Charmed Thirds (36 page)

“Soooooooo?” Sara was looking for something. Congratulation. Recognition. Appreciation.

“Thanks, Sara,” I said.

“Omigod! You’re so welcome!”

I was nice to Sara because trashing her was, for me, as much of my petty high school past as gossiping was for her. Only I’ve grown out of it.

the sixteenth

An excerpt from today’s class lecture.

The topic was
CHOOSE
(
WELL
) OR LOSE! (Because ACCEPT! would be nothing without exaggeration. Or exclamation points.) Basically, I was supposed to instruct the kiddies to “think beyond the Ivies” and find “exceptional departments in the innumerable esteemed institutions this great nation has to offer.” Because college isn’t a “prize in a ruthless status game.” Oh no. It’s an “educational journey,” which should start with a student’s mission to find a school that isn’t necessarily the “best” but is “best for them.”

This would be like Dubya successfully convincing Michael Moore to join his Cabinet. Inconceivable. But they pay me to try.

“So why didn’t you apply to Harvard?” asked Will.

“Yeah?” asked Maddie.

“Were you afraid you’d get rejected?” asked Geoff.

The kiddies are convinced that anyone intelligent enough to get into Harvard should go to Harvard. So, with their Harvard aspirations, they all harbor suspicions that they’re smarter than I am.

“I wanted to go to school in New York,” I said.

“Aren’t you concerned about terrorism?” asked Maddie.

“I was worried about it before I applied,” I said. “But I’m not anymore.”

“Aren’t you worried about dying?” asked Geoff.

“Well, I’m worried about dying in general, sure,” I said. “But I’m not worried about dying from a terrorist attack.”

“Even in New York?” asked Will.

“Even in New York,” I said. “It’s all about perceived versus actual risk.”

“Huh?” they all asked.

“The things we fear most are often those that are least likely to happen,” I said. “Like, the odds of being killed in a terrorist attack is 1 in 9.2 million.”

They all murmured in doubt.

“You,” I said, pointing to Will. “You drove here in the Mini Cooper your parents bought for your seventeenth birthday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the odds of dying in a car accident are 1 in 18,000.”

“You,” I said, turning to Maddie. “You fake and bake, right?”

“Sure.”

“The odds of getting skin cancer are 1 in 200.”

“I’m not getting skin cancer,” she said.

“Fine. Whatever. Have faith in your disease-resistant melanin,” I said, pursing my lips like a priss. “I’m just trying to make a point.”

They all grumbled.

“Do you know that last September, a city-sized asteroid missed our planet by a distance only four times that of Earth to the Moon? In galactic terms, that’s nothing!” I pinched my thumb and forefinger together to illustrate. “Nothing! Life as we know it! Over in an instant!”

They were all slyly but not shyly texting one another about my mental instability.

“All I’m saying is that you can’t hide from certain death, so you shouldn’t hide from uncertain life.” It sounded profound as I said it. But hindsight is not as kind. I deserved the inevitable backlash.

“Why do we need to know this?” asked Geoff. “Teach the test!”

“The test.” This, of course, is the
SAT
I, the be-all and end-all of standardized tests designed to assess verbal, math, and, most recently, writing skills. Despite UCLA’s best efforts to devalue its importance, it is still
the
key factor in separating the Ivy League get ins and did nots.

“Yes,” whined Will and Maddie. “Teach the test!”

And it became a chant. “Teach the test! Teach the test!”

These damn kiddies never appreciate a valuable life lesson when they hear one.

I said earlier that I’m just so over high school. I would venture to guess that this is one of the reasons I’m having trouble empathizing with the kiddies’ angst. Another reason I’m having trouble is because I don’t like people very much. (The Storytelling Project did little to change that.)

In choosing to be a Psychology major, I decided to learn for the joy of learning for the first time in my life. I’d always been fascinated by human nature. What makes us act the way we do? Why do we make the same mistakes over and over? But I guess my interest is purely theoretical. I’m a Psychology major who has no desire to work with people. This was poor planning on my part, I suppose. My parents definitely think so. But choosing passion over practicality seemed so honorable when I was a first-year student and graduation seemed so very, very far away . . .

But now, a semester away from unemployment, I realize how much better off those Engineering students really are. Sure, they’re boring conversationalists that make you want to kill yourself because every story begins, “The other day? In the lab?” But people become a whole helluva lot more interesting when they’re pulling down six figures, don’t they? If I’m going to drag my friends out to my cardboard box, the pressure’s on to provide some pretty goddamned sparkling conversation once they get there. And even with all my noble knowledge for knowledge’s sake, I’m not sure I can.

At the very least, I’ll be able to burn my diploma to keep me warm.

the nineteenth

Just in case you’ve been wondering why I haven’t written about my social life, it’s because I don’t have one. This has not gone unnoticed by my parents. And when I say my parents I really mean my mother.

“So, Jessie, when are we going to meet this boyfriend of yours?” she asked yesterday.

Did I mention that I haven’t told my parents about my breakup?

“Uh, never,” I said.

“What do you mean never? We were so looking forward to making his acquaintance!”

I’d made the mistake of telling my mom that Kieran went to prep school in Greenwich, Connecticut. That was all she needed to hear. The cachet of that particular zip code more than made up for the fact that he was a Philosophy major, which topped even Psychology on the list of slacker liberal artsy majors. I’m sure she’d been thinking that if I married right, and by “right” I really mean rich, my ambitionless major would no longer be a problem because ambition is something I’d have no need for.
(See
Darling, Bethany.)

“What happened?” she asked.

“You really don’t want to know,” I said.

“I do!” she cried. “I really do!”

“You only think you do,” I said.

She took my hand and led me to the couch of ill repute. I let go and opted for the ottoman.

“We don’t talk anymore, Jessie,” she said. “I want to hear what happened.”

I sighed. “He got back together with his ex-girlfriend,” I said. “Only he did so without the courtesy of breaking up with me before he did it.”

“He cheated on you!?”

“Yeah,” I said with a flat detachment that I was surprised to hear coming out of my mouth. Telling my mother about Kieran’s indiscretion somehow made it unimportant.

She reached over and clutched me to her silken bosom. “My poor baby!”

It was all very dramatic.

Remember that spa gift certificate my mom got me last Christmas? After my mother released me from her clutches, she got on the phone to redeem it as soon as possible. You know, because nothing is better for heartache than a deep pore-cleansing facial.

“Good news!” my mom chirped. “A bride called off her wedding!”

“Uh . . . hooray?”

“I know!” my mom cheered, oblivious to my sarcasm. “She had to cancel the day of beauty for her bridal party, so there was a wide-open block of services available for all three of us tomorrow! A Darling Day of Pampering!”

“Whee.”

I wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about the idea. I don’t have anything against pampering per se, it was just the principle of the thing. I couldn’t help but think of how much more useful that money would be to me next semester. I’m not sure how much my fellow homeless will appreciate my glowing complexion when we’re scavenging for moldy pizza crusts out of a Dumpster.

But truth be told, the day started off pretty swell. The Ahhhh . . . Spa was located on a pristine stretch of beach in Oceanhead, the most chichi town on the Jersey Shore. The whole place was all feng shuied to promote a sense of relaxation and rejuvenation. Natural light filtered through floor-to-ceiling art glass windows. Towering columns were sheathed in translucent fabrics that danced in the gentle ocean breeze. A cascading riverstone waterfall gurgled like a newborn babe. The air was spiked with citrus and mint, but not overpoweringly so, as if
this
was what we were always meant to respirate.

Bethany and Mom were less awed than I was, because they have made numerous sojourns to day spas. As a spa virgin, I was easily impressed. And intimidated. Because as we entered the changing room, I quickly discovered that the rules of the outside world did not apply. And I realized this because my mother and Bethany did not hesitate to get totally naked in front of me, which sort of freaked me out, and not just because seeing my mom au naturel reminded me of the last (and only) time I’d seen her in that state, which was when she and my dad were doing the dirty-bird special on the couch.

Ack.

Look, I am not a prude. I have undressed and dressed in front of total strangers in the locker room at Columbia countless times with little thought. There’s anonymity in numbers. (Though it was a bit awkward when I bumped into one of my teaching assistants coming out of the shower and I saw that her hotly debated rack was indeed of the saline variety, and that she’d waxed her pubes into a star shape, which reminded me of the creative topiary at the gates of Disneyland. You know, plants unnaturally pruned until they look like Mickey Mouse and the like. From that point on, whenever I saw that TA, I could only think “Tits/Ass.”) But something about seeing my mom and my sister naked was just weird and I wanted it to end quickly.

I was still standing there fully clothed while my mother and Bethany were stripped down to skin. And I figured, Okay, it will be over soon. They’ll put their robes on and I won’t have to aggressively avert my eyes so I can’t see that my sister has nipples that look like pink Good & Plenties. (Probably from all the breast feeding.) Or that my mom has stretch marks running up and down her thighs like the streaks left behind on recently cleaned glass. (Probably from decades of yo-yo dieting.) But then they launched into a conversation. And not a modest one, either. A wildly gesticulating, have-no-shame gabfest.

“Bethany, did you talk to the people at Maurice Villency about that gorgeous sectional?” She threw her arms toward the exposed beams in the ceiling for unnecessary emphasis.

“Not yet. I want to replace all the draperies first,” she said with a gratuitous sweep of her arms.

The word
draperies
brought to mind the pubic crudity about drapes matching the carpet and I was more acked out than ever.

I slipped off my own clothes and hastily put on my robe, hoping to set a modest example. I had just cinched the terry-cloth tie when the spa attendant came into the room. She, like every other female employee at the Ahhhh . . . Spa, was overly made up in that “natural way” that dictates that no woman should ever, ever leave her house without applying six different shades of brown eye shadow. She was impeccably groomed, almost to a fault, from her flat-ironed hair to her French-pedicured feet.

“Jessica? Is there a Jessica here?” She had a vaguely British accent that I wasn’t entirely convinced was real.

I lifted a finger. “That’s me.”

“Kayan is ready for you.”

“Kayan?” I asked, sort of panicky. “Is that a man or a woman?”

“A man.” The attendant blinded me with the whites of her teeth.

“Is that a problem?” asked my mom.

“Oh, no,” I said, adopting an airy tone. “Not at all.”

Honestly, I was a little freaked about the idea of a man giving me a massage. I haven’t been touched by the opposite sex for a few months and I wasn’t sure how my body would react to any tactile stimulation. But when I saw Kayan in the flesh, I nearly fainted.

He was one of the most stunning men I’d ever seen. Well over six feet tall, with flawless mahogany skin stretched shiny and taut over muscles that you usually only get to see on the starting blocks of the hundred-meter final at the Olympics. He was totally not my type. And yet just looking at his huge hands and knowing they were soon going to be all over my oiled-up, naked body, well . . . Whoa.

“Jessica?” It was the creamiest voice I’ve ever heard.

“Uh,” I said.

“This way,” Kayan said, leading me to a candlelit room. “Is this your first time?”

“Uh, yes,” I said.

He offered a generous smile. “Relax,” he said. “I’ll make it easy for you.”

“Okay,” I gulped.

As I lay down under the sheet and put my face through the padded toilet seat thingy, I started to think about how odd it must be to rub naked people for a living. Even though it isn’t sexual, it’s still pretty intimate. And I’m a clean, fairly attractive woman, but I imagine that not all of Kayan’s clients are so inoffensive to the senses.

“How’s that feel?” he asked as he spread his hands over the small of my back.

“Good,” I murmured. “It feels good.”

And it did. Kayan knew what he was doing. I tried to let my mind wander as effortlessly as his fingertips skimmed my skin, but I couldn’t do it. I kept thinking about how weird it was that this total stranger was touching me in places that have gone untouched and unexplored all summer. Not
there,
mind you, but near enough to remind me that it will probably be a very, very long time before anyone touches me
there
again.

As Kayan deftly kneaded his knuckles into my hamstrings, my thoughts drifted to porn. But not in a sexy way. In a clinical way. I was thinking that maybe the indifference that Kayan feels toward his job is similar to that of those who fuck for a living.

Over the course of our sham of an ex-relationship, Kieran and I watched several
XXX
titles starring the Jessica Darling who isn’t me. It was more out of curiosity than kink. At least for me. And I guess I didn’t want Kieran to think I was repressed. I was surprised by how quickly I went from novice to critic. Like, I got totally irritated when a film got bogged down by a bad plot. I was, like, “Shut up about the nymphomaniac aliens from outer space and just get it on already!” And I still don’t understand prudish porn stars who will only perform certain acts. Once you’re in the sex industry, does it
really
make a difference whether you use one orifice or three? Separately or all at once? I daresay not. (My namesake, incidentally, is a carefree lass who does not have these types of hang-ups.)