Pretty in Plaid: A Life, A Witch, and a Wardrobe, or, the Wonder Years Before the Condescending,Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase

by Jen Lancaster

  I seriously hate that house.

  Sometimes I can talk my parents into letting me stay with my Auntie Fanny and Uncle Tony in Cambridge, a few minutes away. They have a big, nice, clean house with a huge deck off the second floor. I get to stay in cousin Stephanie’s room and try on the toe shoes she has hanging from one of the posts on her canopy bed. On the third floor, their sink is painted porcelain and their faucets are swans and when you turn the water on it looks like the biggest swan is throwing up—it’s so beautiful! But because this visit will be both brief and unplanned, I doubt I’ll get to stay there when we get to Boston.

  After a delightful evening of late-night swimming and an uncensored Robert Redford movie,38 I sleep like an angel on Auntie Virginia’s green velvet couch. Then I get ready in her private guest bathroom with its pink tub and shelves lined with every product Avon’s ever manufactured.39

  Before we leave Connecticut, I convince my Auntie Virginia to send me off with a care package. She’s the world’s best cook, and because of her, I enjoy exotic stuff rarely touched by other eleven-year-olds, like shrimp scampi and roasted peppers . . . but only if she makes it. Auntie Virginia loads me up with meatball sandwiches, macaroni salads, and sweet amaretto cookies studded with pine nuts. I hug the Tupperware containers to me all the way to Boston.

  The other downside of staying with my grandparents is the food. Noni’s scrappiness extends to her cooking and she uses bizarre, greasy, gristly pieces of meat in her sauce that I’m pretty sure were originally earmarked to make couches and dog food.40 Once, after a string of particularly horrible family meals, my father whipped out a McDonald’s bag when the Sunday gravy was served. This happened before I was born but my Noni’s still pissed off about it.

  When we finally arrive in Boston a full thirty hours after we left Indiana, we pull up in the driveway and my mom dashes out and knocks on the front door, expecting to receive the conquering hero’s welcome.

  Except no one’s home.

  So we go across town to visit my dad’s gracious old Aunt Arabella in her immaculate Cape Cod-style home, which is full of porcelain bulldogs draped in Union Jacks. She says I can play with them, but my mom won’t let me touch them. My Auntie Abba never had any kids because she had a big career as an orthopedic nurse. Rumor has it she used to work with Dr. Salk, the guy who invented the Marco Polio vaccine, but this has never been confirmed. My Gaga, her late brother, is the one who told us this, but he used to tell us all kinds of outrageous lies. For years I actually believed that Moon Island was a real place, housing the contents of every flushed toilet. And alligators. Lots and lots of alligators.

  Auntie Abba has kind, crinkly blue eyes, and when she kisses us there’s a vaguely scratchy feeling above her lip, but it’s not weird. Actually, it’s kind of comforting. She’s also got these huge earlobes, which are supposed to be a sign of the aristocracy from which she’s descended. Her dad was an earl but he left his title to marry a commoner. My mom thinks that was such a romantic gesture. I say he should have kept the title and lived in sin.

  Anyway, my auntie is so happy to see us! She serves us hot tea with sugar cubes and a crystal dish of bridge mix while my mother frantically paces to the kitchen to dial and redial her parents’ house. We don’t stay long and Auntie Abba tears up when we go. My heart hurts as she stands in the doorway waving good-bye to us.

  We finally hook up with my grandparents and go to their house, where my lungs promptly protest, allowing me a cocktail straw’s worth of air each time I breathe. Perfect.

  On our second morning in Boston, my mother realizes she hasn’t got enough underwear, probably because she packed in a snit. (I do not actually offer this opinion. But it’s totally true.)

  Having been a Girl Scout, I am Always Prepared and brought almost a dozen pair of underpants with me. This over-preparation in no way should be interpreted as a desire to share my bounty with my mother, even though I’m now as tall as she is and we fit into the same size. But since there’s no functional dryer in my grandparents’ house, she doesn’t have the option to wash her own and I am forced to open the coffers.

  She wears my favorite pair of underpants and snags my cute terry-cloth top, too. Let’s just say I am less than gracious about the whole matter, but I comply. I do, however, put my foot down when she tries to snag my super-short Three’s Company-esque jogging shorts.41

  My father takes uncharacteristic sympathy on me and gives Mom some money to buy me school clothes. And then he runs off to hang out with his friends from childhood. I’ve seen him for maybe ten minutes since we’ve gotten here. (He’s no fan of the facilities, either.)

  We take Todd and Grampa to the shop, where they’ll spend the day talking about the Red Sox and the Patriots, and Mom, Auntie Pammie, and I drive my grandfather’s white Thunderbird (with red leather interior!) to Marshalls.

  My mom picks out for me white pants cut like jeans and a brown pair made from some space-age material. I suspect they were the cheapest items on the rack and I don’t want them. Auntie Pammie intervenes, assuring me they make me look like Debbie Harry, which is excellent because I really love Blondie.

  For good measure, I use my candy cash to purchase a pair of underwear that say “Bloomie’s” across the butt in dark, bouncy letters. Auntie Pammie says it’s lucky to find stuff from Bloomingdale’s at Marshalls. Auntie Pammie works in the city and dresses like the women in Glamour magazine, so she’s a credible source.

  When we get back to my grandparents’ house, I roll my great prize into a ball and stuff it into a sneaker. Maybe my mom can seize my horse-and-fudge vacation . . . but she’s not taking my first status symbol.

  All my friends in the neighborhood are my age but they’re a grade younger than I am and still in elementary school. Because I was born in Massachusetts and I was right on the age cutoff, my parents had the option of sending me to kindergarten at four. Mom figured I’d be fine starting early because I was tall. Not mature, not advanced for my age, not a prodigy in any way, just tall. However, rules are different in Indiana, and a lot of kids didn’t begin kindergarten until they were close to six. Not only am I the youngest person in my class, but now that I’ve started junior high, I’m the youngest person in the whole school. But what’s really scary is that I’m the youngest person on the junior high-high school bus.

  I spend the first few weeks trying to be very small and innocuous. I get on the bus and open a textbook to make it look like I’m doing homework. But I’m in seventh grade and I don’t have that much work to do outside of school. My dad says this is problematic and precisely why Indiana ranks so low nationally in regard to education. He also says I’m never going to learn what I need to gain admission to an Ivy League college, but if I can’t talk him into getting me a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, I’m guessing his paying for Dartmouth isn’t an option. (By the way, ask me how many shades of purple he turned when my English teacher made the following notation on my Edgar Allan Poe essay: “This sentence needs fixed.”)

  The problem is I get tired of pretending to do homework so I start to read on the bus. And apparently people who read for pleasure are stupid, at least according to the ninth graders Jodi and Kari.

  Now that I’ve caught their attention, they won’t leave me alone. They make fun of my hair42 and they call me Fang because one of my front teeth is chipped. Seriously? My minor dental imperfection offends them? I mean, Jodi’s hair is a giant, Roseanne Roseannadanna bush and she always has bits of sandwich caught in her braces and dried spittle in the corners of her cracked lips. Kari’s not perfect, either. She has some weird skin condition that’s left her with huge Palomino pony patches up and down her arms and on her neck. But I’m polite and don’t mention it (out loud).

  My mom says appearances don’t matter and that no one’s judging anyone based on her looks. She says that grooming is silly and vain for a girl my age. She says deep down Jodi and Kari really want to be my friends and that the best course of action is to simply ignore
them until they come around.

  Excuse me, but when has ignoring a bully ever actually worked? If I try to ignore them, they’re going to roll over me like Germany did Poland back in World War II.43

  So I do what’s worked so far in my life—I fight back.

  “Nice garbage bag!” Jodi taunts the minute I leave the safety of the bus.

  “Same to you!” I retort.

  “That doesn’t make sense. She’s not wearing a garbage bag; you are,” Kari snarls.

  “I’m not wearing a garbage bag. I’m wearing cool space-age pants just like Debbie Harry. And they came from Boston. Where are your pants from? Fort Wayne?”

  Check and mate, bitches.

  They’re silent for a minute and then Jodi barks, “Debbie Harry? More like Dirty Harry! Ha! Ha, ha!” They both start guffawing and slapping each other on the back.

  I contemplate this. “So, you’re saying my pants make me look like a middle-aged, hard-living homicide detective?”

  They’re immediately silenced. Of course they are. My debating skills were formed in the highly superior New Jersey school system, and they’ve only had access to what barely passes for public education in this cow town.

  Both their faces harden. Kari squinches up her eyes and Jodi narrows her cracking lips and starts breathing out of her mouth really loudly.

  Oh. I guess I accidentally said that last part out loud.

  You know, sometimes it’s appropriate to stand and fight.

  And sometimes you should just fucking run.

  As I dash down the hallway I can hear them both chanting “Plastic pants! Plastic pants!” when I duck into first period. Fortunately, I have my allergy shot this afternoon and I won’t have to ride the bus.

  But there’s always tomorrow.

  I’m wearing my new lightweight white pants today because it’s eighty degrees out and we’re not allowed to wear shorts to school. I manage to secure a seat up close to the driver, thus assuring myself an unmolested ride to school. Of course, there’s that brief intermission between arrival and being allowed to enter the school at first bell. And that’s when Kari and Jodi strike, catching me on the steps by the front door.

  “Nice pants, jerkface!” Kari hisses.

  “Yeah, they’re from Boston, too,” I smugly reply.

  “So what? You’re not allowed to wear them. It’s after Labor Day. Duh.” Jodi laughs.

  Now wait a minute, if Crestview Junior High suddenly has a dress code based on national holidays, why was I not informed? Seriously, I’m a compulsive rule follower. If this is now law, shouldn’t someone have sent a note home?

  The girls don’t get any more time to tease me because the bell rings. I dash to the bulletin board in the main hallway to see if there’s something written up about wearing white, but there’s only a poster advising me to have a safe and happy holiday weekend. What the hell?

  Kari and Jodi quickly come up behind me and then they really start cackling. When I got dressed this morning, I grabbed the first pair of white underwear I found. Unfortunately, they were the ones with “Bloomie’s” stenciled on the backside . . . which is totally visible through my sheer slacks.

  They stay behind me, shrieking and pointing and calling people over to look at my pants. My brother’s asshole friend Criss follows me all the way to the third floor, saying, “Hey? What do your pants say? What do your pants say?” Even though I have some friends at school, no one helps me. No one defends me. I’m on my own.

  Gym class, which I normally hate, can’t come soon enough, because I just happen to have an extra pair of underwear in my gym bag. Like I said, I am Always Prepared. They’re pale pink and you can sort of see the color through the pant fabric but it’s way better than advertising a department store back there, no matter how upscale.

  Today we’re square dancing, which according to my dad is absolutely the best use of his educational tax dollars. He says perhaps someone can also teach me to run a cash register and load a truck since that’s all anyone will be qualified to do after graduating from this lousy school. I make the mistake of repeating this to a classmate and my gym teacher hears me and takes me aside to yell at me for having a bad attitude.44

  I’m already feeling kind of raw today and when Miss Franklin shouts at me, the only way I keep from crying is by focusing on her hair, which is frosted with white tips. She looks like she stuck her head in a snow bank. I mean, I may only be eleven and have committed the fashion faux pas of wearing white pants after Labor Day, but even I know that basing your hairstyle on inclement weather is a Glamour Don’t.

  As we do-si-do and promenade, it occurs to me that my mom is wrong. Appearances do matter. Clothes count. Grooming is important. And the right look may well give me the power to stop bullies.

  I don’t know how to fix myself yet.

  But I’m going to find out.

  Part Two

  The Eighties

  Take a Picture, It Lasts Longer

  (Jordache Jeans, Part One)

  “You look way awesome.”

  With a wink and a lopsided grin, photographer Mike Matthews confirms what I already know. Hella-yes, I look awesome!

  But . . . perhaps I’d better check again, just to be sure?

  I glance in the mirror of my slim brown Cover Girl compact. The iridescent blue liner I carefully applied on the inner rims of my eyelids is staying in place nicely and my navy mascara hasn’t smudged a bit. The three shades of purple shadow I use totally complement the plaid of my lavender oxford as well as the fuchsia Izod I’m wearing underneath it. (Asking if my collar is popped is like asking if Michael Jackson can moonwalk. I mean, duh.)

  My lips are coated in the sparkly pink-gold “Italian Sunrise” gloss I bought at Spencer’s Gifts and it makes my pout totally kiss-able. 45 My hair’s just the right amount of poufy and feathered nicely, even though I can’t quite get it to meet in two symmetrical wings in the back like my neighbor Sara Smyth can. I’d love to know how that bitch manages to get her hair so perfect every day. A lot of times I sit behind her on the bus and just stare at her head, trying to figure out her secret. Hot rollers? Aqua Net? The devil magic that comes from listening to Iron Maiden and Judas Priest? Rumor has it she gets up at four thirty every morning to get ready for school.46 Whatever, it doesn’t matter because I look so Phoebe Cates right now.

  Satisfied with my reflection, I snap the compact shut and a puff of Noxzema-scented air escapes as I attempt to wedge it back into my hip pocket.

  Seriously, though? Even without verifying the current state of my hair, makeup, and wardrobe? I’m not being conceited when I say I look awesome.

  How am I so sure?

  Because I’m wearing the size-five Jordache jeans my friend Sissy Anderson gave me. You’re automatically hot when you wear size five; it’s, like, written in the Constitution or Vogue magazine or something. Plus, the jeans themselves are extra rad—they’re really dark blue and the denim is superthick and they’ve got a big panting horse embroidered all swirly on the back right pocket in white thread. They flatten my front and enhance my butt and they make my legs look totally long . . . even if they do accidentally cleave my girly parts into two denim hemispheres.

  If Princess Diana wore jeans? I’m pretty sure these are the ones she’d choose.

  The only thing is I suspect my Jordache are supposed to be a little baggy, yet I kind of fill up every available inch of space within them. When I take them off, my thighs are deeply indented where the seams hit and sometimes I need to punch my legs to regain feeling in them. I’m often forced to lie on the floor and use a rat-tail comb to properly zip them.47 Also, there was that one time in world history class when I almost blacked out after sneezing. But, whatever . . . if I can stuff myself into them, then I am a size five and thus can’t not look good. These jeans are like that old joke: What do you call the guy who graduates last in his class in medical school? Doctor. A size five is a size five, no matter how snug. So there.

  You know wh
at? These jeans are totally lucky, too. I was wearing them when Kyle Eckert (quel stud!) said hi to me for the first time in typing class and also when my nemesis Justine Moore48 got busted for smoking in the girls’ bathroom during lunch. C’est magnifique!

  Not only are my Jordache a completely excellent brand, I got them for free. While on the bus to a speech meet last fall, I complained to Sissy that my cheap-o-rama parents think designer jeans are a waste of funds. My dad’s always babbling on about stupid investments and stocks and bondage and how he doesn’t want to piss away his hard-earned money on silly status symbols like a pair of Calvin Kleins. Hey says he’d rather send money to the IRA.

  I so don’t get it.

  Why would he support those guys who are always bombing London?

  Sympathetic to my plight, Sissy generously offered up her prized pair of Jordache, telling me they hadn’t fit her since she quit smoking.

  What she neglected to mention was she stopped smoking because she was pregnant. And all that semester I’d wondered why her weight centralized itself into a beach ball on her midsection. My best friend Carol suspected something was up, but I was totally taken by surprise. I just assumed all those times Sissy wanted to go to McDonald’s after school meant she was finally over her eating disorder. So maybe these jeans are only good luck for me?49

  “If you girls were any hotter, you’d melt the film,” Mike tells us.

  I beam with quiet confidence and reply, “Mais oui!” and Robyn squeals, “Oh, my God, you’re totally scamming on us!” Mike pinches me and I give him a playful shove as we all proceed down the hall.