From Butt to Booty (36 page)

Maggie pokes through Clarice’s bag. “Did you bring enough?”

“My sister thought we needed most of this. She’s still worried that I’ll, you know, never get over what happened.”

“Did she really make you get a blood test and birth control pills?”

“Yes, and she checks to make sure I’m taking them. It’s a little too helicopter.”

“It’s cool that she didn’t freak out, though.” Maggie shudders. “My mother would disown me if she thought I even knew the definition of sex.”

According to her parents, Maggie is going to be a nun like Mother Teresa. If she ever works up the nerve to be okay liking a boy, Jesse is going to be toast.

“Did you hear Jenny dumped Stephen?”

“No!” I leap onto the couch. “How did I miss this?”

“I guess she told the entire cafeteria that the bathroom was right, he has a tiny dick and he doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“That’s harsh.” I cackle. I can’t help it. I’m human.

“I know, but I heard she got tired of him groping and grinding without caring if she was having a good time.”

“She’s telling people that?”

“Yep.”

I digest. Part of me feels bad for the guy. But part of me doesn’t really feel bad at all. I think coffee may start tasting good again. “Mags, what did you bring for entertainment?”

“Prom movies!” Maggie pulls out discs with a flourish. “Keeping with the theme, we have
Carrie, Pretty in Pink, American Pie, Prom Night
, and
The World’s Best Prom.
”

“Eclectic and genre-fying. Nicely done!” Clarice gives Maggie a high five.

I trip over pillows and bags on my way to the CD player. “To start the party, I really think we need a little sing-along.” I hit play
and the Ramones’ “Strength to Endure” comes belting out of the player. Clarice hasn’t sung this, or Avril, in months, and I’m starting to worry that she’s lost her love of music. It’s like she decided she’s outgrown it, or worse, doesn’t deserve it. She’s had a little self-hate going on that it’s time to ditch.

I start yelling out the lyrics and Maggie joins me. We dance on the furniture, and after a second of indecision Clarice picks up the song and the tempo with her hips.

We’ve collapsed in a pile, and we’re eating chips and Twizzlers, watching the cheesiest slasher movie ever and loving every minute of it when there’s a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it, honey,” Mom yells.

“Adam and Tim.” We all glance at each other. How is Mom going to react? She’s not exactly “in the know.” We scramble over each other and I grab the camera.

“Adam, Tim, nice to see you boys again.” Mom is ushering them in. “And don’t you just look dapper in your tuxes. Your dates will be quite honored for you to escort them,” she’s saying as the three of us girls arrive in the foyer.

There’s an uncomfortable silence until Adam says, “Mrs. Garibaldi, Tim is my date for the evening. He’s my boyfriend.”

Tim beams. Totally glows. I know how hard it is for Adam to make this announcement and set himself up for more rejection.

“Then I hope you bought him a corsage.” She giggles. “Maybe a boutonniere? What’s the proper etiquette, I don’t know.” She straightens Adam’s tie and smoothes his lapels, then moves on to Tim.

Adam smiles at me. I’ve never seen him quite so happy. “We got each other boutonnieres.”

“Yes, I see that. Orchids are a lovely choice. Very now, I’ve
heard.” Mom’s not even acting like she’s okay with this; she is okay with this. “Gert, you have the camera? We should have a photograph of these two gentlemen. Especially since you’re boycotting the prom this year.” She huffs at me.

I turn the camera over as Maggie and Clarice snicker behind their hands. The boyly-mans do look absolutely stunningly manly.

“We’d better get going.” Adam hugs me. “Thanks,” he whispers in my ear.

“Clueless,” I whisper back.

“Have fun tonight, you guys!” Tim waves as they head back down the sidewalk holding hands.

“You too! Call me later with details!” I yell as I close the door.

Mom’s standing there looking at me. “You could have told me, you know. I wouldn’t have worried so much about the time you spent together.”

“Sorry?” I say. I pegged my mom as a homophobe. My bad.

“I made a pan of brownies for you girls. Try to get at least a little sleep tonight.”

“We will,” we answer, fully intending to watch all the movies and sleep only if absolutely necessary.

“Your job starts Monday, Gert. You don’t want to be too tired,” Mom calls from the stairs.

“Yes, Mom.”

“Oh, and Gert?” Mom stops. “There’s a nice note from your English teacher and your paper on the kitchen table. We’re very proud of you.”

I race to the kitchen. “He
mails them home
?”

“The Who papers?” Clarice asks. “Yep, my sister’s got mailed home with a big red F on it. He uses different envelopes and return addresses each year so parents are sure to see them.”

I pick it up. An A. I got an A. “I got an A.”

Maggie’s jaw drops. “Nobody gets an A.”

“I got an A,” I repeat.

“Wow, look what he wrote.” Clarice leans over my shoulder. “ ‘Congratulations and well done. I’ll look forward to reading your thoughts on the world as you travel next year. Best of luck, Mr. Slater.’ ”

“Wow.”

“Wow.”

We stand there in awe. “Can I use yours as an outline for mine next year?” Clarice asks, and we giggle.

“Sure.” I tap her head with the paper.

“What job was your mom talking about?” Maggie asks.

I shrug. “I’m going to be the file-office-greeter-phone-answering-person at a pediatrician’s office for the summer. I need money for souvenirs, and a college fund.”

Clarice nods. “You have to bring us presents, but I hear you on the college thing. I’m applying to Claire’s in the mall.”

We raise our brows at Maggie. She mutters, “Busing tables at Romano’s.”

“Do you get free food?” I ask. I love that place.

She brightens. “Orientation is Friday. Maybe.”

We’re all working this summer. It’s odd really. So much change, so fast. It’s mind-boggling when I slow down and think about it, so I don’t think about it often. We still have finals, but the year is almost over.

I grab cold cans of Coke. “Let’s get back to the prom from hell.”

We settle and hit play. “Have you noticed the lead’s resemblance to Jenny?” I ask, and they throw chips at me. “Kidding.” Kinda.

Okay, here’s the deal: the pants change, the butt changes, but the process doesn’t. The jeans of life don’t always fit well: the crotch can be too short, the waist too binding, the legs too long or short. They can even have strange finishes or cuts that feel outdated or wrong. Like acid-washed, or skinny, or they might have sequins on them or little kitten appliqués. Sometimes it’s about doing the best you can and wearing whatever pair you’re dealt that day with confidence. Even if you have to fake it.

It’s about squishing your butt into whatever jeans you have; then it’s about accessorizing to make them work. Because life changes. There are crises and opportunities, unexpected obstacles and expectations from people around you that you can’t control.

There’s a point in all of this where your butt becomes coveted, where you go from butt to booty, childhood to quasi-adulthood. Where boys and men start seeing more and seeing less. Somewhere in the last few months I changed from butt cheeks to booty. To feeling and thinking more like a woman, even when I still fear things like a girl.

But here’s what I do know. Pants are pants and you put them on the same way, no matter what they look like. It’s all still one booty cheek at a time. One. At. A. Time. Try it! It’s gotten me this far and it’s gonna take me to Timbuktu.

Amber Kizer is not one of those authors who wrote complete books at the age of three and always knew she wanted to be a writer. She merely enjoyed reading until a health challenge that began in college forced her to start living outside the box. After one writing workshop, she fell in love with telling stories; a million pages of prose later she still loves it. Her characters tend to be opinionated, outspoken, and stubborn—she has no idea where that comes from.

A food lover, she plans trips around menus, wishes cookbooks were scratch and sniff, and loves to make complicated recipes—especially desserts. When she’s not reading from a huge stack, she’s coaxing rosebushes to blossom, watching delightful teen angst on television, or quilting with more joy than skill. She takes her tea black, her custard frozen, and her men witty. She lives in the Seattle area on a veritable Noah’s Ark: a pair of dogs, a pair of cats, fifteen pairs of chickens, and uncounted pairs of shoes—without the big boat and only some of the rain.

A celebrated speaker and teacher, Amber gives writing workshops for all ages. For more information about Amber, for a list of appearances, or to request a school visit, please see
www.AmberKizer.com
. For more from Gert, including original material and sneak peeks of upcoming Rants and Raves, visit
www.OneButtCheek.com
.