It didn’t matter. I loved getting breakfast with Paul, even though it happened less often since I’d been demoted to second-place gal pal after The Girlfriend (who, being a musical theatre star, of course happened to be an excellent dancer and singer, the universe having a wicked sense of humor).
“Hey, Paul,” I said when he showed up and I’d opened the car door. I smelled the faint mixture of his coconut shampoo and piney deodorant. My heart jumped up in my chest like it’d hit a speed bump. This did not ordinarily happen when I talked to Paul. It was just Paul.
“Hey, J. Ready to carbo-load?”
I nodded and hopped in beside him.
“So I have to admit it,” he said as we pulled away. “Your most recent mix CD was pretty excellent. You’ve set the bar even higher. I’m not sure what I’m going to find in response….”
“It’s hard to compete with early Afrobeat mixed with some of the greatest hits coming out of 1961 Detroit, I know….”
“I’ll triumph, though. You’re going to be dazzled, Janice. Oh, and I really liked the South African song you put on there.” He gestured to his CD player.
I inhaled the familiar scent of Paul’s car. It smelled like him — the shampoo and deodorant — plus coffee. There were pita chips and splashes of now-dried coffee seeped into the upholstery. Paul had a thing for eating while driving.
“So,” he said, “what’s the plan this evening?”
“Well, I think Margo and I might be going to that party that Jimmy Denton and some of the other senior drama guys are having.”
Paul kept his eyes forward and nodded, but I could see a frown deepening the crease in his forehead. “What, Dad, you don’t approve?”
He sighed, shaking his head. We were at a stoplight, so he turned to face me. “No, I think Jimmy’s fine, it’s just … I heard he’s been in a bad mood lately. He just has some issues he’s working through, that’s all….”
ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
“Issues”? Issues! This had definitely become the most vague and yet one of the most frequently used terms of my generation.
“Besides,” Paul added, “a bunch of us were talking about going to the movies tonight. You interested?”
I shrugged. I figured The Girlfriend would surely be there, and the thought of going to the movies with perfect, porcelain Susannah was almost as appealing as looking for extraterrestrial life-forms with Chuck Healey.
As if he weren’t thinking about it, Paul put his hand on my forearm. With the too-bright sun pouring in through the car windows and his fingers on my skin, I felt time slow down. He was touching my arm, and his hand was radiant with warmth like a miniature sun. He crinkled his crinkly brown eyes at me. Kind eyes. He worried about me! And I loved his hand on my arm.
ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
There is an interesting tradition of belief in the power of the “healing touch.” It involves various energies that I don’t really understand. I’d previously thought this idea sounded funny and quaint, but whatever was radiating from Paul’s hand, I was becoming a believer.
Then he took his hand away. The elastic stretch of the moment snapped back, and we were back in the sickly coffee-smelling car, and the stoplight was changing, and there was no more touching, and — oh, God — I realized why his hand had jerked back — oh, God — repulsed.
The Mutant Hair.
There, in the unforgiving natural light, I saw it. The Mutant Hair spiraled annoyingly out of one juicy brown mole on my left arm. It was glistening and dark, whereas the rest of my arm was downed lightly with blond. It was a man’s hair, a weird pubic sprout coiling from that cursed mole. Normally I kept track of The Mutant Hair and jerked it from its mole as soon as it was long enough, but I’d been forgetful. Now Paul had seen it and surely thought I was disgusting. Repulsive. A manly ogre. Only he was too polite to say so.
“Thanks, Paul. A movie sounds good, but I already talked about the party with Margo. Maybe next time?” I said it cheerily, as if nothing odd had happened, but my stomach sank like I’d gone down a huge roller coaster.
“Sure, next time,” he said lightly. “There’s probably more for a young anthropologist to behold at Jimmy’s party anyway.”
I nodded, cradling my arm awkwardly on my lap so as to hide The Mutant Hair, silently vowing to retreat into hermitude as soon as possible: Janice Wills, the secular anthropologist-nun.
We parked outside the Melva Bagel Shop, but before we could get out of the car, he looked at me, a little shyly.
“I’ve missed seeing you,” he said. “I’ve missed talking to you. I realized that after we ran into each other during lunch the other day.”
I swallowed and simply nodded.
Paul looked even more embarrassed. This, for some reason, made me feel slightly better.
“Did you make a decision about the Miss Livermush Pageant?” He forced a little laugh. “And the lucky gentleman who will be your escort?”
When he asked this, I imagined Susannah, The Lovely Victorian, winning Melva’s Miss Livermush. I saw her being escorted by a Victorian Paul in a top hat. This image made me want to vomit — and I am ordinarily a fan of top hats.
“Oh, I’m participating,” I said. “It’ll be my greatest research yet. But as for an escort, it’s been hard to decide. All the handsomest gentlemen in the land have been vying for my affection. They fell in love with my beauty, charm, and Miss Livermush grace — just like they always do. I’ll have to pick my winning escort soon, but there may be a few duels first, with all these guys fighting over my favor.” I sighed. “Yeah, right.”
“Janice, you’re always so hard on people … yourself included,” Paul said, looking kindly but steadily into my eyes.
“It’s the way the world works,” I said, exasperated with him.
He shook his head. “Not for everybody. Here, I made you this. It’s just sort of a joke, but I thought you might enjoy it,” he said, handing me a typed sheet of paper. This is what it said:
I stopped reading, letting the paper drop from my hand.
“You think I don’t participate, I just watch. You think I’m hypercritical,” I said. My eyes were watering.
“Janice, I was just teasing. I thought you’d think it was funny — you know, a little anthropology report on you, I —”
“No, it’s not a big deal,” I said, feeling stupid and terrible. “I don’t even care.”
Susannah, the beautiful Victorian, was probably incapable of observing anyone’s flaws. To her, Stephen Shepherd’s breath probably smelled like damask roses.
He picked the sheet of paper up, eyeing it uncertainly.
“You’re not going to finish it?” he asked. “I think you’d like the rest more.”
“No,” I said, fearing that I might break into full tears, “another time. I’m sure it’s funny.”
“Well,” Paul said, frowning as he folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “I also wanted to talk to you about your plans…. Susannah and I —”
“I don’t care what you and Susannah are doing. Y’all have fun being artistic and pure and kind. You and Susannah just have a blast.” Now I was definitely on the brink of crying, but I didn’t want to look any stupider in front of him. So I got out of the car and walked. I walked the rest of the way to school, and my stomach ached with either a very specific, gnawing hunger for bagels, or else just plain humiliation.
ANTHROPOLOGICAL
OBSERVATION #7:
Instead of cowrie shells, beauty and social prominence are the two most important forms of currency in high school hallways.
When fourth period ended, I felt a burst of, if not joy, relief. I’d been thinking about my encounter with Paul all day and ways to escape school. It was Friday afternoon, after all. By Friday afternoons, everyone at Melva High School acted like they’d been popping caffeine pills. Not the teachers — the teachers observed us with tired manatee faces, having long ago given up the day. The students, however, were buzzing, jazzed, hum
ming with energy — the only time the Melva Hummingbird mascot made any real sense to me. The Hip-Hoppers had impromptu freestyle rap battles in the hallways during class changes. The Pretties and Beautiful Rich Girls switched to evening makeup after lunch-time. The Jocks and Jockettes gnashed their teeth and slapped one another more, ever battle-ready. Even the Bleakest Geeks shouted to one another their plans for weekend evenings of pizza and online gaming. Everyone spoke like his or her mouth had become a megaphone.
ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
In the American high school, one must look his or her best on Friday. This is when all plans of any importance are finalized.
I met up with Margo in the hallway, and we picked our way through the stream of students to our final classes of the day.
“So, we’re definitely going tonight, right?” Margo asked me, ducking out of the way of Nicole Petty, who was belting out a country power-ballad as she traipsed down the hall. I knew Margo was referring to Jimmy Denton’s party. My heart quickened a little at the thought. Before I could respond, though, we were interrupted.
TR stood directly in front of us, blocking our path. She twirled a honey-colored strand of hair, blinking her large, teal blue eyes. She was a manga geek’s fantasy brought to life.
“So are you going to Jimmy’s party tonight?” she asked. Was I hallucinating, or was she smiling sweetly at Margo? Had her tone once again moved from Mocking to somewhere between Sassy and Charmingly Coy? It almost seemed like she was trying to be nice — like she was trying to win Margo over.
“Yeah, Janice and I were planning on it,” Margo answered.
“Oh, cool!” TR brightened. “Well, I wanted to see if you needed a ride. There’s room for one more with Tabitha and Casey and me.”
Margo hesitated. I watched her jaw twitch. A frown flickered over TR’s face.
“Oh, yeah,” TR added. “And my older brother works at Michelangelo’s. He said he’d totally hook us up with a fancy meal beforehand, maybe even a little wine! Girls’ night out. I keep saying to Tabitha and Casey that I really want you to start hanging out with us.”
Michelangelo’s was the most pretentious and delicious restaurant in Melva. I figured that “Michelangelo’s” was the only Italian name they could come up with since “Bella Roma” was already taken by a greasy pizza buffet. There were tiny, expensive, unpronounceable Italian dishes — a complete anomaly in Melva. And tiramisu for dessert. I loved tiramisu. I knew that Margo did too.
“Wow,” Margo said, “that does sound good. Let me talk with Janice, though. See what our plans are. Maybe we could just meet y’all or something.”
“Cool. Let me know.” And with that, TR turned in a shimmer of golden hair and good clothes, slipping down the hallway.
Something in TR’s voice — a pleading quality, a desperation to make Margo like her — made me wonder if she were not lonely too. A bitchy, beautiful, “popular” girl who occasionally needed to win a pretty new friend for her collection? Just to reassure herself that she could make people like her when she set her mind to it?
We picked up our pace, opening the side door leading out toward the vocational and arts buildings. I stole glances at Margo’s perfectly styled head. Was she seriously considering this invitation? Would she do that to me?
“Ha. As if you’d go with them! Ha!” I said, forcing hilarity in my voice. Margo just looked at me.
Maybe TR wasn’t looking for reassurance. Maybe she was just a Friend Fadder. Like ducklings to bread crumbs, Friend Fadders were drawn to who- or whatever was momentarily attracting the most attention.
“Ha!” I said again. “Ha! Like you’d suddenly become all best-friendy with TR!”
Picking at a loose thread, Margo shook her head as if this were the most improbable idea in the world.
“Janice,” she said, “you’re my best friend. Just because TR is being nice all of a sudden …”
“I know, I know,” I said, giving Margo a little half-hug squeeze.
“And maybe it’s not that. Maybe TR’s really, truly trying to be nice — I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. But I’m also not a moron.”
“I know,” I said again. “But really! As if you’d go with them! I mean, she’s always bringing up your sister and the baby —”
“So? So what?” Margo interjected, her voice cold. “It’s not like I’m ashamed. Let her bring it up all she wants.”
“I know!” I said one more time. “That’s not what I mean…. It’s not embarrassing at all, I just think she means to —”
“Janice,” Margo said. “I don’t need you to protect me or anything.”
We were silent for a minute. Then I forced a laugh, just to make things feel more normal.
“Oh, that reminds me. Has TR ever taken her shoes off around you?” I asked Margo. “Her feet smell just like the rotting possum we once found in our garage. Seriously — her feet are like two dead animals! I think she has a legitimate Stink Disorder or something. Maggot Feet. Ha!”
Margo looked at me again. I hoped it was because I was so hilarious.
“Wow, Janice,” she said. “Wow. Please never point out my faults to me, will you? You’re deadly.”
I felt cold all of a sudden, my armpits gone clammy. The list Paul had made for me flashed in my mind, the word “hypercritical” bannering across my mental movie screen.
“It’s just honesty, Margo,” I said, my voice gone pleading and sharp. “Anthropology requires honest observation.”
“Janice, you just compared TR’s feet to a rotting animal. How’s that advancing the cause of anthropology?”
“Yeah, but TR’s said all sorts of stuff! Remember when she said you dressed like a schizophrenic homeless woman?”
“That’s not the point,” she said.
“I’m only being truthful,” I said. “Someone has to speak the truth here in Melva, whether it’s complimentary or not.”
“There’s truth,” Margo said evenly. “And there’s outright meanness. And someday you’re going to have to figure out the difference.”
Margo turned and walked away. I watched her go, my heart dissolving into liquid nitrogen in my chest.
Outside under the awning between the gym and main building, I spotted the two FreshLife leaders, Teri and Colin, the handsome guy we’d seen in the Mocha Cellar the other day. Margo waved and walked up to them. I watched through the glass door as they laughed and gestured. Teri looked like a future first-grade teacher: sweet, dumpy, and smiling, always wearing a sack-shaped skirt and Mickey Mouse T-shirt. She was filled with joy for the Lord, and harmless. She was the maiden aunt of Melva High. Colin, however, looked like he’d wandered away from a J.Crew photo shoot.
They laughed again, and I wished I could hear what was so funny. Being truthful in your observations is not the same as being mean, I told myself. Not exactly. So why would someone try to make you feel that way when all you’re doing is honing your observational skills and practicing legitimate anthropology?
Someone walked up behind me and tapped my shoulder.
“Observing?” Jimmy asked me.
I turned to gaze at his scruffily handsome face.
“Do you think we should sugarcoat the truth, Jimmy?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Absolutely not. No way.” He shuffled some change in his pockets for a moment. “And are you coming to the party tonight? You and Margo? I just want the truth. Don’t sugarcoat your answer.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Definitely.”
“Good,” he said.
And momentarily I stopped worrying about Paul and Margo and focused wholly instead on the beautiful arc of Jimmy’s perfect spine leaning against the wall. “Uh, yeah. I’m very much looking forward to it. It should be really nice,” I said, hearing how off my words seemed. I’m very much looking forward to it. It should be really nice. I sounded like I was talking to one of the elderly ladies at church.
Jimmy nodded idly. “Mm-hm,” he said. “Really nice. You don’t go to pa
rties, do you, Janice? Or not much, right?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. By “not much,” what Jimmy meant was “not at all.” He’d realized already that I was the Melva High Hermit. “I guess I’m a little picky,” I said warily.
He stretched, straightening himself up, and then smiled lazily at me. “Yeah,” he said. “I like that — I’m picky too. Anyway, I’m glad you’re coming to the party.”
With that, he walked away. I just stood there watching until long after he’d disappeared.
ANTHROPOLOGICAL
OBSERVATION # 8:
Prior to approaching a male of higher social status in a public setting, the adolescent female prepares with extra care, decorating and perfuming herself for the occasion. She may even choose to do research.
At home that evening, I started to get myself ready for Jimmy’s party. I opened my closet and flipped through my hangers. The sight of my clothes was dismaying. My closet was an Uglification Zone — and yet, determined, I searched, hoping to find something semicool.
MOVIE SCENE
JANICE WILLS: STORY OF A YOUNG
ANTHROPOLOGIST
The overlooked heroine readies herself for an encounter with her crush. One of those “getting it together” montages ensues, with some pumped-up girl music for a soundtrack, while she flings various garments onto the floor, applies makeup, and — ta da! — emerges more dazzling than ever before.
Of course, this did not happen. Nothing looked right. I felt stupid and ill constructed: Gangly McGangles all over again. Finally I settled on my coolest jeans and a drapey blue shirt that I thought flattered me. I pinned back part of my hair the way I imagined a French woman would and put on mascara. I looked in the mirror to take in the effect: Gangly McGangles in her coolest jeans; Gangly McGangles wearing mascara….
The Rites and Wrongs of Janice Wills Page 6
