by Meg Cabot
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
Chapter 3
Anyone who has obeyed nature by transmitting a piece of gossip experiences the explosive relief that accompanies the satisfying of a primary need.
—Primo Levi (1919–1987), Italian chemist and author
I thought that was you!” Andrew gushes in that cute accent that had all the girls in McCracken Hall swooning—even if his th’s do sound like f’s. “What’s the matter? You walked right past me!”
“She thought you were a kidnapper,” the guy from the Meet Your Party booth explains between guffaws.
“Kidnapper?” Andrew looks from the guy in the booth to me. “What’s he talking about?”
“Nothing,” I say, grabbing Andrew’s arm and rushing him away from the booth. “Nothing, really. Oh my gosh! It’s good to see you!”
“Good to see you, too,” Andrew says, putting an arm around my waist and giving me a hug—so tight that the epaulets from his jacket dig into my cheek. “You look fucking fantastic! Did you lose weight or something?”
“Just a little,” I say modestly. No need for Andrew to know that no starch whatsoever—not so much as a French fry or even a lousy crumb of bread—has touched my lips since he waved good-bye to me last May.
Then Andrew notices me looking at an older bald man who has come up to us and is smiling politely at me. He is wearing a navy-blue windbreaker and a pair of brown corduroy pants. In August.
This is not a good sign. I’m just saying.
“Oh, right!” Andrew cries. “Liz, this is my dad. Dad, this is Liz!”
Oh, how sweet! He brought his dad to meet me at the airport! Andrew really MUST be taking our relationship seriously if he would go to so much trouble. I’ve already forgiven him for the jacket.
Well, almost.
“How do you do, Mr. Marshall?” I say, putting out my hand to shake his. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Andrew’s father says with a nice smile. “And please, call me Arthur. Don’t mind me, I’m just the chauffeur.”
Andrew laughs. So do I. Except—Andrew doesn’t have his own car?
Oh, but wait, that’s right. Shari said things are different in Europe, that lots of people don’t own cars because they’re so expensive. And Andrew is trying to get by on a teacher’s salary…
I’ve got to stop being so judgmental about other cultures. I think it’s just cute as can be that Andrew doesn’t have a car. So environmentally conscious! Besides, he lives in London. I imagine lots of people in London don’t have cars. They take public transportation, or they walk, like New Yorkers. Which is why there are so few fat people in New York. You know, because they’re all such healthy walkers. Probably there aren’t many fat people in London, either. I mean, look at Andrew. He’s thin as a toothpick, practically.
And yet he’s got those marvelous grapefruit-size biceps…
Although now that I look at them, they seem sort of more orange-size.
But how could anybody really tell beneath a leather jacket, anyway?
It’s sweet he has such a close relationship with his dad, too. I mean, that he could ask him to come with him to pick up his girlfriend at Heathrow. My dad is always too busy working to take time out for things like that. But then, his job at the cyclotron is very important, since they’re always smashing atoms up there and things. Andrew’s dad is a teacher, like Andrew wants to be. Teachers get summers off.
Dr. Rajghatta would laugh his head off if my dad ever asked for a summer off.
Andrew takes my bag, which has wheels, so it’s actually the lightest thing I’m carrying. My carry-on is way heavier, since it has all my makeup and beauty supplies in it. I wouldn’t mind so much if the airline lost my clothes, but I would totally die if they lost my makeup. I look like a total beast without it. I have eyes that are so small and squinty without liner and mascara I actually resemble a pig…even if Shari, who’s lived with me for the past four years, swears this isn’t true. Shari says I could get away without makeup if I wanted to.
But why would I want to when makeup is such a brilliant and helpful invention for those of us cursed with piggy eyes?
Still, makeup does weigh an awful lot, at least when you have as much of it as I do. Not to mention all of my hairstyling equipment and products. Having long hair is no joke. You have to bring about nine tons of stuff with you in order to keep it properly shampooed, conditioned, tangle-and-frizz-free, dry, shiny, and full of body. Not to mention all the different adapters I had to bring for my hair dryer and curling iron, since Andrew was remarkably unhelpful in describing what British electrical outlets look like (“They look like outlets,” he kept saying on the phone. Isn’t this just like a guy?), so I had to bring every different kind I could find at CVS.
But maybe it’s just as well Andrew is pulling the wheelie bag and not carrying my carry-on. Because then if he asks what’s inside and why it’s so heavy, I’ll have to tell him the truth, as I have resolved this relationship will not be founded on artifice, like the one with that guy T.J. I met at the McCracken Hall Movie Night, who turned out to be a practicing warlock—which would have been all right, I totally respect other people’s religions…
Except that he also turned out to be a chubby-chaser, as I learned when I caught him making out in the quad with Amy De Soto. He tried to tell me his familiar made him sleep with her.
Which is why I plan to always tell the truth to Andrew, because T.J. did not give me even that much respect.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to go out of my way to avoid having to tell him the truth, if I can. Like, there is absolutely no reason he needs to know that the reason my carry-on bag is so heavy is because it’s filled with approximately seventy-five billion Clinique cosmetic samples; a container of astringent pads (because I shine so much, thanks to Mom’s side of the family); a family-size container of Tums (because I’ve heard English food isn’t necessarily the best); a family-size container of chewable fiber tablets (because ditto); the aforementioned curling iron and hair dryer; the clothes I wore on the plane before I changed into my mandarin dress; a Game Boy loaded with Tetris; the latest Dan Brown (because you can’t go on a transatlantic flight with nothing to read); my mini iPod; three book lights; Sun-In for my highlights; all of my pharmaceuticals, such as aspirin, Band-Aids for the blisters I am undoubtedly going to get (from strolling hand in hand with Andrew through the British Museum, soaking in all the art), and prescriptions, including my birth control pills and antibiotic acne medication; and of course the notebook in which I’ve begun my senior thesis. I had to repack my sewing kit—for emergency clothing repairs—into my suitcase because of the stitch scissors and seam ripper.
There is no reason at this point in our relationship for Andrew to find out I wasn’t actually born this good-looking—that a great deal of artifice goes into it. What if he turns out to be one of those guys who like naturally pink-cheeked beauties like Liv Tyler? What kind of chance do I stand against an English rose like that? A girl has to have some secrets.
Oh, wait, Andrew is talking to me. He’s asking how my flight went. Why is he wearing that jacket? He can’t seriously think it looks good, can he?
“The flight was great,” I say. I don’t tell Andrew about the little girl in the seat next to mine who ignored me throughout the flight when I was just wearing my jeans and T-shirt, with my hair in a ponytail. It wasn’t until after I came back from doing my hair and makeup and changing into my silk dress a half hour before we landed that the kid did a double take, and the next thing I knew she was asking shyly, “Excuse me. But are you the actress Jennifer Garner?”
Jennifer Garner! Me! This kid thought I was Jennifer Garner!
And okay, she was only like ten or whatever, and wearing a shirt with Kermit the Frog on it (surely she meant this ironically and is not actually a current viewer of Sesame Street, as she seemed a bit old for it).
But sti
ll! No one has ever mistaken me for a movie star in my life! Let alone a skinny one like Jennifer Garner.
And the thing is, with my makeup on and my hair done, I guess I do look a bit like Jennifer Garner…you know, if she hadn’t quite lost all the baby fat. And had bangs. And was only five feet six.
I guess it never occurred to the kid that Jennifer Garner would hardly be flying coach, by herself, to England. But whatever.
And before I could stop myself, I was going, “Why, yes. I AM Jennifer Garner,” because, whatever, I’m never going to see this kid again in my life. Why not give her a thrill?
The kid’s eyes practically bugged out, she was so excited.
“Hi,” she said, bouncing a little in her seat. “I’m Marnie! I’m your biggest fan!”
“Well, hi, Marnie,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Mom!” Marnie turned to whisper to her dozing mother. “It IS Jennifer Garner! I TOLD you!”
And the little girl’s drowsy mother looked over at me, her eyes still bleary with sleep, and went, “Oh. Hello.”
“Hi,” I said, wondering if I sounded Jennifer Garnery enough.
But I guess I did, since the next words out of the kid’s mouth were, “I just loved you in 13 Going on 30.”
“Why, thank you,” I said. “I do consider that some of my best work. Besides Alias, of course.”
“I’m not allowed to stay up late enough to watch that,” Marnie said mournfully.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, maybe you can see it on DVD.”
“Can I have your autograph?” the little girl wanted to know.
“Of course you can,” I said, and took the pen and the British Airways cocktail napkin she offered me and scrawled Best wishes to Marnie, my biggest fan! Love, Jennifer Garner on it.
The little girl took the napkin reverently, as if she couldn’t believe her good fortune. “Thanks!” she said.
I just knew she was going to take that napkin back to America when she got home from her fun European vacation and show it to all of her friends.
I didn’t really start feeling bad until then. Because what if one of Marnie’s friends has an autograph from the REAL Jennifer Garner and they compare the handwriting? Then Marnie is going to be all suspicious! And she might even ask herself why Jen wasn’t with her publicist or even why she was flying commercial. And then she’ll realize I wasn’t the REAL Jennifer Garner, and that I was lying the whole time. And that could shake her faith in the goodness of humankind. Marnie could develop serious trust issues, like the kind I myself developed when my prom date, Adam Berger, told me he had to go home and paint the ceiling instead of taking me to the after-party, when really he went ahead and attended the after-party with skinny-as-a-stick Melissa Kemplebaum after dropping me off.
But then I told myself that it didn’t matter, since I’d never see Marnie again. So who even cared?
Still, I don’t mention the incident to Andrew because, seeing as how he’s getting a master’s in education, I highly doubt he approves of lying to young children.
Also, the truth is, I am feeling kind of sleepy, even though it is eight o’clock in the morning in England, and I am wondering how far it is to Andrew’s apartment, and if there’s any chance at all he might have some diet Coke there. Because I could totally use one.
“Oh, not too far at all,” is what Andrew’s dad, Mr. Marshall, says when I ask Andrew how far he lives from the airport.
It’s kind of strange that Andrew’s dad answered, and not Andrew. But then again, Mr. Marshall’s a teacher and answering questions is basically his job. He probably can’t help it, even when he’s off duty.
It’s such a good thing there are men like Andrew and his dad who are willing to undertake the education of our youth. The Marshalls are truly a dying breed. I’m so glad I’m with Andrew and not, say, Chaz, who chose to pursue a philosophy degree solely so that he could argue more effectively with his parents. How is that supposed to help future generations?
Whereas Andrew has purposefully chosen a career that will never make him much money, but that will ensure that young minds don’t go unmolded.
And isn’t that the noblest thing you’ve ever heard of?
It’s a long, long way to Mr. Marshall’s car. We have to go through all of these hallways, where, along the walls, there are advertisements for products I’ve never heard of. Chaz had been complaining, last time he’d gone to visit his friend Luke—the one with the château—about the Americanization of Europe and how you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing a Coca-Cola ad.
But I don’t see any Americanization here in England. So far. I don’t see anything even vaguely American. Not even a Coke machine.
Not that this is a bad thing. I’m just saying. Although a diet Coke wouldn’t be so bad right about now.
Andrew and his dad are talking about the weather, and how lucky I am to have come at a time when it’s so nice out. But when we step out of the building and into the parking garage, I realize it’s maybe sixty degrees, at most, and that the sky—what I can see of it at the end of the garage level—is gray and overcast.
If this is good weather, what do the British consider bad? And, granted, it’s certainly cold enough for a leather jacket. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that Andrew is wearing one. Surely there’s some rule somewhere—like the one about no white pants before Memorial Day—about no leather in August.
We’re almost to the car—a small red compact, exactly what I’d expect a middle-aged teacher to drive—when I hear a shriek, and look around to see the little girl from the plane standing next to an SUV with her mother and an older couple I can only assume are her grandparents.
“There she is!” Marnie is screaming, pointing at me. “Jennifer Garner! Jennifer Garner!”
I keep walking, my head down, trying to ignore her. But both Andrew and his father are looking over at her, bemused smiles on their faces. Andrew does look a bit like his dad. Will he, too, be totally bald when he’s fifty? Is baldness a trait passed on by the mother’s side of the family or the father’s? Why didn’t I take a single bio course while I was designing my own major? I could have squeezed in at least one…
“Is that child speaking to you?” Mr. Marshall asks me.
“Me?” I glance over my shoulder, pretending to notice for the first time that a small child is shrieking at me from across the garage.
“Jennifer Garner! It’s me! Marnie! From the plane! Remember?”
I smile and wave at Marnie. She flushes with pleasure and grabs her mother’s arm.
“See?” she cries. “I told you! It really is her!”
Marnie waves some more. I wave back while Andrew wrestles my suitcase into the small trunk, swearing a bit. Since he’s been wheeling it along the whole time, he had no idea how heavy it is until he bent to lift it.
But really, a month is a long time. I don’t see how I could have packed less than ten pairs of shoes. Shari even said she was proud of me for being sensible enough not to bring my lace-up platform espadrilles. Although I did manage to squeeze them in at the last minute before I left.
“Why is that child calling you Jennifer Garner?” Mr. Marshall wants to know as he, too, waves at Marnie, whose grandparents, or whoever they are, still haven’t succeeded in herding her into the car.
“Oh,” I say, feeling myself begin to blush. “We sat next to each other on the plane. It’s just a little game we were playing, to pass time on the flight.”
“How kind of you,” Mr. Marshall says, waving even more energetically now. “Not all young people realize how important it is to treat children with respect and dignity instead of condescension. It’s so important to set a good example for the younger generation, especially when one considers how unstable many of today’s family units really are.”
“That’s so true,” I say in what I hope sounds like a respectful and dignified manner.
“Christ,” Andrew says. He’s just tried to pick up my carry-on bag from where I’
ve set it on the ground. “What have you got in here, Liz? A dead body?”
“Oh,” I say, my respectful and dignified demeanor threatening to crumble, “just a few necessities.”
“I’m sorry my chariot isn’t more stylish,” Mr. Marshall says, opening the driver’s door to his car. “It’s certainly not what you’re used to, I’m sure, back in America. But I hardly use it, since I walk to the school where I teach most days.”
I am instantly charmed by the vision of Mr. Marshall strolling down a tree-lined country lane in a herringbone jacket with leather elbow patches—rather than the extremely uninspired windbreaker he is currently wearing—and perhaps a cocker spaniel or two nipping at his heels.
“Oh, it’s fine,” I say about his car. “Mine isn’t much bigger.”
I wonder why he’s just standing there by the door, instead of getting in, until he goes, “After you, er, Liz.”
He wants me to drive? But…I just got here! I don’t even know my way around!
Then I realize he isn’t holding open the driver’s door at all…it’s the passenger side. The steering wheel is on the right side of the car.
Of course! We’re in England!
I laugh at my own mistake and sit down in the front seat.
Andrew slams down the trunk and comes around to see me sitting in the passenger seat. He looks at his dad and says, “What, I’m supposed to sit in the boot, then?”
“Mind your manners, Andy,” Mr. Marshall says. It seems so strange to hear Andrew called Andy. He is such an Andrew to me. But evidently not to his family.
Although truthfully, in that jacket, he looks a bit more like an Andy than an Andrew.
“Ladies in the front seat,” Mr. Marshall goes on with a smile at me. “And gentlemen in the back.”
