The Makeover of James Orville Wickenbee

by Anya Bateman

  Chapter Fourteen

  •••

  We held our first committee meeting at James’s the following day. Derrick Farn turned out to be an ace on the computer and pecked away at the keyboard as if it were chicken feed. I already knew Sadie Rice was painfully shy, but she had more than adequate skills with a yardstick.

  “Not bad,” I said, when, with a sniff- like snort, she whispered that she’d finished the rough draft of one of the banners.

  Mary Jane had found an old picture of James which Bud said he could enlarge at Kinkos where he worked. It was a goofy looking picture and absolutely perfect. Bud volunteered as well to get to school early on Friday and hang the banners up high enough in good spots for everyone to see. At six- foot- seven I knew Bud probably wouldn’t need a ladder. He was a ladder.

  “I’ll get Terrance to help me,” he said excitedly, licking his lips.

  “I’ll go too!” Cassie pulled herself up with surprising agility.

  “Now remember if anybody sees James slumping anytime, anywhere, during the day, we give him the thumbs up signal. It won’t mean ‘good job’ this time. It’ll mean ‘stand up straight!’ It’s important we all remind James.”

  “You got it!” Cassie belted out.

  “But let’s keep it subtle,” I added, as I pressed my finger against my ear. I could just picture her shouting at James from miles down the hall, or worse, the whole group of them tailgating him. But then I frowned. Maybe we’d have the opposite problem. There were so few of us that maybe we wouldn’t be reminding James often enough. I’d read it takes about three weeks to acquire a new habit, and James had just a day or two before we’d need to move on to the next major change.

  “It might not be a bad idea to tie a string around your thumb or wind some tape around your wrist to remind yourself to stand tall,” I told him. “Better yet . . .”—and this illustrates pretty well how sensitive and compassionate I was back then— I grabbed the wooden yardstick and broke it in two. “Here, tape this to your back. You can’t rely on someone always being there to remind you and this should help.”

  James stared at the jagged end of the yardstick. “I’ll just go with the tape, thanks.”

  “I don’t blame you, Dude,” said Alex, looking at me with contempt.

  “There’s a lot at stake here,” I said defensively.

  -B-

  Things went remarkably well that next day in school. Amazingly, James was walking or standing tall every time I

  spotted him. I still couldn’t get over how much just that one element improved his appearance. Interestingly, as committee members reminded him to watch his posture, they all began standing up straighter as well. I saw Cassie straightening her own back as she lifted her thumb at James during lunch. But when she looked down at her huge body, she slumped again and pulled three or four granola bars out of her pocket.

  We’d been working on James’s posture only a couple of days when I overheard Maisie Cox, whose locker was near mine, say to Melissa Fairchild, “You know that James Wickenbird or Wickenbacher or whatever his name is— the guy with the strange glasses who’s running for president? Was he always that tall? I wonder if he had back surgery or something. My cousin was three inches taller after she had surgery for scoliosis. She went from five- four to five- seven.”

  “He’s just standing up straighter,” I heard myself say to the girls. “Haven’t you noticed his banners?”

  Maisie swung around, flinching and scrunching her nose— an unattractive habit. “Oh, hi, Jana! What banners?”

  “They’re all over. You might want to look for James’s banners and tell your friends to look for them. It’s a clever theme.” I was talking fast. “It says ‘Watch James turn into Super- Jim.’ We’re offering rewards to people who figure out each day what’s improved about James.” I flinched and scrunched my nose a little myself at this admission of being involved.

  “Fun!” Maisie responded. “I love makeovers! So will he get better clothes too?”

  “That’s definitely in the plans.”

  “Good. His clothes are kind of—”

  “Hideous?”

  “Well, yes. And they sometimes seem too small for him. His shirts anyway.”

  She was right. James had become quite conscientious about wearing longer pants, but he still apparently grabbed one of Felix’s shirts out of the closet once in a while. “You’re very observant, Maisie. In fact, we could use someone like you on our committee.”

  “Really? Who else is on it?”

  “Alex and me and . . . quite a few others,” I said evasively. Never mind, I thought. “Hey, listen, while you’re deciding, here are a few fliers you could hand out. Would you mind?”

  “Okay, sure . . . sure . . .” She stared down at the fairly substantial stack. “I guess I could do that.”

  I smiled at her and headed for class before she could change her mind.

  -B-

  After school that day Alex and I went through his closet and pulled out some stylish shirts and pants in colors that would look good with James’s dark hair. Even in jeans a person needs to look put together.

  “Let’s run over to his house right now,” I said eagerly. “I’m anxious that he try these on.”

  “We’re not playing Barbie, you know,” Alex said.

  “I know,” I said. “Ken.”

  A little while later, as James surveyed himself in the stylish- but- casual blue shirt and Alex’s designer cargo pants from last year, he looked extremely pleased with himself. “I think these are the nicest clothes I’ve ever worn. Thanks for letting me borrow them.” He took a couple of steps back, and I could tell he was checking to see whether the pants were long enough.

  “The pants are exactly the right length,” I assured him.

  He seemed to agree and maybe would have let his new look go to his head if I hadn’t pressed the heel of my hand into the small of his back. He was slumping again. James lurched forward.

  “Warn the guy,” said Alex.

  “That would be nice,” said James, grimacing.

  “Aw, but then it wouldn’t be nearly as effective, would it?” I stood in front of James and placed my hands on his shoulders. “Look, James, you can wear all the brand names and classiest clothes in the world and they won’t look good on you if you slump and lean forward like that. I have to say that you’ve been doing remarkably well, but we don’t have time for you to let up for even a few minutes.”

  With a puff of impatience, James once again pulled back his shoulders. Then he remembered the make- believe heavenly strings and lifted his upper body as well.

  “Your knees,” I reminded him. “You’re locking your knees.”

  “That’s right, the knees,” he said without inflection.

  This time I sighed. “I knew this would be hard,” I complained to Alex, who was eating one of the ham sandwiches Mary Jane had left out for us, “but I had no idea how difficult.”

  “It’s hard for you?” Alex said facetiously as he flecked some mustard from the corner of his mouth with the side of his thumb and rubbed it into his napkin. “What about me? I’m feeling the pressure all the time to come up with the cute outfits.”

  Alex got the reaction he was looking for. “Oh, yes, very funny, poor you!” The sandwich looked good and I asked him for a bite.

  “Get your own.”

  “But I don’t want a whole one.”

  “You always say that and then you eat most of mine.”

  James pulled a plastic knife from a pencil holder, rinsed it off, and cut off a section of the sandwich still remaining. “Here,” he said.

  “Oh, thanks.” I took a careful bite as I continued arguing with my brother about which of us had done the most work and which of us was suffering the most from all of this work with James.

  James moved quietly to the couch. He seemed to be thinking and worrying. When I gave him the thumbs up, he didn’t move, and I had to lift my thumb again. “Yoo- hoo, James.”

/>   “Right. Okay.” James tried to sit up straighter, which wasn’t easy to do from a sofa sinkhole.

  “All right, Alex,” I said, looking for a napkin. “You win. Your life is really tough. But this isn’t about you or me. It’s about James! So let’s get back to work!” I’d found the napkins and wiped off my mouth, then looked through my bag for my checklist. “Hmmm, let’s see now . . .” I scrutinized my notes. “It looks like you have an appointment tomorrow at noon with Raphael, James. Better write that down.”

  “Who?”

  “My hairstylist. I’ll get you the address. I’ll call ahead to make sure he understands what we want— maybe I’d better even go along.” Yes, I’d go along! I couldn’t expect James to give Raphael detailed instructions. “Now walking lessons are at two and chess is at three.”

  “We’re still playing chess?” James sounded highly relieved that we’d be stopping for some R and R.

  “Of course we’re still playing chess.” I was relieved myself that there was something to look forward to besides work, work, and more work! In any event, our chess game had become an established ritual; skipping it was unthinkable. I needed that weekly game. Spending time at the Wickenbees’ each Saturday from three to five or five- thirty gave me a feeling of peace, stability, and security that revitalized me for the week. I wasn’t sure I could function without it anymore.

  “Hey, I have a question, Jana,” Alex said, as he finished off the last bite of ham. “When did you become James’s campaign manager? I thought I was the campaign manager.” My brother was somewhat kidding, but not completely. “Once again you’ve taken over. You tend to do that.”

  “Fine, you call Raphael and instruct him on how to cut James’s hair,” I countered. “Raphael has a very creative side and I don’t want James showing up at school with purple streaks and a bouffant. Tell Raphael to stick to a good basic look— classic men’s haircut, no line— then watch him like a hawk. And be sure you pronounce his name correctly: Rrrrr- aphael— with a roll on the r. He comes unglued if you mispronounce it.”

  “I delegate dealing with Rrrrr- aphael to you,” said Alex quickly. He turned to James. “But if Miss Control Freak here will allow us to squeeze it into your busy schedule, we should go lift weights at the gym sometime tomorrow. You and me, man.”

  Having James buff up was an excellent idea. In fact, I was surprised I hadn’t thought of it. James had nice wide shoulders, but his arms were undefined and even a little skinny. “That’s not a bad idea, Alex,” I admitted. The prospect of a toned- up and in shape Super- Jim excited me. “Just don’t get carried away. We don’t want him looking like one of those muscle- bound, no- neck, Arnold types. I hate that look.”

  Alex laughed. “As if. You don’t turn into an Arnold in days or even weeks. There’s no way we’re going to see six- pack abs. But I do think we could see some pretty good results in the upper arms and shoulders.”

  “I’ll tell you what, we’ll postpone walking lessons. Just get James back in time for our chess game.”

  Alex saluted.

  Chapter Fifteen

  •••

  The following Monday, Emily Fitzmeier, a girl in my physics class rushed up to me. “His hair!” she exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “I heard we get a prize if we guess what’s changed about James Wicken— something— and it’s his hair!”

  I was ecstatic that word seemed to be getting around. “Good job! Here!” I handed her about two dozen red- white- and- blue

  S fliers.

  “This is my prize?”

  “For the moment.” I hadn’t actually thought up the prizes yet. “And here comes our hero now!” I said.

  Emily jerked around and smiled widely as the main attraction, namely James, came ambling down the hall. Several other students were staring at him.

  “You’re looking pretty good,” I told him quietly, “except that you’re leaning forward a little.”

  James nodded and pulled his shoulders farther back.

  “She needs a whip, doesn’t she, James?” said Alex, who was just coming out of history class.

  “How would you like to be on James’s committee?” I asked Emily, who was now standing between James and Alex, happily gazing up from the much- improved- in- the- eye- appeal- department, dark- haired James to my handsome, pale- haired brother.

  “Sure,” said Emily. “I’d like that.”

  “Why Emily . . .” I recognized the silky voice immediately and I turned slowly. “You’re on my committee, remember?” Alex hadn’t mentioned Lyla was in his history class— I’d have been a little more cautious if he had— but sure enough, there she was, standing in Mr. Stewart’s doorway, smiling with fake sweetness and looking stunning even in distressed Levis.

  “Oh, that’s right.” Emily blinked hard. “I forgot. I’m with Lyla.”

  Lyla wrinkled her nose at us, smiled, and took Emily by the arm. “I don’t think Emily here really fits in anyway with your umm . . . shall we say . . . unusual group?”

  I winced inwardly, opened my mouth, but then shut it.

  “Unusual” was, unfortunately, still a completely accurate description of our committee. We had ten people on it now and more joining all the time but so far there wasn’t a usual person in the bunch. With the exception of Adriana, who stopped by once in a while out of pure loyalty to me and Alex, these were the students at Fairport who had probably not had much chance to be on committees of any kind. These were the people who had probably never been invited to be in much of anything. I pictured them being picked last for sports and activities all through elementary and junior high school. I pictured them being left out of the games at recess.

  “I guess we should feel fortunate we even have committee members,” I admitted quietly to Alex as the girls walked away.

  “Enthusiastic committee members!” Alex reminded me. It was an adjective that once again I had to admit really did apply. Maybe our committee members weren’t the “in” people of the school, and maybe as I suspected, they had never been “in” people, but nobody could call them shirkers. They worked with intense, pure, and raw enthusiasm.

  When Sadie got excited, however, it seemed to make her sinus problems worse. She would make three or four small snorts in a row, wheeze, then snort several more times. As voting day got closer, Derrick pecked into the air more rapidly, his hair bouncing up and down. Cassie seemed to eat more when she got excited and Brother Bud, as James called him, less. Cassie had also been shouting out “Wowsers!” far too loudly and too often and greeting everyone, including me, with huge, lung- collapsing hugs.

  “Cassie,” I said at lunch, gasping for breath, “I thought we talked about that.”

  “I know, I know.”

  But how could any of us really complain too much about Cassie’s exuberance when she’d put that same kind of energy into her campaign work? In fact, all the committee members were working tirelessly. Our committee had increased to even more

  relentless workers, and James was getting reminded every few minutes to stand up straight, watch his walk, and speak clearly. The Super- Jim crew seemed to be everywhere.

  -B-

  “Maybe we need to back off poor James just a little,” Alex said on Tuesday before the primary elections. “Can’t we give the guy a rest?”

  “Of course we can’t,” I answered. “We have only hours left.”

  At our meeting that night, four- and- a- half- foot tall Garlia Ponovich, our newest committee member and a little rougher type than the rest, asked, “So when do the freakin’ glasses go?” She pulled out a cigarette, then remembering we’d told her no smoking, pushed it back into the package, mumbling under her breath.

  Cigarettes were just one of the “freakin’” things Garlia herself needed to get rid of. She boasted twenty- three piercings: two in each eyebrow, three on her bottom lip, six in each ear, and the three in her nose. I suspected from the garbled way she spoke that her tongue was piercing number twenty- th
ree.

  “Yes, everybody’s wondering that. When will his glasses go?” Breathing heavily, Cassie pushed her own glasses toward the bridge of her nose. They slid right back down. Cassie’s nose was the only part of her that wasn’t fat. It was a long aristocratic even enviable nose.

  “Patience,” I said. “His glasses come off last. That’ll be the grand finale.”

  “I totally can’t wait! Wowser—” Cassie slapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

  That night when I thought Alex was finally doing his calculus homework, I suddenly realized he was staring at me instead.

  “What?”

  “You’ve surprised me this last week or two,” he said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I thought social standing meant everything to you and that you only wanted to associate with people on the Fairport social register.”

  “I was making those connections for you, Alex. Believe me it was painful.” My statement wasn’t entirely true. Although I had not enjoyed the company of the school’s “socially elite” per se, I had to admit, I had liked the prestige of being considered one of them. I had enjoyed the status, in other words. “And I’m associating with umm . . . well, those, as you say, who are not on or anywhere near the Fairport social register, only because James is a good friend,” I continued in a lower voice. “We couldn’t very well let him swim for his life out there all by himself, now could we?”

  “No, we couldn’t.” Alex continued staring at me.

  “What? You think I can’t tell genuine quality?” I asked. “You think I only look at the superficial?”

  “Let’s just say I’m happily surprised that you’ve been willing to risk other things for this cause— like your own image, for instance.”

  I sighed and nodded. I was pretty sure I knew what he was referring to. Alex had seen me just that day giving Derrick and Sadie some last-minute instructions right in the front hall. Oh, I’d tried to interact with committee members only away from school, but it had proven to be impossible to run a campaign that way. As Derrick— to my mortification— had pecked his way through the list and Sadie had snorted with ferocity, Katrina Utley, one of Lyla’s friends, had rolled her eyes, and whispered something to Scott Wilkes.