Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (11 page)

“Here’s one! Here’s one!” We’ve been dashing up and down the cobblestone hills for twenty minutes now and we’re all a bit bitchy. Who knew it would be so hard to find someplace that serves beer in Germany? That’s like not finding pineapples in Hawaii. Or oaks in Oklahoma! We had to go through a darkened passage to get to this place, and even then we only found it by accident when one of Sandy’s bracelets fell off and bounced down the alley.

We appoint Sandy as our leader because her accessories brought us here, so she’s the one in charge of throwing open the front door. She confidently takes four steps into the bar, and we follow, hoping to make our big entrance just in case there are any European princes there. (I’m not the only one who wants to be more popular in school.) But then Sandy stops abruptly, causing Steph, Curtis, and me to slam into her. We all go down and wind up tangled in a giant pile of American denim.
⁶³

Any chance of dignity already shot, we brush ourselves off and grab a table on the periphery of the bar. The whole place is really dark and smoky and our eyes have yet to adjust.
“A bar!”
we exclaim in stage whispers.
“Oh, my God, we are in a
bar
! If only all the kids at home could see us now!
How radical are we??”

Curtis is the only one of us who takes German so it’s up to him to tell us what to order. However, he can’t figure out the menu and throws his hands up in frustration. Everything listed is foreign to him. Like, even though he can pronounce the word “Gewürztraminer,” he doesn’t know what it might possibly mean. Is it delicious? Is it swill? Is it
liquor
? We’re clueless.

We head up to the bar en masse and I order a dry white wine. And here’s a language lesson I didn’t know. The German word for “three” sounds just like English word “dry,” so when I place my order, we’re served three glasses. We don’t want to let on like we’re not, you know,
cool
, so Curtis, Steph, and I grab the goblets. Sandy’s on her own so she orders a Becks because she once saw a commercial for it during
Friday Night Videos
.

We’re so busy trying to work out how I screwed up the drinks, it takes us a few minutes to figure out we’re the only girls (except Curtis) in this bar.

“Do you believe in miracles—
Yes!”
I squeal. “There’s got to be two dozen guys in here!”

“We are going to meet so many men!” Sandy shrieks.

“A lot of them are nice-looking,” Steph reluctantly agrees, glancing at Curtis to see if her statement causes a reaction.

“They’re
ours
,” I agree. The proximity to boys has definitely lightened our moods. “You guys, they’re ours for the taking! And, gosh, they
are
cute! And they’re dancing! I love when guys are confident enough to dance by themselves!”

Curtis just sits there with a wry lemon-twist smile on his face, soaking in the atmosphere.

“What’s with you?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He giggles.

Sandy inquires, “Then why are you smirking?”

He replies, “Y’all are going to have a big, stupid, American flash of realization here in three . . . two . . . one . . .” He turns his head to gaze at two men all dressed up in matchy-matchy motorcycle jackets. And their leather pants? How deliciously European! “Wait for it . . . and, now.” The men’s heads begin to move closer and closer and then . . .
Holy shit!

Sandy yelps, “
Ahhh!
We’ve got to haul ass out of here right now! We’re in a gay bar! Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!!” She shoots straight up out of her chair, knocking it over and spilling half her beer.

“Come on, come on, we’ve got to go!” I agree, grabbing my coat and purse. “Hustle! Hustle!”

Curtis sits there calmly, crossing his legs. “Stop.”

“What? We can’t stop—Curtis, we need to leave this place right this second!” All of Steph’s anxiousness is back, and then some.

Nonplussed, Curtis replies, “
Why
do we have to run out of here? Ponder for a minute, won’t you? Y’all are worried they’re going to give you
gay cootie
s or something?”

Sandy pauses by her upset chair. “Well . . . no.”

He continues, “And does preferring boys to girls really make them any different from you? Does it make ’em bad people?”

I volunteer the next answer, “I guess not, right?”
⁶⁴

Steph cocks her head and peers at Curtis like it’s the first time she’s ever really looked at him. “Are . . . are you trying to tell us something?”

Curtis sighs and takes a delicate pull on his glass of wine. “Y’all are about the slowest people I ever did meet.”

Three sets of overly mascaraed eyes blink for about a minute before any of us speak.

“Wait,
you’re
gay? As in you prefer men to women?” Sandy asks.

“Mmm hmm,” he replies.

“
No way!
I don’t believe it.” How can this be? I wonder. I didn’t see any of the signs!

Curtis nods. “Believe it.” Steph appears to be crestfallen. “Is this a huge shock to you?” he asks, placing his hand over hers.

“You mean . . . you’re not secretly in love with me and you weren’t waiting to get me alone in Europe to make a pass at me?” Steph wails.

He shudders. “Jesus, no.”

“Oh. Will you still go to prom with me?” She sniffs.

“Couldn’t stop me.”

Steph gives him a wan smile and then chugs her entire glass of wine. Then she holds the glass up and waves it at the bartender. Fortunately, he’s fluent in the international language of disappointment and begins to open another bottle of wine.

Meanwhile, lightbulbs begin to go off over my head. “No
wonder
Tom didn’t want to go barhopping with us. He’s gay, too?”

“Nope. He’s not playing for my team.”

“Then what’s his problem?” I ask.

Curtis grins. “He’s just a huge nerd.”

Sandy sits heavily back down into her chair. “Now what?”

“Girl,” he says, motioning for the bartender, “now we drink.”

We spend the evening doing just what I’d imagined I’d do in a German beer hall—linking arms with gorgeous European boys and belting out songs. But instead of singing folk songs, we shout our way through all the American music on the jukebox. You know what?
Everyone
speaks Madonna. None of us gets a date (except for Curtis), and that’s okay. We dance and laugh and drink sour beer and bitter wine and choke while trying to smoke filter-less German cigarettes.
⁶⁵

After Curtis’s confession, we all get a lot more real with each other. We open up and share the kind of confidences we couldn’t admit to our friends at home. I feel like for the first time I see who I am inside, and realize I’m more than just a collection of artfully blended eye shadow and neatly trimmed bangs and skinny jeans.

The rest of the trip passes in a similarly alcohol- and pastry-fueled unchaperoned haze. I climb the Eiffel Tower—there’s more vomit on the observation deck than I might have imagined. I see the
Mona Lisa
—it’s smaller than I thought. I narrowly avoid eating horsemeat, but I make up for it by wolfing down a dozen éclairs. I am summarily mocked by a border guard in Luxembourg. Apparently, I’m wrong. It is a country or at least the guard seemed to think so. I struggle to explain to a French pharmacist that my friend needs to buy mini-pads because she has a “red river in her pants.” And I learn that my French is fantastic after six glasses of champagne.

I never do have my big European romance. But in the course of opening my mind to new possibilities, I figure out there’s someone I really like and that person’s been there the entire time and I never even noticed.

Wanna know who it is?

It’s
me
. I found out that I really like
me
.

I’m sitting on the plane bound for New York and all of the kids on my tour are passed out in the seats around me. We had a huge all-night party in the hotel on our final day in Belgium. We even convinced Tom and Brian to drink a bottle of Stella Artois with us! They both practically gagged when they took their first sips and
then
asked for water, but hey, it’s a start.

I should be sleeping right now, but I can’t. My pants are too tight. And these aren’t my jeans; they’re my khakis. Every pair I packed seems to be a little smaller. Somehow all the cheese and wine and croissants with extra butter have had an effect on my waistline. Living the high life? Has its price. When I get home, I’m probably going to have to retire my Jordache jeans for good.

But that’s okay. Being on this trip has given me more confidence, like,
real
confidence and not just the kind that comes from perfectly feathered bangs.

And you know what?

I bet maybe, just
maybe
the world won’t end if I go out with a sophomore.

Clipped Wings

(Pfft, Who Cares Because I May as Well Be in Prison Stripes)

Jennifer -

Here’s the ten dollars you requested for gas. In return, the following tasks will be complete when I get home from work:

Vacuum pool and clean out filters. Bag up debris and place in trash—do not dump cricket carcasses on the cement again. Use metal brush to scrub algae from steps.

Cut grass in front and back and bag clippings. The lawn is already healthy and does not need to be “mulched” again.

Wash station wagon and vacuum interior.

Dust and mop family room.

Bring trash barrels back into garage.

Unload and load dishwasher.

—Your Father

Hey, Dad,

Why not just have me hook a plow around my shoulders and till the field beyond our fence while you’re at it?

By the way, I bet the Department of Labor would be
very interested
in seeing the amount of work you expect a seventeen-year-old to accomplish for ten measly dollars.

I shall be calling their offices the moment I locate their number.

—Your Daughter
⁶⁶

“Jeni?”

“Jeni?”

“Jeni.”

“Jeni Lancaster!
Are you even with us today?” My advanced placement teacher snaps me out of my reverie by tapping me on the shoulder. I respond by practically jumping out of my skin.

Instead of listening, I’ve been gazing out at the atrium across the hall. Winter’s finally over and tulips have come out and the spindly gray trees are leafy and green. I can’t help but admire the metamorphosis—spring’s putting on quite the Hollywood production. It’s almost like Mother Nature knows what a big deal this year is for me and she’s pulling out all the stops.

Normally I’m more attentive because this is my favorite class, but given the weather and my looming graduation, I have to wonder why we’re even bothering with
Macbeth.
I already got into the college of my choice
⁶⁷
and I tested out of my English requirement. At this point, I couldn’t care less whether or not Lady Macbeth removes all the crud from her hands. Jesus, Lady, why don’t you try some lemon juice and quit being such a drama queen already?

“I’m sorry, Mrs. H., I was looking at the flowers. Aren’t they beautiful?” I gesture toward the tree covered in blossoms. “What is that pink one, like a magnolia or cherry tree or something?”

“My prom dress is that same color!” exclaims Rachel from the second row.

For God’s sake, Rachel, enough about your dress already.

Everyone in here knows about your dress. The janitor knows about your dress. The lunch lady won’t look you in the eye for fear of hearing about your dress. You’ve talked about nothing but prom for the past two months. I’m not sure who in this class can say what the Three Witches represent, but all of us can describe how your boyfriend Ty’s already reserved a white tux with a pink ruffled shirt and a boutonnière with a pink-dipped white carnation surrounded by a small but tasteful array of baby’s breath, which he will wear to a pre-prom dinner at the Wharf in Fort Wayne, where you will order the rainbow trout because sometimes Ty fishes for trout with his dad when they go on vacation, which is so cool that he has a nice relationship with his father because that means his dad trusts Ty enough to loan him his fully restored antique white Ford truck, which is awesome because Ty’s planning to lay a blanket down in the back so when the after-prom is over and before you go to Nick’s Café for biscuits and gravy (on which you prefer extra pepper), you’ll drive out to the woods by the reservoir, where you will allow him to go to third base if and only if you are elected to prom court, which you won’t be because everyone hates you and your incessant prom chatter so damn much right now.

Or maybe I’m just mad because I’ve been shopping for dresses for a month and I’ve yet to find one that fits?

Without even turning toward the atrium, Mrs. H. returns to her own desk at the front of the room and sits down heavily. Very slowly, clearly enunciating every word, she says, “Miss Lancaster, that would be a germane question if this were a botany class. However—”

Stupid show-off Ray Harper in the front row corrects her. “Actually, Mrs. H., botany is the study of
plants
. Dendrology is the study of
trees
. If you want to get technical, dendrology is the study of
all
wooden plants including shrubs and lianas.” No one says anything, but all of us are thinking,
Lianas? This is exactly why you’re flying solo to the prom, nerd-o
. “The difference between dendrology, and, say, simple plant taxonomy is—”

Mrs. H. interrupts, “The question I originally posed,
Jeni
, was about Macduff attempting to dethrone Macbeth. What was his motivation?”

Julie sits next to me. Sometimes I eat lunch with her and our mutual friend Mary when my boyfriend’s absent. We girls are partial to the bread sticks at Noble Romans.
⁶⁸
We have an open campus at lunch, so we can eat anywhere within walking distance. We used to be able to drive during lunch but too many kids were coming back the second half of the day drunk or pregnant. If we stay in the cafeteria, I’ll normally have Boston cream pie or an ice cream sandwich. (My mother thinks I’m having salad.
Ha!
)

Julie lives on a farm but totally plans to leave this cow town and dance in MTV videos during her summers away from agriculture school. She interjects, “Hey, wouldn’t Macduff be an awesome name for a band?”

“Ooh, or one of those dogs with the really hairy faces?” I add.

“Yes!” Christy exclaims from her seat next to the windows. “You could call him Duffy for short—how cute is that?” Christy and I have recently become friendly because we’re going to be in the Miss Cow Town pageant together. She and I do an across-the-classroom high five.

Mrs. H. removes her glasses and rubs her eyes. She places her fingers on her temples and stays that way until the bell rings a couple of minutes later. I respect Mrs. H. for at least trying to engage us seniors these last few weeks of school. The rest of my teachers started showing filmstrips days ago.

While we shuffle out of the classroom, Julie slips me a quiz scratched on a ratty piece of loose-leaf paper.
⁶⁹
“Do this in astronomy and then pass it to Mary before seventh period.”

I settle into a seat in the farthest reaches of the planetarium, and as soon as the lights go down I unfold the quiz. It’s full of all the usual questions—e.g., Who’s your favorite band?
⁷⁰
and What’s your favorite show?
⁷¹
The quiz is kind of boring because who really cares if I like croutons or bacon more? (Maybe I don’t even
want
a salad, you know?)

What surprises me, though, is when asked to choose between Scarlett O’Hara and Marilyn Monroe, no one else has selected Scarlett. I’m not surprised that Julie picked Marilyn. When the “Material Girl” video came out, she taught herself every single one of Madonna’s moves. (She wanted to buy Madonna’s BOY TOY belt at Merry-Go-Round but her mom wouldn’t let her.) So Julie’s a little obsessed, but I don’t understand how everyone else could choose Marilyn. That’s insane!

Come on, Scarlett fought to keep her land and stole from dead soldiers and made a set of curtains look fierce! All Marilyn did was stand over a subway grate, show her underpants, and make out with the president—and look where it got her. Granted, one time I was doing a quiz and the question was what famous person would I like to meet and I chose Marilyn, but only because I thought she needed a friend who’d give her good advice. I’d be all,
Why don’t you get back with that guy Arthur? He seemed supernice. And lower your voice, you sound kind of dumb. Also, blond hair and black eyebrows? Oh, honey, no.

I’m still grumbling about the Marilyn/Scarlett conundrum when I arrive at my locker after seventh period. My boyfriend Jimmy is already waiting for me, holding my jean jacket. Jimmy is kind of awesome . . . and not just because he does whatever I tell him, even though sometimes when we go to Baskin-Robbins I make him buy me a whole Grasshopper pie. (He has to order his own sundae, because that pie is
mine
.) I might marry him, but not until I’m at least thirty because I want to finish college and become an anchorperson in one of the major markets first. I’m thinking New York or LA, but Boston would do in a pinch.

I wanted to be an actor for a long time, mostly because I could so see myself on TV. I decided to consider newscasting, though, after my drama coach explained to me that I couldn’t sing, like, at all, despite being “one of the better thespians” in our school. Not “the best,” just “one of the better.” I figured that was grown-up talk for “don’t quit your day job,” so television broadcasting/telecommunications became my Plan B. I’ve been conducting interviews in the bathroom mirror ever since I was tall enough to see myself in it, so it is kind of the ideal career for me. When that camera finally rolls, I’ll be so ready!

I got into college at both Purdue and Indiana, but all year long I’ve been gearing up to attend IU because of their excellent telecommunications program. Or I was, until I spent the weekend in my brother’s fraternity house at Purdue for Grand Prix. The way I look at it, I can be a telecom major anywhere; I only already know a fraternity house full of guys on one campus.
⁷²

Jimmy isn’t pleased about my attending Purdue because he wasn’t accepted. I keep telling him not to worry about it because I totally love him and we’re never going to break up. The thing is, I’d be a bad girlfriend if I didn’t remind him that if he was going to be so serious about college, then maybe he shouldn’t have cut all those classes and gotten himself kicked out of Catholic school last year. I’d like to date a guy in a fraternity, so not only will he need to find a college, like, now, he should make sure he gets in somewhere with a strong Greek system. But whatever, I’m confident we’re meant to be together, like Maddie and David on
Moonlighting
. Everything’s going to work out fine and in thirteen years or so we’ll get married and I’ll be Mrs. Jeni Lancaster. (I’m keeping my name—it sounds more broadcasty.)

Jimmy tries to kiss me when I approach but I stop him. “Marilyn Monroe or Scarlett O’Hara?”

“Who and what?”

Okay, if he’s my soul mate and we’re going to be together forever, he’s going to have to get a little better at interpreting what I say on the first go. “I said,
Marilyn Monroe
or
Scarlett O’Hara
?”

“To do what?”

I glower at him. “To take to prom.”

“I’m going to prom with you.” Sigh. Sometimes I worry about him not being so smart, but then he buys me pie and I forget.

I grab my jacket from him, slam the locker, and wave the quiz at him. “Would you rather the very blond, breathy, vapid Marilyn or the ass-kicking, frankly-my-dear-you-
do
-give-a-damn Scarlett?”

Without hesitation, he replies, “Marilyn. Definitely Marilyn.”

Oh no.

This may well be a breach no pie can fill.