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Authors: Megan McCafferty
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interruption.
It should be the same with Marcus, but it’s not. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to not seeing him. And when I do see him after a separation, I immediately get panicky about our next good-bye. I guess that’s what happens when I get naked with someone. (I almost wrote “when
you
get naked with someone.” “You” as in a collective you, a universal truth directed toward all of humanity. But this would be inaccurate, as Marcus got naked with forty-something someones and has suffered no separation anxiety with them. But that’s because they didn’t matter and I do, right? RIGHT?)
I applied for the internship because I think
True
is a crack-up (as you could probably tell from all the articles I clipped and sent to you in lieu of actual letters) and to compensate for my lack of participation in any campus activities last year. Despite my misgivings about leaving Marcus, and my doubts about living with Bethany and G-Money for a month, I’m psyched about this internship. And excitement is something I rarely feel about anything. That in itself is, well, exciting.
One more thing: When you, meaning
you,
do finally choose that first and very lucky guy to have sex with, pick one that you don’t have to say good-bye to. Pick one that will be there for you in mind
and
body. Because the alternative doesn’t quite suck, but is definitely suck
y.
He honked. He’s here.
Zipadeedoodaly yours, J.
Freshman Summer july 2003
the first
Bethany and G-Money’s new home is a five-thousand-square-foot granite and brick Romanesque revival mansion built in the late 1800s. My real estate mogul mother went into raptures upon her first walk-through and started speaking in tongues. “Parquetfloorscrownmoldingtiledfireplacegourmetkitchenbackyardpatiohighceilingssunliiiiiiiiiiiiiight . . .” The House That Obesity Built would be a truly impressive domicile even if it wasn’t located on the promenade in Brooklyn Heights with breathtaking views of Manhattan. My sister and I don’t have much in common, so I’m not sure if it says more about the allure of New York City or the repellant powers of Pineville that we’ve both ended up here.
“Don’t get pregnant,” Bethany said as she showed Marcus and me to the guest room. “Mom and Dad would kill me.”
Kill
her?
Bethany didn’t have to worry about preserving the sanctity of my womb because I’m having my period and there’s no way any impregnating activity would happen anyway. This sucked, but the alternative is far worse. When you’re nineteen and totally not ready to be a baby mama, a period is never, ever a bad thing.
I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t used to having a warm body in bed next to me, and I kept getting sweaty and overheated (not in the sexy way, but literally). And Bethany’s sheets are just too smooth and I was sliding all over the mattress. And Marin was shrieking, “PEE! POO! PEE!” from her crib. And well, I guess I was nervous about starting my first real job. Well, as real as a job can be when the salary consists of a weekly MetroCard.
I guess I eventually fell asleep, because at 8 A.M. I shot up from the sheets, shocked by the alarm clock. Marcus slept right through it.
It didn’t take me long to get ready. Since Bridget’s makeover I’d never gone out without a headband. Today’s was cut from the arm of an old T-shirt. I was going for a creative urban youth look: pleated mesh tennis skirt, shrunken denim blazer, pink-and-red-striped tissue T, Chucks. My mother would be horrified by my outfit, but would be proud of my one nod to traditionalism: I was wearing a bra, though it was a totally unnecessary formality given my negative cup size.
Marcus was still in bed asleep when I leaned in to kiss him good-bye.
I’d never been in
True
‘s editorial offices, located in the industrial wastelands of East Williamsburg. According to Bethany, this area is composed mostly of renovated lofts and studios filled with aspiring artists and
It should be the same with Marcus, but it’s not. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to not seeing him. And when I do see him after a separation, I immediately get panicky about our next good-bye. I guess that’s what happens when I get naked with someone. (I almost wrote “when
you
get naked with someone.” “You” as in a collective you, a universal truth directed toward all of humanity. But this would be inaccurate, as Marcus got naked with forty-something someones and has suffered no separation anxiety with them. But that’s because they didn’t matter and I do, right? RIGHT?)
I applied for the internship because I think
True
is a crack-up (as you could probably tell from all the articles I clipped and sent to you in lieu of actual letters) and to compensate for my lack of participation in any campus activities last year. Despite my misgivings about leaving Marcus, and my doubts about living with Bethany and G-Money for a month, I’m psyched about this internship. And excitement is something I rarely feel about anything. That in itself is, well, exciting.
One more thing: When you, meaning
you,
do finally choose that first and very lucky guy to have sex with, pick one that you don’t have to say good-bye to. Pick one that will be there for you in mind
and
body. Because the alternative doesn’t quite suck, but is definitely suck
y.
He honked. He’s here.
Zipadeedoodaly yours, J.
Freshman Summer july 2003
the first
Bethany and G-Money’s new home is a five-thousand-square-foot granite and brick Romanesque revival mansion built in the late 1800s. My real estate mogul mother went into raptures upon her first walk-through and started speaking in tongues. “Parquetfloorscrownmoldingtiledfireplacegourmetkitchenbackyardpatiohighceilingssunliiiiiiiiiiiiiight . . .” The House That Obesity Built would be a truly impressive domicile even if it wasn’t located on the promenade in Brooklyn Heights with breathtaking views of Manhattan. My sister and I don’t have much in common, so I’m not sure if it says more about the allure of New York City or the repellant powers of Pineville that we’ve both ended up here.
“Don’t get pregnant,” Bethany said as she showed Marcus and me to the guest room. “Mom and Dad would kill me.”
Kill
her?
Bethany didn’t have to worry about preserving the sanctity of my womb because I’m having my period and there’s no way any impregnating activity would happen anyway. This sucked, but the alternative is far worse. When you’re nineteen and totally not ready to be a baby mama, a period is never, ever a bad thing.
I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t used to having a warm body in bed next to me, and I kept getting sweaty and overheated (not in the sexy way, but literally). And Bethany’s sheets are just too smooth and I was sliding all over the mattress. And Marin was shrieking, “PEE! POO! PEE!” from her crib. And well, I guess I was nervous about starting my first real job. Well, as real as a job can be when the salary consists of a weekly MetroCard.
I guess I eventually fell asleep, because at 8 A.M. I shot up from the sheets, shocked by the alarm clock. Marcus slept right through it.
It didn’t take me long to get ready. Since Bridget’s makeover I’d never gone out without a headband. Today’s was cut from the arm of an old T-shirt. I was going for a creative urban youth look: pleated mesh tennis skirt, shrunken denim blazer, pink-and-red-striped tissue T, Chucks. My mother would be horrified by my outfit, but would be proud of my one nod to traditionalism: I was wearing a bra, though it was a totally unnecessary formality given my negative cup size.
Marcus was still in bed asleep when I leaned in to kiss him good-bye.
I’d never been in
True
‘s editorial offices, located in the industrial wastelands of East Williamsburg. According to Bethany, this area is composed mostly of renovated lofts and studios filled with aspiring artists and
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