Christy asks, “Who’s up after Lee?”
“Heather Mueller.”
“Then I may as well get comfortable.”
We both roll our eyes. Heather’s got a boyfriend now so she’s a little nicer to people than she used to be. Regardless, we’re still not fans. Buffy, our pageant director, has taken a shine to her because she’s a great singer. (Or maybe she’s just impressed that Heather was born in Paris?)
Buffy’s been transparent in her belief that Heather has the most potential in the Miss Indiana pageant83 so she’s been personally coaching her on everything. She even gave her a different dress for the evening wear competition. Now, instead of having a fullish satin gown like the rest of us, Heather’s set to compete in a skintight, straight silk sheath covered in a million rhinestones. With one extra-sparkly dress, Heather’s been transformed into s-e-x on a stick. And the rest of us resemble a pack of debutantes. Gee, I wonder what the judges will prefer?
Buffy’s pretty neutral about me and Christy. We aren’t her favorites, but she’s also not openly hostile toward us. She despises Lee and Dee, Lee because she lives in sin with her boyfriend, and Dee for having uneven eyes and a twisted spine that gives her kind of a lurching walk. Sin and spine notwithstanding, both these girls dance way better than Christy or me, yet they’re stuck in the very back for our production number. Plus, Buffy wouldn’t approve either of their bathing suits and made Dee cry by criticizing her singing in the talent rehearsal. (Yet she brought in a vocal coach to work with the already-perfect Heather. No favoritism here!) Also, Lee and Dee got stuck with the worst sponsors—the lube shop and the oil refinery. I’m totally appalled by the preferential treatment. I’d expect this kind of behavior in a bigger city, but we’re in a tiny little burg and we’re competing for $500 scholarships. Seriously, who’s got that much stake in a meaningless local pageant?
Just as Lee finishes her session with the photographer, Buffy swoops in out of nowhere and personally directs Heather’s shoot for the next half an hour.
Aarrgh.
My picture runs in the paper on Sunday and by Wednesday’s pageant rehearsal, I’ve already determined that I’m going to win Miss Photogenic.
How do I know?
Because I’m the only contestant who receives letters from prisoners in the local jail.
Three cheers for me! Three cheers for my drag queen makeup! And three cheers for the paper’s decision to print our home addresses!84
The pageant is tonight so today’s chock-full of activities. Our first order of business is the Cow Town Ancestry Days parade.85 I’d assumed we’d all ride on a float, and I’m sorely disappointed when I find out that’s not the case. Instead of building a flashy, exciting float and having us appear all together in pageanty solidarity, Buffy recruits the local Corvette club to drive us separately. 86 And really, what’s more festive than watching a person ride by really slowly in a car?
We’re supposed to perch on the trunk with our legs hanging in the backseat. This wouldn’t be scary if (a) our parade route weren’t hilly and (b) I weren’t in a very short skirt. Complicating matters, I have to ride with my nemesis Justine Moore, whose dad is president of the Corvette club. She drives the entire parade route in fits and stops and by the time it’s over, I deserve a goddamned crown just for hanging on. And a trophy for not showing my underpants.
I’m windblown and crabby when we get to the high school for the interview portion of the pageant, but it’s fine because I’m totally going to ace this part. Put Heather in all the shimmery dresses you want, Buffy, but you can’t keep the judges from seeing my shapely brain!
I enter the room, trying to recall all the poise lessons we learned in practice. The only bit I remember is not to sit all the way back in the chair, which . . . why? Why is that impolite? I’m concentrating so hard on not touching the back of the chair that when I go to sit I almost miss landing on the front. Nice. Bonus points for me.
One of the judges, the local undertaker, says, “Jennifer, your bio says that you want to be a journalist.”
Am I supposed to be doing something with my hands? I’ve been told not to gesture, which is like asking me not to speak at all. Should they hang by my sides? That looks weird, like I’m waiting for the guards to strap them down so I can be electrocuted. They must go in my lap—should they be folded? Not folded? And what does hand folding entail anyway? Fingers linked? Unlinked? Stacked on top of each other like a set of flapjacks? Ooh, flapjacks—buttery, fluffy, maple syrup covered . . .
The judge interrupts my inner monologue. “Jeni?”
“Huh?” I snap to attention, deciding on the palms-down flap-jack stack. “Yes, hi. I’m Jeni.” I give them a three-quarter smile. Stunning!
The undertaker cuts a sideways glance at the Realtor to his left. “Yes, you introduced yourself already. I asked you a question.”
“Oh, sorry, I was looking at my hands. It’s very hard for me to talk without them but Buffy says it’s rude, but . . . whatever. What’d you want to know?” I flash another grin. My lip easily slides past my teeth because I put Vaseline on them. Actually, I put too much Vaseline on them and it looked like I’d eaten a piece of wax fruit so I had to floss the excess out with a folded note card.
“I asked what your thoughts were about the journalists who were kidnapped in Beirut. If you were in that situation, what would you do?”
“Oh, that’s easy! I wouldn’t get into that situation. I don’t want to be that kind of journalist. I want to be a television journalist who sits on a couch and has coffee with famous people. I imagine the set of Good Morning America is supersafe. Unless it’s, like, the day the people from the zoo come? And there are tigers on the set? Although I bet there’s a guy there with a tranq gun because there’s no way Joan Lunden is going to let some big cat slash up her face and mess with her moneymaker. Or wait, has that ever happened on Good Morning America? Or am I thinking of Johnny Carson? He’s always got snakes from the San Diego Zoo trying to climb into his pants, doesn’t he? But they probably aren’t poisonous so I’m sure it’s fine.” Buffy coached us to be honest and bubbly. I’m so effervescent right now I may well float off my chair.
“I . . . um, wow. Moving on, can you tell us about your platform?”
“Come again?”
“Your platform.” I smile and blink. Oh, no! Buffy specifically told us we didn’t need to pick a platform until the Miss Indiana pageant. “Your cause.” I mentally scramble to come up with something. The judges interpret my silence as misunderstanding. “The issue you feel strongly about. For example, Heather’s platform was touching children with music.” Okay, number one, eww . . . touching kids with anything sounds totally pervy, and number two, why does she have a fucking platform and no one else does?
Funny seems to be my only option here. “Heh”—I giggle nervously—“I’d say my platform is not getting kidnapped by the Beirutians! Heh!”
“I assume by Beirutian you mean the Lebanese?”
So . . . yeah. I might not have the verbal ability upon which I’d been banking. Possibly I should brush up on my interview skills before my first day at Good Morning America? Or, like, consult a map? Oh, well, I’ll do better in the swimsuit portion.
After all, I’m the only girl who doesn’t have to pad her suit.
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 doi
ng 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, partic
ularly 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.”
Pretty in Plaid: A Life, A Witch, and a Wardrobe Page 11