Plan A is over, which means so is my chance of becoming cheerleader popular.
I wash my hands hard to scrub off the sting of failure. I stare at my reflection for a long time and it occurs to me that I’m only sixteen and it’s possible this won’t be the worst thing that ever happens to me. So I square my shoulders and try to march out of the bathroom with confidence. Even if I don’t feel it, I have enough theater training to fake it.
As I shuffle toward the gate, I make the conscious decision to move on to Plan B. And now I’m off to figure out how to maneuver myself into the seat next to Tom on the flight to Germany. Although, I notice Tom brought a clarinet in his carry-on baggage. Is it just me, or is that kind of queer?
Gay Paree
(Jordache Jeans, Part Three)
The woman who organized this trip is a dour older lady named Norma. She’s got steely gray hair and her eyes are narrowed into angry little slits, untouched by my good friend Max Factor. She holds her lips like she’s perpetually smelling Mary Jean O’Halloran’s locker. She works for the Institute for Foreign Study and she and my mother met during choir practice at the Baptist church. Mom joined that particular ministry because the pastor visited her in the hospital when she had some minor surgery when we first moved here. We’ve been in Indiana six years now and I’ve yet to figure out how one quick bedside visit can turn her from mellow, moderate Methodist to Bible-beating Baptist. Shoot, I visited her in the hospital . . . I don’t see her worshipping at the Holy House of Jeni.
I completely loathe the Baptist church, yet I’m forced to attend and it is sooo eerie, particularly since a lot of the members pray out loud. Like, you can hear all the bad stuff they’ve done while they’re asking God for forgiveness. Say what you will about the Methodists, but they have the good sense to keep their sins a little closer to the vest.
When we were Methodist, we talked a lot about Jesus and all the neat stuff He did for other people—it was shiny, happy Christianity. The Methodists made me feel like Jesus was my friend and, like, He’d be cool if I asked to borrow some lunch money because I forgot my purse at home or if I accidentally got my p-e-r-i-o-d on His white leather car seats. Jesus wouldn’t be all agro if I ever bailed on Him at the last minute because my crush finally asked me to the movies. And if I had cramps or a sinus headache, He’d lay a finger on my head and be all Dude, it’s totally handled. The Methodist Jesus would be just all right with me, exactly as the Doobie Brothers promised.
At the Baptist church, it’s nothing but hellfire and damnation and 666 and the mark of the beast. I’m all, “You guys? The Exorcist ? Was fiction. And Damien isn’t real either!”
My Baptist Sunday school teacher spent an entire month telling us about how the Rapture was coming and that the righteous would be spirited up to Heaven immediately and how those who didn’t believe would be left to fester on the earth. He’d show us these freaky films where all of a sudden people would just vanish, leaving nothing but running cars and spinning office chair seats.
Really? I had enough trouble worrying about Kari and Jodi. The last thing I needed was some fundamentalist zealot attempting to scare the wits out of me in the name of the Lord. I remember thinking, If you’re indicative of who’s going to be in Heaven, I choose earthly festering, thanks.
What’s really ironic is the church inadvertently helped me figure out how to get Kari and Jodi off my back. We were in a pew one Sunday morning and a sad woman was standing next to me, quietly pleading for God to bring her husband back. Being a small congregation, it was common knowledge that her rotten husband had dumped her for someone younger and thinner. The more she begged God to fix everything by making her skinnier, the more I realized that He isn’t a Maytag repairman, ready to make a house call at a moment’s notice. He’s not going to come down, reach into his tool box, and wave a magic wand to make her pounds disappear. But I bet if she looked around, she’d find the tools He provided so she could help herself . . . and not so she could get that cheating bastard back, but so she could find a way to be happy in herself.
Then I had my own epiphany—the same rules applied to me. If I wanted to stop being teased, I couldn’t just pray for Him to give Kari and Jodi laryngitis. (Or get hit by a bus, no matter how much fun it was to imagine.) I had to take responsibility for myself by assuming an active role in eliminating that which was mock-able. I started showering and drying my hair before school, rather than taking a bath before bed and throwing my wet locks up into a ponytail. I put aside my fear of the dentist and finally got the chip in my tooth fixed. I asked for contact lenses for Christmas and I began studying Seventeen magazine for fashion tips and makeup tips.
I figured out how to reinvent myself, making my appearance work for me, not against me.
Of course, there’s a chance I may have overcompensated.
Anyway, because my mother is anxious to impress Baptist Norma, she didn’t sign the permission slip allowing me to drink alcohol while I’m in Europe . . . which is bogus. Mom had no problem when I slugged down all those sombreros 60 at my cousin Debbie’s wedding. Not only was I in eighth grade at the time, but I went back to Auntie Virginia’s house and barfed on her green velvet couch. And once when we went to a vineyard in the Hudson River Valley, she and my dad laughed when they caught me swilling wine out of tasters’ abandoned cups.
I was seven, for Christ’s sake.
If they try to make alcohol all mystifying for me now, I’m probably going to lose my mind when I go to college.
Anyway, even though I’ve only tasted liquor twice in my life before, I’m pretty sure I know what it feels like to need a drink. We’ve been in Germany for eight hours and I’m ready to either get plowed or go home. Norma and the rest of the chaperones have taken to “treating” each other at every meal, picking up tabs for various food and beverages. But it’s not really treating—Norma’s got an accounting system that would put the Internal Revenue Service to shame. Each time we’ve eaten, it’s taken an extra twenty minutes to settle up because Chaperone A owes Chaperone B the German equivalent of thirty-seven cents because Chaperone A got a large coffee when Chaperone B was paying and Chaperone B had a small one when A paid, which . . . Aarrggh!! Do! Not! Care!! Shouldn’t we be seeing some culture and shit right now?
All of us kids have to wait on the tour bus while the grownups arm-wrestle each other over what’s really a few pennies. They finally work out the tab—for now—and we motor to our first hotel.
Correction.
We motor to the hotel where we students are staying and we find out the chaperones—you know, the ones who our parents trusted to watch over and protect us and keep us out of bars—are staying at a nicer hotel down the street.
Norma just fucked up.
And this trip suddenly got interesting.
“A pub!” Sandy shouts from our tiny bath, where she’s busy massaging a whole can of mousse into her tightly permed hair. “I want to go to a pub!”
“No, no!” I argue. “A disco! Let’s hit a disco!” So I’m not quite ready to let go of my European prince fantasy.
“How about a beer garden? Germany is famous for beer gardens. Gehen wir zum Biergarten!” exclaims Curtis, one of our new best friends from Houston. He’s lying on Sandy’s bed with his legs kicked up in the air, propped against the wall, darling argyle socks peeking out from under his jeans. He’s totally cute in a Michael J. Fox kind of way, all tidy and pink and shiny and tucked in.
Sandy pops out, her ringlets glistening with moisture. “Is that German for ‘order me a cold brew’?”
“Y’all, I think pubs, discos, and beer gardens are the same thing over here,” replies Steph, Curtis’s classmate and platonic 61 best friend. She idly picks at her cuticles. She’s way more organized than us and has been ready for the last twenty minutes. She’s sitting on my bed, tapping out a staccato beat with her sensible ballerina flat. “Let’s stop debating and just go already.”
“Steph, relax. We’ll be ready in a few,” Sandy
scoffs, wiping her hands on a scratchy towel.
Curtis turns to Steph. “Honey, unclench, please.”
“I can’t help it if I think we need a plan,” Steph snaps.
Curtis sits up and shoots the cuffs on his perfectly pressed button-down shirt. “How about this—how about we venture out and hit the first place we see with a neon bottle in the window? Neon’s the international sign for ‘drinks served here.’ ”
“Everyone cool with that?” I ask and Sandy and Steph nod. “Alrighty, let me just go tell Tom and Brian the plan. Which room are they in?”
Sandy tells me, “Four doors down to the right.”
“Sweet! Hey . . . know what I just thought? Maybe if Tom gets some liquid courage tonight, he’ll make a move on me!”
Curtis snorts and lies back on the bed. “Yeah, good luck with that, darlin’.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. I paw through my luggage to find my hottest outfit.
He gives me a knowing look. “You’ll see.”
I make Curtis stand in the hallway while I put on my least modest blouse, buttoned almost low enough to see cleavage. I paint my jeans back on and slide into the pair of Nine West pumps that I swiped from my mom and then I saunter down to Tom and Brian’s room. I bang on their door and it takes them a few minutes to answer. “Hey, you guys! We’re going out for beers! Come with us!”
Brian answers the door in his pajamas. I don’t see Tom in the tiny room, so he must be in the washroom down the hall. We girls got so lucky to score an en suite bath! “I can’t,” says Brian. “My mom wouldn’t sign the permission slip.”
“Um, dude? Your mom is in Fort Wayne and your chaperones are in another hotel. Pretty sure you can have a brew if you want one,” I tell him.
“No, thanks.” He seems resolute. Or, like, jet-lagged or something.
“Oh-kaaay. Tomorrow then, totally,” I say with no sincerity. Like I care if he joins us, anyway. “What about Tom?”
“What about me?” Tom materializes right behind Brian. What, was he hiding behind the door?
“We’re going out for beer. Come with us!”
Tom shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“Oh, don’t give me that permission slip bullcrap, too. No one’s here! No one will know! What happens in Europe stays in Europe!”62
“It’s not that—it’s . . .” He hesitates. I try to look at him all understanding-like. It’s okay, handsome! You can tell me! “It’s . . . it’s just that I promised my grandmother that I’d send her post-cards every night. Also, I’m supposed to practice my clarinet.”
“Ha! That’s hilarious!” I reply, giving him a quick shove. “Get dressed and let’s go.”
Tom shifts uncomfortably against the door and glances back at Brian. “Sorry, I’ve got plans here.”
“Seriously, come on.” I tug his hand and he stands stock-still. “Wait, you’re not kidding? What are you saying?” Um, did I suddenly lose all my cute the minute we crossed the pond? How can that be? I followed every rule on my list . . . except wearing plaid. Damn.
“I can’t.” No. No. How are we going to share our first German kiss if your stupid lips are wrapped around a clarinet?
I decide to change tactics. Perhaps goading him will work. “Are you saying you’d rather send a postcard to your grandma than go out for drinks?”
No go on the goad. Tom shrugs sadly, says good night, and gently closes the door behind me.
I stomp down the hall in my pinchy shoes. My God, how can he not want to go out with a bunch of girls (and Curtis) whose inhibitions have been greatly lowered by first-time consumption of alcohol?
Who’d say no to that invitation?
What kind of huge, huge nerd doesn’t like tipsy chicks, especially on a whole ’nother continent?
Weird.
“Here’s one! Here’s one!” We’ve been dashing up and down the cobblestone hills for twenty minutes now and we’re all a bit bitchy. Who knew it would be so hard to find someplace that serves beer in Germany? That’s like not finding pineapples in Hawaii. Or oaks in Oklahoma! We had to go through a darkened passage to get to this place, and even then we only found it by accident when one of Sandy’s bracelets fell off and bounced down the alley.
We appoint Sandy as our leader because her accessories brought us here, so she’s the one in charge of throwing open the front door. She confidently takes four steps into the bar, and we follow, hoping to make our big entrance just in case there are any European princes there. (I’m not the only one who wants to be more popular in school.) But then Sandy stops abruptly, causing Steph, Curtis, and me to slam into her. We all go down and wind up tangled in a giant pile of American denim.63
Any chance of dignity already shot, we brush ourselves off and grab a table on the periphery of the bar. The whole place is really dark and smoky and our eyes have yet to adjust. “A bar!” we exclaim in stage whispers. “Oh, my God, we are in a bar! If only all the kids at home could see us now! How radical are we??”
Curtis is the only one of us who takes German so it’s up to him to tell us what to order. However, he can’t figure out the menu and throws his hands up in frustration. Everything listed is foreign to him. Like, even though he can pronounce the word “Gewürztraminer,” he doesn’t know what it might possibly mean. Is it delicious? Is it swill? Is it liquor? We’re clueless.
We head up to the bar en masse and I order a dry white wine. And here’s a language lesson I didn’t know. The German word for “three” sounds just like English word “dry,” so when I place my order, we’re served three glasses. We don’t want to let on like we’re not, you know, cool, so Curtis, Steph, and I grab the goblets. Sandy’s on her own so she orders a Becks because she once saw a commercial for it during Friday Night Videos.
We’re so busy trying to work out how I screwed up the drinks, it takes us a few minutes to figure out we’re the only girls (except Curtis) in this bar.
“Do you believe in miracles—Yes!” I squeal. “There’s got to be two dozen guys in here!”
“We are going to meet so many men!” Sandy shrieks.
“A lot of them are nice-looking,” Steph reluctantly agrees, glancing at Curtis to see if her statement causes a reaction.
“They’re ours,” I agree. The proximity to boys has definitely lightened our moods. “You guys, they’re ours for the taking! And, gosh, they are cute! And they’re dancing! I love when guys are confident enough to dance by themselves!”
Curtis just sits there with a wry lemon-twist smile on his face, soaking in the atmosphere.
“What’s with you?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He giggles.
Sandy inquires, “Then why are you smirking?”
He replies, “Y’all are going to have a big, stupid, American flash of realization here in three . . . two . . . one . . .” He turns his head to gaze at two men all dressed up in matchy-matchy motorcycle jackets. And their leather pants? How deliciously European! “Wait for it . . . and, now.” The men’s heads begin to move closer and closer and then . . . Holy shit!
Sandy yelps, “Ahhh! We’ve got to haul ass out of here right now! We’re in a gay bar! Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!!” She shoots straight up out of her chair, knocking it over and spilling half her beer.
“Come on, come on, we’ve got to go!” I agree, grabbing my coat and purse. “Hustle! Hustle!”
Curtis sits there calmly, crossing his legs. “Stop.”
“What? We can’t stop—Curtis, we need to leave this place right this second!” All of Steph’s anxiousness is back, and then some.
Nonplussed, Curtis replies, “Why do we have to run out of here? Ponder for a minute, won’t you? Y’all are worried they’re going to give you gay cooties or something?”
Sandy pauses by her upset chair. “Well . . . no.”
He continues, “And does preferring boys to girls really make them any different from you? Does it make ’em bad people?”
I volunteer the next answer, “I guess
not, right?”64
Steph cocks her head and peers at Curtis like it’s the first time she’s ever really looked at him. “Are . . . are you trying to tell us something?”
Curtis sighs and takes a delicate pull on his glass of wine. “Y’all are about the slowest people I ever did meet.”
Three sets of overly mascaraed eyes blink for about a minute before any of us speak.
“Wait, you’re gay? As in you prefer men to women?” Sandy asks.
“Mmm hmm,” he replies.
“No way! I don’t believe it.” How can this be? I wonder. I didn’t see any of the signs!
Curtis nods. “Believe it.” Steph appears to be crestfallen. “Is this a huge shock to you?” he asks, placing his hand over hers.
“You mean . . . you’re not secretly in love with me and you weren’t waiting to get me alone in Europe to make a pass at me?” Steph wails.
He shudders. “Jesus, no.”
“Oh. Will you still go to prom with me?” She sniffs.
“Couldn’t stop me.”
Steph gives him a wan smile and then chugs her entire glass of wine. Then she holds the glass up and waves it at the bartender. Fortunately, he’s fluent in the international language of disappointment and begins to open another bottle of wine.
Meanwhile, lightbulbs begin to go off over my head. “No wonder Tom didn’t want to go barhopping with us. He’s gay, too?”
“Nope. He’s not playing for my team.”
“Then what’s his problem?” I ask.
Curtis grins. “He’s just a huge nerd.”
Sandy sits heavily back down into her chair. “Now what?”
“Girl,” he says, motioning for the bartender, “now we drink.”
We spend the evening doing just what I’d imagined I’d do in a German beer hall—linking arms with gorgeous European boys and belting out songs. But instead of singing folk songs, we shout our way through all the American music on the jukebox. You know what? Everyone speaks Madonna. None of us gets a date (except for Curtis), and that’s okay. We dance and laugh and drink sour beer and bitter wine and choke while trying to smoke filter-less German cigarettes.65
Pretty in Plaid: A Life, A Witch, and a Wardrobe Page 8