I’m giving this whatever relationship way too much power. Yes, he helps me sleep through the night. Yes, he makes me feel like a better person when I wake up. But if I continue using Marcus as my Tylenol PM, I might get addicted to him. And no twelve-step program has a cure for that.

Besides, it’s not like I’m his girlfriend or anything. Then it would be different. Then I’d have a right to be upset by his absence. But I’m not. So I’ve got to get a grip. Or rather, I’ve got to loosen it. As part of that, I will make a point not to even think of him and Mia at the homecoming dance tomorrow night.

I just can’t believe it, though. It’s harder than I thought.

the twenty-fourth

Black Friday.

How appropriate, I thought, when I woke up after a restless, Marcus-less night. Why did I ever take it upon myself to brighten my mother’s birthday? Where did I get off improving anyone else’s mood?

She was already dressed and ready to go when I went down for breakfast.

"Happy birthday, Mom."

"I thought you were never going to get up!" she said. "I was going to wake you but I know how cranky you get!"

It’s her birthday, I said to myself.Don’t be a bitch .

"It’s already ten-thirty!" she said, pointing to her watch. "We’ve got to get out there if we’re going to find anything! I’m sure the stores have already been ransacked by now!"

It’s her birthday. It’s her birthday. It’s her birthday. Don’t be a bitch. Don’t be a bitch. Don’t be a bitch.

I shoved a fistful of dry Cap’n Crunch in my mouth and headed back upstairs to get dressed. I spent five minutes standing in front of my closet in my underwear, contemplating the outfit that would be least likely to offend. I settled on a pair of tan cords and a beige hoodie. Neutrals. Neutrality. Peace.

I brushed my teeth, washed my face, stuck a barrette in my hair, and spread Carmex on my lips. Seven minutes after I’d gone up, I was back down in the kitchen.

"Let’s go."

My mother popped out of her seat with surprise. "Already?"

"This is as good as it gets, Mom."

"You know," she said, grabbing her camel coat, "that’s the advantage of going out with you instead of Bethany. I don’t have to wait forever foryou to get ready."

Well, I was certainly glad there was any advantage. That’s one more than I’d thought there was.

The mall put up its Christmas decorationsbefore Halloween. So the red and green jingle-bellsy atmosphere might have gotten me in a holiday spirit, but who the hell knows which one.

"Isn’t thisfun ?" my mom said, cutting off the circulation in my arm with her overly enthusiastic grip.

I smiled with all my teeth.

Mom wanted to separate for an hour so we could shop for Christmas presents without ruining the surprise. This was fine by me. I had already taken care of everyone’s presents. I stuck to a magazine theme. I ordered subscriptions for everyone in my family. (MarthaandHouse Beautiful for Mom.PC World andCycling for Dad.Cosmo andPeople for Bethany. Some boring trade mags for G-Money.) And for Hope, I made a fake teen-mag cover. I wanted to make something forher wall for a change. It didn’t require any artistic skill, just a computer. I scanned her picture and wrote cover lines like:

HOPE WEAVER TELLS ALL: "IT’S NOT EASY BEING A TEEN QUEEN"

THE ALL-GIRLS-SCHOOL GUIDE TO GETTING A GUY (WHEN THERE AREN’T ANY AND THE JANITOR IS LOOKING TASTY)

MAD ABOUT PLAID: 101 WAYS TO WORK THAT DRESS CODE

ARE JERSEY GIRLS THE BEST IN THE WORLD? TAKE OUR QUIZ!!!!

It cracksme up.

I didn’t let Mom know I was done with my holiday shopping. It would have broken her already fragile heart. So I spent sixty minutes in the food court, fueling up on Cinnabon and Coke, because when we reunited, it would be time to begin our search for the anti-homecoming dress and I would need to tap into my sugar reserve for energy.

I know that as a red-blooded American teenage girl, I should be thrilled that she considers buying something forme a better present than the tiny bottle of Chanel No. 5 my dad and I’d already given her. Yet it was an excruciating process anyway.

"Oooooooh," my mom cooed, putting down her shopping bags so she could rub a swath of burgundy velvet between her fingers. "You would look lovely in this."

"Mom, you’re missing the point," I said. "This is supposed to be ananti- homecoming dress.Anti meaning something Iwouldn’t wear to homecoming."

"Oh, right," she said, her voice as flat as my chest. "Like what?"

"Like nothing in the ’Midnite Expressions’ juniors section of Macy’s."

I dragged her to Delia’s, which is sometimes too trendoid for me, but where I can usually find something sorta cute for my pathetic, size-nothing bod. After I ruled out about a dozen of my mom’s girlier ideas, she finally pulled out a hanger that I could say yes to: a slate-blue corduroy, zip-front shirtdress. Cute, but not too cute. I tried it on in the dressing room and was actually pretty pleased by my reflection. So much so, that I actually stepped out and let my mom see me in it. Big mistake.

"You really live up to your name in that dress," she said, brimming over with maternal pride. "You look so darling in it."

Darling. I looked darling, which means I didn’t look like me. And that’s when it dawned on me: I was making my mom happy on her birthday by being like Bethany. Suddenly, this whole venture seemed stupid. I didn’t really need to get this thing. I had no reason to look darling for anyone or anything. I unzipped the dress, stuffed it on the hook, opened the door, and told my mom it was time to go.

"You’re not going to get it?" She looked crushed.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don’t need it, Mom," I said.

"Nonsense," she said, grabbing it off the hook. "I’m getting it for you."

"Moooooom," I said, tugging it away from her. "I have nowhere to go in it."

"You’ll have somewhere to go in it, I promise."

If she wanted to max out her credit card for no reason, who was I to stop her?

Finally, four major department stores and 170 specialty shops later, we were done.

"The mall wasn’t crowded at all today," Mom observed, over a salad at TGI Friday’s.

I shoved a fistful of fries in my mouth, so as not to spew venom Linda Blair–style.

"I bet everyone is home getting ready for the homecoming dance," my mom said, spearing a cherry tomato.

Daggers. From my eyes. Through her heart.

"What?" she asked.

"Can you go for two seconds without reminding me about the goddamn homecoming dance?"

"Watch your language, honey," she said, her voice tight. "I just can’t believe that you’re the only girl in your class who couldn’t find a date."

"Well, Bridget isn’t going either."

"Bridget?" she sat up in her seat. "Bridgetdidn’t get a date? What about Burke?"

"She and Burke broke up."

"They broke up? When? Why? How?"

My mom lives for this stuff. It was her birthday, so I decided to throw her a juicy bone. Besides, I thought she should know how disgusting my former fake friends really were. Then she might get off my case for not hanging out with them anymore.

"It all started when Manda had sex with Burke while Bridget was in L.A.…"

And I told her the whole sordid story. When I finished, she was dumbstruck.

"I don’t believe it."

"It’s true."

"That poor girl," my mom said. "Such a pretty girl home alone on homecoming night."

Homecoming again. Jesus Christ! I was barely keeping it together.

"She’s not home alone," I said, my throat tightening. "She flew to her dad’s for the Thanksgiving weekend because her mom had to work."

"We should’ve invited her out with us," she said. "It would have been fun! Just like the old days …"

That was it. The end.

"You’re right," I shouted, throwing my napkin on the table in disgust. "How could I have been so stupid. I should’ve rented Bridget out for your birthday! Rent-a-Daughter. So you wouldn’t have to go through the torture of walking around with me."

"Keep your voice down!"

"I’m outta here!" I screamed.

The thing about making a dramatic exit is this: It helps when you have a way of getting beyond the parking lot. I hadn’t thought to swipe my mom’s keys, or grab my backpack so I could call a cab. I was stuck. I had to resort to sitting on a bench outside the entrance until my mom came out.

I heard her heels clicking on the floor before I saw her. She walked right past me and straight to the car. I followed her. She unlocked the door to let me in, so she wasn’t going to drive away without me.

"Do you want to tell me what that was all about?"

Part of me did. And part of me didn’t.

"I’m not leaving here until you give me an explanation."

I couldn’t tell if she meant it or not, but I felt like every second in that car took a year off my life.

"I …"

When I opened my mouth to talk, I had fully intended on only telling her enough to make her put the key in the ignition and drive home. But once I started, I couldn’t stop.

"I … feel like you only want to be with me if I can be someone else, someone beautiful like Bethany or Bridget. And I feel like Dad only wants to be with me if I can be like the star athlete he wanted his son to be. It’s like when I try to be me, you’re not happy with who that person is. You’re constantly trying to talk me out of my feelings or make me feel bad for thinking differently than you do. I’m sorry I’m not popular and born to shop and I don’t have a ton of boyfriends like Bethany. I’m sorry that Matthew died and Dad never got to coach him! But that’s not my fault! And I’m sick and tired of you both taking it out on me! "

Tears were streaming down both our faces when I finished. I didn’t know if my mom was going to hug me or hit me.

"Jessie," she said. "I had … no idea … you …" She then wrapped her arms around me and started stroking my hair. Her body was soft and warm and as comforting as it was when I was kid.

She released me and held my face in her hands. "I don’t want you to be Bethany. And your father doesn’t want you to be …" She couldn’t bring herself to say his name. "… anyone but you. Neither one of us does."

"It doesn’t feel that way," I said.

"I understand Bethany better than I understand you. She was no picnic, but she was definitely less …" She cocked her head to the side, trying to find the right word. "Lesscomplicated than you. And as a parent, I sometimes can’t help but think that things would be easier if I had two children like her. But then you wouldn’t be you."

"And what a joy it is for us all that I am."

"You have to stop saying things like that," she said. "I know things are hard for you right now. And I know I’ll never quite understand why. But I think these difficulties are going to make you a much better person in the long run."

"But why do some people, like Bethany, seem to coast right on through high school and college and life?"

"I love Bethany, you know that. But she is so used to getting her way that it has made her a very spoiled, selfish person. And I’m partly to blame for that," she said. "Sooner or later, that’s going to catch up with her, though."

This all sounded very familiar, like dialogue straight out of the touching Parent-Bonds-with-Misunderstood-Teen scenes in my favorite flicks. Normally, a revelation like that would make me crack up. Or cringe. Or cry. Why? Because it proves that I’m just a cliché, and not the complex iconoclast I (deep down) like to think I am. But at that moment, I didn’t give a damn that my mom was being totally corny, and that I was being corny by association. She made me feel better.

When we got home, I decided to show Mom my editorials. If she really wanted to know what went on inside her second daughter’s head, so be it.

"You write for the school paper?"

"Yeah," I said. "It’s no big deal."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Like I said, because it’s no big deal."

She put on her reading glasses and opened upThe Seagull’s Voice . I had to leave the room because I couldn’t handle watching her reaction.

About ten minutes later, I heard a knock on my bedroom door.

"Boy," she said. "You are your father’s daughter."

That was not the reaction I’d expected at all.

"Me and Dad? No way."

She sighed and sat next to me on the bed. "You’re both perfectionists. You’re both hardheaded. You both have trouble dealing with people. You both get depressed when things don’t go your way. You both think too much. You both keep your feelings inside, then explode at inopportune moments," she said, tracing the triangles in the quilt with her shiny fingernail.