“Room 1310? I guess that’s on the thirteenth floor . . .” I said, looking for the elevators and feeling lonely already.
“That can’t be,” my mom said. “Most buildings don’t even have a thirteenth floor, too spooky. It’s really bad luck. Have you ever heard of a thirteenth floor, Bob?”
My father shook his head.
My mom turned around again to plead with the RA. “There shouldn’t be a thirteenth floor. It’s unlucky. I don’t want my daughter on an unlucky floor. My mother’s high-rise had floor 12, then floor 14. Do you remember that, Margot? No 13!” she shrieked.
“Mom, it’s fine,” I interrupted. “I like being alone. I’m not superstitious, and I just want to move in. Let’s do this. I’ve heard they put the people with really messed-up housing in student lounges and hallways.”
“What? I don’t want my daughter living in a hallway!” she shouted at the RA again.
“Mom. I’m not living in a hallway. I’m just living on the thirteenth floor,” I said calmly, and watched my RA turn a little less pale.
We piled my bags of vintage jeans, psychedelic blouses, classic rock CDs, and posters of various ethereal women who all slightly resembled me into the elevator. On the dreaded thirteenth floor, we paraded down the hall to room 1310, and I opened the door to the tiny space I would be spending the next year in.
It was small but nice. The blinds were open to reveal a view onto Lake Cayuga. If I looked far enough down, I could see students mingling on the lawn. It was isolated, picturesque, and calm. If I was going to be all alone, this wasn’t a bad way to do it.
My parents were more nervous than I was about the new development of my solo digs.
“Margot, who are you going to eat dinner with tonight?” asked my mom.
“She’ll be fine, Pam,” said my dad, aware that I had spent my junior year eating third-period lunch alone. I was no novice lone diner. I could handle it.
Finally, with a tearful good-bye, they shut the door. I put on Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks and began hanging up posters of flowyhaired maidens as he sang through his nose with great passion. I wanted to feel comfortable here. Ever since my growth spurt I had never felt comfortable in my own skin. If I could have a fresh start here, where no one knew who I had been back home, combined with a comfortable yet possibly haunted living space, I could finally feel at ease. I lit two candles, unpacked a bag, switched the CD to Simon & Garfunkel, leaving me alone with nothing but my “books and my poetry to protect me,” and put up a poster of a butterfly and a fairy.
After I unpacked, I didn’t really know what to do with myself, so I sat on the bed and began writing in my journal. Soon after I heard a sing-along beginning next door. First they sang “Tomorrow,” from Annie. Then I heard “One” from A Chorus Line. Theatre dorks, I thought to myself. I was sure the dorm room next door was filled with Cats sweatshirt–wearing, piano scarf–donning Sondheim fans who harmonized while singing “Happy Birthday” when the cake came out in restaurants. I wasn’t going to be that kind of theatre major. I was going to be the kind who penned genius experimental plays and had bangs that grew over her eyes like Jackie Angel. Too bad my future bangs were sure to curl and frizz up like a bad Miss Piggy wig.
I opened my door a crack to make the Andrew Lloyd Webber–ites next door aware there was a lone person in this room. I sat down and began writing in my fairy journal with my purple fine-tipped pen just as the dork patrol began singing, “Life is a cabaret my friend, come to the cabaret,” in perfect harmony. I was just turning up my Simon & Garfunkel when I heard a faint knock on my door.
“Hello?” said a nasal voice.
I opened the door to find a tall, skinny, perky, black-haired girl wearing head-to-toe Ithaca College attire combined with what seemed to be full stage makeup in comparison to the tinted Blistex I was wearing. There was no way I was going to find my niche here.
“Uh, yeah?” I asked suspiciously.
The perky girl walked in uninvited. “Cool room. Wow!” she said in a thick Buffalo accent. “You’ve decorated the place! Smells like lavender in here. Anyway, I was wondering, when you were done with your journal entry, of course, if you’d like to join us next door. We’re having a sing-along.”
“I know, I heard,” I said, while quickly pondering if it was too late to accept the scholarship to Rutgers I was offered so I could stay as far away from this dork central station I had just agreed to spend the next four years in. When I visited Ithaca College it seemed like the college version of Camp Wallobee. I was excited to lie on a tapestry in the quad and bond with fellow artists who had also read On the Road. But after only a few hours in this place, it seemed less Sid and Nancy and more Donny and Marie.
“Okay then. Well, if you want to come by, you’re more than welcome. You can even bring your guitar.”
Shit. My guitar. I brought my guitar with me for more of a fashion accessory and room decoration than a musical instrument. Despite a year of guitar lessons, many coaching sessions from Jonah Hertzberg, and incessant listening to every classic rock album in my father’s record collection, I still knew only four chords. I was more into having a guitar than playing a guitar. Well, who’s kidding who, I was the most into wearing the guitar. But I didn’t want this perky girl to find out that I was a fraud so instantly.
“Okay, thanks,” I muttered. And then I gently shut the door, leaving it open just slightly enough to send the message Don’t bother me but don’t ignore me either.
I returned to my journal and tried to focus on my feelings but was incredibly distracted by the group rendition of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.” I turned up Simon & Garfunkel a little louder. Still, I couldn’t concentrate, and as Paul and Art belted “Sounds of Silence,” I decided, Fuck it. I put down my fairy journal, blew out my lavender candles, turned off my music, grabbed my guitar and favorite songbook—Great Songs from the Sixties, which I had inherited from my grandmother’s sheet-music collection she kept in the bench of her pink piano—and headed next door to see if I could possibly enjoy myself surrounded by perky people from upstate New York.
I opened the door, and the girl with the makeup stood up and said, “You came!! Everybody this is—”
“Margot.” Shit! I forgot to be Maggie. Okay, next time remember to be the new you.
“Hi, Margot. I’m Adriana. And this is Eric and Lori and—” Adriana went on to rattle off about ten names of the various smiling faces in the room. I didn’t realize that many people could fit in such a tiny space and still seem to enjoy themselves.
“So, you’ve got a guitar!” said Adriana. “Want to play us something?”
Shit. I knew I shouldn’t have brought my stupid guitar. From now on I will only accessorize with bracelets, barrettes, and scarves. No more guitars.
“Uh, sure.”
I took out my songbook and began aimlessly leafing through it to buffer the time before I confessed to the theatre dorks that I had no talent.
“Mind if I play something while you’re looking through your book?” asked Eric, as I all too eagerly handed him the guitar and the book. “This is dedicated to you, Margot—I heard your music next door.”
He began playing “Bridge over Troubled Water” and we all sang right along with him, including me. We then sang “Spinning Wheel” and “Do You Believe in Magic” and about a dozen other awesome songs from my book. The theatre dorks were very adaptable to my music and I felt bad for being so judgmental of them at first. They didn’t judge me after all, so maybe I should be a little less closed-minded.
I hung out with the perky girl, Adriana, for the rest of the night. She told me about how at orientation she had participated in the sack races; I told her how I had sat on the sidelines and judged those who participated. She was looking forward to unlimited orange “pop” in the dining hall; I had brought my own herbal tea. Maybe Adriana would be my lifetime “college roommate BFF”—despite our apparent differences or the fact that we weren’t actually roommates. I wa
s excited I would have at least one friend to start off college with. I was also pretty stoked that she was already aware of my tendency to become reclusive and obsessed with my journal, and I respected that she had developed a coping mechanism of hosting a sixties sing-along to combat that. Adriana seemed to really embrace her inner dorky tall girl and didn’t care if anyone thought she was lame. She wore her Ithaca tracksuit and red lipstick proudly, and I admired her for that. Not since Jackie Angel had I met another tall-girl misfit I related to so much. Except Jackie was whom I strived to be like one day, and Adriana was more like the present me. I imagined that being an artsy tall girl in Buffalo was just as trying as being one in Central Jersey. I went to sleep that first night on my own, feeling optimistic about my future here.
The next day while hanging up blue Christmas lights to give my room a calm, soothing feel, I heard a faint knock on my door. Before I could answer it, the door swung open.
“You’re here!” said my new buddy Adriana, wearing both an Ithaca baseball hat and an Ithaca sweatshirt, as she let herself into my new sanctuary. “I had the most awful time finding you. I felt like real-life Nancy Drew. I forgot where you lived because I’m in a different dorm. Wow, thirteenth floor, huh? Ha! Bummer. Wow, nice blue lights. Anyway, I’m going exploring. Do you want to come? I mean if you’re done decorating, I know how you’re into that.” I’ve never had someone pursue my friendship so aggressively, a far cry from Floyd Barstow snubbing me in the Puerto Rican rainforest. I much preferred Adriana’s approach.
“Sure, I’ll come,” I said, half excited to see this new place and half needing to step away from my endless interior decorating. I got out of my smelly Eddie Vedder–esque clothes and put on a flowing sky-blue tank top, just in case I met any cute guys. Sky blue was my best color, while Ithaca College’s school colors of navy and canary yellow made me look as if I belonged at a methadone clinic. Adriana and I walked around campus and eventually made our way to the theatre building, where we would be taking most of our classes.
“Ooh!” she said, excited at the mere sight of the building. “Let’s go in there, find a room, and sing in the dark. That’s the best way to really let yourself go.” Adriana was majoring in music, which was really a competitive department to get into, so she must have been good.
I had never sung in the dark, or really sung in front of anyone since my horrific “Give Peace a Chance” cafeteria solo. But Adriana made me feel like everything was fun, so I was up for giving it a try. This time there would be no Chad Decker to make my life a living hell if I sang off-key.
As we walked towards the building, we passed a few people coming out, and Adriana called to them, “Hey, are you guys theatre majors?”
I was so embarrassed; that was something my award-winning “friendliest” mom would do. I was used to trying to be invisible and was uncomfortable drawing any sort of attention to myself. But the guys smiled and said yes. One of them had a slight resemblance to Rodreigo, which immediately made me want to talk to him, despite the fact that he was wearing overalls. A familiar face was just what I needed right now. I got a little closer and was instantly attracted to him.
“Hi,” he said. “So, you’re a freshman theatre major?”
“Yeah,” I gulped, wondering why Adriana was awkwardly walking backward behind this guy making weird hand signals in this guy’s general direction.
“I’m Jean Claude,” said the Rodreigo-looking boy.
“Oh, cool,” I said, realizing that Adriana was signaling some form of “Go for it! I’ll leave you alone,” though her gestures mostly looked as if she had been caught in a spiderweb. Regaining my composure, I asked, “Where are you from?
“France,” he said. Of course. Anyone named Jean Claude not born in France would be completely pretentious.
“France, cool! My name is French. It’s Margot. But I’m not from France. I’m from New Jersey,” I said, realizing once again I had forgotten my new identity as Maggie. Well, maybe I could fix this when classes started and the teachers called my name for roll call. I could simply say, “I go by ‘Maggie,’” the way all Beckys had done throughout my youth when teachers called out “Rebecca.”
Jean Claude laughed. “Well, I am from France, and Margot is one of my favorite French names.”
After that, I watched Jean Claude walk away and fell instantly in love with him. He was foreign and witty and his overalls were covered in paint because he was an artist. And he pronounced my name “Mare-geau,” the proper French way. In that instant I decided I had no need to reclaim myself as Maggie. In college I was going to be “Mare-geau,” accent on the second syllable. I wouldn’t be Maggie, but I would be the new Margot; I would be Mare-geau. I stared at Jean Claude, hoping he would look back at me. Adriana grabbed my arm and pulled me into the theatre building, giggling the whole way about the cute guy I had just struck up a conversation with. I couldn’t believe I almost wrote this place off last night.
The next day classes started. I was given this useless thing called an “e-mail address,” which everyone else had heard of before and was excited about. I thought, Why would anyone e-mail when you can mail-mail? Despite my near-death experience with Corey the stalker I still enjoyed the thrill of receiving a letter in the mail. My new e-mail address, along with my new complimentary rape whistle, were two things I hoped I would never have to use.
My schedule listed Acting, Modern Dance, Ancient Greek Theatre, and Writing for Theatre Majors—I was finally going to my dream Fame-like school. I got great feedback in acting, and even greater feedback in dance. After all these years, it turned out I was actually pretty good at modern dance, and not just because I wholeheartedly enjoyed wearing unitards with skirts over them as my daily attire. The weird thing was that unlike horseback riding, songwriting, poetry, babysitting, singing, fashion designing, volleyball, and playing the guitar, dancing was something I could do well. My ballet teacher explained to me that true dancers are notoriously clumsy because we are used to “gliding through an empty space.” This wasn’t like first grade when I played catcher on my town’s girls’ softball team “The Peacocks” just because I liked the catcher costume. Yes, I enjoyed wearing unitards on a daily basis and not being sent home for it, but I was also really moved by dance. Something about flowing movement taught by an artistically tormented teacher while a live drummer banged on bongos made me jump out of bed with excitement when my alarm clock went off.
Meanwhile, in Writing for Theatre Majors, I was assigned my first college paper: an analysis of a Shakespeare play. My teacher, a messy-haired guy way too relaxed not to be stoned, gave my class the following instructions:
“So, we’re going to use this period as a group research time. You can look at any of the books on the shelf, or go to one of the computers and look information up on the Internet. Or whatever.”
Right away everyone scattered to the computers to go use this so-called Internet they all seemed uberfamiliar with. What the hell was the Internet?
Confused, I raised my hand.
“Uh . . . what’s the Internet?” I asked, while simultaneously a classroom of artsy kids jutted their heads around in shock.
“Have you never heard of the Internet?” asked my teacher incredulously. “Whoa!”
“No. Sorry.”
“Seriously?” called out a hairy techie kid. “What have you been doing for the past few years?”
I don’t know, I thought. Dancing in a field with a scarf? Rereading Go Ask Alice? Playing the same four chords on my guitar in a poor attempt to get “discovered”?
I said nothing.
“Margot, the Internet is a place to find facts. Just go over to one of those computers by the wall, call up a search engine like Lycos or Altavista.com, and then type in what you’d like to learn more about,” explained my teacher, eager to be finished with me so he’d be one step closer to toking on his after-class joint.
I headed for a computer, intrigued to test out this cockamamie Internet thing. But what t
o type in as my very first search? Anything I needed to know about Shakespeare I could read in the hard copies of the plays my dad had given me from his college years. The yellowed pages and old-book smell were much more alluring than this boxy Intel computer shoved between a musical theatre dork and a male ballerina.
I stared at the computer screen and tried to think of something I wanted to know. I was currently reclaiming my name—perhaps this Internet could provide me some facts about the history of the name Margot. Being the self-indulgent narcissist that theatre school was encouraging me to become, I typed in my very first Internet search, MARGOT.
A few entries came up, all in French. I clicked on the first one. It appeared to be some sort of poem, but I wasn’t sure. My French skills were truly horrific after dropping French in eleventh grade. My problems with that class began early. In the first week of high school, everyone was assigned cool French versions of their names like “Jacques” for John and “Andrée” for Andrea. I wanted a cool French name, too, like Delphine or Claudette. My French teacher (a Hungarian woman with pointy teeth and a bad perm) told me, “No! No French name for you!” Because Margot was already French, I wasn’t allowed to play make-believe (my favorite game) with all the other half-baked Phish-loving twerps in my class. A few days into the school year, I stayed after class, talking her into calling me “Simone.”
The next day my teacher, who sounded like an aging Miss Piggy with a Hungarian accent, reluctantly called on me.
“Simone, quelle heure est-il? . . . Simone? . . . Simone?”
I knew what time it was. I even knew what time it was in French. What I didn’t remember was that my name was now Simone.
“That’s it! I give you a chance, Simone. You’re back to Margot!”
I slouched in my chair as “Genevieve” a.k.a. Teresa Carimonico, formerly known as the pregnant seventh grader, snickered at me.
Now was my time to really embody my unusual French name. Jean Claude said it was one of his favorites and any in I could get with him would be worth it. That gave me an idea. I decided to print one of the French poems that came up during my “Margot” search, figuring I could use it later as a conversation piece with Jean Claude. I waited patiently as the dot matrix took its time creaking out its last few drops of black ink to appease my curiosity. I tore off the printout and folded on the tear strips, careful not to attempt to separate the pages, knowing that being a lefty made simple things extra difficult and I would just end up ripping it down the middle.
Gawky Page 22
