Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel Read Free Page B

friends—clutching each other like life preservers—waved her over with gummy-bracelet-encircled wrists. As she tiptoed past, seas of fifth through eighth graders parted with reverence. Boys roughhoused; girls peered down at once favorite shoes in doubt. Even Terry stopped to watch Marjorie take a seat.
    “Okay, kids,” said Terry, “let’s get started. Are you ready to FIGHT BACK? TO STOP BEING VICTIMS? Let me hear you!”
    “Yeeeaah…” came a halfhearted collective reply. An eighth-grade class clown yelped a delayed, “YEAH!” and then cracked up.
    That’s when Marjorie realized: they had waited for her. Even the teachers had stalled, feeling unconsciously that the group was incomplete.
    Sensing eyes on her back, Marjorie turned. Mac sat behind her, grinning. He was new at school but had already secured his role as critic and jester, adored and feared.
    “All hail Her Madgesty, ” he mocked, with a bent head and a flourish. The girls around him—there were always girls around him—giggled.
    “Shut up,” Marjorie whispered. “Shut up, shut up.”
    “That’s totally your new name,” Vera said, “ Madgesty. ” Mac eyed her with boredom, then winked at Marjorie.
    Marjorie claimed to hate the name, yet she answered to it. Just like that, reality plummeted down the chasm between the truth and what one tells oneself, never to be seen again.
    In fact, she became reliant on, paralyzed by, and wholly defined by the unearned adoration, got drunk on its ease, feared its disappearance, and protected its power, erecting a wall of reserve that separated her from those who could safely behave like humans (going to the bathroom, getting pimples, tripping down stairs).
    She snorted now—a lone unsquelched nerdy habit—as Mac delivered his story’s punch line from his barstool, “And it was blue gym socks. I swear!”
    “No, it wasn’t! It couldn’t have been.”
    “Well, it was.”
    “But how did you know?”
    “I didn’t. Wild guess. But I won the bet; he had to give me his own copy of his Rookie card.”
    “Mac, I don’t even believhue you.”
    “Was that even English? You’re slurring, you lush.”
    The bar’s clientele had morphed. The kitchen was closed, baby carrots, new potatoes, and broccolini stalks tucked safely away in Tupperware cribs for the night. The happy hour crowd had left to catch Girls, the end of the Yankees game and, in more evolved cases (or so they felt), The Colbert Report. Mac’s “boys”—even the one mysteriously nicknamed “Plug”—had gone home to their pregnant wives and plump girlfriends. Now younger drinkers with wallet chains debated the merits of emocore bands.
    Marjorie sighed and looked at Mac, who repeated “socks!” and started her snorting again. She was on probation at work, soon to be homeless, and losing her best friend to a late Elvis doppelgänger. The laughter was a relief.
    “You’re a dork.” He shook his head. “Why don’t people realize that? But seriously, do you believe me? The story?”
    “Of course not!”
    “Why?”
    “Because I know you and you’re a liar!”
    Mac’s mouth dropped open in mock—perhaps tinged with real—hurt. “No way. You’re coming with me.” He grabbed Marjorie’s arm, pulling her up off her stool.
    “Where are we going?” Struggling to keep her balance, she snagged her bag, then followed him toward the back. “Oh, lovely! A scenic tour of the janitorial closet!”
    Near the fire exit, he opened a pockmarked door, ushering her inside what was clearly the manager’s back office. A card table was topped with a landline and piles of papers, someone’s organized chaos; the wall above was pinned with interior design inspirations and a schedule. At center slumped a ripped fat black leather couch. Mac shut the door, muffling the festive sounds, and began searching a file cabinet drawer for the card he’d supposedly won off a chagrined Mets pitcher.
    Marjorie leaned against the wall for support. Standing