by Isobel Irons
You thought it was going to be worse, didn’t you? I know I did. Seriously, the word ‘slut’ just sounds so much worse. It sounds like there should be a minimum number in there, right? Almost like a legal definition; ‘You can only be counted as a ‘slut’ if you have sucked off at least half a dozen dudes, per fiscal year, and/or had ten or more hookups with nameless strangers behind various fast food establishments.’ But no, as it turns out, a slut by any other name…is just a dude, apparently.
So, there you have it, I guess.
Proof that nobody gives a damn what a word really means, or whether or not it's true. People love labels, and as we mentioned before, they hate the complex messiness of the truth. That's why they'll continue to throw those words around, regardless of how much damage they cause, and believe whatever the hell they want.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two weeks until prom….
On Saturday, I start making an official list of Becca Foster’s weaknesses.
Obviously, her face is one. She’s hideous on the inside too, not to mention stupid, so you’d think a lot of people would hate her. But then again, most people at Guthrie High think I’m the Whore of Babylon, so we’re pretty much even there. Plus, Becca hasn’t physically assaulted any wrestlers in the last few weeks—at least not that I know of.
So, okay. Likeability. That’s an issue. I can maybe work on that. I’ll have to try and watch my temper, which won’t be easy. Though, admittedly, I’ve never really tried all that hard to do so before now.
Next, I start to go through Becca’s assets. What does she have that I don't?
Plenty.
She's got a really nice car, while I just have...a car. She's got a squadron of like-minded bitches. I don't even have Margot anymore. She's got a history of popular boyfriends, and is even now hunting for her next popular man-popsicle. I've got a super senior who's out to nail my ass. Sure, Trent is popular-ish, but I’d rather chew off both of my arms and roll around in Tabasco sauce than go anywhere near that road.
Aside from a stalker and the world’s hottest math tutor, what else do I have that she doesn't?
I'm taller. My boobs are bigger. My hair is probably a little better, except for now I've got these damn streaks. I'm going to have to step it up a notch in the personal grooming department, I realize.
Also, there's the clothes thing. Guthrie might not be the center of fashion, but this is America—and in America, high school kids respect capitalism. That is going to be a serious problem. But hell, this is for Margot. Even if I decide to blow every cent of my savings on a makeover that will help me take down Becca—avenging Margot is worth everything I have, and more.
But then, thinking of Margot, I realize: maybe I don't have to spend that much money on my clothes.
They just have to look expensive.
Margot has this trendy little thrift store she likes in the next town over, so I figure I'll start there. I drive over in the afternoon. After looting my mattress of almost every penny I’ve saved.
“Hey there, you.” Keely, the girl who owns the place, looks at me in confusion. She’s always dressed weird, at least to my eyes, but today she’s especially out there, rocking an eighties-style blazer belted over a big tutu skirt and red tights. Margot said once that Keely reminded her of Annie Potts from Pretty in Pink, and now that I think about it, I have to admit she was pretty spot-on. No wonder Margot loves coming here.
"Where's your friend?"
“Uh…” I understand why she finds it hard to believe I'd come by myself, since I'm usually there under protest, sulking in a corner with a book while Margot spends hours happily digging through piles of clothes that smell like old people and cat piss.
“She's...” I can't think of anything to say that won't come off as either too blunt or insensitive, so I change the subject. I try to be nice.
“Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with something. I'm doing this project for school where I have to study...um, fashion. And I was wondering if you could tell me... what makes certain clothes seem... cooler than others?”
Keely laughs. “You mean, how do trends get started?”
“Yeah, basically.” I shrug, feeling out of my element. “I guess.”
The eccentric thrift store owner laughs, and then launches into a description of the history of fashion that blows my mind. It’s like art history, kind of. Only in fashion, the Dark Ages were during the 1970s, during the reign of polyester.
Unlike Margot, I've never really cared about this stuff before. Other than knowing what I can pull off without looking like a freakish giant, what Margot likes to call my ‘angsty camouflage’—dark colors and materials that blend my boobs so they don't stand out as much. Denim skirts with polka dot or skull pattern leggings underneath, because they make me look younger—otherwise, the 40-something creepers tend to come out of the woodwork.
But I can’t afford to worry about camouflaging myself anymore. If I’m going to do this, I have to let myself get noticed for the right reasons. Talked about in a good way, or at least a less hateful way. For Margot. Because becoming hotter and more popular than Becca Foster is how I will begin to destroy her.
After about an hour, I think I've finally got a handle on the basic concept. In order to be a trend starter, you have to wear something different. Something that makes you look good, but in an unexpected way. It can't seem like you're trying. It has to look effortless. Provocative, but not slutty. Sexy, but only by accident. Keely and I settle on what she calls a ‘style concept.’ I'm going to bring back the Marilyn Monroe look, she says, but in a more badass, punk rock way.
Basically, I have to wear bright red lipstick. Every day. I also have to wear these things called kitten heels, which look exactly like flats, but are hard as fuck to walk in without teetering over. I buy a pair of fitted black pants that stop at my ankles. I'm only allowed to wear these with a super girly top. Nothing too low cut, though. And of course, the goddamn kitten heels. My red Converse sneakers are no longer allowed. (I promise myself to keep them updated with any new nicknames though, for posterity.) I also get three new skirts—one short and frilly, one mid-length and frilly, and one that is super tight and stops at the knee. Apparently, this is called a ‘pencil skirt.’ I am forbidden to wear this with sandals of any kind. I get six tank tops, in all different colors—except pink. I used to hate that color, but only enough to dye my hair pink ironically. Now that I know it’s Becca’s favorite color, I loathe it.
Finally, because she’s awesome, Keely throws in this tiny leather jacket that stops at my elbows, for free. Somehow, it actually looks kind of cool with the skirts and stuff. Effortless. Also, a little badass.
“You can wear this with everything,” she tells me. “But wash the stripes out of your hair. Or make them brown. And don't forget the lipstick.”
By the time I get home, I feel like a completely different person. When I kick in the door hauling two giant armfuls of brown paper bags, my mom yells at me from the kitchen.
“Where the hell have you been all morning? You forgot to do the dish—” She gasps, freezing in mid-nag. “Oh, Natty! You look... you look so feminine.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I've got a vagina and everything. Listen, can you help me take the pink streaks out of my hair?”
For a second, I think she might actually cry from sheer joy.
“Of course.” As she stands there, beaming at me, I realize this is the first time I’ve talked to her—not to mention the first time she’s smiled at me—in weeks. But then, as usual, she can’t just let progress stand on its own two feet. She always has to push it over the line. “You know what would be really great? If we did some low lights. And maybe plucked your eyebrows, a little bit.”
Normally, I’d tell her to fuck off and storm out, but I’ve been through too much in the last three days to let anything she says hurt my feelings. “Sure, Mom. Whatever.”
She squeals with happiness, and I grit my teeth and force myself to bea
r it. Over the next couple of hours, I just keep repeating the same thing over and over, in my head:
You're going down, Butterface Foster.
###
As I’ve mentioned before, Monday is always a shitty day. But this Monday is the one I dread more than most. It's time to see if my transformation has any effect on the student body’s hive mentality perceptions. I've got exactly two weeks to make people talk about me. To make people like me.
And if that fails, I need to make them fear me, more than they fear Becca.
After parking my car, I just sit there for a few minutes, white-knuckling the steering wheel, watching my fellow students walk by through my icy, mud-streaked windshield. As long as I’m in this car, I seem to be invisible.
But once I get out of the car, there’s no going back.
Tilting my rear-view mirror, I take one last look at my new façade. Fire hydrant red lipstick, check. Hair perfectly blow dried and curled, check. Eye makeup, flawless.
I barely recognize myself, and in a way, that’s actually empowering. It makes this all seem less crucial, somehow. More like a game. Whoever this girl in the mirror is, she sure as hell isn’t me. So whatever happens to her, maybe it will be like it’s happening to someone else.
With one last deep breath to calm the raging orgy of nervous butterflies in my stomach, I wrench open the car door and step into the sunlight. For a few seconds, I just stand there, blinking. Blinded.
But as my eyes adjust, I realize I’ve stepped into a whole new world.
My fellow students pass by, glancing curiously in my direction, but no one whispers. No one sneers. Some of them even smile, instead of accidentally catching my gaze and automatically looking away, as usual. I grab my new shoulder-bag—which I stole from my mom—off the front seat, swinging it over my shoulder like this is just another day. Like I’ve always been this cool, effortlessly fashionable person.
I look awesome, and I know it.
As I make my way through the parking lot, it’s a struggle to keep my totally aloof, ‘too classy to give a fuck’ composure. Not because people are staring, but because I’m wearing the damn kitten heels and the pavement is really fucking uneven. I stop for a second next to a wood-paneled Dodge minivan circa 1995, pushing up the sleeves of my leather jacket and feeling sorry for the poor kid who has to drive it to this hell hole and put up with all the soccer mom jokes.
“Wow.” I stop breathing for a second, as a familiar smell wafts around me. “I almost didn’t recognize you, Tasha.”
A hand falls heavily onto my shoulder, upsetting my already wobbly balance on the pothole-ridden ground. I put a hand out, bracing myself against the minivan, so I can turn and stare up at Trent with all the icy disdain I can muster.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
He laughs, reaching his hand up to tug on a chunk of my hair. “You don’t have to play hard to get, Skangly. I’m already hard.”
Ugh, gross. I shrug out from under his hand, readjusting the strap of my bag so I can cross my arms in front of me. Trent’s eyes rake up and down my body, taking me in. The shirt I’m wearing is white, with tiny black polka dots. It’s tucked into the mid-length skirt, with a red belt on top. I wish I’d worn the pants instead. And some steel-toed army boots, so I could kick him in the shins.
Hooking his thumbs into his belt, he makes a disgusting hissing sound through his teeth. “Very nice. If you were trying to get my attention, it worked. Aw-oo-ga.”
My skin crawls, and I turn to leave. I will not smash his face into the side of this van. I will not—
He grabs my arm. I try to pull away from him, widening my stance to give myself the illusion of balance.
“Let go, or so help me, I will jam your nuts up into your throat.”
He laughs, widening his smile to show off his tobacco-stained teeth. “In that skirt? I don’t think so.”
Then he takes it a step further. Jerking me closer to him, he reaches around and grabs my ass.
The icy façade cracks, and the murderous rage threatens to return. There’s all kinds of other students in the parking lot, but no one bothers to interfere, or even really looks in our direction. Though, I have zero doubt that they’ll turn on me and offer witness to Principal Shoemaker if I so much as bruise Trent’s stupid, leering face. Panic begins to take hold. My plan is backfiring, to a major degree.
“Hey, Tash. Everything okay?”
I turn my head, trying to elbow my way free. Grant is standing a few feet away from us, with a polite, yet concerned look on his face. Like the prince in a damn fairy tale. Except, standing here with Trent’s grubby paws all over me, I couldn’t feel less like a princess.
Fuck, why can’t I ever catch a break?
“It’s fine, Grant,” I say, over my shoulder. “I was just telling Trent here about Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”
“Is that the problem?” Trent whispers, so only I can hear. “Blue, is he your new fuck buddy?”
I don't punch him in the balls, because he’d probably like it. But I want to. So, so bad.
“Fuck off and die, Trent,” I mutter.
Trent laughs at me derisively, but then he finally lets me go.
With one last scathing glare in his direction, I turn and walk toward the gym, away from both of them. I’m so focused on not falling down that it's a few seconds before I realize Grant is following me.
“What's going on, Tash?”
I keep my gaze straight ahead, pasting on a blank expression. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, with you.” He grabs my arm, but gently. Asking more than demanding that I slow down to look at him. I stop and let out a sigh, pretending to be bored while my eyes flutter around self-consciously. Is he seriously going to give me another lecture, in front of everybody? I look around, but no one is pointing or staring. In fact, my new transformation seems to have done the impossible—it's made me blend in. My fellow students smile vaguely at me as they pass, not seeming to recognize me for the social pariah I am.
Grant just stands there, patiently waiting for me to explain.
“I'm just trying to turn over a new leaf,” I tell him. “It's part of a promise I made, to my friend. Margot.”
“Oh.” His face clouds over, and his consternation morphs into contrition. Sympathy. Again. “My dad said he saw you in the ER. I was wondering why you didn’t come to leadership on Friday. I was going to call over the weekend, but….”
He shakes his head, like the thought doesn’t really count. But it counts. It so counts.
“I'm sorry,” he says, instead of completing the thought. Damn him. “Is she okay? Are you?”
My eyes follow Trent as he and his gorilla-like friends saunter across the parking lot, toward the south building—the 4H department. I’m so distracted by my hatred that I answer Grant’s question a little too honestly.
“We’ll be fine once we both get out of this place.”
Grant wrinkles his forehead, like I’ve said something offensive. “You really think high school is that bad?”
His ignorance makes me want to slap him. But then, across the quad, I spy Becca. She's squinting at me in confusion, probably trying to figure out where she knows me from.
That reminds me. I'm supposed to be moving on to Phase Two of my plan.
So, instead of mocking Grant for being totally oblivious to the constant shit show that is the world I live in—which is what I would’ve done a week ago—I sidle up to him, sliding my hand into the crook of his arm. He's taller than me still, even with the damn kitten heels. As I look up into his eyes, I smile crookedly with my crimson lips, the way I practiced in the mirror all day yesterday.
"You know, lately it's been getting a little better."
He smiles, tentatively, and opens the door for me. "Well then, after you."
As I pass by him to go through the door, I'm intensely aware of the slight brush of his fingertips against my back. For the first time I can remember, the unsolicited touching does
n’t set off any alarm bells. In fact, I kind of want it to last. Okay, more than kind of.
Because my new goal, I've decided, is to break my original rule. From now on, I want to be seen with Grant Blue, as often and as closely as possible. I want people to talk about us, and wonder about us. I want people to think we’re together—even if they think it’s in that way.
Scratch that, especially if it’s in that way.
Before now, I was worried about ruining his reputation, or making him hate me. But I’d never really thought about it the other way around. What if, instead of wrecking Grant’s popularity, he can boost mine?
Hell, it seems to work for celebrities. Just look at that gross-looking Jesse James guy and Sandra Bullock, or better yet, Kate Middleton and Prince What’s His Name. I’ll bet the bitches at Kate’s old high school are jealous as fuck, now that she’s married to the Prince.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the time third period rolls around, I’m pretty sure Becca is on the verge of an aneurism.
And it’s fantastic.
Halfway through second period, Grant leaned forward to say something to me—to be honest, I can’t even remember what it was, I was too busy fighting off a massive case of the full-body tingles—and I laughed out loud. Becca turned around in her seat, and I think that was the moment when it hit her who I was. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for assigned seating, she still might not have picked up on it. Like I said, she’s pretty painfully stupid. She didn’t look at me once, all through aerobics. But after she saw me talking to Grant, and realized it was I—Tash Bohner, the ‘fugly skank’ she’s hated since way back when we were both in training bras—Becca couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from me.
Not when I pretended to drop my pen and made Grant pick it up for me. Not when I found any reason I could think of to touch him on our way to Leadership class. And especially not when I waltzed into Leadership just now and blew her a kiss, right in front of everybody.
