Almost Alice

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  “What is this?” we laughed, but nobody seemed to know, except that a big hand-lettered sign just inside the entrance read DOGPATCH TONIGHT.

  Some of the teachers thought it was funny, but the principal didn’t, and the custodian liked it least of all. We were pretty sure the dance committee had pulled the stunt, but finally the senior class president got on the mike and announced that anyone who caught and delivered a chicken to the custodian’s room would get free admission to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance. Within fifteen minutes, each of the dozen hens had been cornered in a stairwell or a classroom, and the school eventually settled down.

  I doubt that anyone will forget the first Sadie Hawkins Day we ever had—the morning, anyway. And when I saw Don in the hall later, he said, “I got some great pictures for the yearbook!”

  5

  Stupefyin’ Jones

  I was ready to leave the minute Scott rang the bell that evening, because I didn’t want him to have to be inside our messy house one second longer than necessary. He was grinning when I opened the door.

  “Got any chickens you need rounding up, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Scott, were you the one who let those loose at school?” I said, laughing.

  “No, but I know who did. The Edge never reveals its sources, though.”

  I realized it would be impolite not to invite him in, so I said, “Want to come in for a sec?”

  He stepped in the microscopic space just inside the door. “Wow! These are close quarters, aren’t they?”

  “Told you!” I said, and called, “Dad? Sylvia? We’re leaving.”

  They came downstairs—Dad in his bulky knit sweater and Sylvia in a turquoise sweatpants set. She had her camera.

  “Hello, Scott,” said Dad genially, shaking his hand, and Sylvia gave him a nice smile.

  “Great costumes, you guys,” she said. “Sounds like a fun evening.”

  “A new experience, anyway,” said Scott. “Nice to meet you both.”

  I didn’t know if he meant that it was me or the dance that was a new experience, but he was dressed for it, all right. He was wearing overalls over a knit polo shirt with heavy work boots on his feet.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Let me snap a picture first, and then I’ll let you go,” Sylvia said.

  We paused in the doorway for the flash. Then I threw on an old jacket with patches sewn on the sleeves, we said our good-byes, and we walked across the wood plank sidewalk on the front lawn. I guess I could be grateful I wasn’t wearing a floor-length gown, trailing in the muddy snow, but it was still humiliating. Even more so when I opened the car door and heard a girl’s voice saying, “… but in their front yard?” I knew that Christy Levin had spotted the Porta-John.

  I couldn’t see her face very well as I slid in the front seat. The light went off again as Scott closed my door, but I did get a glimpse of a brunette with a topknot on her head, finely arched eyebrows, and a bright red mouth.

  “Hey, Alice!” said Don.

  “Hi, Don. Hi, Christy,” I said, and immediately wondered why Scott had picked me up last.

  As Scott started the car, he said, “They’re in my neighborhood, so I picked them up first.”

  “Anyone heard of this band? The Yokum Hokem?” asked Christy.

  Don laughed. “Probably just a bunch of guys who change their name for every event.”

  “Did you bring your camera, or are you off duty tonight?” Scott asked him.

  “Off duty, man! Sam’s going to take the pictures,” Don said.

  Great. I was going to this dance with my crush, Scott Lynch; my ex-boyfriend, Sam Mayer, was taking pictures; and I had a date to the prom with my former boyfriend, Patrick Long. Did I even have a clue about what was really going on inside my head?

  It was a fun band, whether they had an official name or not: two fiddles, a guitar, drums, an accordion, and a harmonica player who also strummed a washboard with metal picks on his fingers.

  There were no live chickens this time, but the art class had painted a large backdrop behind the band—a log cabin with a crooked chimney, a couple pigs in the foreground, and a winding path leading up into the mountains.

  And around the edge of the gym were all sorts of fun stuff from the comic strip: a “Kickapoo Joy Juice” stand; a bowling alley with Schmoos for pins; a cave for Lonesome Polecat and Hairless Joe; a corner named Lower Slobbovia. Different members of the Drama Club wandered about the gym, dressed as Al Capp characters: Moonbeam McSwine, General Bullmoose, Pappy Yokum, Senator Phogbound, Joe Btfsplk, and Appassionata von Climax.

  Most of the girls came in Daisy Mae Scragg’s off-the-shoulder tops, paired with either tight jeans or short, tight skirts. A lot of the guys tried to look like Li’l Abner, with his big shock of hair in front. But nobody really cared. Any article of clothing with a patch on it would do.

  Pamela and Tim came the closest to looking like the real thing. Somewhere Tim had got overalls with only one strap across the shoulder.

  “Hey, Tim! Way to go!” I said, and we all clapped when they were declared the Best Dogpatch Look-Alikes—even better than Jill and Justin, who usually win the prize for any couples’ event.

  And then there was the dancing. Of all the times I’d worked with Scott on the newspaper, all the times we’d leaned over a layout or stacked bundles of newspapers in each other’s arms or sat together in the sub shop waiting for the printed copies from next door—none of those times were we face-to-face, our bodies only an inch apart, hand in hand.

  The first time he slid one hand behind my back and took my other hand in his, my heart leaped like a startled cricket. I was almost afraid he could feel it.

  When we weren’t dancing, we wandered around the gym, posed for photos with “Marryin’ Sam” (Sam Mayer), me with a short little bridal veil on my head, Scott with a coonskin cap. Sam was still friendly with me, and I’m glad, because it would have been awkward working together on the paper if he wasn’t. As long as Sam has a girlfriend, he’s fine, and he was going out with a sophomore now, who adored him.

  We watched the Jumping Frog contest and the Spittin’ contest, and Christy and I sat down in a booth to listen to Mammy Yokum give a twominute lecture called “Now That You’ve Got Your Man, What Are You Goin’ to Do with ’im?”

  Mammy Yokum was another member of the Drama Club, a short girl in a black bonnet, black fitted jacket, tight skirt, and striped stockings. She was really good. She talked with a corncob pipe dangling out one side of her mouth.

  “This har’s mah advice,” she said. “Keep his stomach full, his hair cut, his toenails trimmed, his bed warm, and his dog fed, and ya’ll won’t have no trouble.”

  “And if he’s out chasing other women?” Christy asked, to keep her going.

  “Honey, he run so long and so fast afore you caught ’im, he’s not about to go runnin’ agin,” Mammy Yokum said.

  We paid her with the “Rasbuckniks” that were given out as we entered the gym. The sign said that one Rasbucknik was worth nothing, and a bunch was worth even less due to the trouble of carrying them around.

  We were about to try on some “Wolf Gal” fashions when Sean Murphy, chairman of the dance committee, took the mike, and a drumroll got the kids’ attention.

  “Hey, y’all,” he shouted. “How ya doin’?” And after a few introductory jokes he said he was about to announce an unannounced event. We quieted down, and he continued: “As you know, Sadie Hawkins Day was established to help every gal get her man. Now, I don’t know how many of you guys was roped and hog-tied into comin’ or how many of you came willingly—eagerly, even. But it wouldn’t be Sadie Hawkins Day without a bona fide, gen-u-ine, all-leather, one hundred percent natural Sadie Hawkins Day race!”

  We all looked around, wondering if we were going to have to chase our dates.

  “But relax, men,” Sean continued. “You guys out there have already been caught. I want y’all to stand back now, clear a big open space—the whole basketball co
urt, to be exact—’cause Earthquake McGoon here, the world’s dirtiest wrassler …” He stepped aside as a rough-looking guy walked through the gym door behind him, holding his arms up in a victory salute. “… is going to be chased by the one and only, the most beautiful, most gorgeous Stupefyin’ Jones!”

  The gym door opened again, and in came a girl in a long black wig, sleekly curled, and a skimpy dress made of leaves or something. The plunging neckline exposed the top of her bulging breasts.

  All the guys whistled and clapped.

  I could only stare. Pamela, standing a few feet away, was staring too. Who was it? Somehow she looked familiar… .

  And then Pamela gasped: “Omigod! It’s Elizabeth!”

  It was.

  There are some things just too hard to believe. The breasts, for one! But there she stood, barefoot, one hand on her hip, looking seductively out over the crowd.

  “Now, we all know that Stupefyin’ Jones, according to Al Capp,” Sean went on, “was so drop-dead gorgeous that she could literally freeze men in their tracks, just at the sight of her.”

  Here Earthquake McGoon glanced over at Liz and immediately stood motionless, mouth hanging open, eyes unblinking.

  “So you might think,” said Sean, as McGoon began to breathe again, “that she could have almost any man she wanted in Dogpatch. But sometimes there’s a shortage of men, and even the most beautiful, the most voluptuous …”—here Liz let her fingers slide slowly down her body as Pamela and I shrieked with laughter—“… is liable to get a little desperate.” Liz’s feet pawed at the ground, and she licked her lips as she leaned toward Earthquake McGoon.

  “So this is it, folks. The big race! Earthquake McGoon, in a race for his life and his bachelorhood, versus the beautiful, the sexy, the fabulous Stupefyin’ Jones! Let’s hear it, everybody!”

  We all cheered and whooped like mad, but … We still couldn’t believe it. Elizabeth? Why? How? When? Who had persuaded her?

  Everyone backed up a little and jockeyed for a good place to watch the race.

  “Ready?” Sean said. “Take your places.”

  Earthquake McGoon scratched his belly and moved a couple yards in front of Liz.

  “Set!” Sean called.

  Both McGoon and Jones bent in the usual racer’s stance.

  “Go!” Sean yelled, and somebody fired a blank.

  McGoon started running, Jones close behind, and it was obvious that this was a comedy act they had rehearsed. He would stumble, she’d almost catch him, he’d speed up, she’d be close behind.… Around the gym they went, Sean keeping up a commentator’s rap: “And Jones is gaining, she’s gaining, folks … around the bend and … Oops! Jones almost stumbles, but she’s off again, and … Wait! Where’s McGoon? Where the heck did he go?”

  Detouring around the bleachers, McGoon was in and out of the crowd, everyone shrieking, urging them on. Once or twice Liz almost had him, but McGoon escaped her grasp. At long last, she caught him by the back of his pants, and down he went, yelping, braying, howling, pleading.

  When he finally lay still, Stupefyin’ Jones bent down to kiss him. Then—her face full of revulsion—she stood up again, holding her nose, and with a rejecting wave of her hand, walked away.

  Everybody cheered again, whistling and clapping.

  “Can you believe this?” I cried to Pamela. “Can you believe her?”

  “She never said one word!” Pamela gasped.

  “Isn’t she the girl who went with you to do that feature story last year?” asked Scott.

  “Yes!” I said. “I still can’t believe this.”

  “A girl of many talents,” said Scott.

  “And she just joined the girls’ track team!” I said in amazement.

  “Not surprised,” said Scott.

  What was it like for Liz, out there in front of everybody, getting applause, everyone cheering? I wondered. For a moment I wished I were Liz, yet I hated to think I was jealous.

  While the race had been going on, the buffet table opened behind us. Now people were moving toward the food, and I told Scott I’d join him in a minute. But first Pamela and I just had to find Liz, and we saw her, all right, with kids gathered around her, Liz all smiles.

  All we could say when we grabbed her was “Liz!”

  The three of us laughed, and her eyes just sparkled.

  “You knew all the time you’d be here?” I asked.

  “No, only a week ago,” she said. Then she told us how Sean had called her and said they were looking for a girl from the track team to play Stupefyin’ Jones, and someone had suggested her.

  “But I just joined a month ago,” she’d told him, and Sean had said never mind, he’d seen her picture. Would she do it? “My first thought was no, because I’d never heard of the character,” Liz continued, “but when he said she was drop-dead gorgeous and all I had to do was run, I thought, ‘I can do that!’ So then we practiced, and I had a ball. It was so much fun! And it didn’t matter if anyone laughed at me, because they were supposed to laugh.”

  “You were great!” Pam said.

  “I was mostly afraid I’d fall, but they said that whatever happened, just make it part of the act, and it worked.”

  “Wow, Liz. What a part!” I told her. “You’re a natural comedian! But …” My eyes dropped to her breasts. “How …?”

  She caught my arm and whispered, “Shhh. It’s a push-up bra.”

  “Well, it … and you were fabulous,” said Pamela.

  Some guys were coming over to talk to Liz, so Pam went back to find Tim and I joined Scott in the buffet line. There were buffalo wings and smoked sausages, biscuits, corn, and blueberry pie. We sat on folding chairs along one side of the gym, and other kids crawled up in the bleachers. I hadn’t had a chance to really talk much with Christy, so I took the chair next to hers. But she and Don were discussing a foreign film they’d seen, so I didn’t have anything to add to the conversation.

  Scott and I made another round of the gym, looking for things worth mentioning in a write-up. We stopped at the GSA table to look at the group’s new brochure, and Scott talked with Phil and Lori about how many schools have a Gay/ Straight Alliance.

  Then the music started again and people began dancing. Christy and Don went back out on the floor. I went to the restroom and rinsed my mouth, put on fresh lip gloss, relined my eyes. When I went back upstairs, the music was slower, a bit more romantic. When Scott led me onto the floor, I waited for that little squeeze of the hand that meant he was enjoying himself, the tightening of his arm around my waist, an almost imperceptible tugging, pulling me toward him… .

  It didn’t happen, though. He smiled at me a lot, but it also seemed as though his eyes looked over my shoulder much of the time. He was polite, he was gallant, he was all the things a date should be. But I could tell he just wasn’t all that excited by me.

  A half hour before the dance was to end, he told me that Don and Christy wanted to leave, did I mind? I guess I didn’t. I think I was ready for the evening to end. But it didn’t.

  “We’re going for coffee, Alice. That okay?” Scott asked. “Starbucks is still open.”

  “Sure,” I said. At least they had invited me. They could have taken me home first and gone out, just the three of them, and talked about what a drag I’d been, I suppose. So I put on my happy face and ordered a caramel latte with extra cream. Why did I get the feeling that somebody else was in control of the evening? That I was sort of here by default, because I’d paid for Scott’s ticket?

  I guess Christy’s the type of girl you’d call handsome, not beautiful. An interesting face. Deep-set eyes topped by those carefully plucked eyebrows. A fine thin nose. Exceptionally white teeth. I wondered what she thought of me.

  “Hope Sam got some good shots,” Scott said to me over his triple mocha. “There were sure plenty of photo ops. We’ll do a double-page spread on the dance.”

  “You write for the paper too?” Christy asked me, meaning that Scott had probabl
y not talked about me at all on the way over. Maybe I wasn’t worth mentioning. A byline wasn’t exactly an attention-getter, nothing like running around the gym in a push-up bra.

  Scott answered for me. “She sure does. Alice wrote that ‘City at Night’ piece last fall. Oops. We’re supposed to keep that one anonymous.”

  “The article about two girls out on the town at night?” said Christy. “It was sort of … anticlimactic, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, it wasn’t fiction, you know,” said Scott.

  “It had its moments,” said Don. “Especially when that car full of guys stopped… .”

  Christy just smiled at me indulgently. Then, turning to Scott, she said, “Any word from colleges yet?”

  “Nope,” he said. “I’ve applied to four, so we’ll see what happens.”

  “I already know where I’m going,” said Don. “Montgomery College. My dad says it doesn’t really matter where you go the first two years as long as your grades are good. Get an associate degree, then transfer to a really good school, graduate from there. Save a heap of money.”

  “That’s what my brother did, and he’s getting his master’s this spring,” I volunteered, glad to be part of the conversation.

  “Really,” said Christy. “What’s his major?”

  “Philosophy,” I told her.

  “I’m impressed,” said Don.

  “So am I,” I said, and everyone smiled.

  But that was my last contribution for the evening, because the talk turned to student loans, where to get the best deals on used cars, then a film festival that all three of them had attended in Baltimore. Somehow the conversation always seemed about two steps ahead of me, just beyond my reach. Whatever I felt I had to add seemed ordinary, even juvenile, at times. So I kept quiet.

  Was it just me feeling insecure? Or did one extra year of high school make that much difference? I wondered.

  I’d have to describe the end of the evening as uneventful. Nobody said anything rude. I couldn’t even say I was ignored. It was just that they could sort of take me or leave me, like it was okay if I was there and okay if I wasn’t.