The Rites and Wrongs of Janice Wills (14 page)

At 5:55 p.m., we were back in our dresses and waiting in the wings again. The translucent powder I wore was barely preventing my whole face from dripping with sweat. My clenched hands were cool and damp, like balled-up athletic socks.

The audience had gathered again, and this time there were more of them. At 5:59, you could feel every atom of our bodies backstage buzzing with anticipation. I squeezed Margo’s hand behind me.

FACT:
I had realized that, in spite of it all, I secretly hoped I might win — maybe not first place, but second. Third, even. Maybe, just maybe, the judges had found my answer to the interview question mind-blowing. I wanted Margo to do well too, but I’d realized it was easier to wish your best friend well when she wasn’t obviously about to trounce you in a contest.

Ms. Whitaker, covered in her geological layers of foundation, walked back onstage, greeted by loud applause.

“Good evening,
everyone
, and welcome back to the awards ceremony for this year’s Melva’s Miss Livermush! After much deliberation, the judges have reached their decision.”

The crowd clapped. Someone wolf-whistled.

“Now I’d like to ask all our finalists back onto the stage. As you know, this is more than a pageant; it is also a scholarship competition. We are proud of every one of these young ladies, but there may be only one Miss Livermush.”

A recorded drumroll blared over the crappy replacement sound system.

“This year, the judges would first like to award a prize for outstanding accomplishment in the academic portion of the competition. This year’s winner wrote what was deemed to be the best essay on the subject of livermush as well. The winner this year of the academic prize is … Janice Wills!”

Margo gasped and squeezed my hand, pushing me forward.
A nerd prize
, I couldn’t help thinking. The judges must have felt sorry for the interruption during my talent. I stood under the lights, stunned and uncertain as a newborn baby mole, blinking into the applauding audience as Ms. Whitaker handed me a sash and bouquet.

“This year’s second runner-up … we are proud to announce … is Jessica Robertson!”

As Jessica, a girl from the county high school, accepted her flowers, tears slid down her cheeks — tears that I suspected Jessica hoped looked like tears of happiness. My guess was that
they were not, but that she would recover and be genuinely happy soon enough.

“Our first runner-up this year, the young lady who will fill in for Miss Livermush should it be required, is the lovely and talented … Theresa Rose Venable!”

Tabitha and Casey crowed happily above the applause. TR, blond hair shimmering, hugged Ms. Whitaker and took her bouquet. I focused on maintaining my own smile, focused on the pain this smile was now causing my facial muscles.

“Finally, after her dazzling talent performance, we are pleased to crown Margo Werther as MELVA’S MISS LIVERMUSH!”

Margo rushed forward, and the crowd rose to their feet clapping. “You Are So Beautiful” again blasted out from the speaker system. Ms. Whitaker hugged us each again, giving us air-kisses on each cheek. I felt a little light-headed.

After the applause had died down, Jessica, Margo, TR, and I were swept backstage on a tide of congratulations from the other girls. Still, I heard a few sniffles.

“Wonderful, wonderful!” Ms. Whitaker gushed, following us. “We’re proud of you all this year, and especially of our three scholarship recipients.”

I knew I should be pleased. I hadn’t gotten a scholarship, but I did receive a $500 check for the academic prize.

After the congratulations died down, all of us began gathering up our stuff. Girls chatted with one another quietly, everyone sounding more subdued than before the pageant had started. But
when I heard Margo’s voice begin to rise, I turned around. Her voice had grown so loud that everyone was watching.

Margo and TR stood facing each other, both of them still in their formal dresses. Margo was shaking a brush right in TR’s face.

“ … but you are the most manipulative, evil, selfish … I CARE about him, and NOTHING bad was going on, and now YOU are going to get him in trouble!”

Margo’s face was sweaty. Wet threads of mascara ran down her face.

“Listen, Margo, Miss Livermush Princess Whatever,” TR said. “I don’t effing CARE about what you do with your SLUTTY self. But the Livermush judges just might! Remember ‘excellent moral character'? Remember that from the guidelines?”

Margo shook her head angrily. We were all staring unabashedly now, all of us other girls in our dresses forming an anticipatory circle of eyes. I could tell everyone’s breath was held, waiting for the real fight to break out.

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
According to my survey, it is the prevailing opinion among male adolescents in Melva that fights between females, or “girl fights,” are far more interesting and far meaner than the male equivalent. And everyone likes watching them. Primary source quotation: “Dude! And then Kiki, like, ripped this chunk of hair off Jessica’s head, and there was, like, still flesh attached! And all of
us watching were like, ‘Dude, this girl fight is
awesome
!’”

I grabbed Margo’s shoulder, pulling her toward me. “What’s going on?” I hissed. “What’s this about?” TR, stalking toward us, heard me.

“Oh, you didn’t know either, did you, Janice? Margo’s kept us all in the dark, even her dear little best friend,” TR said. Her voice was sweet and toxic.

I looked at Margo, who didn’t meet my eyes.

“What’s she talking about?” I asked. “What?”

“Oh, just the fact that she’s been dating Colin. The FreshLife leader. Which is totally against every single rule,” TR said gleefully.

“Colin the FreshLife leader?” I whisper-hissed at Margo, feeling all the eyes in the room on us. “He’s Secret Boyfriend? Are you serious?”

Margo fiddled with a seam on her dress, still not meeting my eyes. My head pounded. I couldn’t tell if I was angrier at the thought of Margo paired with Colin or at the fact that Margo hadn’t told me this huge secret. And I, her best friend …

“Janice, he’s, like, two years older than we are,” Margo whispered. “And I didn’t mean for it to happen, but … I liked him. He liked me. And I couldn’t tell you even though I wanted to! He made me promise — and I didn’t want to get him in trouble!”

I sighed.

“I feel morally bound,” TR said loudly, “as someone of
excellent
moral character, to make this piece of information known to the Miss Livermush judges. It is explicitly against FreshLife rules, after all! This might make them rethink their decision.”

I looked at Margo. Her face was awash in streaky mascara, her mouth a rictus of panic. How could TR have possibly found out this piece of information before I had? It gnawed at my gut. But I looked at TR, her devilish Barbie face still gleeful, and I knew I had to act.

“Well, TR,” I said carefully and loud enough for the whole room to hear, “if we’re going to be complete about it, there are other things the judges might be interested in. Like, for instance,
slirting
. Like, for instance, drinking underage behind the Arts Council building in the middle of the Livermush Festival. Like, for instance, slapping some poor guy in the face.”

I thought of my anthropology notes at home — of all the times I’d observed TR and her group laughing viciously in the face of some dumpy guy who’d previously believed that he was successfully flirting. Actually I had plenty of notes involving TR laughing in the faces of many people, male and female, whether slirting or not.

TR blinked at me. “What? No. I mean …”

“Slirting. Consumption of alcohol underage
during
the pageant. Really, when it comes to lapses in moral character … You name it. In fact, I probably have more anthropological notes on these subjects at home. The judges might be very interested in learning more.”

Some of the girls in the room looked confused. I heard them whisper the word “slirting” with question marks in their voices. The murmuring grew behind me. I stared hard, unrelentingly, at TR.

I paused for a moment, then added, “If I’m wrong, I’m sure the Melva police department would be happy to let you prove your innocence with one of their Breathalyzers.”

She looked at me and shook her head. “Whatever, Janice. Forget it, okay? If you wanna be a brat about something — about NOTHING, really — then just for get it.” And with that, she stalked out of the room, trailed by Casey and Tabitha.

I felt Margo shudder with relief beside me.

“Janice,” she whispered, touching my arm. “Thank you.”

I took a breath, absorbing the fact that I’d actually stood down TR — and that I’d used my anthropological powers to do it.

“Of course,” I said, hugging her. “But you have a lot to catch me up on.”

And so I like to think I saved the day. The observations of the anthropologist, when applied appropriately, can preempt a situation from spiraling further out of control. I was using my critical powers for Good, not Evil. Plus when it came to documenting the pageant for the sake of anthropology, I realized something else:

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
It becomes far more difficult to be anthropologically detached from something once you receive an award for it — even if you’re not sure how you feel about receiving that award. Instead you sort of feel like, “Hey, yeah, sure — if you’d like to honor me, I’ll take that honor. Maybe you’re right!” Perhaps this is why Cortez did not set the record straight when he was mistaken for the returning god, Quetzalcoatl, by the Aztecs. Okay, it probably also helped Cortez conquer them and steal their gold, but still. You get the point. It’s cool to be
given awards (even nerd prizes) or to be mistaken for a god.

The person who took the greatest pleasure in my academic award was, yes, my mom. Everyone had dispersed home for a few hours before the Livermush Festival Dance, and my mom assaulted me the moment I’d walked into the kitchen.

“Sweetheart! Janice! You did it!” she shouted, running up to hug me.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “But it’s not really a big deal.”

She looked at me, and her eyes started to get a little teary. She took me in her arms again. It made me feel like the academic award was actually something important, not just a nerd prize.

“No,” she whispered. “It is a big deal. You deserved it. You were wonderful.”

And I hugged my mom for a long time, and considered the fact that even though she a) was obsessed with Kenny G-ified versions of ‘80s pop songs b) now had on a red shirt with an appliquéd chunk of anthropomorphic livermush on it (yes, the livermush had eyes and was smiling) and c) believed in doing Jazzercise-based mall aerobics, she was a darn good mom.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “I never thought I’d say this, but I almost don’t regret the fact that you encouraged me to do this.”

And then, just in case she thought I was getting too soft and mushy, I added, “But Mom, your shirt! It’s hurting me! It’s actually physically painful to behold!”

Without seeming embarrassed at all, my mom broke into a little burst of the Pony. The little livermush googly eyes jiggled back and forth on her torso.

“My shirt is fabulous,” she said, still smiling. So perhaps, in some ways of perceiving the universe, my mom is unassailably awesome.

The Livermush Dance felt like a relief after the stress of the Livermush Pageant itself. I figured at this point, now that I’d demonstrated my dance moves before an entire audience, the dance floor itself would be relatively low pressure.

Margo was anxious about showing up now that people knew she’d been seeing Colin — even though the TR disaster had been averted.

“You think I should go?” she asked.

“Of course. You ARE Miss Livermush.”

“But I’m humiliated. I don’t know. I —”

“Trust me,” I said. “It’ll be much more of a big deal if you don’t show up.”

“And Janice, I got in touch with Colin. TR found out because Colin told the FreshLife advisor. He stepped down from his position.”

“To be with you?” I asked. “Really?”

“I don’t know,” Margo said. “I don’t know. I think he felt like it was the right thing to do regardless, and we do like each other.

But we’re just gonna take it slowly, see what happens. It’s been too complicated. Right now it’s just a relief not to have to keep something a big secret.”

“Then don’t worry about it anymore! At least not for now!” I said.

“It’s still embarrassing,” Margo said. “And I can’t believe you found out that way. I wanted to tell you when he and I first went out to the movies the other week, and then we finally kissed, and I was just
dying
to tell. I — I’m just embarrassed now that everyone will know.”

“Margo, it’s okay! I’m happy for you! So you kissed the FreshLife leader. The former FreshLife leader. So you guys went to the movies. We’re almost seventeen. He’s nineteen. It’s a blurry issue anyway, and the issue has been addressed for now. Let’s just go to this dance and celebrate the fact that you are the new official Melva’s Miss Livermush. Okay?”

“You’re sure?” Margo asked.

“Yes,” I said. “About everything. And especially about this dance. You know the theme is ‘This Magic Moment,’ right? It’s going to be awesome, and by
awesome
, I mean cheesy and fantastic.”

Margo squeezed my shoulder. Smiling, she said, “All right, Ms. Optimistic. Let’s go.”

When we got to the dance, mostly the dorks were there — some of the Formerly Homeschooled and some of the Bleakest Geek
couples. Apparently they’d wanted to seize This Magic Moment early. One couple had come in Star Wars gear with light sabers. A few Chess Nerds and even one or two of the Smart Pretties and their dates followed. A tight cluster of Evangelical-But-Not-Antidancing-Evangelical Christian kids were talking in same-sex clusters, wearing their demure, body-concealing formal attire. By the time the DJ tried to play “The Electric Slide,” enough Baseball Guys and Cool Black Girls had shown up that everyone was able to boo the DJ into changing his selection. Middle-aged parents and community members slow-danced right next to teenaged couples. A few old people fox-trotted around the room. Another version of myself would have found the overall picture strange and weird and discomfiting, but for some reason, tonight it seemed, well,
nice
. Like everyone was just happy to be together and have a good time.

When we got to the dance floor, Margo and I began dancing self-consciously in a tight girl clump. I held my arms stiff at my sides until Tanesha walked over and offered a little coaching.

“Move your arms, Janice.
Lève les bras! Les bras
!“ she shouted, breaking into giggles. “Remember the dance steps I taught you!”

She started the routine, and I joined her. And at this point, friends, I was officially dancing. Not the Pony — legit break-it-down dancing. And I confess to you: It was fun.

About an hour and a half into things, I noticed TR, Jimmy, Tabitha, and Tripp walk inside. TR and Tabitha of course looked like they belonged on a red carpet somewhere. Their long dresses were sapphire blue and cherry red, respectively.

TR glided over, dancing her way within earshot of Margo. Margo stiffened but kept dancing. I moved protectively toward her. Jimmy stood nearby, un-dancing, but drumming his fingers against the wall. He looked away from us.

“Hey!” TR called over the music. “Miss Livermush! Been having any more forbidden love affairs? Punching guys in the face? Vomiting on people’s shoes? You know — your specialties?”

Margo whipped around. TR blinked benignly with her large, lovely eyes. She had a lily corsage on her slender wrist. Expensive and exotic. Wordlessly Margo grabbed the lily and calmly tore it to delicate, tiny bits, which she let flutter onto the dance floor.

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
Once again, we see an impetuous, solitary act of aggression perpetrated against a leader of the stronger tribe, in this case perhaps deliberately intended to signify a refusal to cave to future efforts at domination. I.e. this was an act of rebellion, however irrational. (Although as an aside, this anthropologist must ask, “Margo, what were you thinking?!”)

Immediately Margo locked terrified eyes with me. We both knew it was exactly the wrong thing to have done. Tanesha and I stopped dancing completely. TR stepped forward, muttering angrily. I looked up and caught Jimmy’s eyes. Jimmy caught TR by the arm.

“Come on, Theresa Rose. Forget it. Let’s go over
here,” he
said.

TR gave Margo a seething look one more time. “You think you’re so good, Margo Werther, but you’re not. You and Janice too. You’re not all good and sweet and nice. You’re just like everybody else here, even though you pretend you’re not.”

And with that, TR turned and let Jimmy lead her away. This was far from the meanest thing TR had ever said to us, but for some reason it struck me the most — because I realized there was some truth to it.

I wiped my forehead, heading over to the refreshments table for another glass of punch. When I returned to the dance floor, Margo and I were incorporated into a dance circle with Tanesha Jones and a couple of her friends.

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
As in most traditional cultures, the modern American adolescent dances predominately in group circles, at least during fast songs. Periodically, the ritual is to urge one person into the center of the circle with chants of “Go, Janice! Go, Janice! Go, Janice!” whereupon the nominated individual must perform some amazing solo dance moves, or, if you are nerdy like me, resort to nerd-hipster standby dances like the Lawn Mower or the Sprinkler.

Aside from the awkward moment with TR, Margo seemed to be having a blast, and so was I. The key to dancing, I decided,
was making many exaggerated facial expressions, thereby embracing your own ridiculousness. I was impressed by our dancing. I was also impressed by my hair: Although I was sweaty and exhausted, my hair had not budged an inch. That was the power of my mom’s industrial-strength hair spray reinforced by two handfuls of bobby pins. (I probably wouldn’t wear that much hair spray again until my wedding, but this seemed very low on my list of present worries.)

In my peripheral vision, I kept noticing Jimmy Denton. He lurked along the edges of the dance floor, weaving his way among the tables where a few of the Bleakest Geeks were cemented to their seats. He hadn’t danced at all. TR had returned to the dance floor, and she, Tabitha, Casey, and about seven other girls seemed to be desperately throwing themselves into their own performance of No One Has Fun Like We Do! They danced and lip-synched and acted out the songs in their circle in a way that suggested that, if you were not among them, you might as well go home and watch infomercials and cry. They were good at this. TR’s unadorned wrist and her proximity to Margo made me a little nervous.

After a few more songs, Margo disappeared. When she came back, her face was scrunched with worry. She pulled me a little closer to TR and her crew. When TR saw us, she looked up, caught sight of Margo, and snarled. I looked at her upturned, pastel lips with horror.

“Theresa Rose, can I talk to you for a minute?” Margo yelled. A particularly loud song was blaring.

“I can’t hear you. I’m dancing.” TR swung her head, and a lash of blond hair whipped Margo in the mouth. “CAN I TALK TO YOU?”

I nudged Margo on the arm and gave her a look. What was she doing?

“WHY WOULD I WANT TO TALK TO YOU?” TR shouted back and held up her bare wrist meaningfully. She turned around, flinging her arms to the music with new ferocity. Margo huffed and stalked over to the nearest table. I followed her. She plopped down in an empty chair, and we watched TR gyrate with her friends.

“What were you trying to do?” I asked, studying her.

Margo puffed air out of her mouth, blowing a wisp of hair from her eyes. “I wanted to apologize,” she said. “Believe it or not. It was stupid, what I did to her corsage. And I wanted to tell her she did a nice job in the pageant, and tell her sorry about how the whole night at the party went, and that I just wanted to get along.”

“Oh, man …” I said. “Still, she’s acted pretty lame. And the whole slirting thing is extremely lame.”

“I know,” Margo said. “We’ll see if she keeps slirting after today. But regardless. I need to apologize.”

“Here,” Jimmy said, appearing suddenly and tapping Margo on the shoulder. He stood behind us, looking half-cocky, half-shy, with something in his hand. It was a flower made of paper — and it was beautiful. The petals were full and multicolored. He handed it to Margo. She looked closer, touching it with her index finger.

“Wow,” she breathed. “Where’d you get this?”

He shrugged. “I made it,” he said. “It’s an apology flower.” He turned from Margo and looked pointedly at me.

Margo held the flower closer for me to see as well. It was pieced together out of napkins and streamers.

“You’re really good,” Margo said admiringly. “Isn’t he, Janice?”

“Yeah,” I said, puzzling over his face.

“It’s nothing. I don’t like to dance really, so I’ve gotta keep myself occupied somehow.” He paused. “I saw you out there with TR. I thought it might help if you gave her this. You know, a replacement for the other one. It won’t go on her wrist, but she could pin it to her dress.”

Margo smiled at him. “Thanks,” she said. “That’s really thoughtful. I’ll go take it to her now.”

With her hands full of the intricately folded paper flower, Margo walked back out to TR. She walked gingerly, as if the apology were an actual physical object — complicated, impromptu, delicate, like the replacement corsage flower in her hands.

Jimmy still stood near me, so close that I could hear him breathing. I kept my eyes on Margo so that I wouldn’t have to look at him.