More Than One Way to Be a Girl

by Dyan Sheldon

  “Maybe they do takeaway,” suggested ZiZi. “Then we can eat it on the train, and you get your full-vegan experience and we get home when we said we would and everybody’s happy.”

  I was about to say that wasn’t a bad idea when one of the two guys at the table nearest us said, “If you don’t mind sharing, you ladies can sit with us.”

  We both looked over. For definite, they were college guys. Good-looking college guys. Especially the one who was grinning at ZiZi as if he hadn’t eaten for a week and she was a beanburger.

  ZiZi leaned her head against mine. “I didn’t think boys who look like that ate tofu,” she whispered.

  No, only girls who look like me eat it.

  I butted her with my hip to let her know that I thought sitting with the attractive tofu-eaters was a bad idea. It’s already been well established that I’m not good at talking to boys. I’m okay if we have something to talk about – mathematical formulas or theories of creation or torque wrenches, for example. I can talk to Gabriel Schwartz for hours just about the exploration of Mars. But when it comes to pointless conversation, I’m lost; my small talk is so small it’s not there. Especially if I don’t know the boys – and especially if they’re older ones who obviously wouldn’t have seen me if I’d been by myself. Talking to – and flirting with – strange men, however, is, of course, the sort of thing ZiZi excels at.

  ZiZi didn’t think the hip-butt meant, Let’s leave now. She decided it meant, Why look a gorgeous vegan gift horse in the mouth? and returned his smile with interest. “Oh, we couldn’t impose.”

  “Not an imposition.” He pushed the chair beside him towards her. He winked. “More like a favour.”

  “And an honour,” added his friend.

  And an honour? Did he really say that? Who says a dumb thing like that, especially in public? This is an example of why I can’t flirt and probably wouldn’t if I could. It’s so embarrassing that if they played a tape of you flirting at your funeral, you’d come back to life just to turn it off.

  This time I squeezed ZiZi’s elbow. But it was too late – she was already sliding into the chair. “Well, if you insist,” she laughed.

  “I’m Darius,” said the better-looking of the two. “And this here’s Vass.”

  “I’m Giselle and this—” ZiZi pointed to me. They were all looking at me expectantly as I stood there, making me feel like everyone in the restaurant was waiting for me to sit down. I didn’t seem to have a choice; I moved over to the other empty chair. No one pushed it out for me. “This is Loretta.”

  Darius and Vass both told me how nice it was to meet me.

  Which was the first and last thing either of them ever said to me directly.

  Darius asked ZiZi if we lived in the city. ZiZi explained that we’d only come in for the day to do research at the Women’s History Museum.

  “Really?” Vass grinned. If his teeth were lights we’d have been blinded. “You’re much too pretty to be a feminist.”

  “It was research,” laughed ZiZi. “Not a commitment.”

  I knocked my fork off the table.

  Then, having established that ZiZi was only visiting and was too pretty to be a feminist, Darius and Vass started telling her all about themselves. They were at NYU. They were both in pre-law. They were both from somewhere else. They loved New York. There were so many cool clubs and things to do. They both had like a trillion other interests and hobbies. Marathon running. Climbing. Kayaking. Windsurfing. Gaming. Sailing. Golf.

  In a pause while they took in air and food, I said, “So I’m guessing you both want to do corporate law.”

  They must have heard me, because they got all enthused about what an exciting and opportunity-filled field corporate law is – and how lucrative – but they were talking to ZiZi.

  ZiZi, the pro; she smiled and nodded and made positive comments now and then (“Wow!”; “That’s amazing!” “Jeez; I never knew that.”).

  Unhampered by the demands of conversation, I finished my meal, and checked my phone. It was getting late. We had to get going or this time we really would miss the train. I tried to get her attention, but she hates to be rude to boys – even strangers – and she ignored me. Too.

  After a few more futile attempts to get ZiZi to stop bobbing and smiling and to look at me, I waved to the waiter for our bill. Interrupting a story about some lawyer friend of Vass’s father who owned his own island, I said, very loudly, “ZiZi, we have to go. Look at the time. If we don’t hurry, we’re going to miss our train.”

  “So miss it,” said Darius. “There’s a party in Brooklyn. You could come with us. It’ll be serious fun.”

  “We’d love to,” said ZiZi. “Really. I’m sure it’ll be better than anything we’ve gone to at home. But if I miss the train to go to a party in Brooklyn, my parents will go total nuclear war on me, and it’ll be my last party till I’m fifty-eight.”

  They must have thought she was joking; they both laughed.

  “But you guys have been great,” ZiZi went on. “You’re our saviours, letting us share your table and everything. We can’t thank you enough.”

  Darius said how they should be thanking us, but I didn’t hear the rest because by then I was out the door.

  I was halfway down the block when ZiZi caught up with me. “Are you mad at me again?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Zi.” Up until that moment, I’d been more tired and anxious than angry, but as soon as she asked me if I was mad I was furious. I’d really hoped ZiZi would get more from the day than two bags of shopping. Besides that, I’m the daughter of a psychologist. Which means that, if I’m being completely honest, I was a little fed up with being the plain sidekick. Knowing that if ZiZi and I were being attacked by two-headed monsters from a distant galaxy no one was going to be risking his life to save me.

  “Look, I’m a million times sorry. I only sat down because you said you really wanted to try that restaurant. I thought—”

  “Not now,” I ordered. “We really are cutting it close. Let’s just get to the station, okay?” I thumped down the steps to the subway.

  There was a train at the platform when we got to the turnstiles. Zizi swiped her MetroCard through the machine and raced towards it. The doors were about to close. “Wait!” she shouted, flapping her shopping bags. “Wait!”

  A man standing next to the door held it for her and she gracefully jumped on board.

  Back on the platform, I watched the train pull away.

  File under the heading: It can’t be merely coincidence or luck.

  ZiZi

  Loretta makes up for how quiet she was at supper

  So this time Loretta was really mad at me. (It’s about the only time her face has any colour.)

  “Just once, it’d be nice not to have to run for a train.” She was fuming. We were running for the train and she was practically producing steam. “You know,” she puffed and huffed, “like regular people who just turn up on time and stroll on board and don’t spend the first five minutes of the ride trying to get their breath back?”

  I said that was glaringly unfair. Not only was she doing a really good job of talking for somebody who couldn’t breathe, she was also forgetting exactly how many trains we’d ever run for together in our whole lives. Two. That’s not exactly a history. It’s not even a footnote.

  “That’s because we’ve only taken two trains together,” snarked Loretta. “If we’d taken two hundred, it’d be two hundred.”

  I wasn’t sure which made me feel more guilty, the snarling or the silence.

  “You don’t know that. It might only have been one hundred and ninety nine.”

  “In your dreams.”

  But for all Loretta’s negativity, we did make the train. (Not with hours to spare, maybe, but we got on before it pulled out!) And to me the important part is what did happen, not what could have happened. I ruined a good pair of tights because I had to take off my shoes or risk being permanently crippled, and because I was sh
oeless I stubbed my toe, but we made it. We collapsed in the first empty seats.

  My toe was turning an unnatural shade of magenta.

  “It’s your own fault,” said Loretta. “That wouldn’t have happened if you wore sensible shoes.”

  I said next time I’d make sure I brought my skates. “At least you can’t blame me for nearly missing the train.”

  Loretta said, “That’s where you’re wrong, Giselle. I blame you completely. Among other things, you left me on the subway platform.”

  “I didn’t leave you. I thought you were right behind me. It’s not my fault the scientific genius couldn’t swipe her MetroCard.”

  “Maybe.” She really hates to admit she’s wrong. “But ignoring me in the restaurant when I said we had to get going absolutely was your fault. You just sat there like a mindless idiot listening to them drone on for hours.”

  I’m sure I don’t have to point out the enormous exaggerations here. It wasn’t hours that we were in the restaurant. It wasn’t even two.

  “I wasn’t sitting there like a mindless idiot, I was being a good listener, like women are. Except for you.”

  “They weren’t interested in listening to you, though. They were being the way guys are around you. They were showing off and talking about themselves like peacocks waving their feathers all over the place.” She made a face like she’d just bitten into a lemon. “Thank God you’re too pretty to be a feminist or they’d have had nothing to say.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Lo, he wasn’t serious. He was just flirting with me.” One subject Loretta is not an expert on. “Plus, they weren’t waving their feathers. They were being sociable. We were having a conversation.”

  “That wasn’t a conversation. That was a series of monologues. When there’s a conversation, both sides get to say more than the occasional exclamation of admiration or awe.”

  “Give me a break, will you?” For someone who’s so smart, she really is out of touch with reality sometimes. “It’s not like college men are going to want to listen to me explain how to make your lashes look longer. And, for sure, they don’t want to hear you explain that women shouldn’t shave their legs because that was started a hundred years ago by Gillette to sell razors to women.”

  “You don’t think those topics are at least as interesting as running and the biggest law firms in the city?”

  “Not to them they aren’t.”

  “And vice versa. But, for some reason, guys think that what they do and think is important to everybody and what women do and think is only important to them.” She sighed the way I figure the planet would sigh if it could. You know, hopeless and weary. “And so do you.”

  “No, I don’t. It’s just that I’m outgoing and friendly.”

  The sound Loretta made when I said that, I was surprised everyone else in the carriage didn’t look around to see who’d brought the horse on board.

  “You’re more than outgoing and friendly, Zi. You have this girl thing going on.”

  “Girl thing? You mean like getting your period?”

  “I mean like you’d rather be a girl than a person.”

  “I don’t want to be the one to break the news and turn your world upside down, Loretta, but, in case you didn’t notice, I am a girl. That’s one of the reasons my parents called me Giselle and not George.”

  “And, in case this has escaped your attention, I’m a girl, too.”

  “Yeah, but you like to keep that a secret.”

  “I just don’t happen to believe being a girl means I need help to set up a garden umbrella.”

  When she wants to, she has a photographic memory. “That was one time, Loretta. And I didn’t act like I didn’t know how to put it up. Duane just assumed that it was something he’d be better at and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “The only thing Duane Tolvar’s better at than you is peeing standing up.”

  “That’s so not true. He’s a much better wrestler than I am, too. And anyway, he didn’t think I could put it up by myself, and I didn’t see any reason to disillusion him. Guys can be sensitive about stuff like that.”

  “That’s what I mean. You defer to guys.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m just not always competing with them or trying to prove I’m smarter than they are.”

  “Is that what you think I do?”

  Do models watch their weight?

  “What you don’t get, Loretta, is that men and women are different. That’s a fact.”

  “Actually, the scientific fact is that the male and female brain are the same. Which means that any differences – aside from size, strength and who gets pregnant – are learned. Males are taught to be boys, and females are taught to be girls.”

  If she hadn’t looked so serious, I would’ve laughed. “You’re saying I learned to be a girl?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. From the first time they put you in a pink onesie and gave you a doll.”

  “Oh, please … I’m me. And the me I am has always liked being a girl. Girls don’t get blamed for everything that goes wrong in the world the way men do.”

  “That would be because women don’t run the world,” snapped Loretta.

  Arguing with Loretta can be like trying to find the end of a circle.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said. “I happen to like being attractive. I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

  “It depends what you think is attractive. What most women think is attractive is what men have decided is attractive for women.”

  I couldn’t help myself. That time I did laugh. “What? They take a vote?”

  She let that pass. “You know that programme you watch? The talent contest? Why do you think the male presenters wear jeans and ordinary shirts while the women all dress like they’re going on some hot date?”

  “Because women like to look nice.”

  “Dream on,” said Loretta. “It’s because they’re on TV, which means they’re sexual objects first and presenters second.”

  “Oh, come on, they don’t look like sexual objects, they look feminine. And if you ask me, women who aren’t into their femininity are just wannabe guys.”

  “Maybe they’re just wannabe people. Like I am. I don’t see why I should have to conform to our society’s gender stereotypes to be a girl.”

  “And I don’t see why I can’t be how I want to be.”

  “You limit yourself,” said Loretta.

  “You think you don’t?” I sure thought she did. “Plus, maybe you don’t conform to society’s stereotypes, but you conform to yours. Like nobody will ever take you seriously if you look too girly. You think it’s a sign of weakness to look pretty.”

  “I never said that. What I’m saying is that you don’t have to obey the conventional rules of what a girl or a woman looks like to be one. Clothes and ideas of female behaviour have been used to control women for centuries. To make them objects, not people.”

  I pretended to yawn. “So that’s why you think you shouldn’t wear a dress or make-up or anything.”

  “Yes. Because everybody makes assumptions based on appearance. I want to be judged for what I am, not for what I look like.”

  “But you’re still judged on how you look. And anyway, you make judgments. You’re afraid people won’t think you’re smart if you look too feminine. So you use how you look just as much as I use how I look. Maybe you think you wouldn’t be you if you wore a dress.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Of course I would. You’re the one who’d be lost if you couldn’t rely on your über girlness.”

  “I could do it, no problem. You’re the one who couldn’t change.”

  “Are you kidding? You don’t go into the backyard without make-up on.”

  “And you haven’t worn a dress since primary school.”

  And that’s when Loretta had her big idea.

  “You want to bet?”

  Loretta

  Walk a mile in my shoes

  “You want
to bet?” I didn’t plan to say that, it was a flash of pure inspiration. Not as brilliant as inventing the wheel, maybe, but as brilliant as putting the wheel on a wagon. Just like that: “You want to bet?”

  ZiZi’s first reaction was to laugh. Shriek with laughter might be a more accurate description.

  “Bet? Are you serious? You mean we switch around? You’re going to wear make-up and dresses and I’m going to look like someone who will never get a date? Is that what you mean?”

  That about covered it.

  “Yes. I’ll go for the girly, look-at-me image, and you’ll go for the androgynous, talk-to-me one. And we’ll see who cracks first.”

  ZiZi and I both like to be right, which means that we’d made plenty of bets before. How far ZiZi could walk in her new heels. How long I could go without starting an argument. I bet her that she couldn’t be on time two days in a row. She bet me that I couldn’t go shopping with her for an entire afternoon and not complain once. As far as winning went, the judges agreed that we broke even.

  This time she was gazing at me with the sort of look she usually reserves for a serious fashion faux pas. “You know, sometimes I really don’t know why you think you’re such a logical person. This is totally crazy.”

  “You don’t think I can do it?”

  “Can bears tango?”

  “You’re wrong.” She was for definite wrong. With our previous bets, ZiZi always won if it was her idea, and I always won if it was mine. This was my idea. How could I lose? “You’re the one who can’t go more than ten minutes without checking how she looks in the nearest reflective surface.”

  “And you’re the one with all the principles. If some guy paid you a compliment, you’d probably hit him.”

  I knew it might not be easy, but I would treat it as sociological research. Almost a scientific study. Writers and journalists do that sort of thing all the time. Dressing all girly might not be exactly the same as Barbara Ehrenreich working in Walmart or Gloria Steinem being a Playboy bunny, but it was still an interesting experiment.

  “I can leave my principles at the back of my closet with my work boots. The question is, can you leave your obsession with how you look in the drawer with your make-up?”