to be known as a two-pump chump. It was this own egotistic preoccupation with his budding reputation as a sex machine that, ironically, prevented his contracting what Natty calls "cock rot," not to mention the proliferation of illegitimate Fluties toddling around South Central New Jersey.
"I can help you," Jonelle promises.
The watch Marcus is wearing—the one he's worn and scarcely noticed all day—starts to weigh heavy on his wrist.
t elve
Hey, Jess," Hope chimes. "Happy—"
"Thanks," Jessica interrupts. "But it's already too late. It's not so happy."
"Well," Hope says, her voice taken down a notch, "we miss you here."
"I miss you, too."
Jessica misses Hope more than a roommate logically should. But for the last two years, Jessica has spent far more time on the road than in their subterranean
apartment in Brooklyn. This is the same long, thin, dark space that once served as the former bowling alley of the Swedish American Men's Athletic Club, where Jessica and Hope split two bedrooms four ways with their high school classmate Manda Powers and her genderqueer boifriend, Shea. They were all supposed to lose this apartment once the family on the lease returned from a yearlong sabbatical in Europe, but that one year has turned into four. Manda and Shea moved out after that first year, leaving a spare bedroom for either Jessica or Hope to grab. The two of them flipped a coin. Jessica lost. She agreed to move into the former playground of fetish and flesh only after hiring a professional cleaning service to perform a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling sexorcism.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Jessica didn't admit it to Hope, but there was another reason she wasn't so eager to dismantle the bunk beds and move out of the tiny bedroom nicknamed the
Cupcake, after the cloying color scheme selected by the tween twins who were its previous tenants.
Chloe and Claire were in high school now—just like the Girls, just like Sunny—and would definitely balk at bunk beds if their two mommies ever did choose to return to Brooklyn. The twins had outgrown the decor, so it stood to reason that Jessica should, too.
Jessica dragged her belongings down the hall, bought a queen-size bed frame and a button-tufted headboard. This is a luxurious bed. There is nothing stopping her from sleeping vertically, horizontally, or diagonally across this vast expanse of mattress. There is no one.
And yet to this very day, whenever she thinks about those
cramped, uncomfortable bunk beds and all those months of twilight giggles and moonlight sighs—Hope above, Jessica below, and yes, Marcus occasionally
astride—she fears she might never feel that close to anyone ever again.
Hope would want to know about her run-in with Marcus, but there is no casual way to broach the subject. No breezy "oh by the way" segue. Not today.
"How is she?" Hope asks. "How are you?"
"She's the same," Jessica replies. "I'm ..." Her voice drops out suddenly. Whether Jessica is overcome with emotion or undermined by a bad connection, Hope
doesn't ask the second question again.
"I'm sorry," Hope says. She never met Sunny but has come to feel like she knows her through stories.
Sunny has often said the same thing about Hope.
"Yeah, well," Jessica says, "me, too." / should just say it now, she thinks. Hey, Hope! Guess who I just ran into? Literally! Marcus Flutie!
"I just wanted to see how you were doing." Hope pauses before cautiously adding, "And to find out what time you think you'll get here." Hope flew to St. Thomas yesterday, took the ferry, and met Bridget and Percy and a well-edited group of family members and close friends on the smaller, less touristy island of St. John.
Jessica originally booked herself on the same flight, same ferry, before she got the news that forced the detour in Pineville.
"I've been better." I'm in shock. I just ran into Marcus Flutie. "I missed my flight."
"Oh," Hope groans before
"I can help you," Jonelle promises.
The watch Marcus is wearing—the one he's worn and scarcely noticed all day—starts to weigh heavy on his wrist.
t elve
Hey, Jess," Hope chimes. "Happy—"
"Thanks," Jessica interrupts. "But it's already too late. It's not so happy."
"Well," Hope says, her voice taken down a notch, "we miss you here."
"I miss you, too."
Jessica misses Hope more than a roommate logically should. But for the last two years, Jessica has spent far more time on the road than in their subterranean
apartment in Brooklyn. This is the same long, thin, dark space that once served as the former bowling alley of the Swedish American Men's Athletic Club, where Jessica and Hope split two bedrooms four ways with their high school classmate Manda Powers and her genderqueer boifriend, Shea. They were all supposed to lose this apartment once the family on the lease returned from a yearlong sabbatical in Europe, but that one year has turned into four. Manda and Shea moved out after that first year, leaving a spare bedroom for either Jessica or Hope to grab. The two of them flipped a coin. Jessica lost. She agreed to move into the former playground of fetish and flesh only after hiring a professional cleaning service to perform a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling sexorcism.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Jessica didn't admit it to Hope, but there was another reason she wasn't so eager to dismantle the bunk beds and move out of the tiny bedroom nicknamed the
Cupcake, after the cloying color scheme selected by the tween twins who were its previous tenants.
Chloe and Claire were in high school now—just like the Girls, just like Sunny—and would definitely balk at bunk beds if their two mommies ever did choose to return to Brooklyn. The twins had outgrown the decor, so it stood to reason that Jessica should, too.
Jessica dragged her belongings down the hall, bought a queen-size bed frame and a button-tufted headboard. This is a luxurious bed. There is nothing stopping her from sleeping vertically, horizontally, or diagonally across this vast expanse of mattress. There is no one.
And yet to this very day, whenever she thinks about those
cramped, uncomfortable bunk beds and all those months of twilight giggles and moonlight sighs—Hope above, Jessica below, and yes, Marcus occasionally
astride—she fears she might never feel that close to anyone ever again.
Hope would want to know about her run-in with Marcus, but there is no casual way to broach the subject. No breezy "oh by the way" segue. Not today.
"How is she?" Hope asks. "How are you?"
"She's the same," Jessica replies. "I'm ..." Her voice drops out suddenly. Whether Jessica is overcome with emotion or undermined by a bad connection, Hope
doesn't ask the second question again.
"I'm sorry," Hope says. She never met Sunny but has come to feel like she knows her through stories.
Sunny has often said the same thing about Hope.
"Yeah, well," Jessica says, "me, too." / should just say it now, she thinks. Hey, Hope! Guess who I just ran into? Literally! Marcus Flutie!
"I just wanted to see how you were doing." Hope pauses before cautiously adding, "And to find out what time you think you'll get here." Hope flew to St. Thomas yesterday, took the ferry, and met Bridget and Percy and a well-edited group of family members and close friends on the smaller, less touristy island of St. John.
Jessica originally booked herself on the same flight, same ferry, before she got the news that forced the detour in Pineville.
"I've been better." I'm in shock. I just ran into Marcus Flutie. "I missed my flight."
"Oh," Hope groans before
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