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

by Jen Lancaster

  After Curtis’s confession, we all get a lot more real with each other. We open up and share the kind of confidences we couldn’t admit to our friends at home. I feel like for the first time I see who I am inside, and realize I’m more than just a collection of artfully blended eye shadow and neatly trimmed bangs and skinny jeans.

  The rest of the trip passes in a similarly alcohol- and pastry-fueled unchaperoned haze. I climb the Eiffel Tower—there’s more vomit on the observation deck than I might have imagined. I see the Mona Lisa—it’s smaller than I thought. I narrowly avoid eating horsemeat, but I make up for it by wolfing down a dozen éclairs. I am summarily mocked by a border guard in Luxembourg. Apparently, I’m wrong. It is a country or at least the guard seemed to think so. I struggle to explain to a French pharmacist that my friend needs to buy mini-pads because she has a “red river in her pants.” And I learn that my French is fantastic after six glasses of champagne.

  I never do have my big European romance. But in the course of opening my mind to new possibilities, I figure out there’s someone I really like and that person’s been there the entire time and I never even noticed.

  Wanna know who it is?

  It’s me. I found out that I really like me.

  I’m sitting on the plane bound for New York and all of the kids on my tour are passed out in the seats around me. We had a huge all-night party in the hotel on our final day in Belgium. We even convinced Tom and Brian to drink a bottle of Stella Artois with us! They both practically gagged when they took their first sips and then asked for water, but hey, it’s a start.

  I should be sleeping right now, but I can’t. My pants are too tight. And these aren’t my jeans; they’re my khakis. Every pair I packed seems to be a little smaller. Somehow all the cheese and wine and croissants with extra butter have had an effect on my waistline. Living the high life? Has its price. When I get home, I’m probably going to have to retire my Jordache jeans for good.

  But that’s okay. Being on this trip has given me more confidence, like, real confidence and not just the kind that comes from perfectly feathered bangs.

  And you know what?

  I bet maybe, just maybe the world won’t end if I go out with a sophomore.

  Clipped Wings

  (Pfft, Who Cares Because I May as Well Be in Prison Stripes)

  Jennifer -

  Here’s the ten dollars you requested for gas. In return, the following tasks will be complete when I get home from work:

  Vacuum pool and clean out filters. Bag up debris and place in trash—do not dump cricket carcasses on the cement again. Use metal brush to scrub algae from steps.

  Cut grass in front and back and bag clippings. The lawn is already healthy and does not need to be “mulched” again.

  Wash station wagon and vacuum interior.

  Dust and mop family room.

  Bring trash barrels back into garage.

  Unload and load dishwasher.

  —Your Father

  Hey, Dad,

  Why not just have me hook a plow around my shoulders and till the field beyond our fence while you’re at it?

  By the way, I bet the Department of Labor would be very interested in seeing the amount of work you expect a seventeen-year-old to accomplish for ten measly dollars.

  I shall be calling their offices the moment I locate their number.

  —Your Daughter66

  “Jeni?”

  “Jeni?”

  “Jeni.”

  “Jeni Lancaster! Are you even with us today?” My advanced placement teacher snaps me out of my reverie by tapping me on the shoulder. I respond by practically jumping out of my skin.

  Instead of listening, I’ve been gazing out at the atrium across the hall. Winter’s finally over and tulips have come out and the spindly gray trees are leafy and green. I can’t help but admire the metamorphosis—spring’s putting on quite the Hollywood production. It’s almost like Mother Nature knows what a big deal this year is for me and she’s pulling out all the stops.

  Normally I’m more attentive because this is my favorite class, but given the weather and my looming graduation, I have to wonder why we’re even bothering with Macbeth. I already got into the college of my choice67 and I tested out of my English requirement. At this point, I couldn’t care less whether or not Lady Macbeth removes all the crud from her hands. Jesus, Lady, why don’t you try some lemon juice and quit being such a drama queen already?

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. H., I was looking at the flowers. Aren’t they beautiful?” I gesture toward the tree covered in blossoms. “What is that pink one, like a magnolia or cherry tree or something?”

  “My prom dress is that same color!” exclaims Rachel from the second row.

  For God’s sake, Rachel, enough about your dress already.

  Everyone in here knows about your dress. The janitor knows about your dress. The lunch lady won’t look you in the eye for fear of hearing about your dress. You’ve talked about nothing but prom for the past two months. I’m not sure who in this class can say what the Three Witches represent, but all of us can describe how your boyfriend Ty’s already reserved a white tux with a pink ruffled shirt and a boutonnière with a pink-dipped white carnation surrounded by a small but tasteful array of baby’s breath, which he will wear to a pre-prom dinner at the Wharf in Fort Wayne, where you will order the rainbow trout because sometimes Ty fishes for trout with his dad when they go on vacation, which is so cool that he has a nice relationship with his father because that means his dad trusts Ty enough to loan him his fully restored antique white Ford truck, which is awesome because Ty’s planning to lay a blanket down in the back so when the after-prom is over and before you go to Nick’s Café for biscuits and gravy (on which you prefer extra pepper), you’ll drive out to the woods by the reservoir, where you will allow him to go to third base if and only if you are elected to prom court, which you won’t be because everyone hates you and your incessant prom chatter so damn much right now.

  Or maybe I’m just mad because I’ve been shopping for dresses for a month and I’ve yet to find one that fits?

  Without even turning toward the atrium, Mrs. H. returns to her own desk at the front of the room and sits down heavily. Very slowly, clearly enunciating every word, she says, “Miss Lancaster, that would be a germane question if this were a botany class. However—”

  Stupid show-off Ray Harper in the front row corrects her. “Actually, Mrs. H., botany is the study of plants. Dendrology is the study of trees. If you want to get technical, dendrology is the study of all wooden plants including shrubs and lianas.” No one says anything, but all of us are thinking, Lianas? This is exactly why you’re flying solo to the prom, nerd-o. “The difference between dendrology, and, say, simple plant taxonomy is—”

  Mrs. H. interrupts, “The question I originally posed, Jeni, was about Macduff attempting to dethrone Macbeth. What was his motivation?”

  Julie sits next to me. Sometimes I eat lunch with her and our mutual friend Mary when my boyfriend’s absent. We girls are partial to the bread sticks at Noble Romans.68 We have an open campus at lunch, so we can eat anywhere within walking distance. We used to be able to drive during lunch but too many kids were coming back the second half of the day drunk or pregnant. If we stay in the cafeteria, I’ll normally have Boston cream pie or an ice cream sandwich. (My mother thinks I’m having salad. Ha!)

  Julie lives on a farm but totally plans to leave this cow town and dance in MTV videos during her summers away from agriculture school. She interjects, “Hey, wouldn’t Macduff be an awesome name for a band?”

  “Ooh, or one of those dogs with the really hairy faces?” I add.

  “Yes!” Christy exclaims from her seat next to the windows. “You could call him Duffy for short—how cute is that?” Christy and I have recently become friendly because we’re going to be in the Miss Cow Town pageant together. She and I do an across-the-classroom high five.

  Mrs. H. removes her glasses and rubs her ey
es. She places her fingers on her temples and stays that way until the bell rings a couple of minutes later. I respect Mrs. H. for at least trying to engage us seniors these last few weeks of school. The rest of my teachers started showing filmstrips days ago.

  While we shuffle out of the classroom, Julie slips me a quiz scratched on a ratty piece of loose-leaf paper.69 “Do this in astronomy and then pass it to Mary before seventh period.”

  I settle into a seat in the farthest reaches of the planetarium, and as soon as the lights go down I unfold the quiz. It’s full of all the usual questions—e.g., Who’s your favorite band?70 and What’s your favorite show?71 The quiz is kind of boring because who really cares if I like croutons or bacon more? (Maybe I don’t even want a salad, you know?)

  What surprises me, though, is when asked to choose between Scarlett O’Hara and Marilyn Monroe, no one else has selected Scarlett. I’m not surprised that Julie picked Marilyn. When the “Material Girl” video came out, she taught herself every single one of Madonna’s moves. (She wanted to buy Madonna’s BOY TOY belt at Merry-Go-Round but her mom wouldn’t let her.) So Julie’s a little obsessed, but I don’t understand how everyone else could choose Marilyn. That’s insane!

  Come on, Scarlett fought to keep her land and stole from dead soldiers and made a set of curtains look fierce! All Marilyn did was stand over a subway grate, show her underpants, and make out with the president—and look where it got her. Granted, one time I was doing a quiz and the question was what famous person would I like to meet and I chose Marilyn, but only because I thought she needed a friend who’d give her good advice. I’d be all, Why don’t you get back with that guy Arthur? He seemed supernice. And lower your voice, you sound kind of dumb. Also, blond hair and black eyebrows? Oh, honey, no.

  I’m still grumbling about the Marilyn/Scarlett conundrum when I arrive at my locker after seventh period. My boyfriend Jimmy is already waiting for me, holding my jean jacket. Jimmy is kind of awesome . . . and not just because he does whatever I tell him, even though sometimes when we go to Baskin-Robbins I make him buy me a whole Grasshopper pie. (He has to order his own sundae, because that pie is mine.) I might marry him, but not until I’m at least thirty because I want to finish college and become an anchorperson in one of the major markets first. I’m thinking New York or LA, but Boston would do in a pinch.

  I wanted to be an actor for a long time, mostly because I could so see myself on TV. I decided to consider newscasting, though, after my drama coach explained to me that I couldn’t sing, like, at all, despite being “one of the better thespians” in our school. Not “the best,” just “one of the better.” I figured that was grown-up talk for “don’t quit your day job,” so television broadcasting/telecommunications became my Plan B. I’ve been conducting interviews in the bathroom mirror ever since I was tall enough to see myself in it, so it is kind of the ideal career for me. When that camera finally rolls, I’ll be so ready!

  I got into college at both Purdue and Indiana, but all year long I’ve been gearing up to attend IU because of their excellent telecommunications program. Or I was, until I spent the weekend in my brother’s fraternity house at Purdue for Grand Prix. The way I look at it, I can be a telecom major anywhere; I only already know a fraternity house full of guys on one campus. 72

  Jimmy isn’t pleased about my attending Purdue because he wasn’t accepted. I keep telling him not to worry about it because I totally love him and we’re never going to break up. The thing is, I’d be a bad girlfriend if I didn’t remind him that if he was going to be so serious about college, then maybe he shouldn’t have cut all those classes and gotten himself kicked out of Catholic school last year. I’d like to date a guy in a fraternity, so not only will he need to find a college, like, now, he should make sure he gets in somewhere with a strong Greek system. But whatever, I’m confident we’re meant to be together, like Maddie and David on Moonlighting . Everything’s going to work out fine and in thirteen years or so we’ll get married and I’ll be Mrs. Jeni Lancaster. (I’m keeping my name—it sounds more broadcasty.)

  Jimmy tries to kiss me when I approach but I stop him. “Marilyn Monroe or Scarlett O’Hara?”

  “Who and what?”

  Okay, if he’s my soul mate and we’re going to be together forever, he’s going to have to get a little better at interpreting what I say on the first go. “I said, Marilyn Monroe or Scarlett O’Hara?”

  “To do what?”

  I glower at him. “To take to prom.”

  “I’m going to prom with you.” Sigh. Sometimes I worry about him not being so smart, but then he buys me pie and I forget.

  I grab my jacket from him, slam the locker, and wave the quiz at him. “Would you rather the very blond, breathy, vapid Marilyn or the ass-kicking, frankly-my-dear-you-do-give-a-damn Scarlett?”

  Without hesitation, he replies, “Marilyn. Definitely Marilyn.”

  Oh no.

  This may well be a breach no pie can fill.

  “Let’s get the peach one,” I say.

  “Jennifer, you haven’t even tried that one on. Stop being ridiculous,” clucks my mother.

  Whenever I disagree with anyone in my family I’m not wrong, I’m ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous when I beg not to have to clean the pool until my brother’s finished mowing even though he freely admits to aiming the clippings toward open water. When he plows the strip right by the diving board, he can actually bank half a bagful into the deep end; I’ve watched him do it.

  And apparently I’m not a savvy young entrepreneur when I take the ten dollars I earn for washing the car and run the car through the five-dollar car wash. Honestly, the car wash is far more thorough than I could ever be with just a hose, bucket, and bottle of dish detergent. The car’s spotless, I turn a five-dollar profit, and can spend the two hours I save working on my tan. 73

  Ridiculous?

  Yeah, ridiculous like a fox.

  According to my mother, I was being ridiculous when I argued against driving hours out of our way to pass through Knoxville on our way home from spring break in 1982. Why waste time gawking at a world’s fair that wasn’t set to open for months? We were all tired and I had to go back to school the next day, so voluntarily adding time to the trip seemed dumb. I wasn’t ridiculous—the whole enterprise was. I drilled her as we loaded up our station wagon, What are we going to do there, interview the construction workers? Are we going to have them tell us about all the exhilarating rides and fascinating attractions and delicious carnival-type treats we aren’t going to experience because we’re two months early? Why do we want to see a closed, half-built amusement park?

  But I was thirteen, and thus not a credible source. Plus I was already grounded for when we got home because I refused to eat the travel snacks my mother had packed. (Hey, I can’t help it if the combination of onion rolls and marshmallow fluff makes me queasy.) We headed to the fair anyway, driving hours out of the way to pass by a closed, half-built amusement park full of construction trailers and men in hard hats. It was precisely as much fun as I predicted.

  I am decidedly not being ridiculous right now. But if I engage my mother in an argument, chances are I’ll end up with no prom dress at all and nothing to do on prom night but watch TV with my parents. So I counter with the most benign argument I can muster. “The shiny white fabric washes me out. I’m all pasty.”

  I try to make my point with a smile in my voice. I have to do my best not to be a smart-ass because my mother says only cheap girls have sassy mouths. My dad hates when I’m sarcastic and takes every opportunity to quash my burgeoning cynicism. He drove this message home particularly hard during the Great Michael Jackson Debate.

  “Sissy’s mom will take us up there and drive us back as soon as it’s over. I’m not going to be joyriding with a bunch of teenagers—I’ll be with a parent. What’s the big deal?” I reasoned.

  “You’re not going out of town,” my father said.

  “Sissy is cheap,” my mother added. Anyone w
ho wears black eyeliner is cheap, in my mother’s opinion.

  “Come on! The concert’s supposed to be legendary! This is the Victory Tour—Michael’s gonna be doing songs from the Jackson Five plus performing stuff off the Thriller album. ‘ABC’ and ‘Beat It’? ‘Billie Jean’ and ‘Never Can Say Goodbye’? Performed on the same stage? I’m talking the greatest show ever by the greatest group ever.”

  My father waved his hand dismissively. “Elvis Presley was a great singer. Michael Jackson sounds like a little girl.”

  My dad saw one of Elvis’s first shows in California. He still talks about how crazy the audience went and how random girls stood on his shoulders without even asking permission. Come on, I could be a shoulder girl at the concert! Then maybe someday an old Michael Jackson fan can tell his daughters about how I jumped on his back. Surely my dad understands the magic of being part of the crowd. The show will be just like Woodstock, only, you know, more explodey. “History’s going to be made on this tour. Don’t you want me to be a part of history?”

  Dad shook his head and opened his newspaper. “No.”

  “I saw Sissy smoking the last time I picked you up after school. I don’t like you being around smokers.” Then she mouthed the word “hard.” In my mom’s book, being hard is even worse than being cheap.

  I may or may not have stomped my foot at this point. “Every single person in your entire extended family smokes,” I argued. “Should I not be around my aunts and uncles and Grampa? Are they cheap? Are they hard?”