Gawky

by Margot Leitman

  Half an hour of bakery photos and we arrived at the prom, in an excessively air-conditioned wedding factory a few towns away, which was themed “Sweet Sweet Fantasy Baby” after the Mariah Carey/Ol’ Dirty Bastard song. As we entered the overcrowded banquet hall, heads turned to see gargantuan me, arm in arm with a short kid dressed as Ben Franklin. Some kids snickered and I tried to ignore them, but as we entered the main dance floor, heads turned. After years of no one noticing anything I ever did—stealing a song from Wham!, seducing a thirty-year-old bank teller at age twelve, finding a faux crack pipe on the beach, starting a protest against the Gulf War in the cafeteria, even handing the coolest girl in school my teeth—suddenly everyone wanted to know who I was. Whispers could be heard: “What the hell?” “Who are they?” “Once a freak, always a freak.” Eli and I proudly danced to “Gangsta’s Paradise” and then walked through the judgmental crowd to sit at our table. Well, Eli sat—I had to stay vertical due to my oversize bustle and petticoat.

  While we ate a few too many dinner rolls at the table, I watched the nerds cut loose. Mike Goldstein was grinding with a slutty hippie, the valedictorian was making out with a skater chick, and Adam the second-hottest nerd appeared to be obliterated on one too many swigs of Mad Dog. I thought to myself, Let’s have some fun. I grabbed my date and hit the dance floor. “Be My Lover” by La Bouche played and we rocked it. We partied all night, and I even got to slow-dance with Adam Sizemore.

  Halfway through the night, I had to pee, and knowing it would take a little while to disengage from my bustle and corset, I headed for the bathroom right away. While attempting to fit a modified hoop skirt into an extra-small stall inside the restroom I bumped into the school Spanish teacher. She also moonlighted as the performing arts teacher, but we weren’t that close. As she leaned into the mirror to apply a thick coat of lip liner underneath a maroon lipstick, she said, “You and Eli are the best dressed here. I have total respect for what you’ve done tonight. I’ve admired your originality your four years here. A lot of us have. You’ve really made a statement tonight. Go out with a bang, Margot.”

  I was shocked. This cool teacher had noticed me for all the right reasons. We had that one class together but I figured she hadn’t given me a second thought after that. I didn’t know she remembered me. I had never even taken Spanish—I had taken two years of French, mistakenly thinking I would be a natural at it due to the fact that I have a silent t at the end of my name. Was it possible I had silent fans all along? There was no time to think, though; I had to undress, pee, and re-dress quickly because I heard the prom advisor/math teacher begin to announce the prom court. I wanted to get back in there so I could see which member of the White Lipstick Posse would be selected to be queen for yet another day. I also wanted to see if a nerd gone wild could break the barrier and get on that court.

  I returned to the banquet hall just as the prom advisor was announcing the winners.

  “Second runner-up for prom queen is . . . Jessica Rosenstein.”

  Big surprise. Jessica had been so kind in seventh grade to tell me I could be pretty if I didn’t dress like such a freak. I guess she followed her own advice, because she looked like she was on top of the world. I guess Jessica didn’t peak at her Bat Mitzvah after all.

  “First runner-up . . . Dawn Riser.”

  Another big surprise. Dawn was so pretty, of course she was up there curtsying like the royal subject she always knew she was.

  I was spreading a tiny chunk of butter on the last dinner roll when the prom advisor turned back to the microphone. There was one more title to declare before the queen.

  “First runner-up . . . and our prom princess . . . Margot Leitman.”

  What? WHAT??? There was a pause, long enough for me to hear people say “What the hell?” and “Who?”

  Eli gave me a push. “Go up there! Congrats!”

  I looked out into the crowd. A few were clapping, mostly teachers and nerds gone wild. There was a lot of whispering and a lot of frowning girls wearing Jessica McClintock dresses with matching nail art. I guess runner-up ran in the family; my mom would be so proud. I took a few strides, remembering my mother’s words, “Posture, Maaargot, posture!” I stood up proudly and went to collect my tiny Claire’s Boutique rhinestone crown and medium-size bouquet.

  Then the prom advisor/math teacher announced the prom queen . . . dragging out the moment for dramatic effect. What member of the White Lipstick Posse was she going to call? Finally she spoke a name. Her own daughter. The crowd cheered, feigning surprise as her fairly popular daughter took the crown with very little excitement on her face.

  After the nepotistic crowning, the male court was announced, filled mostly with hot drug dealers teachers were scared of and jocks they wanted to sleep with. Then they announced the prom king. As I tried to pull the crinoline out of my underwear without anyone noticing, I heard the advisor say, “And your prom king is Eli Rothberg!”

  Eli! Eli! I couldn’t believe it! My little Ben Franklin, fresh off of jaw surgery, was the king! Eli stood up proudly and danced his way to get his crown. Everyone seemed confused at what was happening. The freaks were getting some recognition just as we were all out the door. Eli didn’t care. He reveled in the moment as the crown was placed on his head.

  There was moderate applause and then “Fantasy” by Mariah Carey started blasting. Eli tried to dance with the queen, but she wasn’t interested in dancing with him. Despite their equivalent crownings they were still in vastly different social circles. I didn’t want Eli to be left up there all alone, so I danced with him.

  It was turning out to be the best night ever. I guess lightning can strike twice! Hey-oh!

  We left the prom to discover that Eli had left his lights on all night. Which really worked out for the best, because as we were stuck in the parking lot waiting for a jump, we were able to receive repeated congratulations from sneering seniors as they piled into their limos empty-handed. Waiting for the jump was like an impromptu receiving line for Eli and me, though I imagined everyone who congratulated us was secretly planning our demise. Maybe this was what it felt like to have a Bat Mitzvah.

  Finally we got a jump from the banquet staff and headed home. “This was fun,” I said as I climbed out of his car, and I meant it sincerely. I waltzed in the door and ran up the stairs to tell my mom about my night. She was waiting up for me in bed, in a silk negligée, knitting that same afghan, with her glasses tipped over her nose. My father was snoring next to her.

  “Well,” she said, as she peered at me over her glasses, “did you win?”

  “I didn’t win, but I was the princess. I am so stoked.”

  My mother sighed and said, “Well, if anything happens to the queen . . .” and went back to her knitting.

  CHAPTER 17:

  Less of a Nerd Than I Thought

  Prom weekend wasn’t over. Parties would continue all weekend, and my class was divided into two party stations: Wildwood and Ocean City. I had heard that the nerds gone wild were all opting for Ocean City, so I went there, in hopes that I would see Adam, the second-hottest nerd. My title of prom princess was giving me the extra adrenaline to go for it. I had nothing to lose, there were only a few months left of school, and Rodreigo had given me the go-ahead to explore my options.

  That weekend, most kids were hooking up in the pool and drinking Natty Light any opportunity they could get. I wanted to explore a true beach town. I knew I’d be leaving New Jersey soon, and this quaint tourist town made me nostalgic for a place I hadn’t yet said good-bye to. I took a long walk on the boardwalk and stumbled upon The Fudge Factory. I had to go in. My grandfather was a candy manufacturer, and I had always been jealous of my mother’s stories.

  “And don’t get me started on Easter, Margot. We would wake up to chocolate eggs with our names engraved on them. I have five fillings because I lived on a steady diet of caramel for the first twelve years of my life.” My mother’s all-candy childhood diet explained my all–melba toas
t childhood diet. And even though I never got a few of my adult teeth, I also never got a cavity.

  And while The Fudge Factory was hardly a real factory like my grandfather worked in, I was still curious as to how candy was made. My grandfather died when I was four and my one clear memory of him was him coming to our house and making grape bubble gum from scratch in our oven! Working in the bakery had shown me the in-depth process of making donuts, hard rolls, and cheesecakes, but it wasn’t the same as learning the process of making candy.

  I strolled in and watched a demonstration of how fudge was made. I lurked in the back of a crowd of tourists and watched silently as a smiling teenager poured a hot chocolate mixture on a cold marble slate. I found myself fascinated by the process of making fudge. After the demonstration most of the crowd made their purchases of rocky road and maple fudge and headed out. I lingered for a while. The staff of The Fudge Factory asked where I was from and what I was doing in town. I told them I was with a crowd of high school seniors staying nearby.

  “Why don’t you bring some of your friends by after we close tonight and we’ll have a dance party?” asked a perky guy in a chef’s hat.

  “Sounds like a plan. Will do,” I said, as he rang up my selection of fudge, gummy bears, and chocolate candies.

  An after-hours dance party at a fudge factory seemed like a perfect first date for Adam and me.

  I went back to the motel with a new understanding of the fudge-making process and bags of candy, which got me a plethora of attention from all the nerds gone wild. As Mike Goldstein, the first-hottest nerd, washed his hands thoroughly before gulping down a handful of chocolate-covered gummy bears, I told them all, “So, the staff of The Fudge Factory invited me to this rager they’re having tonight.”

  “I don’t know if I’m up for a rager,” said Mike Goldstein, already thinking about the dust residue a party in a fudge factory could cause.

  “What do you mean, ‘rager’?” asked Adam. Here was my in. He was interested.

  “You know, like a dance party in a candy store after hours. That’s all.”

  Adam chomped down on a chocolate turtle and said, “Sure. I’ll go.” And that was all it took. Adam spread the word about the dance party to all the nerds gone wild and that night we all set out to The Fudge Factory. There were about twelve of us in total; Adam walked by my side the whole way.

  “Congrats on the win, Margot. You deserved it. You looked hot.”

  Hot? I wasn’t going for hot . . . I guess Adam had an affinity for Queen Victoria types. Either way, I had gotten his attention; I was on my way. I walked into The Fudge Factory to scope things out just as they closed.

  “You came!” said the perky guy, removing his chef’s hat to indicate he was officially off fudge-making duty.

  “Yeah, and I brought some friends.” I gestured to the group of classmates outside.

  “Well, get in here then! We’re just about to start.”

  Everyone filed in skeptically. The staff locked the door, turned the sign to Closed, and blasted Quad City DJs’ “C’mon N’Ride It (the Train).” The party was on. The Fudge Factory staff all started shaking it; they clearly did this every night after closing. They were having so much fun we all just had to join in. I thought I had seen nerds gone wild, but I had never seen them dance like this. The staff of The Fudge Factory were pretty much the most awesome people I had ever met, and they spent their days making candy. Amazing. I made a silent vow to myself to never forget the spirit of those candy kids. I wanted always to remember to save time to let go at the end of a long day. I thought about this on the walk back to the motel as Adam and I held hands.

  The following Monday at school I waltzed into homeroom ready for the endless congratulations I was about to face. I was ready for the revenge moment Sandy had at the end of Grease when she was suddenly cool and all the fifties greasers thought, “Wow, I didn’t know she had it in her to wear those pants!” I sat down right next to the prom queen/prom advisor’s daughter. I figured the royal court should remain together whenever possible. The queen turned to me and whispered, “Did you hear what happened?”

  How could I have heard anything? I had been away for the weekend dancing in a candy store and holding hands with a nerd. “Kelly’s mom came to my house and threatened my mom.”

  “What do you mean? Why?”

  “’Cause she was in charge of the prom court; that’s why. Kelly’s mom spent $1,100 on her prom dress and she wanted her daughter on that court. She was all like, ‘How dare you waste a crown on some humongous freak in an ugly-ass ball gown who made a mockery out of the prom? That crown should have gone to Kelly. You better make this right.’”

  “Well, why is Kelly’s mom spending $1,100 on a prom dress anyway? You can’t buy your way onto the prom court,” I said, acting as if I was a girl who was used to getting crowned in front of her jealous peers.

  “Exactly,” said the prom queen/prom advisor’s daughter.

  I sat in homeroom waiting for the bell to ring, wondering if the prom advisor/prom queen’s mother/math teacher was going to get punched over my gold ball gown. I was really flattered that people suddenly cared about me. I’d take notoriety, even as a villain. Anything was better than Floyd Barstow ignoring me in the rainforest. I couldn’t believe that someone cared enough about what I was doing to send her mother to kick a teacher’s ass. Sure, my dress was ugly in a fabulous sort of way, but it was nothing for grown women to fight over. Or was it? How exciting. Finally, high school was getting interesting.

  I saw Kelly, the girl so enraged at my crown that she sent her mother to kick ass on my behalf, in the hall later that day, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. In fact she never had. I don’t think Kelly was aware of my existence until I was crowned royalty instead of her. I thought, Well, if a math teacher has to take a punch in order for justice to prevail, then that’s a lesson for us all. My mom was too busy working, brewing tea, and knitting the afghan to fight my battles. If Kelly had a problem, she could take it up with me directly, which she never did, of course. Wuss.

  Eventually the prom scandal died down, and unfortunately it didn’t spread around school the way I had hoped. So far the only really successful rumor spread about me during high school was that I was dying of leukemia, and that wasn’t very fun. Besides me, Kelly, and the actual prom queen, it seemed no one knew that a fight almost broke out between two grown women over my gold ball gown. But it made me happy to know that it had happened, and that it was completely ridiculous.

  A few days later, hot off my prom-princess buzz, Adam asked me to hang out. He no longer cared about his homework, and I never did in the first place, so we decided not to wait until the weekend and go out that very night. We went to an empty playground and talked for a while about the end of school and our mixed emotions. We were both making up for lost time—his lost to studying and mine to brooding and feeling self-conscious.

  “I feel like I’m just starting to enjoy myself and now I have to leave,” I said, my feet trailing in the dirt while I swung on the swing.

  “I know, I didn’t breathe for the last four years,” said Adam, as he stopped swinging and began to pace. “It’s Tuesday night, right? Why can’t we be out? Why haven’t I ever done anything but study on a Tuesday night?” Adam started to walk toward the lawn, so I hopped off my swing, careful not to fall as usual, and followed him. “It feels good, you know? I mean, I got into the school I wanted, which is great, but I missed everything.”

  I had missed everything too. I was too engulfed in my very own So-Called Life to ever enjoy high school until this point. I had hated my teachers, my classmates; I was even angry to be young in this time period. I did anything I could to be anywhere but here and now. But at the park, sitting on that playground lawn, on a Tuesday night with bookish Adam, I was in the moment. In the spirit of seizing the day, he leaned in and kissed me. As our lips touched, I wondered if he was less of a nerd than I thought. He seemed to know what he was doing. Adam was a
really good kisser. Then when he removed my bra in one fell swoop, I thought, This is no nerd you’re dealing with here. From that night forward, it was on between Adam and me. I tried my best to keep things at a “fling only” level. I was trying to be realistic. Our entire last-few-months-of-school relationship was like an ’80s movie—the artsy girl and the nerd with confidence having one last fling before they left town forever. Except this movie would feature music from Chumbawamba instead of Wang Chung.

  Right before graduation, my parents went away on vacation for a week. I took on extra hours at the bakery in their absence so as to minimize my hours at my now-empty house. It was so quiet there without them, my dog even barked less without my mom (his one true love) there to protect.

  Working in the back of the bakery was a cute guy in his twenties who resembled Chachi from Happy Days. I barely got to work with him but with the extra hours I took on, our paths crossed a little more. He was fun and flirted directly with all the other bakery girls except me and the chain-smoking senior citizen who worked the twelve-to-seven shift. I didn’t care. He was fun to look at and I had newfound game now that I was dating Adam. One night, while my folks were still out of town, I went to punch out, and Chachi poked his head into the office and said, “Margot, can you . . . uh . . . come back here for a second?”

  I walked to the back, having a vague memory of Lyle Lovett’s creepy baker performance in Short Cuts, which I had just rented from Blockbuster. “Margot, I . . . uh . . . understand your parents are away this week.”

  “Yes,” I said hesitantly, wondering if he also knew where I lived.

  “I wanted to give you this.” He handed me a five-gallon bucket of buttercream. I had recommended the buttercream frosting over the whipped cream frosting to customers when they asked. He must have overheard. Maybe he wanted me to ice some cupcakes with my favorite frosting in my downtime at the counter. He looked me up and down, then continued, “Promise me you’ll tell me everything you do with it.”