Sloppy Firsts (32 page)

"Really? I would think that you’d already given up all your vices."

"Almost," he said.

"So?" I said, sitting up on my heels. I was eager to hear what vice he was giving up. God help me if he chose now to go celibate.

"Well, it has to do with you."

I tried to say,With me? but no sound came out.

"I promised myself that I’d stop jerking you around."

"What … ?!"

He put his finger to my lips to shut me up. Did I ever want to put it in my mouth and suck on it until it got pruny. Then I’d move on to the next one …

"You never should have read that poem," Marcus said. "’Fall.’"

Our knees were touching.

"Why?" I asked. "I like your poems."

"But it gives you the wrong idea about what I want from you."

He was going to apologize for wanting to have sex with me. I just knew it. I learned from watching addicts onThe Real World that sayingI’m sorry is number nine on AA’s twelve-step program. But Marcus didn’t have to take this step with me.

"You don’t have to apologize," I said, leaning in closer. Close enough for him to kiss my forehead, my cheek, my mouth …

"Yes, I do," he said, arching back and away from me. He tapped his fingers against the merry-go-round metal,ping-ping-ping . "I wrote that before I really knew you. I only thought I knew you. Or maybe I did know you then, and you’ve changed."

Now I was confused. "Changed? How?"

He looked away, his foot tapping a bizillion beats per minute.

"Well," he said. "When I used to listen to you and Hope talk …"

I jolted to attention, as though a puppeteer had jerked my marionette strings. "You listened to me and Hope?!"

His words came rushing out, almost too fast to hear.

We’d be in Heath’s room too stoned to move and I could hear you through the wall complaining about how much you hated your friends and this town and your goody-goody label and I thought hey here’s someone who has something to offer the world if only she had someone to help her bust out and why couldn’t I be that person I admit it was sort of an experiment to amuse myself to see how far I could push you but when I asked you to fake my test I never thought you’d actually do it so when you took that bait I wrote the poem to see if I could tempt you with sex too just to see if I could but that was before I really knew you …

Holy shit!

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. None of it was real. From our mutual mistrust of technology, to Barry Manilow, to Xmas, the things that made us click weren’t signs of kismet or synchronicity or even mere coincidence. It was all about calculation, orchestration, manipulation. He knew what to say to me because he’d heard me say it before, to Hope.

Nothing that had happened between Marcus and me was real.

I sprinted away—but not far or fast enough. Christ, I wish I hadn’t taken the fall that wrecked my leg.

"Jessica, listen to me for a second!" he yelled, grabbing my arm.

"Why should I?" I screamed, trying to pull away. "This whole thing was fixed from start to finish! You’re no better than Hy!"

"Come on, Darlene!"

"Don’t call me that! I’m tired of being a joke. I’m tired of being played."

"I know!" he said, gripping my arm tighter. "That’s what I was trying to tell you. I don’t want my relationship with you to be a game."

I was all ice and silence.

"Jessica, don’t you see?" He cupped my chin in his hand.

"See what?" I said, thawing with the warmth of his touch.

"You are the one who changed my life."

NONONONONONONONONNOONOONOONNONO!

Why did Marcus have to say that? Why? WHY? None of the girls he’s messed with wanted to be just another donut. They—we—allwanted to be the one who changed his life. The one who made him forget all the other girls who came before. He was telling me exactly what I wanted to hear, not because he meant it, but because he knew I wanted to hear it. What had made all our conversations so wonderful was their weirdness. Saying this, the "perfect" thing, ruined everything.Everything.

"Did you hear what I said?" he said again, now softly brushing my hair behind my ears with the very tips of his fingers.

"Fuck you."

"What?" he asked, eyes blinking madly.

I had never saidFuck you straight to someone’s face before. All forms of the wordfuck are way overused—kids saidFuck you like it wasWhat’s up? I always thought that if I ever were to say it, I would have to hate that person with a genocidal fury.

And that’s how much I hated Marcus at that moment.

"You heard me, Krispy. Fuck you."

He pulled his hands away from my hair, like he’d been electrocuted. I took off, and he didn’t try to catch me.

I ran all the way home, until my barely mended bones screamed in pain. I bolted up to my bedroom, unplugged the phone, and sobbed until I was sore, until I felt as though I’d twisted my body tight like a wet towel and wrung myself dry of tears.

Marcus and I didn’t have a connection.

One big mind game. Like Hy.

Like Cal, but way worse because I was about to peel off my panties.

How could I be such a moron?

How could I have jeopardized my friendship with Hope for THIS?

I played my conversations with Marcus over and over in my head. After hours of mental rewinding and fast-forwarding, one question kept repeating itself—first as a whisper, then louder—until I clamped my hands over my ears, vainly trying to shut it up:

Doesn’t his confession prove that he cares more about me than the others?

Others chimed in, no matter how hard I tried to drown them out:

Wasn’t it true that we didn’t really know each other then?

Didn’t we talk about things I’d never discussed with Hope?

Hadn’t I eavesdropped on him and Len Levy?

Maybe it’s not too late for us …

I was still floundering in a maelstrom of love, lust, and loathing when I felt an ache in my abdomen. I went to the bathroom, pulled down my tights, and saw the blood in my underpants.

Blood.

BLOOD!

Blood where there hadn’t been blood in over a year. My period made its comeback on the very night I’d planned to have sex. With Marcus.

Jesus Christ.

I’ve been laughing ever since this discovery—hard, loud, and crazy—because this is way too bizarre to be just a coincidence.

Is it a message from the higher power that controls synchronicity? Is it another one of my body’s built-in emergency anti-sex mechanisms? Is it a sign of the Y2K+1 apocalypse? Like the one doomsdayers predicted forlast New Year’s Eve? Maybe my world is coming to an end a year later than I expected.

Or maybe, just maybe it means something else entirely. No matter what his initial motivations were, Marcus’s words rocked me to sleep. His strange lullabies soothed my anxieties, which made it possible for my period to return.

Without Marcus, would my body ever have caught up with my brain?

I have no clue what to think about Marcus anymore. But I am certain of one thing: I have to do what I should’ve done ages ago.

January 1st

Hope,

Your plane touched down in Newark about an hour and a half ago. Any minute now, your parents’ rental car will drop you off in my driveway. I can’t wait until you’re here and I can hand-deliver this letter. Until then, I’m writing. Waiting.

By the time you read this, I will have already told you everything.Everything.

God, I hope you’re reading this. I mean, I hope you don’t hate me so much that you rip it up without looking at it first.

I can’t see you doing that.

I wanted to tell you all that stuff about Marcus sooner. But I just wasn’t ready. I was afraid that my "whatever" relationship with him would ruin the real relationship I had with you. And though I didn’t feel right hiding it from you, it wasn’t something I wanted to tell you on paper, over the phone, or via the information superhighway. It was face-to-face stuff. Heart-to-heart stuff.

Stuff I’m dying to tell you right now.

I’m just wasting time until you arrive.

Instead of making New Year’s resolutions, I’m starting to think aboutThe Real World . And how weird it must be for cast members to see themselves in reruns. I mean, they’ve moved on with their lives. But whenever there’s aReal World marathon they have to relive moments that they probably would’ve forgotten about had they not been immortalized on video and broadcast to millions of TV viewers.

I wonder how I’d feel if I saw this year of my life on TV. Even with good editing, it would be tough to take. So many crazy-good and crazy-bad things have happened since you left. I thought I knew people so well. Marcus. Hy. Scotty. Bridget. Paul Parlipiano. Pepe. Even my mom. But they all blindsided me. And the thing is, I know people will continue to shock me next year, and the year after that. Forever.

I just realized that if I had been onThe Real World this year, you never would’ve made an appearance on the show with me. That seems so strange, considering the huge influence you have on my life, every single day. Obviously our friendship will never be the way it was before you moved. And if we try to force it to be that way, we’ll fail. But for the first time I can remember, I’m optimistic about both our friendship and the future in general.

Maybe it’s because I hear your car in the driveway. You’re here. Finally here.

Love, J.