I may or may not have stomped my foot at this point. “Every single person in your entire extended family smokes,” I argued. “Should I not be around my aunts and uncles and Grampa? Are they cheap? Are they hard?”
“Jennifer, you’re being ridiculous.” No, really, how is it different?
“I have the money to pay for my ticket. I won’t need anything from you. You can meet Sissy’s mom—she’s really nice. She’s a mom, so she’s automatically responsible,” I pleaded.
My mother cleared her throat and raised a knowing eyebrow at my dad. “She’s a divorcee.”
That did it. I hate when my mother gets all judgmental and officious about people she’s never even met based on superficial criteria. Come on, do they judge her because of her peculiar penchant for ponchos?74 “You don’t even know her!” I shouted. “How can you write her off just for getting a divorce?”
My dad calmly closed his paper. “Jennifer, you are not going to the concert. It’s nonnegotiable. Say one more word and you’re grounded.”
Ever see those old Warner Bros. cartoons where Elmer Fudd is hunting Daffy Duck? To draw Daffy out of his bunker in the hollow tree, Elmer only needs to tap out “Shave and a haircut” because he just knows Daffy can’t leave the knock unfinished. No matter the consequences, something compels Daffy to meet the challenge. And even though Daffy’s well aware that if he pokes his head out and sings, “Two bits!” he’s surely going to get his beak blown off?
Yet he can’t resist?
Yeah, me, too.
I glared at my father. “Word!”
And then he blew my beak off. I spent the next two months on lockdown while the dulcet-toned man with one sparkly glove went on to thrill audiences without me.
No way I’m about to miss prom because of my own big mouth, though, so I continue to press my point in a nonconfrontational manner. “I feel like all the white makes me look waxen. Pallid, even. I’m practically cadaverous.”
My mother smirks. “Someone’s been paying attention in advanced placement.”75
Mom and I are standing in the Juniors department at Hudson’s. I’m presently wearing the full-length white Gunne Sax gown that I saw in Seventeen magazine. Originally, I’d torn out the ad because the dress caught my eye. However, I’ve since realized it was way more flattering on the model, not because she’s thinner than me but because she has no b-r-e-a-s-t-s.
The dress is shiny and white with a tight bodice and a long A-line bottom. The top is divided into two pieces—there’s a binding strip of fabric that hits about midchest and then there’s an overlaying piece that comes up in a U shape, forming a white satin canyon or possibly a moat. The gap is large enough that someone could store her lipstick or a compact in there.76 For a flat-chested girl, the cut would add volume. For those of us who don’t need the help, it’s . . . breastacular.
I started to “develop” in fourth grade, and by sixth I wore a B cup. I stopped getting taller in seventh grade, but that’s the only place my, um, expansion was stunted. Now I’m close to a D and have a strict don’t ask, don’t tell relationship with my chest. The deal is I wear binding bras and loose alligator shirts and they comply by making themselves scarce. One time last summer my friend Veronica came over to swim and she couldn’t get over the way I filled out my bathing suit. She kept calling me “stacked” and swatted me in the chest, asking, “Where the hell did these come from?” I spent the rest of the day with a T-shirt over my suit.
The idea of a garment that not only informs the rest of the world I have b-r-e-a-s-t-s but in fact squeezes them together so much they form an ass-crack’s worth of cleavage77 makes me extraordinarily self-conscious. Plus, if we purchase this dress, I’ll spend all of prom night grasping the top of the bodice, trying to lift it up past my lips because it rides at about half-mast. This won’t work at all.
“I love you in white. You’ll look so beautiful on your wedding day! I can’t wait to walk you down the aisle!” my mother coos. Well, you’re pretty much going to have to wait. Really, would Joan Lunden have gotten her gig on Good Morning America if she were a child bride? I think not.
Why’s she so anxious to see me married, anyway? I only recently packed away my Barbies, and that’s just because Jimmy thought it was weird for me to have them. The only way I’m getting married any time soon is via gunpoint. Also? If my mother sends me off to the dance n-a-k-e-d from the waist up, I won’t make it through the night intact, let alone through college. Seriously, I’ve extorted enough pie out of my long-suffering boyfriend. At some point, he’s going to demand it in return.
I scowl at my pasty, busty reflection. And that’s when I notice what might be my salvation. Two thick, floor-length black satin strips of fabric are sewn right underneath my ass rack. I bet I could take them and tie them around my neck like a halter, providing lots more coverage and support. I grab the strips and begin to pull them up and around until my mom stops me. “Jennifer, you’re being ridiculous. Let go.” I release the fabric and watch as my mother fashions the ribbons into an enormous saggy bow that detracts from my chest almost as much as a big neon sign blinking Tits! Tits! Tits! might. Perfect.
My heart in my throat,78 I retreat to the dressing room. I tear off the gross white one and don the peach-colored dress whose ad I also admired.
Now this is a dress! The top only shows my collarbones and smashes everything else down nicely. And check out how wide the skirt is! I bet this wouldn’t even fit into a car! Shoot, I barely fit in this dressing room! Remember how in A Christmas Carol one of the ghosts-of-Christmas-whatever had those mini-wraiths hiding in her petticoats? I could totally stuff them under here! (Not that I’m planning to smuggle any child-ghosts into prom under my skirt, but it’s nice to have the option, you know?) I love this! I’m like a fabulous Barbie birthday cake or a really pretty embroidered toilet-paper topper. Better yet, with all the ruffles and the giant hoop, I’m a complete ringer for Scarlett O’Hara! Fiddle-dee-dee!
I strut over to my mother, proudly displaying the skirt’s twelve-foot diameter. I spin and accidentally take out an entire purse display.
While we place all the handbags back on the stand, I say, “What do you think? So much better, right? I can even wear a bra under this one.”
She takes a step back and assesses me with a critical eye. She touches the lace draping from the portrait collar and fluffs out the ruffles. “I agree, it’s nice, but you can’t wear this for the pageant. Take it off before you get it dirty.” With that, my mother helps me with the zipper and sends me back to the fitting room.
Shit. With all the end-of-high-school stuff happening, I keep forgetting about the stupid beauty pageant. Oh, wait, excuse me, I mean scholarship pageant. (In which we will be judged based on our beauty.) I begin to ruminate as I wedge my way out of all the lacy layers. My mom saw the pageant notice in the paper a couple of months ago and convinced me to sign up. I can’t believe I let her talk me into it. Sure, I like the idea of being in a beauty pageant, but I imagine the reality will suck. I’ve already gotten my preliminary schedule and there’s stuff on it like dance classes and etiquette lessons. I hate dancing and I’m totally already polite. I chew with my mouth closed and usually remember to say thank you—what’s left to learn?
The pageant information pack also contained information on wardrobe requirements. The director was pretty specific about not picking anything promlike for the evening wear competition.
Damn.
Wait—brainstorm! Sure, I’ll have to go all Marilyn for the pageant, but I can still be Scarlett for the dance. I’ll simply get both dresses! This is a genius solution—why didn’t I come up with it sooner?
I meet my mother at the counter with the gowns under my arms. “We’ll get this one for the pageant and this one for the prom.”
My mother snorts. “Wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not getting two dresses.”
“I need them both.” If I have to wear the white
one to prom, Jimmy will have to bring three corsages—one for me and two for my friends.
“Jennifer, you’re being ridiculous. You’re getting one dress.”
“Okay, I want this.” I place the Southern belle dress and its eight thousand yards of intricate peach lace and taffeta on the counter.
“You can’t wear this in the pageant. You have to get the white one. That’s final.” My mom hands her credit card and the white dress to the cashier.
The problem isn’t that my mother’s being unreasonable. It’s that these are the only two dresses we’ve found in all our shopping expeditions that fit me. Today is our very last chance for me to find something that isn’t an Izod to wear. Nothing is cut for my figure—I’ve spent weeks trying to squeeze my top half into size thirteen/fourteen dresses, while the rest of me completely drowns in fabric. I suppose I could have something tailored, but I’m opposed to wearing a size thirteen/fourteen dress on principle.
“How about this? How about I just quit the pageant?”
“You really want to quit before you even try? Doesn’t sound like you.”
Again, she’s right. I don’t want to quit, because I’m confident I can win. Most of the score is based on an interview, which, again, hello, I’ve been preparing for my whole life. Plus talent weighs heavily—I’m planning to do a dramatic interpretation. I might not be the best actress in the school, but I guarantee I’ll be the best in the pageant. Plus, how great will I look in a crown?
Grudgingly, I give in. “Okay, okay, you win. I do the pageant and I wear the white dress.”
As the cashier completes the transaction and wraps the gown in plastic, my mother tries to make me feel better. “You know the white dress will serve so many purposes. Not only will you wear it to the pageant and dance, but you’ll have it for college formals. Really, this is almost like a bridesmaid’s dress—cut it off and you can wear it again and again.” I ignore this last bit of advice because it comes from a woman who incorporated enormous magenta fur muffs into her wedding party garb. Bet she told her bridesmaids they could reuse their muffs, too.
We leave Hudson’s and we’re strolling by the ice rink when my mom slaps herself on the head. “I almost forgot! We have to get you a bathing suit while we’re up here.”
“For what? Both my suits from last year are still good.”
“No, for the swimsuit competition.”
And that’s when I realize I’m a month away from standing in front of an entire auditorium with nothing between me, my naked chest, and the audience but a millimeter of Lycra.
Suddenly the white dress seems delightfully conservative.
This is the prom?
This is what all those cheesy songs and overwrought John Hughes movies were about?
This is what I’ve been building up to during my last twelve years of public education?
This?
Most magical night of my life, my ass.
Listen, I can accept that we’re not having our prom in a big hotel ballroom like every other school in the universe. The closest nice place is in Fort Wayne and we already have the drinking-est, driving-est senior class in years,79 so obviously making everyone travel thirty Night Train-fueled miles each way is a bad idea. And it’s not like we could hold the prom in the small conference room of the LK Motel, where my dad attends his Rotary Club meetings on the first Thursday of every month. I understand the only logical place to host a dance for five hundred seniors and their dates is our gym—but does it have to look like a ballgame could break out any second now? For Christ’s sake, I can see the nets! The scoreboard is visible! People are dancing on the goddamned three-point line!
The junior class is responsible for throwing the prom. Last year my class spent nine months turning the basketball court into One Fucking Enchanted Evening Under the Sea. We had people walking around in scuba suits and mermaid costumes and we created a sandy beach area where kids could kick their shoes off and dance barefoot. Anything vaguely sports-related was draped in fishing nets and strewn with seashells. We made giant Neptune-y pieces out of papier-mâché. We did not get together a week beforehand to blow up balloons, string some streamers, and hang a half-assed banner painted with some child’s interpretation of how the French Quarter would look if it were one-dimensional and located next to the concession stand in a gymnasium.
Instead of decorating the entire gym, our lame juniors only created enough artwork to fill a small portion of it. They built a stage for the band, but there’s nothing behind it but two-thirds of open court. Also? I’m curious—is the French Quarter supposed to smell like sweat socks? You’d have thought they’d at least put out some candles or potpourri.
There’s not enough room for everyone to dance—prom’s sole purpose—so most of us are stuck in the bleachers or at the rented wrought-iron tables. Actually, I’m okay with this. Jimmy and I got up for the first Journey song and I quickly realized I should not lift my arms past my shoulders if I don’t want to flash the entire senior class. (At least I didn’t find this out while doing the victory walk-’n’-wave at the pageant.)
For the first time I’m glad I’m not in the lacy peach gown because a bunch of other girls keep getting their dresses tangled up in the chairs’ grillwork. I spend much of my night watching classmates trying to mend rips while crying off all their mascara. Their dates awkwardly attempt to comfort them—fail—and the chaperones are frantically breaking into the Home Ec room to procure thread, needles, and safety pins. And the junior class members are doing their best to hide from the seniors, who are shrieking, “This is all your fault!” Honestly? Carrie had a better time at prom.
When it finally comes to its merciful end, we only have half an hour to change and make it back to the gym before after-prom begins. I live about ten miles from school, so we go to Jimmy’s house in town. I’ve been planning my post-prom outfit for weeks. I settle on some turquoise capri pants and a baby pink cotton sweater cut in the shape of a polo shirt. I’ve got a big asymmetrical white leather belt that hangs low on my hips and loads of white bangles to stack up my arms. I have three pairs of white shoes to choose from and an enormous palette of every color eye shadow Maybelline manufactures.
Yet as I unpack my bag I realize I brought everything except for the most important piece—a bra. I spend fifteen minutes just working up the courage to ask Jimmy’s mom for one. Which isn’t embarrassing. At all. We get back to the gym moments before the door closes and they lock us in for the next four hours.
The lock-in is supposed to keep us from drinking and d-o-i-n-g it tonight and it’s an effective strategy . . . for those of us who make it back in time. Those who get locked out end up going to the woods by the reservoir for a big party.80 Jimmy’s been begging me to ditch after-prom, but I’m not about to make out with anyone while wearing his mother’s bra—there’s simply not enough pie. Besides, the junior class is holding a raffle and what if they give away a ten-speed bike and I’m not there to claim it? Not that I want a dumb old bike—I just don’t want anyone else to have it if it’s supposed to be mine.
The post-prom event ends at five a.m. and I go right home (sadly, bike-free) and crawl into bed. My mother wakes me up at seven a.m. to hear all about the night then blows a gasket when I ask her to please get out and let me sleep for a while. My sarcastic (exhausted) mouth gets me grounded for the next two weeks.
An hour later, my dad makes me get up to wash the car. Since I’m grounded, I can’t even take it to the car wash.
Ridiculous.
Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Singing a Billy Ocean Song
(White Satin Gown)
“Say cheese!”
I don’t want to say cheese. I want to eat cheese. Unfortunately, that’s been off the menu in the weeks I’ve been getting ready for this stupid pageant.
I lean back against the tree and give a three-quarter smile. Three-quarters is the perfect amount for a photograph. Grin too big and you’re nothing but teeth, gums, and unattractive forehead wrinkles. T
oo small and you look like a sourpuss.
It’s superbright out here and I squint until a second before the photo’s snapped—that way my eyes are wide open in the shot and I don’t get blinded while I wait.
I applied Clinique bronzing gel to create contours on my face. I used navy liner to make my eyes brighter and cool-toned dark lipstick to make my teeth appear whiter. In person I’m a tad drag queeny, but I should look great on film.
“All right, one more time and . . . you’re done.” The photographer waves me off and then begins to monkey with his camera.
“Are you sure? Don’t you want to take some more?” I ask. I’m here in the park with the rest of the Miss Cow Town contestants. Our pageant is part of the city’s Ancestry Days festival and our photographs will be included in the newspaper’s special circular that comes out a week beforehand. I’m slightly aggravated because all the other contestants have posed for dozens of pictures but the photographer only takes, like, three of me.
“No, I’m good,” he replies. He calls contestant Lee over and I return to sit at the picnic table with Christy.
“That was quick,” she observes.
“Wasn’t it?” I ask.
“Did you make him mad or something? Why didn’t he have you pose by the water and on the ledge like everyone else?” She uses a vent brush to puff up her hair, then smoothes on some cream blush.
“That’s an excellent question.”
I wonder if it has something to do with my mother’s feud with the local paper? A while ago, the paper ran an article about a woman in town who’d found a letter Abraham Lincoln had written in a box of her grandmother’s things. The paper was so excited to have a local item of historical significance, they devoted half the front page81 to the discovery. The second my mom read the article, she knew the letter sounded familiar . . . mostly because we’d already seen the same exact letter on a Girl Scout outing to the National Archives in Washington, D.C. She called the paper and informed them of their error, and they were duly mortified.
Pretty in Plaid: A Life, A Witch, and a Wardrobe, or, the Wonder Years Before the Condescending,Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase Page 10
