Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (14 page)

Before the pageant starts, a crew of professionals comes in to work on our hair and makeup. I’ve never had anyone put me together like this and I completely love the results. I have great big doe eyes and pink cheeks and my hair is a giant pyramid of curls. I’m so busy admiring myself in the makeup mirror in the dressing room, I almost miss the cue for the opening number.

Our first competition is swimsuit and we go onstage one by one. While we mug for the judges, the emcee reads our bios. “Jeni Lancaster is seventeen years old and plans to attend Purdue University in the fall, where she’ll major in communications. She weighs in at one hundred and twenty-five pounds
⁸⁷
and is five feet nine inches tall.
⁸⁸
She enjoys swimming and doing aerobics.”
⁸⁹

I come out from behind the curtain and strut around the stage. This goes well until I look into the audience and see all those people checking me out in my swimsuit. I linger in front of the judges for a fraction of a second instead of the requisite ten, and then practically run back to the safety of the dressing room.

Perhaps my strength lies in the talent portion?

We get disqualified if we go over three minutes in the talent portion. I’m doing a dramatic reading and I’m worried because whenever I’ve timed myself, I’m right on the three-minute mark. Before I go onstage again, I decide to speak a little faster for safety’s sake. I mean, I can’t win if I’m disqualified. And I’m banking on doing well here to make up for the interview and swimsuit rounds.

I get onstage and act my heart out. And I do a fabulous job.

In less than two minutes.

I wonder if I sped things up a little too much?

Regardless, the evening gown competition awaits!

Unless the judges are looking for a contestant who steps on the hem of her dress, inadvertently yanks the bodice up to her chin, all while sweating and dropping f-bombs under her breath, I’m probably not going to be Miss Cow Town.

That’s right, I’m
Miss Photogenic
, bitches!

Naturally Heather wins the pageant. She’s so faux sincere and mock surprised when accepting her crown that I want to punch her spangles off. Instead, I stand there and graciously congratulate her.

Even though I don’t win or get runner-up, I’m pleased. After all, Miss Photogenic’s picture goes on the front page of the newspaper. None of the runners-up even get featured at all. Landing on the front page is like one step closer to being on television.

Lee, Dee, and Christy are all crying backstage because they didn’t win anything and they gave up eating sugar and butter for nothing. I feel terrible for them. They each tried really hard and it’s so unfair their efforts went unrecognized because some bitchy Realtor wanted to relive her high school days by ingratiating herself with the only cheerleader in the competition.

By the way, you know how when you watch Miss America and you see the losers crowding around the winner, covering her with smeary-lipstick kisses? And it totally looks unintentional?

Trust me; it’s not.

I lend the girls my bloodred lipstick and instruct them on offering Heather “gracious congratulations” before she poses for her winner pictures.

With each graciously congratulatory kiss, they feel better. And when they’re done, we make a date to go out for donuts.

Later, Mom tells me that in the middle of Heather’s talent portion, my father sighed loudly and announced, “This is the last amateur performance you drag me to.”

That more than makes up for missing Michael Jackson.

They’re Quite Aware of What They’re Going Through

(Bass Weejun Penny Loafers)

I
’ve been dreading all summer saying good-bye to Jimmy. My brother, my best friend Carol, and Jimmy have driven me here to campus. I insisted my parents not take me, and my mother insisted I was being ridiculous. Thankfully, my dad saw this as an opportunity to play golf and not carry heavy things, so he was fine with my decision. He was kind enough to stand in the driveway the whole time I was loading up the station wagon, telling me I was packing wrong.

We’re at my dorm and it turns out I don’t have a room assignment yet. Since I turned my acceptance letter in late, I have to wait a day or so to find out which room is mine. In the interim, I have to move all my things into my dorm’s guest apartment. There’s a bedroom, a huge living room, a kitchen, a dining area, and a full bath.
Sweet
. I kind of hope I never get an assignment.

I say good-bye to Carol and Todd and they leave me alone with Jimmy. I cry a million tears and cling to him as he walks out the door of my (sweet) temporary housing. “Good-bye, Jimmy! I love you!” I call after him.

I sit on the bed in my (sweet) room and feel sorry for myself. I miss Jimmy.

I miss my pool.

I miss my dog.

I miss my parents.

I even miss my brother. He was supposed to be here this semester but he and a couple of his fraternity brothers decided they’d have a better time road-tripping to the Kentucky Derby than studying for finals. He flunked out and won’t be back on campus until spring. I’m totally on my own.

This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have gone away to school. I should have stayed home and gone to the Purdue extension in Fort Wayne. Or I should have gone to IU because I wouldn’t be starting until next week and Carol would be there to help me past all the scary parts.

I should call my parents.

I should have them come get me.

My mom totally would. It’s not too late to change my mind. Classes haven’t started yet. I should get my calling card out of my purse and find a phone.

Ooh, hey, there’s one in here! Sweet!

As I pick up the receiver, it occurs to me that I should . . . I should maybe get a fucking grip.

I should not be so quick to throw in the towel.

I should not quit before I even begin.

I should . . . I should put on my favorite madras plaid shorts, a white oxford, and my perfectly broken-in Bass Weejun penny loafers and maybe say hello to the boys I know at my brother’s fraternity house.

When I get back from hanging out with a dozen cute Delta Sigs—possibly my best idea ever, thanks—I check in at the dorm’s front desk. My permanent room has been assigned! I gather up my stuff, swipe a couple of the brownies someone was storing in the fridge, say good-bye to my private bathroom, and make my way up to the fourth floor.

I’m told to find the resident advisor and she’s located directly across from the water fountain. I knock on her door and introduce myself. She’s modeling a new pleated skirt and I show her how you have to undo the basting at the bottom in order to make it extratwirly. Manufacturers only leave them sewn up so the pleats don’t get messed up while on the rack. My RA was unaware and almost went to the resident advisors’ dinner looking like a dumbass. I suspect I just bought myself one look-the-other-way pass.

While we chat, a very cheerful, very bouncy blond girl comes flying out of the room next door.

“Are you Jen?”

Technically, I’m Jeni, but as soon as she says this, I realize the
i
is superfluous. “Um, yeah,” I say. “I’m Jen.” Jen.
Jen.
Hey, I like how that sounds.

“I’m so excited to meet you! I’m Joanna! Welcome, roomie!” She quickly throws her arms around me and then starts grabbing my suitcases while the RA helps me maneuver the rolling rack containing my wicker headboard and flip-and-fold chair. Once we get everything into the room, Joanna exclaims, “I wrote to you this summer!”

“You’re kidding—I never got your letter. What did you say?”

“I wanted to know if we should get matching comforters and stuff. I figured we could get together and shop since I live in one of your suburbs.”

Cow Town has suburbs? How can that be? Cow Town has more livestock than people.

“Are you sure you wrote to
me
?” I ask.

“Aren’t you Jennifer Malloy?”

“No, I’m Jeni Lancaster. I mean,
Jen
Lancaster. I didn’t have housing until this afternoon, so Jennifer Malloy must have backed out or something.”

“Oh, well, her loss!” Joanna bounces over to her pink and blue tulip-sprigged bed and launches herself onto it. She folds up into lotus position and insists, “Tell me everything about yourself !”

We talk while I unpack and sort all my stuff. When I pull out my loafers, she squeals and rushes to her closet—she has the exact same pair! I notice she’s wearing white Keds with slouchy white socks. No one wore them in Cow Town so I never gave that look a thought, but now that I see how cute they are with shorts and polos, I reconsider.
⁹⁰

I brought basically everything I own because I didn’t know what I’d need and also I am
Always Prepared
. Putting my junk away takes a couple of hours, particularly since we stop and discuss each item. We compare our musical tastes—she has more new wave music than I do, but not because I don’t like it; I’ve just not had the chance to hear much of it. The Fort Wayne stations play nothing but Van Halen, AC/DC, and Journey.
⁹¹
My only exposure to other kinds of music is via
Friday Night Videos
or glimpses of MTV caught when we travel out of town.

Although we weren’t in contact when we were packing, you’d never suspect it. She didn’t bring anything to put on the walls and I brought lots of cool posters of Paris and Germany. (We listen to them falling off the walls every night for a week until I finally agree to take them out of the packaging and simply stick them straight to the cinder block.)

I brought a black-and-white TV and she brought a jam box. (I’d planned to listen to my music on my Walkman.) I brought a hot pot and canned soups, she brought bowls and spoons. Our synchronicity surprises us both and I realize we have all the makings of a lovely friendship.

As I unzip my third suitcase, I pull out my white satin gown.

“Ooh, is that your prom dress?” Joanna asks.

“Uh-huh. I’m planning to get it cut off so I can wear it to dances.”

“My gosh, that’s such a good idea! Let me show you mine.” She bounds off her bed and leaps to grab a framed photo on her desk. “Here.” She thrusts it at me.

I look at the photo—she’s in a darling pink silk drop-waist dress, posing with a goofy kid who looks like Gilligan. “Hey, how come you’re wearing a crown?”

She gets sheepish for a second. “Oh . . . that’s because I was prom queen.”

Of course she was prom queen.

Of course she was.

I don’t ask if she was a cheerleader. I sort of don’t want to know. I quickly change subjects. “Do you want to go to a fraternity party tonight?” I might not be queen of anything and I never actually earned a crown, but I do know some boys and I can bring parties to the table.

“No, thanks. I can’t. I’ve got to get ready for bed.” She grabs her shower caddy and heads to the bathroom.

I sit back on my freshly made bed, smoothing out the wrinkles from the packaging. So I’m living with the prom queen
and
she won’t go to parties? Fabulous. All those positive feelings I’ve started to develop for this charming girl fly right out the yet-to-be-curtained window.

Just then, she pokes her head back in the room. “But I can go tomorrow!”

Hmm. There may be hope for her yet.

I have my first opportunity to re-wear my white satin gown to a fraternity pledge dance fall semester. The campus dry cleaner hems it for fifteen dollars. My date is in my brother’s fraternity. He’s a junior and he’s really popular and he’s from a big city, so at first glance I’d worry he’s a bit out of my league. But we’re in the same French class and we both have a penchant for loafers. As class progresses, I help tutor him and we become friends. When I mention how much fun the dance sounds, he surprises me by asking me to be his date. And, seriously? He owns his own tux.
How cool is that?

We’re supposed to ride down to Indianapolis on the bus with all the other members, but my date gets tied up during a philanthropic activity
⁹²
and returns to campus late. We end up driving down ourselves. We’re not planning to stay over, but if my date drinks too much, then the plan is to crash on the floor in my fraternity big bro Andy’s room.

I use Andy’s bathroom to change out of my khakis and loafers and into my dress. I’ve gained a few pounds since I wore this last due to drinks and fatty cafeteria food and not having my mother stand over me like the Butter Nazi. All the weight’s gone straight to my chest and . . . it works. When I step out into the main room, all my platonic French class date says is, “Ooh la la!”

We totally kiss at the dance.
⁹³

Later, I have to use his chest as a pillow when we go to sleep on the floor. All I can think as I start to drift off is that my mom was right about the dress. Ridiculous.