by Anya Bateman
© 2006 Anya Bateman.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 30178. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Publishing Data (on file)
Bateman, Anya.
The makeover of James Orville Wickenbee / Anya Bateman.
p. cm.
Summary: When high school junior Jana takes over from her twin brother as campaign manager for an unlikely candidate for school president, she discovers more in him than his intelligence and Mormon faith, and more in herself than
a craving for popularity.
ISBN-13: 978-1-59038-707-8 (pbk.)
[1. Popularity—Fiction. 2. Mormons—Fiction. 3. Politics,
Practical—Fiction. 4. Self-actualization—Fiction. 5. Conversion—Fiction.
6. High schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction. 8. Twins—Fiction. 9.
Brothers and sisters—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B29435Mak 2007
[Fic]—dc22 2006030189
Printed in the United States of America
Sheridan Books, Chelsea, MI
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my father, Jan Copier,
who lived a short but valiant life
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty- One
Chapter Twenty- Two
Chapter Twenty- Three
Chapter Twenty- Four
Chapter Twenty- Five
Chapter Twenty- Six
Chapter Twenty- Seven
Chapter Twenty- Eight
Chapter Twenty- Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty- One
About the Author
Chapter One
•••
If someone had told me a few years ago that I would be sitting here at the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport pressing my knuckles together in anticipation of seeing James Orville Wickenbee again, I would have given that someone what my twin brother, Alex, always called “The Look.” He snapped my picture once when I was wearing that expression and hung it on our refrigerator door. “This is so you can see what real attitude looks like,” he said.
Well, I’m not wearing “The Look” right now. I’m one humble cookie, sitting far enough away from James’s parents, Mary Jane and Rudolf, his brother Felix, and a few others who have also arrived early that so far nobody has noticed me. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. I’m not ready. I need more time to review, to figure things out, to get myself pulled together.
It’s doubtful Alex and I would have gotten to know James at all if our Aunt Ruthie hadn’t married his older brother Phil. James wasn’t our type. Alex would chastise me for saying that. Even back then, there were no types according to my brother.
“You’ll meet Phillip’s younger brother, James, at the wedding luncheon,” my mother informed us a few days before the wedding. She spoke quietly with a hint of warning; it was the same tone she used when we were little and on our way to visit ritzy Great- Aunt Beatrice’s white- carpeted condo. “Ruthie says he’s your age,” she continued, “and that he goes to Fairport High, too.” Her voice held a little too much lilt in it. “The family moved here from Idaho last summer and Ruthie’s excited to have you get to know each other.”
“How nice,” I said. “Idaho.” I widened my eyes at Alex, who had no trouble reading my sarcasm. It was my opinion that anything west of Illinois was dirt farm and those who lived there unworthy of a second glance. Alex knew this opinion. He knew all my opinions.
“Give the guy a chance, Jana,” my brother said after our mother had moved to the dining area. “You don’t even know him.”
“Give who a chance— Ruthie’s soon- to- be fourth marital disaster, or this younger brother who probably looks and acts exactly like him?”
“Both!”
I readjusted myself in the leather recliner and pushed the book I was reading for A.P. English, Crime and Punishment, against the armrest. I was sure that Ruthie, our mother’s artistic, flamboyant younger sister and my favorite relative, was about to throw
herself away on someone so far beneath her that under normal
circumstances, he would have had to take a number just for the privilege of standing at the back of the line to meet her. I was also sure I knew why our aunt was about to make what I considered a colossal mistake.
“I guess we can’t blame Ruthie for picking someone who’s about as opposite of Flashy Floyd as you can get,” I said to Alex, misery thickening my voice.
He grunted his agreement and nodded slowly.
“Flashy Floyd” was our nickname for Ruthie’s previous husband, her third. “But honestly,” I whined. “This guy—”
“Phillip is a practicing Mormon, so he doesn’t drink even a little,” our mother, who can hear through cement, assured us from the dining room where she was sifting through the drawer of the rosewood cabinet. She was alluding to the fact that Ruthie’s first two husbands did drink— like fish. “And he isn’t at all the type to run around.”
“Well, thank the stars for that,” I said as Mom came back into the study, smoothing some lavender luncheon napkins against her palm. I restrained myself from adding that I didn’t feel Phillip Wickenbee was someone anyone would want to be caught dead running around with. Flashy Floyd, on the other hand, had had little trouble finding himself playmates while he was married to our aunt, and had wined and dined them on Ruthie’s funds. In other words, the snake had taken our sweet, naïve auntie to the cleaners. That’s why after three marital strikes against her, I was highly concerned that Ruthie not make yet another equally bad blunder on the opposite end of the spectrum; it’s also why I asked my mother to repeat the first part of what she’d just said.
“Phillip is Mormon—a member of what he calls The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter- day Saints.” Mom lowered her voice and looked around as though she thought the CIA or worse, the ladies from her charity league, might be listening.
My voice was not at all lowered. “A Mormon? My stars! This is so much worse than I thought! Aren’t Mormons so strict they can’t even drink coffee or tea?”
“Mormons are good family people,” my mother let me know.
I huffed out my scorn. “Yes, I guess that does explain the fifteen- year age gap between Phillip and this younger brother. There are probably, what, a dozen siblings in between?”
“I believe Phillip said there are eight children in the family,” Mom said, searching through the desk drawer for, I assumed, more napkins for her annual early November Ladies’ Afternoon Tea. “Phillip is the oldest and this James, who
is your age, is the youngest. Two are missionaries for their church and the rest are married and have families, and live here or in Utah or Idaho.” She looked up. “No, now wait, I think Phillip said one brother and his family live in Fresno, California.” She glanced around her once again and whispered, “He’s a bishop there. In the Mormon faith that’s like a pastor.”
I turned to my brother who was playing Golf- Pro on the computer. “Did you hear that?” I moaned. “This Phillip’s a Mormon from a ten- Mormon family, Alex! What’s Ruthie thinking? They’ll soon be recruiting her to join their church, of course, because that’s what they do. This is so much worse than I thought. I’ve got to talk to her again!” Not that I thought it would do any good. My last expression of concern had not caused the slightest ripple in my aunt’s resolve.
“Hey, I don’t care if this Phillip’s a Shaker or a Quaker or drives around in a buggy or has a fear of toasters as long as he’s good to her,” Alex replied without taking his eyes from his game. “Ruthie deserves to be happy.”
Alex was referring to the Amish who reside in Middlefield and several other towns just outside of Cleveland. Or is it the Mennonites who don’t use toasters? There’s even a religious group that doesn’t believe in buttons. Buttons or coffee, I saw little difference. I lumped what I considered the ridiculously strict churches together in one big wad.
“There’s a lot more to life than being happy!” I snapped.
Alex turned to look at me, his eyebrows knitted together. Mom exited the room again, her eyebrows raised and shaking her head.
Chapter Two
•••
Sure enough, that following Thursday at the wedding luncheon, Alex and I found our place cards on what Mom had designated as “the young adult table” right next to the card labeled James Orville Wickenbee.
“Wonderful,” I whispered, flipping open my napkin.
As things turned out, I was underneath the young adult table by the time James arrived. Aunt Nadine, my mother’s other younger sister, had asked Alex and me to keep an eye on our two-and-a-half-year-old cousin Reginald while she checked on the catering and made sure everything was running smoothly. Apparently Reggie’s nanny had bailed out at the last minute. I couldn’t blame the woman for not wanting to work overtime. You had to keep much more than just “an eye” on Reggie.
Ironically, I’d been so fearful the Wickenbees would turn the wedding luncheon into a mommy- and- me affair that I’d talked Aunt Ruthie into stressing that small children were to be left with sitters. Now here I was struggling to pull the only toddler here— and from our side of the family— away from the table leg to which he’d attached himself. It was embarrassing. Alex tapped me on my back and said pleasantly, “Jana, come up a second and meet James.”
“Oh . . . yes . . . hello.” I emerged for three, possibly four seconds— just long enough to take James’s extended hand, nod, and manage a smile. Then I actually felt fortunate I had an excuse to go back underneath the table. There I widened my eyes and tucked in my lips. Just exactly as I had predicted, James, though taller and thinner than Phillip, was a fifteen- year- younger replica. He was even wearing the same style of strange, outdated glasses. All the Wickenbee brothers, at least those I’d met thus far, looked remarkably alike. But James and Phillip? These two were stamped out. Oh, how I wanted to whisper to Alex that somebody up there had a wry sense of humor.
Unfortunately, I had other, more immediate challenges, namely dealing with Reggie. I had no sooner unfastened him from the table leg than he broke loose from my grasp and headed straight for the indoor water fountain, intent, I suspected, on diving in. By the time I’d tackled him and carried him back to our table, Alex and James were deep in conversation. Alex can talk to anybody about anything, but terms such as “nuclear fusion” indicated that this was not your typical get- acquainted small talk.
I didn’t care if they were coming up with a cure for cancer. With raised eyebrows and with Reginald in a straddle- hold under my arm, I waited to get Alex’s attention to let him know that I needed a break from tending our not- so- cute- at- the- moment baby cousin, and I needed one now. I was about to simply dump the little guy in Alex’s lap when James stopped mid- sentence and peered at me. “You need some help,” he stated flatly.
“Excuse me?”
“I said it looks like you could use some help with that little tyke.”
“You’re telling me,” I said. Reggie had somehow managed to reach a butter knife and was in the process of buttering my arm. The “little tyke” was getting entirely too close to the three- quarter- length sleeve of the raw silk afternoon dress I’d been lucky enough to find for half price at Talbot’s. I grabbed Alex’s napkin. “Do you happen to have a small straitjacket with you, James?”
“Just a minute.” James immediately left the table.
I looked at Alex in puzzlement as I attempted to turn Reggie right side up. “He’s getting one? I thought I was kidding.”
But a few seconds later James returned with a booster chair. In several more seconds he had a napkin tucked around Reggie’s neck and was patiently explaining to him that the shrimp he was feeding him were actually little sea creatures that had once lived in the ocean.
“Why day come wedding?” Reggie asked.
I snorted and looked over at Alex who laughed aloud. Reggie was quickly regaining adorability status. Although it was hard to tell behind his glasses, even James seemed amused.
“I appreciate this, James,” I admitted as I neatly spooned cocktail sauce onto a small white plate and scanned the shrimp bowl for the largest and healthiest of the little “sea creatures.”
“No problem at all. I have fourteen nieces and nephews so I’m used to kids.” James pushed back his glasses, which were sliding down his nose.
“Well, hopefully you’ve never had to tend them all at once,” I responded flippantly.
When he smiled, I noted that at least his teeth weren’t bad. The rest of him— oh dear. I wasn’t sure where a person could find a suit that horrible even if he were looking for one. How, I wondered, can anyone be so clueless? Still, I really couldn’t have a completely negative opinion about someone who had just given me an opportunity to enjoy what looked like a savory meal. The house salad had arrived and the cordon bleu was in the process of being served. Yes, it was decent of James to see my plight and jump in to help.
Inspired by James’s good example, Alex was also soon keeping Reggie interested in proper behavior— or at least sidetracking him from really poor behavior. By taking turns, the task of tending little Reginald eased considerably, and we could each enjoy, for small segments of time anyway, some truly fine dining.
Still, I did not smile back at Alex when he raised his eyebrows at me with a “See, this guy isn’t half bad” message. It would take more than a little baby-sitting talent to impress me, and my brother needed to understand that.
“Yes, I admit James is a nice enough person, and he even has surprisingly good table manners,” I clarified to Alex later that night as I brushed out my hair in the bathroom. “And I admit even Ruthie’s Phil showed a little more personality today. But I still say this is a classic rebound situation. By going to the opposite end of the spectrum, Aunt Ruthie has overcorrected like you do in a car just before you crash on the other side of the median. Honestly, Alex, did you really look at those two brothers? Did you take a good look at the man Ruthie will be sitting across the dining table from for the rest of her life?” I handed Alex the whitening toothpaste that I’d recommended he start using.
“What’s wrong with the way he looks?” Alex ignored the hint and squeezed a blob of generic toothpaste onto his toothbrush.
It was such a guy reply. I soaked a white monogrammed washcloth in the warm water and held it against my cheek. “Ruthie didn’t need to jump into this. She could have eventually married someone who at least doesn’t dress like a boor. And then just maybe he would have had a younger brother to match instead of this James Orville
person. I’m not talking flashy,” I added quickly, raising one hand so that Alex wouldn’t bring up Aunt Ruthie’s previous marital catastrophes. “There are sober, ethically intact, morally sound, nice people out there who are relatively attractive and know how to dress as well.”
I didn’t add that my brother himself was a perfect example of the kind of person I was talking about. Granted, Alex could get a touch lazy once in a while when it came to his grooming habits and his manners in general, for that matter— he wasn’t what you’d call fastidious, by any means— but for the most part he had a stylishness that enhanced his sporty good looks. There was a good reason why girls followed my fair- haired brother around the school halls. “There are relatively nice men out there who at least have some degree of class,” I continued.
“I guess we must have a different definition of class,” said Alex, “because after talking to James, I’m impressed. Maybe he doesn’t have some of the finishing touches you’d like, but he’s a good, decent, and really interesting guy.”
I started to point out to Alex that the term “finishing touches” was an understatement the size of Baltimore, but Alex didn’t give me a chance.
“And I haven’t really talked that much to Phil, but if he’s as smart as his little brother . . .” Alex looked at my reflection in the mirror. “In the few minutes I talked to James, I got the impression this dude is brighter than you and me put together.”
“Really,” I scoffed. Alex knew that my ACT score was already high enough to get me into some of the top colleges. I had a 3.98 GPA, which would have been a 4.0 if Mr. Wrigley, last year’s algebra teacher, hadn’t been so hard- nosed about giving As. Nevertheless, in my less than humble opinion, I felt it would be extremely difficult to be smarter than I was— even solo. And though he rarely made much effort to prove it, Alex was far from being a dunce himself. Finding someone smarter than both of us put together would, I felt, have been about as likely as finding an emerald in a walnut.
