Pretenders (21 page)

Friday, October 5, 2012

• Crushed Mountain Dew can.
  
• Glow-in-the-dark Frisbee.
  
• Mud-covered Nike Air Max basketball shoes with the swooshes covered in silver duct tape.
  
• Reusable water bottle in blue.
  
• Three used sparklers.
  
• Nerf water pistol.
  
• Purple-stained Popsicle stick.
  
• Basketball.
  
• Dollar bill L 89751377 D.
  
• Adidas Roundhouse basketball shoes.
  ^*
  Color: Aluminum. Logos covered in duct tape.
  
• Heartbreaker shirt.
  ^*
  

* I added two new things to my collection. Four if you count Duffy’s nameless Maltese puppies. Who, by the way, keep scratching my closet door. They must be picking up the scent of Duffy’s things. Ha! If anyone ever read that last sentence they’d swear I was a serial killer.

Thanks to Bubbie Libby’s biannual trip to the bank, where she deposited six Social Security checks, I have been promoted from dog walker to dog sitter. This means I pick up the dogs after school and keep them until dinner. That’s $35/week. If I hadn’t spent most of my computer money on clothes, I’d be one semester away from typing on a crisp new Apple, instead of the rotten one I’ve had for years.

Unfortunately I have $86.27. Total. That’s right. I have murdered my life’s savings. The ironic part? I finally have a life.

Vanessa gets most of the credit for giving me such great advice. All remaining credit, however, goes to me for taking said advice and executing it. I have had success with pointers #1–4 (Be friendly, Stay under the radar, Be a good listener, Don’t be a know-it-all) but #5 has been the real game changer. More on that in a minute. The rotten Apple has rebooted. Back to my British Identity and Literature paper.

Rebooting.

Pointer #5: Dress like the people you are trying to befriend. Eat the same foods. Drink the same drinks. The following chart details the times I have done that and the great success that ensued.

In addition, I received six compliments from Pubs. That Sheridan girl said I am doing a great job channeling Bryanboy. Compliment or insult? I Googled immediately. Born Bryan Grey Yambao, “Bryanboy” is a male fashion blogger from the Philippines with over 200,000 followers. A compliment indeed.

Wait, it gets better. Duffy introduced me to his friends Hud and Coops as “the biggest contributor to his charity.” But the very best part? Duffy talks to me at school. Duffy talks to me at home. Today he called me Lil.

Naturally my parents had some inquiries. The Lily they raised doesn’t wear spray-painted denim and studded jackets. So naturally, they wanted to know where I got the money and—more importantly—when my wardrobe became so “sui generis.” They asked whom I was hanging out with and if Blake’s style had been “compromised” too. A “Say No to Drugs” lecture was gathering strength. From there, it would spiral into a tornado of parental anxiety set to blow me back to Homie-land. Weathering the storm meant locking their fears in the storm cellar. It meant I had to lie.

Rebooting.

“Guess what, Mom? I was asked to join the prestigious Noble High style club. High Style, for short.”

“What’s so high style about a shirt stained with fake blood?”

“Look past the shirt. Focus on what the shirt represents.”

“Slaughter?”

(Sigh.) “Maybe I’m explaining it wrong. Forget fashion. If you’re thinking fashion it’s no wonder you’re confused. Think politics. Think
style
of politics.”

“I don’t know what to think.” She winced, like I was a bad smell.

“This shirt speaks to the need for child labor laws in third world countries.”

“And what do those jeans say? I ran out of canvas?”

“They’re a nod to the graffiti movement in New York City, circa 1972.”

“More like an affront.”

“Graffiti is how inner-city kids express themselves. It’s protest and politics through art. That’s what High Style is. It’s not about
who
we’re wearing. It’s about
why
we’re wearing. Get it?”

“And who’s paying for these… highly artistic expressions?”

“That’s the best part.” I smiled.

“It is?”

“Yep.”

“Yes, not yep.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said.

“We make the clothes ourselves.”

“Explains the fit.”

“Huh?”

“Pardon me.”

“Pardon me?”

“Lily, you have to admit, they have a certain masculine edge, don’t you think?”

“
Exactly!
I knew you’d get it. Typically protestors are male. Now you know why I’m so excited for our exploration of the women’s movement.”

“When is that?”

“Spring. Once the weather warms up. Because of the skirts and all.”

“I completely understand,” she said, the furrow between her brows suggesting otherwise.

Rebooting.

Vanessa wondered what inspired my new “look.” She said people were talking about me and asked what happened to “staying under the radar.” I told her they talked about me just as much when I wore my sweats. At least now it’s good stuff. To which she replied, “True.”

Blake, however, was harder to convince.

“Did you lose a bet?”

“No.”

“Your mind?”

“No!”

“Join a circus?”

“No.”

“A band?”

“No.”

“A busker troupe?”

“Stop! I’m just experimenting.”

“With Lady Gaga’s rejects?”

“Better than the Wright brothers.”

“Better than the Wrong brothers.”

“Better than the Coxsackie sisters.”

I used banter to evade Blake’s questions. It worked for an entire week. Yesterday I broke.

He came over after school to “ride” the dogs. We stood on our boards, held the leashes, and let them run. It felt like water-skiing. We were having so much fun he actually dropped the subject of my clothes until I put on the mirrored aviator sunglasses I bought from Duffy. I had no idea LUV U, I C U, and HOT 4 U flashed across the lenses until Blake cracked up. He was laughing so hard he smashed into a parked car.

“Okay, what’s his name?” he asked, sitting on the curb. A nameless dog jumped on his lap. He rubbed its ears. He kissed its nose. And then, “Oh. My. God!”

He knew.

I buried my face inside my studded jacket. Looking at Blake was like staring truth in the eye. I rarely liked what it reflected back.

“Andrew
Duffy
?”

My insides lurched at the sound of his name.

“The basketball guy?”

“Stop.”

“That’s why you’ve been dressing like Snooki?”

“Maybe,” I squeaked.

“He
is
cute,” Blake admitted. “I just pictured you with someone more—”

“Intellectual? Fringe? Dot gov?”

“Yeah.”

“Makes sense.”

“It does?”

“Sure. I pictured you with someone rational and friendly. And you’re with Trike.”

“Mike.”

“Psych.”

A Maltese licked the back of my hand.

“I can see why you like him, though,” Blake said, leaning back on his elbows. “He’s… different.”

I clarified. “He’s different because he’s normal.”

“Which is different for us.”

“Exactly.”

“I get it.”

“I know.”

On the way back Blake asked if Duffy liked me too.

“I can’t tell.”

“Has he tried anything?”

“Blake!” The thought of kissing Duffy terrified me. The ratio of
things that could go well
to
things that could embarrass me for life
was 1:1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000.