The Rites and Wrongs of Janice Wills (5 page)

I returned to speechlessness, staring. It was great. Great for Margo. Not my style exactly, but it was the transformation I envied — a transformation I might secretly write into the movie version of my own life:
Janice Wills: Story of a Young Anthropologist
.

I think Margo realized I was mesmerized by her new appearance.

“Uh, I could help you too, Janice,” she said. “I mean, I know it’s not really your thing or whatever, but since we’re both gonna do Miss Livermush now … It’s not really that hard, with just a little makeup in the right colors and —”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. It’s less humiliating to fail at looking pretty when you weren’t trying to look pretty in the first place. Easier and safer not to try. “I keep it scientific. Dian Fossey didn’t need mascara when she was out studying gorillas. That’s how I roll.”

During my brief Dian Fossey obsession, I’d made Margo watch
Gorillas in the Mist
with me four times in a matter of weeks. “Um, okay,” Margo said. “But isn’t that a weird reference since Dian Fossey got macheted by poachers, and she was studying gorillas, not people?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. So instead, I said, “Wow. You know TR’s going to freak out, right? She’s going to realize that you’re serious competition.”

She smiled slightly, shrugging.

“Wait a second,” I said. “Does this have something to do with Secret Boyfriend?”

Margo examined the toe of one of her dainty new shoes without answering me. I kept staring at her, waiting for her to look up. Secret Boyfriend was the lone element of tension between Margo and me. Basically she had a Secret Boyfriend but didn’t want to tell me about him. It was weird because a) neither of us had really ever had boyfriends prior to this and b) neither of us had really ever had secrets prior to this. If I’d had a boyfriend, I certainly would have told her. (Heck, I would have told everyone, while of course pretending that I wasn’t. Like, my boyfriend would be in an awesome band, and I’d wear the band T-shirt all the time, and then people would ask about it, and I’d say, “Oh, this? Yeah, it’s my boyfriend’s band.” You get the idea.) Margo apparently handled things a little differently, resulting in the mystery that was Secret Boyfriend.

Finally Margo looked up at me. She inhaled deeply. “Janice, I promise,” she said. “It’s not a big deal. We’ve barely hung out at this point, and I want to tell you — really I do. But I promised not to — it’s just … He’s asked me not to tell people yet. I trust you, I do, but … I promised him, and he’s not even Secret Boyfriend yet, you know? He’s more like Secret We’ve-Hung-Out-Twice Friend at this point anyway….”

I could tell from Margo’s face that she felt bad, and I felt bad making her feel bad — so there was just a lot of badness hovering around us.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t get it, but I understand you made a promise.” I hugged her. “And hey, your new look is beautiful. TR’s eyes are going to bug out of her head.” Even though I smiled my It’s-No-Big-Deal! smile at her as I said it, I felt sad and left out. And even as she stood there, I felt Margo was slipping away from me.

At school the next day, everyone was talking about Margo. New and Improved Margo, that is.

“Last week she was, like, totally Trailer Park Sue,” I overheard one senior girl standing near my locker say to her friend, “and this week Margo Werther’s, like, megacute!”

I guessed Margo was used to people whispering about her, thanks to her family and perceived Bad Girl Potential and all, but this was a different kind of whispering. So far, I hadn’t asked her about it. My quietness was either tact or confusion. It was like Margo was morphing before my eyes into someone else, someone I barely knew — a polished, glamorous stranger with secrets she couldn’t tell me.

On Thursdays, Margo and I had the same lunch period. Often our sort-of friend Missy Wheeler joined us. (I thought of her as “the Third Wheeler.”) “Look!” Missy pointed with a carrot taken from her plastic baggie. “They’re doing it again! That
group of senior guys is totally checking Margo out. Don’t look, but they keep turning this way.”

Margo pinkened. I peeked at them.
Were
they looking at Margo? It was tough to tell. This particular group of guys — Future Business Golfers — wore a rotating array of pastel collared shirts and expensive sunglasses so I couldn’t actually make out their eyes.

“Hey! Margo!”

It was Theresa Rose. I turned, my fight-or-flight system revving into gear. After a pause, I realized TR wasn’t planning on greeting me as well. She’d walked right up to the table, looking directly at Margo.

“Hey. What’s up?” Margo said, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, but still cool and polite.

“Your hair looks really good, Margo,” TR said. “Your whole look. It’s, well — it’s great.”

TR actually sounded completely sincere, something I’d never heard before. There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in her voice. I studied her face, looking for signs of latent mockery. Nothing. She almost looked nervous.

“Thanks, TR,” Margo said. “That’s really nice of you to say.”

“Yeah,” she said. “You’ll have to take me to your hairstylist sometime. I need a new one. Anyway. Later.” And with that, TR walked away.

“What was that about?” I hissed. “Totally devious. Something’s up.”

Margo stirred her yogurt thoughtfully while I ripped into my sandwich.

“Next thing you know, TR will have you all dolled up so you can go ‘slirting’ for some poor guy in a John Deere hat. Despicable,” I said, almost spitting the word. I was about to elaborate further on the Perils of a Suddenly Nice (or
Seemingly
Nice) TR when another person approached.

“Hi, Janice.”

I almost choked on my hunk of sandwich. It was Jimmy Denton.

We all turned toward his deep, quiet voice. He was standing behind Margo, so close to her that I could imagine the heat of his body radiating down her back. My mouth hung open, half-chewed sandwich on display. I shut it. Margo, Missy, and I stared up at him.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” Margo said.

“How’s it going?” Jimmy asked, nodding first at Margo, then me. He paused, shifty-eyed, his voice a low rumble. “My buddies and I are having a party tomorrow and wanted to invite you.”

Margo shifted, craning her neck to face him. Missy and I remained frozen.

“Could be a research opportunity for you, Janice,” Jimmy said. “Although maybe it’s best to leave any notes at home this time.” He winked at me as he said this.

(Jimmy Denton shared a private joke with me?! And winked at me?? I had officially entered an alternate reality.)

“Uh,
yeah
,” I said. “Sounds
great
. We’ll
try
and make it.” Jimmy nodded and walked away.

Missy exhaled loudly. Her face was red, and her eyes were huge. I swallowed the slobbery chunk of sandwich that had been dissolving in my mouth.

“Oh. My. God. He’s so into one of us. He is such a depressive weirdo, but he’s, like, madly in love with one of us,” Missy said, her words spilling quickly. “Oh, wow, he’s handsome. But he drinks a lot, you know? That’s what I heard. And seems, like, so completely depressed? But hot, at least in a weird, potential-felon kinda way.”

I felt a warmth rising again in my neck and cheeks and almost pointed out to Missy that Jimmy hadn’t seemed aware of
her
presence at all, and that I didn’t think his “weird, potential-felon” invitation extended to her anyway, but I bit my tongue. And then I reminded myself that Jimmy was just being friendly. I mustn’t raise false hopes for myself. And who was I kidding — Jimmy was the Mount Everest of Coolness and I was like this inconspicuous ant….

“We should go to the party,” Missy continued breathlessly, her attention focused on Margo, not me. “I think he’s into you, Margo! Everyone’s noticing you today! He stood so close. Jimmy’s gotta be totally into you!”

Margo looked away from Missy and toward me. I was fiddling with my sandwich, pulling it apart.

“Whatever,” she said. “He was completely macking and attacking on Janice here.”

“You’re crazy,” I mumbled, further dismantling my sandwich. It was more humiliating now that Margo felt the need to protect me, to feel sorry for me.

“No, seriously,” Margo continued. “He’s, like,
connected
to you. You’re simpatico — soul mates, you know? He’s completely into your anthropology research.”

I smiled at Margo. She always knew the right thing to say.

“Hey, speaking of guys, who’s this guy I hear you’ve been hanging out with, Margo?” Missy asked.

So, other people knew
, I thought. I wasn’t the only one who’d figured out that Margo was seeing some guy. Margo poked at her Tater Tots before responding.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she said coolly. “Sure, I get lots of different calls from lots of different people. I had a friend for a while, a male friend. But nothing’s come of it. He doesn’t even go to MHS.”

And Margo, pressing her lips together, gave us a look. The subject was finished, and we knew not to challenge her. It didn’t take an anthropologist or a mind reader, however, to sense that Margo was lying. Secret Boyfriend, whoever he was, would remain a secret for now.

Meanwhile, the spot where Jimmy Denton had been standing fizzled with electric energy. I imagined him touching the small of my back, and the hot ghost-imprint of his imagined hand tingled there. I took another bite of my sandwich and reminded myself that I had the cool, observational mind of a researcher.

(But seriously — Jimmy Denton had just invited me, specifically, to a party??!!?!)

Paul walked by with a stack of posters. He and the new kid, Shaan, taped a few on the wall near the lunch line. They walked back toward us.

“What’s up, guys?” Margo asked.

“Hey,” Paul said. “We’re just putting up some posters for the new Muslim Student Alliance. First meeting next Tuesday.”

“Are there even any Muslims
in
Melva?” Missy asked.

Paul didn’t quite look at Shaan, and Shaan coughed a little bit. I think his family was originally from Pakistan.

“Uh, well, you’re right — there aren’t that many,” Paul said. “Which makes it all the more important that we support dialogue and awareness. And the alliance is open to Muslims and non-Muslims — anyone who’s interested in learning more about Islam and Islamic culture.”

Shaan smiled at Paul appreciatively. “Well, we’ve got a lot more signs to put up,” he said, and the two left. I watched them go, a little wistful of their sense of purpose.

“What a flake,” Missy said. “It’s like each day he’s all about something new.”

“Jeez, Missy,” I said.

“What? You’re allowed to say stuff about everyone and call it ‘anthropology’ while nobody else can?” Missy responded.

“Well,” Margo said, “Paul’s either a flake or the most thoughtful guy in town.”

The Future Business Golfers burst out laughing at some hilarious joke. Casting my eyes in their direction, I saw TR doing a silly little pirouette. She smirked at me, and I reminded myself that I’d once smelled TR’s feet in the locker room, and they smelled like rotting carcasses. I made a mental note to include this piece of information in my anthropological data.

If I had a nickel for every time I’d been asked out on a legitimate date, I’d have zero cents. Well, correction, five cents — there had been the Petey Bivins incident. If that counted.

Petey was enormously fat and smelled like 2 percent milk. He was also smart, and occasionally hilarious. I’d always enjoyed his presence from a distance. The day he asked me out, though, I’d figured something was wrong, because he kept edging close and then backing away from me like a stray cat. Finally, at the end of our English class, he leaned in toward me. So close that I smelled the milk on his breath, the baby-powdery scent of his hair, the sour spittle on his quadruple chin. This was not, I thought, how a grown man should smell.

“I was wondering, Janice,” he said, fumbling his pockets, “if you’d be into these dancing lessons my mom’s harassing me about. It’s, like, some friend of hers who’s teaching partnered dances at the Y, and, like, it’d just be a favor … and, well, I just remembered how at cotillion in middle school we always won the dance contest.”

FACT:
Junior cotillion is an organized class that attempts to teach young people social graces and manners through formal dance. It’s practically obligatory here in Melva — nearly every middle school parent signs his or her child up. So, just when you are at your most awkward, you get to stumble through old-fashioned dance steps with some snickering middle school boy who probably doesn’t want to be dancing with you either.

But what Petey said was true. Petey and I, like all good seventh and eighth graders in our town, had attended Mrs. James Biddlesworth’s junior cotillion. Every other Saturday night, we’d gathered in the Episcopal church basement and danced to songs like “Up on the Roof” and “I Love Beach Music.” We learned basic box steps, the waltz, and Carolina beach dances like the shag. No one was allowed to decline when asked to dance, which I found to be a real relief — although I loudly complained about this rule along with everyone else.

“Dancing with someone with whom you’d rather not builds character. Do not decline a request to dance. This is how we become polite members of society,” Mrs. Biddlesworth always said.

Then, in December and again in May, there were two big events: the Holly Ball and the Spring Ball. Everyone wore formal dresses and tuxedos. There was a dance contest too, and Petey and I had been, believe it or not, the reigning champions. I
remembered his sweaty hands in mine, the forced gaiety of the music, my stumbling hesitations, the clunky clodhopper flats my mom had gotten dyed to match my gown because I had refused any shoe that would have made me taller than I already was. Song after song played, and Mrs. Biddlesworth and her assistants tapped other couples, notifying them that they were out and must leave the floor. Song after song, and Petey and I stayed on the floor.

Petey’s face was red, sweating. His soft, billowing belly belonged to a middle-aged man, not a seventh grader, but he moved gracefully, lightly on the polished wood floor. Whenever I stumbled or skipped a step, Petey gently guided me back. He was actually a pretty good lead. When we’d won, I’d secretly been pleased. Mrs. James Biddlesworth (supposedly drunk by that time in the evening from a secret flask it was rumored she kept tucked in her cleavage) had raised our hands like we were boxing champions and awarded us prizes. The prize had been candy cane earrings (for me) and McDonald’s gift certificates (for both of us). We stayed partners for all the cotillion dance contests after that, and won all but one.

Only later had it occurred to me that maybe the reason Petey and I had usually won had less to do with the quality of our dancing than the judges’ pity. A puffy kid and a solemn, gangly tall girl whose big glasses kept fogging up with perspiration: I imagined the adults had seen us, all concentration and seriousness, a ridiculous sight, and wanted to reward our earnest effort; and I had crushed my four sets of holiday-themed prize earrings
in the trash compactor. Petey, on the other hand, apparently still believed we were destined for
So You Think You Can Dance
.

“I dunno, Petey,” I’d said, after having paused to think. “I mean, I’d love to dance with you, but it’s just … It’s my schedule, really.”

Petey had reddened a little. He drew an invisible line on the floor with his big, dorky basketball shoe.

“No, totally. Dumb idea. I understand,” he said. “Forget I mentioned it. Hey, are you still working on your various anthropology projects?”

I nodded, flattered. Hardly anyone (until Jimmy recently) asked about my projects, and Petey had acted like it wasn’t at least slightly weird.

“I’m trying. I’m probably going to focus on another topic here in Melva, actually,” I said, “just because I can’t afford Peru or New Zealand right now. And truthfully, it’s mostly still inside my head. Thinking about it,” I added, feeling like I should be realistic with Petey about the amount of work that I’d done at that point.

“Cool. I wanna read the latest when you’re done.”

And with that, Petey had turned and left. He continued to be nice to me after that too, but I’ve always felt terrible. Maybe I deserved loneliness for being too embarrassed to take Y dance classes with a very nice, hilarious fat boy.

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
Dance may have originated as part of storytelling or the performance of myths, or, in some cases, as part of early
healing rituals. I, for one, wish it would go back to being those things rather than being a major component of adolescent social life.

My mom, however, did not realize that I’d cursed my dating karma by turning down Petey two months before. And so she could afford to be cheerful about my romantic prospects, and she had been. Ever since I’d told her that I would be participating in Miss Livermush, she’d been the Escort Brainstorming Queen.

It was Friday morning, and my mom sometimes made oatmeal for my family on Fridays. When I got to the table, my brothers were already gobbling it down like small, hungry badgers. My mom was wearing her apron that read “I’m Da Boss,” dancing to the radio, and lip-synching into a big wooden spoon. My dad ate his oatmeal quietly, paging through the business section of the Charlotte paper.

“Hey, hey
,” sang my mom along with the song,
“hey, hey, Janice
! Oh, I have news for you! I talked to Robin Healey after Garden Club, and she said Chuck isn’t escorting anyone in the Miss Livermush Pageant. I happened to mention to her that you didn’t yet have an escort!”

I was stunned into momentary silence. Chuck Healey? Chuck?!

FACT:
Chuck still had braces and often wore his headgear to school. I once wore braces too, so I wouldn’t hold this
against him, except he always had Snickers bars coating his teeth as well. Chuck liked aliens, and he thought wearing his headgear more often made him look more extraterrestrial. He also started the Manga Club at high school and preferred to go by Daisuke, “his Japanese name.”

ADDITIONAL FACT:
I had a specific distaste for the Manga Club, since it was a direct rival to Science Club. We shared the same advisor and had an overlapping membership.

“Mom!” I cried. “No! I can’t go with Chuck!” “He’s such a sweet boy, Janice. And so intellectually curious.”

“He’s an anime freak. He makes all the teachers call him ‘Daisuke.’”

“Don’t be cruel, Janice,” my dad murmured, looking up at me above his reading glasses.

“He’s a questing intellect!” my mom insisted.

I groaned, lifting a great spoonful of oatmeal and then letting it plop back into the bowl. I thought about Jimmy Denton. If we were of the same caste in India, maybe our parents would arrange for us to be married. So much less hassle! No work on my part! Arranged marriage seemed to make a lot of sense. Just leave it up to good ol’ Mom and Dad. No humiliation, no rejection, no cute drama boys not knowing of your existence …

But you’d have to trust your parents’ taste, which I did not. Having seen my mom’s picks (and clearly, my mom would be the one doing the choosing), I most DEFINITELY would not leave a decision of such magnitude up to her.

“Well, there’s always Paul Hansen,” my mom said. “Y’all have known each other since you were babies, but you’ve refused that suggestion so many times…. I’m sticking with Chuck as my new nomination to become your boyfriend!”

“Paul has a girlfriend, and there’s no way on earth I’m going near Chuck Healey.”

“Janice loves Chuck Healey!” my brother Rufus sang.

“Janice and Chuck, ooh la la!” sang my other little brother, Simon.

“Just talk to him at school today, honey, and see what you two think,” my mom said.

I looked at the bowl of oatmeal and considered dropping my face into it.

The phone rang, and my mom answered. “For you, Jan,” she said, accidentally getting an oatmeal glob on the phone as she passed it over.

“Hello?”

“J, it’s Paul. Bagels on the way to school? I can pick you up in ten.”

“Yes, please! I’ll be outside.”

I hung up, jumped up from my chair (abandoning my uneaten oatmeal), and grabbed my bag. “I’m catching a ride with Paul, Mom. Bye! Bye, Dad!”

As I ran to get my history book from upstairs, I could still hear Rufus and Simon singing a nonsensical “Janice and Chuck” song they’d made up to the tune of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” My mom joined them, harmonizing,
“You’d better watch out, you’d better not cry, Janice and Chuck, Janice and Chuck
!”

It didn’t matter. I loved getting breakfast with Paul, even though it happened less often since I’d been demoted to second-place gal pal after The Girlfriend (who, being a musical theatre star,
of course
happened to be an excellent dancer and singer, the universe having a wicked sense of humor).

“Hey, Paul,” I said when he showed up and I’d opened the car door. I smelled the faint mixture of his coconut shampoo and piney deodorant. My heart jumped up in my chest like it’d hit a speed bump. This did not ordinarily happen when I talked to Paul. It was just Paul.

“Hey, J. Ready to carbo-load?”

I nodded and hopped in beside him.

“So I have to admit it,” he said as we pulled away. “Your most recent mix CD was pretty excellent. You’ve set the bar even higher. I’m not sure what I’m going to find in response….”

“It’s hard to compete with early Afrobeat mixed with some of the greatest hits coming out of 1961 Detroit, I know….”

“I’ll triumph, though. You’re going to be dazzled, Janice. Oh, and I really liked the South African song you put on there.” He gestured to his CD player.

I inhaled the familiar scent of Paul’s car. It smelled like him — the shampoo and deodorant — plus coffee. There were
pita chips and splashes of now-dried coffee seeped into the upholstery. Paul had a thing for eating while driving.

“So,” he said, “what’s the plan this evening?”

“Well, I think Margo and I might be going to that party that Jimmy Denton and some of the other senior drama guys are having.”

Paul kept his eyes forward and nodded, but I could see a frown deepening the crease in his forehead. “What,
Dad
, you don’t approve?”

He sighed, shaking his head. We were at a stoplight, so he turned to face me. “No, I think Jimmy’s fine, it’s just … I heard he’s been in a bad mood lately. He just has some issues he’s working through, that’s all….”

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
“Issues”? Issues! This had definitely become the most vague and yet one of the most frequently used terms of my generation.

“Besides,” Paul added, “a bunch of us were talking about going to the movies tonight. You interested?”

I shrugged. I figured The Girlfriend would surely be there, and the thought of going to the movies with perfect, porcelain Susannah was almost as appealing as looking for extraterrestrial life-forms with Chuck Healey.

As if he weren’t thinking about it, Paul put his hand on my forearm. With the too-bright sun pouring in through the car
windows and his fingers on my skin, I felt time slow down. He was touching my arm, and his hand was radiant with warmth like a miniature sun. He crinkled his crinkly brown eyes at me. Kind eyes. He worried about me! And I loved his hand on my arm.

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
There is an interesting tradition of belief in the power of the “healing touch.” It involves various energies that I don’t really understand. I’d previously thought this idea sounded funny and quaint, but whatever was radiating from Paul’s hand, I was becoming a believer.

Then he took his hand away. The elastic stretch of the moment snapped back, and we were back in the sickly coffee-smelling car, and the stoplight was changing, and there was no more touching, and — oh, God — I realized why his hand had jerked back — oh, God — repulsed.

The Mutant Hair.

There, in the unforgiving natural light, I saw it. The Mutant Hair spiraled annoyingly out of one juicy brown mole on my left arm. It was glistening and dark, whereas the rest of my arm was downed lightly with blond. It was a man’s hair, a weird pubic sprout coiling from that cursed mole. Normally I kept track of The Mutant Hair and jerked it from its mole as soon as it was long enough, but I’d been forgetful. Now Paul had seen it and surely thought I was disgusting. Repulsive. A manly ogre. Only he was too polite to say so.

“Thanks, Paul. A movie sounds good, but I already talked about the party with Margo. Maybe next time?” I said it cheerily, as if nothing odd had happened, but my stomach sank like I’d gone down a huge roller coaster.

“Sure, next time,” he said lightly. “There’s probably more for a young anthropologist to behold at Jimmy’s party anyway.”

I nodded, cradling my arm awkwardly on my lap so as to hide The Mutant Hair, silently vowing to retreat into hermitude as soon as possible: Janice Wills, the secular anthropologist-nun.