Queen of Babble (5 page)

There is no reason at this point in our relationship for Andrew to find out I wasn’t actually born this good-looking—that a great deal of artifice goes into it. What if he turns out to be one of those guys who like naturally pink-cheeked beauties like Liv Tyler? What kind of chance do I stand against an English rose like that? A girl has to havesome secrets.

Oh, wait, Andrew is talking to me. He’s asking how my flight went. Why is he wearing that jacket? He can’t seriously think it looks good, can he?

“The flight was great,” I say. I don’t tell Andrew about the little girl in the seat next to mine who ignored me throughout the flight when I was just wearing my jeans and T-shirt, with my hair in a ponytail. It wasn’t until after I came back from doing my hair and makeup and changing into my silk dress a half hour before we landed that the kid did a double take, and the next thing I knew she was asking shyly, “Excuse me. But are you the actress Jennifer Garner?”

Jennifer Garner! Me! This kid thoughtI was Jennifer Garner!

And okay, she was only like ten or whatever, and wearing a shirt with Kermit the Frog on it (surely she meant this ironically and is not actually a current viewer ofSesame Street, as she seemed a bit old for it).

But still! No one has ever mistaken me for a movie star in my life! Let alone a skinny one like Jennifer Garner.

And the thing is, with my makeup on and my hair done, I guess Ido look a bit like Jennifer Garner…you know, if she hadn’t quite lost all the baby fat. And had bangs. And was only five feet six.

I guess it never occurred to the kid that Jennifer Garner would hardly be flying coach, by herself, to England. But whatever.

And before I could stop myself, I was going, “Why, yes. I AM Jennifer Garner,” because, whatever, I’m never going to see this kid again in my life. Why not give her a thrill?

The kid’s eyes practically bugged out, she was so excited.

“Hi,” she said, bouncing a little in her seat. “I’m Marnie! I’m your biggest fan!”

“Well, hi, Marnie,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Mom!” Marnie turned to whisper to her dozing mother. “It IS Jennifer Garner! I TOLD you!”

And the little girl’s drowsy mother looked over at me, her eyes still bleary with sleep, and went, “Oh.

Hello.”

“Hi,” I said, wondering if I sounded Jennifer Garnery enough.

But I guess I did, since the next words out of the kid’s mouth were, “I just loved you in13 Going on 30

.”

“Why, thank you,” I said. “I do consider that some of my best work. BesidesAlias, of course.”

“I’m not allowed to stay up late enough to watch that,” Marnie said mournfully.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, maybe you can see it on DVD.”

“Can I have your autograph?” the little girl wanted to know.

“Of course you can,” I said, and took the pen and the British Airways cocktail napkin she offered me and scrawledBest wishes to Marnie, my biggest fan! Love, Jennifer Garner on it.

The little girl took the napkin reverently, as if she couldn’t believe her good fortune. “Thanks!” she said.

I just knew she was going to take that napkin back to America when she got home from her fun European vacation and show it to all of her friends.

I didn’t really start feeling bad until then. Because what if one of Marnie’s friends has an autograph from the REAL Jennifer Garner and they compare the handwriting? Then Marnie is going to be all suspicious!

And she might even ask herself why Jen wasn’t with her publicist or even why she was flying commercial.

And then she’ll realize I wasn’t the REAL Jennifer Garner, and that I was lying the whole time. And that could shake her faith in the goodness of humankind. Marnie could develop serious trust issues, like the kind I myself developed when my prom date, Adam Berger, told me he had to go home and paint the ceiling instead of taking me to the after-party, when really he went ahead and attended the after-party with skinny-as-a-stick Melissa Kemplebaum after dropping me off.

But then I told myself that it didn’t matter, since I’d never see Marnie again. So who even cared?

Still, I don’t mention the incident to Andrew because, seeing as how he’s getting a master’s in education, I highly doubt he approves of lying to young children.

Also, the truth is, I am feeling kind of sleepy, even though it is eight o’clock in the morning in England, and I am wondering how far it is to Andrew’s apartment, and if there’s any chance at all he might have some diet Coke there. Because I could totally use one.

“Oh, not too far at all,” is what Andrew’s dad, Mr. Marshall, says when I ask Andrew how far he lives from the airport.

It’s kind of strange that Andrew’s dad answered, and not Andrew. But then again, Mr. Marshall’s a teacher and answering questions is basically his job. He probably can’t help it, even when he’s off duty.

It’s such a good thing there are men like Andrew and his dad who are willing to undertake the education of our youth. The Marshalls are truly a dying breed. I’m so glad I’m with Andrew and not, say, Chaz, who chose to pursue a philosophy degree solely so that he could argue more effectively with his parents.

How isthat supposed to help future generations?

Whereas Andrew has purposefully chosen a career that will never make him much money, but that will ensure that young minds don’t go unmolded.

And isn’t that the noblest thing you’ve ever heard of?

It’s a long, long way to Mr. Marshall’s car. We have to go through all of these hallways, where, along the walls, there are advertisements for products I’ve never heard of. Chaz had been complaining, last time he’d gone to visit his friend Luke—the one with the château—about the Americanization of Europe and how you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing a Coca-Cola ad.

But I don’t see any Americanization here in England. So far. I don’t see anything even vaguely American. Not even a Coke machine.

Not that this is a bad thing. I’m just saying. Although a diet Coke wouldn’t be so bad right about now.

Andrew and his dad are talking about the weather, and how lucky I am to have come at a time when it’s so nice out. But when we step out of the building and into the parking garage, I realize it’s maybe sixty degrees, at most, and that the sky—what I can see of it at the end of the garage level—is gray and overcast.

If this is good weather, what do the British consider bad? And, granted, it’s certainly cold enough for a leather jacket. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that Andrew is wearing one. Surely there’s some rule somewhere—like the one about no white pants before Memorial Day—about no leather in August.

We’re almost to the car—a small red compact, exactly what I’d expect a middle-aged teacher to drive—when I hear a shriek, and look around to see the little girl from the plane standing next to an SUV

with her mother and an older couple I can only assume are her grandparents.

“There she is!” Marnie is screaming, pointing at me. “Jennifer Garner! Jennifer Garner!”

I keep walking, my head down, trying to ignore her. But both Andrew and his father are looking over at her, bemused smiles on their faces. Andrew does look a bit like his dad. Will he, too, be totally bald when he’s fifty? Is baldness a trait passed on by the mother’s side of the family or the father’s? Why didn’t I take a single bio course while I was designing my own major? I could have squeezed in at least one…

“Is that child speaking to you?” Mr. Marshall asks me.

“Me?” I glance over my shoulder, pretending to notice for the first time that a small child is shrieking at me from across the garage.

“Jennifer Garner! It’s me! Marnie! From the plane! Remember?”

I smile and wave at Marnie. She flushes with pleasure and grabs her mother’s arm.

“See?” she cries. “I told you! It reallyis her!”

Marnie waves some more. I wave back while Andrew wrestles my suitcase into the small trunk, swearing a bit. Since he’s been wheeling it along the whole time, he had no idea how heavy it is until he bent to lift it.

But really, a month is a long time. I don’t see how I could have packed less than ten pairs of shoes.

Shari even said she was proud of me for being sensible enough not to bring my lace-up platform espadrilles. Although I did manage to squeeze them in at the last minute before I left.

“Why is that child calling you Jennifer Garner?” Mr. Marshall wants to know as he, too, waves at Marnie, whose grandparents, or whoever they are, still haven’t succeeded in herding her into the car.

“Oh,” I say, feeling myself begin to blush. “We sat next to each other on the plane. It’s just a little game we were playing, to pass time on the flight.”

“How kind of you,” Mr. Marshall says, waving even more energetically now. “Not all young people realize how important it is to treat children with respect and dignity instead of condescension. It’s so important to set a good example for the younger generation, especially when one considers how unstable many of today’s family units really are.”

“That’s so true,” I say in what I hope sounds like a respectful and dignified manner.

“Christ,” Andrew says. He’s just tried to pick up my carry-on bag from where I’ve set it on the ground.

“What have you got in here, Liz? A dead body?”

“Oh,” I say, my respectful and dignified demeanor threatening to crumble, “just a few necessities.”

“I’m sorry my chariot isn’t more stylish,” Mr. Marshall says, opening the driver’s door to his car. “It’s certainly not what you’re used to, I’m sure, back in America. But I hardly use it, since I walk to the school where I teach most days.”

I am instantly charmed by the vision of Mr. Marshall strolling down a tree-lined country lane in a herringbone jacket with leather elbow patches—rather than the extremely uninspired windbreaker he is currently wearing—and perhaps a cocker spaniel or two nipping at his heels.

“Oh, it’s fine,” I say about his car. “Mine isn’t much bigger.”

I wonder why he’s just standing there by the door, instead of getting in, until he goes, “After you, er, Liz.”

He wantsme to drive? But…I just got here! I don’t even know my way around!

Then I realize he isn’t holding open the driver’s door at all…it’s the passenger side. The steering wheel is on the right side of the car.

Of course! We’re in England!

I laugh at my own mistake and sit down in the front seat.

Andrew slams down the trunk and comes around to see me sitting in the passenger seat. He looks at his dad and says, “What, I’m supposed to sit in the boot, then?”

“Mind your manners, Andy,” Mr. Marshall says. It seems so strange to hear Andrew called Andy. He is such an Andrew to me. But evidently not to his family.

Although truthfully, in that jacket, he looks a bit more like an Andy than an Andrew.

“Ladies in the front seat,” Mr. Marshall goes on with a smile at me. “And gentlemen in the back.”

“Liz, I thought you were a feminist,” Andrew says (only it comes out sounding like,Liz, I fought you were a feminist ). “Are you going to stand for this kind of treatment?”

“Oh,” I say. “Of course. Andrew should sit in front, he’s got longer legs—”

“I won’t hear of it,” Mr. Marshall says. “You’ll muss your pretty Chinese dress, climbing about.” Then he shuts my car door, firmly, for me.

Next thing I know, he’s come around the right side and is holding the driver’s-side seat back for Andrew to crawl behind. There’s a brief argument I can’t really hear, and then Andrew appears. I don’t really know any other word I can use to describe the expression on Andrew’s face except peevish.

But I feel bad for eventhinking Andrew might be feeling peevish about me getting to sit in the front seat.

Most likely he’s just embarrassed about not having his own car to pick me up in. Yes, that’s probably it.

Poor thing. He probably thinks I’m holding him to American standards of capitalist materialism! I’ll have to find some way to assure him that I find his poverty extremely sexy, seeing as how all the sacrifices he’s making, he’s making for the children.

Not Andrew Jr., Henry, Stella, and Beatrice, of course. I mean the children of the world, the ones he’ll be teaching someday.

Wow. Just thinking about all the little lives Andrew’s going to improve with his sacrifices in the teaching profession is making me kind of horny.

Mr. Marshall climbs into the driver’s seat and smiles at me. “Ready?” he asks cheerfully.

“Ready,” I say, and I’m filled with a spurt of excitement despite my jet lag. England! I’m in England at last! I’m about to be driven along the English countryside, into London! Maybe I’ll even see some sheep!

Before we’re able to pull out, however, an SUV drives up behind us, and a back window powers down. Marnie, my little friend from the plane, leans out the window to yell, “Good-bye, Jennifer Garner!”

I roll down my own window and wave. “Bye, Marnie!”

Then the SUV pulls away, Marnie beaming happily in the back.

“Who in heaven,” Mr. Marshall asks as he backs out, “is this Jennifer Garner?”

“Just some American film star,” Andrew says before I can say anything.

Just some American film star? Just some American film star who happens to look exactly like your girlfriend!I want to shriek.Enough so that little girls on airplanes want her autograph!

But I manage to keep my mouth shut for once, because I don’t want Andrew to feel inadequate, knowing he’s dating a Jennifer Garner look-alike. That could be really intimidating, you know, for a guy.

Even an American one.

In contrast to Egyptian costume, in which there was a distinct division in style between the sexes, the Greek costume during this same period did not vary between men and women. Large rectangles of cloth of different sizes were draped across the body and fastened only with a decorative brooch.

This garment, which is called a toga, went on to become a favorite costume of college fraternity parties, for reasons this author cannot fathom, as the toga is neither flattering nor comfortable, especially when worn with control-top underwear.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS