Pretty in Plaid: A Life, A Witch, and a Wardrobe

by Jen Lancaster

  Mr. H., my journalism teacher, suggested the story include a variety of students’ vacation plans, but who really gives a crap if Kerry Clark will be visiting her ailing aunt in Cleveland? Ohio may be the one place on earth more tres ennuyeux than Indiana. Or am I supposed to do an article on Jamie Peachtree, who’s traveling to Decatur for a 4-H soil judging dealie? When Mr. H. told me about this, I was all, “Really, he’s headed out of town to look at dirt? Fascinating! I’ll stop the presses for sure.” And how uneventful will Marina Perez’s trip to Guatemala be? She’s going to be building a church with her youth group, not cavorting with cute local boys on a big sandy beach, drinking fruity rum punch. Yawn!

  Seriously, I’m going to Europe, people! I’m seeing the cradle of civilization and not some big, dumb dirt box. Not only am I going to Germany and France, but I’m hitting Switzerland and Belgium, too! I bet my classmates couldn’t even find Belgium on a map! Okay, maybe I couldn’t either, but Belgium’s got to be close to Germany, France, and Switzerland.50

  When my tour group got together last weekend for a pre-trip meeting, the advisor said something about passing through Luxembourg, but I can’t worry about every single town we’ll visit. I’m only concerned with the countries, especially France. I cannot wait to get there and show off how bien I speak the language!

  Heather Mueller, one of the seriously popular cheerleaders in my school, got all pissed off when she heard about the French leg of my itinerary. She was like, “You know, I was born in Paris.” Um, if your dad was stationed at an air force base there, that doesn’t make you French or your Ramstein-born sister German, you spaz. That makes you a military brat, not a soon-to-be world traveler such as me.

  Besides, Heather’s dad was transferred out of Paris weeks after she was born. It’s not like she can tell me about all the cool museums and shops, or even if European chocolate actually is more smooth and rich than the American kind.

  Granted, it would help my social status if she and I were buddies, but she hasn’t been nice to me since we moved here from New Jersey because I stole all her I-was-born-in-Paris thunder, simply by virtue of having spent time somewhere interesting while not in utero. Our friendship? A total lost cause.

  Anyway, the only thing that matters right now is being tres jolie in this picture. Robyn and I decided we’d look extra-foxy if we posed sitting with our backs to each other, each hugging one of our knees. Robyn’s not actually going to Europe with me, but she’s my friend, she wanted to get out of journalism class early, too, and she totally will enhance how good I’ll look in this photo. Seriously, this is the first rule in my handbook.

  The Official PRETTY Handbook:

  Jeni’s Comprehensive Guide to Outstanding Awesomeness

  Rule One—If possible, pose with other girls when being photographed. It’s like if one pretty girl is good, more than one is exponentially better. (And if you’re having a bad hair day, they’ll totally deflect it for you.).

  Rule Two—Wear the smallest size you can squeeze into. You can worry about comfort when you’re old. And if you buy jeans with the size label displayed on the outside back right hip, use thin black marker to change it. If someone on the school bus is going to look at your butt when you walk by, let it tell the story you want them to read.

  Rule Three—There’s no such thing as too much eyeliner.

  Rule Four—Ditto on hairspray.

  Rule Five—Make boys think you’re dumb. That way you can trick them into doing all kinds of stuff, like buying you a pie.

  Rule Six—Your brother doesn’t realize his friends are cute. Try to position yourself in the vicinity of his room when the guys are over. If you can do so in a bathing suit, all the better. (This only works if you have a pool. Try to get a pool if you don’t have one.)

  Rule Seven—No matter how hot they might look, the guys who hang out in the computer math lab at lunch are going to grow up to be total losers who can’t get jobs. Avoid them.

  Rule Eight—If you’re a brunette, Sun-In is not your friend, regardless of how great the results appear on stupid naturally blond Sara Smyth’s head. And it takes over a year for all the orange pieces to grow out.

  Rule Nine—Double-pierced ears are adorable. Triple-pierce them and you may as well find yourself some clear heels and a stripper pole.

  Rule Ten—Plaid is always cute. ALWAYS.

  After much debate, we finally pick the right spot to take the photograph. There’s beaucoup light coming in from the atrium across the hallway so we’ll be lit perfectly! Robyn wrinkles her nose and I realize we must be close to Mary Jean O’Halloran’s locker. Despite the school custodian’s best efforts, it still smells vaguely of the manure Charlie Shuttlecock stuffed into it when he found out she cheated on him.

  You see? That’s how messed up rural Indiana is. People don’t express their anger with words; they say it with horseshit.

  Robyn is able to vault on top of the lockers in one fluid movement because she was gymnastics star in junior high.51 Years of hoisting myself out of the pool have made me strong enough to lift my own weight, but my jeans are so tight I can’t swing my leg up to take hold so I fall backward.

  I try again, jumping up first, but I don’t have enough momentum behind me. I completely biff it and land so solidly on the flat soles of my stupid Gloria Vanderbilt riding boots that the shock radiates all the way up my spine. I try a third time with similar results and a thin line of perspiration begins to bead on my forehead. Merde!

  “C’mere, babe, I’ll give you a boost,” Mike says. He puts his newspaper-issued camera down and makes a foothold out of his clasped hands, steadying them on his knee. He lifts me up so quickly52 I almost bite it again, but luckily Robyn grabs my arm to steady me. He laughs while I scramble to right myself. “You’ll never make it onto the squad if you can’t master a simple lift.”

  Ouch, burn! The fact that I’m not a cheerleader is a blight on my would-be idyllic high school existence and Mike totally knows it. We’ve discussed this at length when we talk in the darkroom every day after school. I’m an honor student, my teachers are nice, and I’m in all the best activities like newspaper and speech team and school musicals. So it’s not that I’m not known or liked—I’m just drama club popular, not Heather Mueller- cheerleader popular. And how am I going to snag a boyfriend if I’m not cheerleader popular? Yeah, I’ve got a ton of guy friends from theater, but none of them have ever made a move on me.53

  I tried to be a cheerleader when we moved here. I had excellent enthusiasm and decent moves, but I also had the stigma of being “different” so no one voted for me. Now if anyone ever asks, I simply say there’s no way I’d enjoy standing around some loud, drafty ballgame, being ogled by a stadium full of pervy fathers.

  The truth is I don’t actually want to do the work it takes to lead cheers at games. I just want the outfit. There’s something magical about our cheerleaders’ uniforms—buffed black-and-white saddle shoes with slouchy socks, pleated red skirts that show hidden black panels every time someone jumps or spins, and sweetly demure, yet form-fitting, black vests embroidered with a Vikings logo. The vests are paired with thick white turtlenecks in the winter and worn alone in the spring. Something about this outfit turns plain girls pretty and pretty girls stunning and it draws the attention of every person in the room. Even though I have no desire to do a split in front of a bunch of panting strangers, I believe in the power of clothing, so obviously I’d want to wear that which possesses mystical qualities.

  Whatever, I’ll be cheerleader popular when everyone reads the article about my fabulous European tour. I’m not going to ruminate on what I don’t have for the moment.

  Mike’s grinning when I peer down at him from my new perch atop the locker. I tell him, “Oh, my God, you’re so gay!”

  Except that he’s not, as evidenced by how he moons over me in journalism. Mike’s on the swim team so his hair has those superglossy blond streaks and his shoulders are borderline dreamy. When he wears his stylish ch
eckered Vans, a Journey concert T-shirt with contrasting baseball-jersey sleeves, and a white bandana around his neck, lots of girls find him handsome. (And last week, when he had to go to the dentist and his mom made him wear an oxford and an Izod vest, I almost got swoony before I realized it was him.)

  The thing is, he’s a sophomore. He flirts with me all the time, which makes it such a pity that no junior girl would ever date an underclassman. (C’est so robbing the cradle.)

  Oh, well. Maybe I’ll find a cute age-appropriate guy in France and he’ll fall madly in love with me because I can conjugate over five hundred French verbs. I’m, like, totally fluent. “Parlez-vous français?” he’ll ask. “Mais bien sur!” I’ll reply.

  And how radical would it be if I met some kind of minor European prince at, like, a disco and he was all hot for me because of my sexy American jeans and boss French accent? I’d return to the States ultratan (because he took me to his palace on the Riviera, naturally) and totally thin because we were always dancing and eating exotic French fruit on the beach and my Jordache would practically hang off my hips instead of constricting me so much that lunch54 is never an option. Then when I got back to school, I’d be way continental and I’d kiss Heather Mueller on both cheeks and tell her, “That’s Princess Jeni to you.” Then she’d really be envious and I’d laugh about how sorry she was for never letting me onto her precious cheerleading squad.

  I’m realistic enough to understand my royal plans might not work out, so I’ve come up with Plan B. I’ve got my eye on this one boy I met at our trip advisor’s house last weekend. His name is Tom and he’s a senior from Fort Wayne!55 He seemed kind of quiet while our tour group went through our Institute for Foreign Study Get Ready, Get Set, GO! brochures, but maybe he’s a total party animal when he’s not shoved into a tiny love seat next to his mother? (And how adorable was it that he kept his arm around her the whole time?) I can’t wait to go on our trip so I can get to know him better.

  But until I meet my prince—or get Tom to notice me—I guess I’ll be content with how popular I’ll be after my feature runs.

  Plan B

  (Jordache Jeans, Part Two)

  Hey, wanna know what doesn’t make you instantly more popular?

  Using a campus-wide publication to inform your classmates that your cheap-o-rama parents have the means to send you across the Atlantic for spring break while everyone else is going to a dirt rodeo. Maybe I should have mentioned in the article that most of the trip is covered by the scholarship I received because we hosted a foreign exchange student for three years?56 But if I had, I wouldn’t have had the column inches to include my photo. You can see my dilemma.

  I can’t fathom how a trip to Europe is cause for teasing, but today felt like seventh grade all over again, like all the hard work I put in with vent brushes and cosmetics and Seventeen magazine was for naught.

  How is it that a few mean comments can make me feel all chip-toothed again? Suddenly, instead of strolling along in my brother’s supercute fraternity letter sweatshirt, Izod shirt with a flippy collar, and excellent jeans on my way to world history, I feel like I’m on the back of the bus in seventh grade, being grilled by Kari and Jodi before I discovered contact lenses and vent brushes and they left me alone.

  Anyway, today Justine Moore was the worst out of everyone and I had a total flashback. She cornered me after English class, saying I was going to stop shaving my pits like all the Frenchies.

  My response? “Yeah, well, your boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind.”

  So maybe I’ve learned a couple of things since seventh grade.57

  All that school unpleasantness is behind me because I’m going to Europe! My mom takes me to the meeting point in a McDonald’s parking lot and I convene with the trip chaperones and the other kids from area high schools. We’re traveling by van to the airport in Chicago, then we fly to New York to meet up with students from Houston, then we all go to Germany as a group. I’m so excited it doesn’t even occur to me to grab some fries or a shake for the road.

  Normally Mom would be sniffly and sad I was leaving, but tomorrow she and Dad are using his frequent flier miles to vacation in Hawaii for the first time. I feel more than a little liberated knowing we’re going to be on opposite ends of the globe for a whole week. (I wonder if Mom isn’t equally excited, because she almost burned rubber leaving the parking lot.)

  I ride up to Chicago next to a girl named Sandy. She’s wearing a coordinated teal green warm-up suit and it’s wicked cute! She compliments my taste in jeans—Jordache are her favorite, and she brought a pair, too—and by the time we reach O’Hare we’re complete soul sisters. Sandy goes to school with Tom, so while we’re waiting for our chaperones to check us into the flight, I take the opportunity to grill her about him.

  “Do you have any classes together?” I ask, rifling through my carry-on to find my passport.

  “We both have advanced placement English with Miss Hoffman during fourth period.” Sandy grabs her passport and we hand them over to one of our chaperones.

  “Uh-huh, yeah, and?” I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of the terminal, which has only been made possible by changing into a different pair of pants. My mom insisted I’d be uncomfortable not being able to bend during the ten-hour flight, so I’m clad in a comfy pair of khakis. Oh, but trust me, I will break out the Jordache the second we hit foreign soil.

  “And what? I’m not sure what you want to know. He’s really quiet. He always has the right answer when he’s called on, though.”

  “So he’s smart and not arrogant about it—I like that. Tell me more!” I say, nodding eagerly.

  Sandy looks up at the ceiling, concentrating. “Um, once he did a book report on the life of Oscar Wilde.”

  I shrug. “Never heard of him. But I love Kim Wilde. Her ‘Kids in America’ song is one of my faves. I wonder if they’re related?” If so, this is yet another way the universe is telling me we’re made for each other. “What else? Does he play football? Basketball? Maybe he’s a swimmer? I kinda like swimmers for some reason.”

  “No . . . nope, um . . .” Sandy snaps her fingers. “He’s in the marching band, though!”

  I mull this over for a moment. “Band could be cool—does he play the drums?”

  “Negatory. The guy who plays drums lives on my street.”

  “Bummer. So . . . what kind of girls does he date?”

  Sandy begins to gather her things and stand because our group is moving to the gate. “That’s the funny thing—I can’t think of one girl in our school he’s ever dated.”

  I gasp. “Do you know what that means?”

  Sandy’s eyes open wide and she leans in close. “Tell me!”

  I look around to make sure no one else is listening in. “It means he likes girls who live out of town!”

  Even though I’m sure to meet a European prince because of my parfait français, Tom is still my Plan B.

  We sit behind Tom and this dweeby guy Brian on the flight to New York. I love how Tom looks right into Brian’s eyes while they speak—he’s so intense! I wonder what they’re talking about—maybe me?? Sandy and I can’t hear them over the roar of the jet engines. Instead of eavesdropping, we amuse ourselves by creating barf bag puppets of our dream boyfriends—Sandy makes Boy George and I make Freddie Mercury. J’adore!

  As soon as we get to JFK, I hit the ladies’ room. Sandy went to buy a New York T-shirt from the gift shop and I’m by myself. I wonder if we’re in the international terminal because everyone here is chattering in languages I’ve never heard before. Two ultrastylish girls all done up in wrapped scarves, skinny pants, and shortie boots are washing their hands at the sink. I notice their Air France bags and really take a listen to what they’re saying.

  Sacre bleu, they’re speaking French! My first authentic French people! I totally have to talk to them and show them my brilliant language skills! I run my hands over my khakis to smooth them out, adjust all the buttons with clever sayings58 on my jean
jacket, and finally sidle up to the girls, employing my most authentic accent.

  “Bonjour, mon nom est Jennifer! Je parle le français! J’aime vos chaussures! Je vais en France! Peut-être je, um, will buy vos chaussures!”59

  The girls look at each other with their elegant raised European brows, then give me the once-over, their eyes lingering on my pants. Ahh! I knew these stupid khakis were a mistake! They finally respond in rapid-fire French, and to me? It sounds exactly like this:

  “Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Blah blah blah. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Blah blah bete blah blah blah.”

  I stand there and nod pretend-knowingly.

  Um, what just happened here? This is not the kind of French we speak in Miss Knipp’s class.

  The girls appraise me once more, snicker, and walk away. It takes me a second to realize I actually recognize one of the words they’ve said.

  Bete.

  They said bete and gestured at me.

  Bete is French for “stupid.”

  So much for my cunning linguistics.

  I slump against the wall of the washroom. I guess this means even if I do meet Prince EuropeGuy, I won’t know what he’s saying to me. I’ll probably be all, I love you, too, when in fact he’s trying to tell me I have toilet paper on my shoe. If I can’t communicate with him (which I can’t because apparently I speak Miss-Knipp-Cow-Town-Indiana-style French and not real French), how will I ever have the verbal dexterity needed to trick him into buying me a pie? Or a tiara? Or a castle?