A novel
Jesse thinks big, which I admire. But her execution couldn’t be weaker. Rat calls her the Theoretical Girl, since so few of her ideas, no matter their scope, include an action plan. Twice this school year, Jesse has invited the band over to her house in Arlington for breakfast before Saturday practices but neglected to tell her mother that we were coming. So we all show up at the door not just unwelcome—I don’t think Jesse’s mother likes drop-in visitors in general, us in particular—but also expecting breakfast. Awkward. And then we have to practice on an empty stomach.
Rat calls Jesse’s condition the “Elvis Movie Syndrome”: in which a person expects that something requiring considerable logistical planning can be simply willed into being. Rat’s diagnostic term refers to those spontaneous musical numbers in Elvis Presley movies, which I’ve seen many more of, thanks to Rat, than any person needs to. Even one, like Clambake or Jailhouse Rock, is too many. I think I’ve seen five. So I know what Rat means when he says Jesse is pulling an Elvis movie: Start humming a tune and snapping your fingers, and you should expect the whole town to spill out into the street, dancing alongside you, singing the choruses in sweet harmony. If only.
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