As I got older, I started to notice my parents’ quiet sacrifices more and more: the brown dress shoes my dad wore with black pants, the months my mom spent working in the high school cafeteria, the practical gifts they gave each other at Christmas, and the years we went without regular household appliances. When I was young, I thought my parents simply didn’t care about having nice things. Now I know better. I wonder how many times they put new shoes, matching silverware, or working tools back on their wish list so we could continue to rent my violin, Brooke’s cello, and Jennifer’s trumpet. I’ll never know, because they never drew attention to it. But last week, my violin performance got them into Disneyland for free, so I guess it all worked out okay.
Karma, she’s not always as mean as they say.
JUNIOR HIGH,
HIGH SCHOOL, AND OTHER PLACES
Only three things were important in junior high: wearing chunky skater shoes, fitting in, and getting noticed by Colby Brienholt. My friends and I nicknamed him the “Holy Hottie,” and despite my long-suffering crush on the boy I never spoke more than ten words to him—five of which were, “Will you sign my yearbook?” He did sign it, and out of the goodness of his heart he asked me to do the same. I wrote “Call me” for the first time in my life, and (because this was before preteens had cell phones) I left my home phone number. It was also the first time I had ever made a move on a guy, and I felt empowered for the next hour or so. He never did call, and that landline got disconnected when my parents finally went cellular, so that ship has officially sailed.
I don’t remember much else about junior high except that I learned several valuable lessons the uncomfortable way. For instance, boys were more interested in the girl wearing makeup and a push-up bra than the best-dressed cowgirl on Spirit Day. But Johnny, I rubbed ash on my cheeks and wore genuine chaps! I also learned that girls my age were shaving their armpits. I didn’t have any armpit hair to shave at the time, so it never occurred to me that it was something I should be doing. Then one day on the bus ride to a cross-country race, Danielle Brown turned to me out of nowhere and said, “Hey, I’m trying to convince Chad that he should shave his armpits. Tell him how great it is.”
My blank stare must have given me away.
“Don’t you shave your armpits?” she asked casually.
She wasn’t what I would call popular, but out of everyone on the cross-country team, she had the smallest nose and the loudest voice, making her the most desirable girl on the bus by default. At every cross-country event, she and the other situationally popular kids on the team sat together being loud. Somehow I was getting dragged into it. I remember sitting in silence for a moment, wondering which answer was the right one. I looked between Danielle and all the boys’ faces for any clues before slowly answering, “. . . no.” Her mouth fell open, and she gasped as if I had just told her I had a secret tail in my pants. Since my answer wasn’t confident enough, she asked again, “You don’t?”
I paused, debating whether or not I should change my answer, but the damage had already been done. I looked between her and Chad and said, “Well, umm . . . no, I don’t.”
She shrugged and turned back to her earlier conversation, leaving me to contemplate the absence of hair under my arms. That day I did terrible in my race because I was worried about lifting my elbows too far from my sides. When I got home I locked myself in the bathroom and used one of Jennifer’s razors to shave. My armpits looked exactly the same as they did beforehand, but I felt like a new woman. At cross-country practice the next day, I placed both hands behind my head and walked extra close to Danielle so she would notice my smooth underarms. She took one look at me and said, “You should try using the liquid gel deodorant. It won’t leave white smudges on your pits like you have there.” Could. Not. Win.
Junior high was also when I noticed girls and boys were no longer regular friends. If a girl wanted to talk to a boy, she flirted. It was a foreign and terrifying language to me. I had always played sports and gotten along well with the boys in elementary school, but this was different. I didn’t understand how I was supposed to interact with boys without acting like one. In the space of a few short months, I went from having the confidence of a swanky barnyard rooster to that of a field mouse. I didn’t have a lot of friends, so I put my energy into things I could control, things I could practice. I was first chair violin in the orchestra, first chair flute in the band, and MVP of the soccer team. Outwardly, I had every reason to be confident, but I walked the halls quietly—careful not to say or do anything that might upset the delicate balance of the social scene. When I got to high school, I was still wearing fat skater shoes, but I slowly stopped second-guessing myself. Meeting “the girls” had everything to do with that.
We were friends by default, each of us searching for the least threatening lunch table on the first day of high school. I definitely wasn’t going to take the seat next to Danielle Brown—who knew what other body parts I was supposed to be shaving?—so I sat down at an empty table in the back. As I opened my lunch, a girl with what I can only describe as fluffy brown hair approached one of the empty chairs.
“Hey, can I sit here?” she asked quietly, pointing to the seat across from me.
“Sure,” I said, relieved that I wasn’t sitting alone. “I’m Lindsey.”
“Hey, I’m Michelle,” she replied, taking a seat.
I recognized her as the girl who threw up at soccer tryouts in eighth grade, but I wasn’t in any position to be picky. We must have looked harmless enough because soon after, two blondes approached the table.
“Are you saving these seats for someone?”
Michelle and I glanced at each other before shaking our heads in unison.
“Oh goodie! I’m Shelley, this is Amy,” the shorter blonde said, pointing to the other.
She sat down like the table had been hers long before I arrived. Amy, the taller one, sat without a word, but Shelley grabbed her chair and continued to talk as if we were all old friends.
“Did you guys see the elderly lunch man at the sub sandwich register? He asked me if I wanted a box of ‘mewlk’ with my lunch. Cutest thing ever. I want to date him.”
She took a bite of her sandwich and managed a closed-mouth smile as she chewed.
“So,” she said after swallowing, “now that you all know my secret crush, who’s yours?”
There was silence for a moment and then Michelle spoke with her mouth full.
“Oh, I got one. Harry Potter, from The Goblet of Fire.” She swallowed forcefully. “When he escapes that dragon . . . Anyone?”
She looked around the table for approval. Shelley, Amy, and I looked cautiously back at her, trying to decipher if she was being serious or not. In the silence, Michelle laughed quietly at her own joke and looked down at her hands. In moments our collective awkwardness would spread over our table like mustard gas, so I jumped into the conversation.
“Oh yeah, Harry. He is so hot.”
Immediately the smile returned to Michelle’s face, and she nodded in agreement. To my left Shelley laughed freely.
Shelley was the kind of girl who you met and instantly wanted to follow around. She had a gravitating presence—not in an overbearing or controlling way, but more of a “Hey, I’m full of fun, exciting ideas and you could be part of it” kind of way. I did want to be part of it. When I returned the following day we made more awkward small talk about our classes and teachers. The awkward small talk turned into regular small talk, and then regular talk; and eventually, there was nothing regular about the way we talked at all.
Fast-forward a year and Michelle, Shelley, Amy, and I were still sitting together at lunch looking much the same, except Michelle’s hair wasn’t as fluffy and Amy wasn’t as quiet. We were sophomores searching for adventure, so that year for spring break we decided to do something crazy. We loaded up the car with the essential snacks and set off on a road trip . . . to Sedona, Arizona, home of the National Cowboy Celebration and the KPC Peace Park. We sto
pped to look at some Native American dwellings, took a Jeep tour through the desert, bought matching shirts at a gift shop—oh, were you expecting a story about wild drunken nights on the beach? I think you meant to buy Chelsea Handler’s book. We did, however, take a picture on a bridge by a NO TRESPASSING sign, so that was rebellious.
My friends and I didn’t get into real trouble in high school. We got real into things like Spirit Week, school dances, and making music videos. When I turned sixteen I didn’t get a car. Instead, I got RexEdit video editing software from my dad.
“Cool! What is it?” I asked carefully after I unwrapped the box.
“It’s an editing program. You can make movies and stuff with it.” He said the word stuff like the possibilities were endless. “No more stop-and-go on the camera.”
This was before everyone had access to online editing programs, and our new software placed us on the cutting edge of technology. I was smitten—it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen! He showed me the basics and within days I had figured out how to do everything imaginable. At the time I wanted to be Avril Lavigne, so I convinced the girls to help me make a music video to “Sk8er Boi.” This was still three years before the debut of YouTube (I feel so old) so when our project was finished, I put it on a videocassette (I feel even older!) and we proudly asked the student council to play it on the video announcements for our peers. For some reason, I didn’t find our melodramatic performance at all embarrassing. On the contrary, I was quite proud of my lip-synching ability, and when it was finished, Shelley and I wasted no time in planning the next video shoot.
Eventually, we got so adept at making music videos that we decided to start producing our own movies, too. In fact, Shelley and I were so obsessed with filmmaking we convinced one of the production teachers to let us create our own video course during senior year. While everyone else in the class worked on a newsreel for the morning announcements, Shelley and I roamed the campus with a video camera making short films that were broadcast every Tuesday. In our spare time, we took footage for the senior video. Our weekly videos ranged from Spirit Week commercials to random footage of us doing embarrassing things on campus. We were willing to do just about anything to get a few laughs, but sometimes our vision fell short and our classmates didn’t respond to a video the way we’d planned. One particularly disappointing video was a short film we titled “Cornelius.” Cornelius was a small red ball that we filmed rolling around campus making cute high-pitched Weeee! noises. Shelley and I assumed everyone would love Cornelius and that he would become a regular contributor to our videos. I had several episode titles in my head like “Cornelius Goes to Prom” or “Cornelius Joins the Pole Vault Team.” Unfortunately, when “Cornelius Episode I” aired, I sank deep in my seat while my classmates stared blankly at the screen. Not a single giggle.
Every time one of our videos got a poor reaction, we became more determined than ever to make the next one so funny that everyone would have no choice but to laugh. The following week we made a short video called “Freshman Cam” where we zoomed in on unsuspecting and nervous-looking freshmen from afar. It was slightly insensitive, so naturally it was a huge hit.
That year we also came up with a feature-length film, “Elements,” which we worked on tirelessly (sometimes even during “class”). It was a Charlie’s Angels meets X-Men script, and we were convinced it was going to be a massive success. Since it was our biggest production to date, Shelley and I decided to hold auditions for the three available male roles. Because they were supportive, three of our closest guy friends showed up to read lines. Unfortunately, Justin and Heath were so terrible that we ended up giving all three roles to our friend Kyle, whose dream was to become a real actor someday. One of Kyle’s characters was named Dr. Sullinoid, and to distinguish him from his other two roles, we made Dr. Sullinoid wear panty hose over his face. It was menacing and effective, not to mention much cheaper than hiring a special effects coordinator. Once costuming was taken care of, we decided the opening scene was to take place in a lab, where Dr. Sullinoid kept evil potions and made villainous machinery. Since we didn’t have access to a huge set, we settled for sneaking into a local community college to use one of the mechanical engineering rooms. How could we resist? All the machinery was perfect! We researched the schedule of courses, found out when the room would be vacant, and then simply borrowed it for a quick video shoot.
Another section of the film needed to take place at a crowded event, and since Shelley and I knew someone getting married that weekend, we jumped on the opportunity to film a few scenes at her wedding reception. I know, I know, it’s horrifying, but keep in mind this movie was going to be a huge hit!
The production never did come full circle. After some searching, I found all the most important scenes on a cassette tape in my parents’ basement. I recently watched it for the first time in years and I couldn’t decide whether I was impressed or humiliated, but I was definitely entertained. And that’s all that really matters in the end.
EVERYTHING IS
INAPPROPRIATE
Someone is always telling me to “slow down.” Whether it’s in reference to my driving, talking, or lifestyle, those two little words are constantly peeking over my shoulder. I humor them occasionally, but on the other shoulder is a conflicting voice that says, “You can slow down when you’re dead, but today you need to go faster!” That voice also has a good point.
I’ve always lived in fast-forward, and as a child I practiced my violin incessantly until I could play whatever song I was working on at warp speed. It was exhilarating! My music teachers were constantly telling me to “slow down,” so I did . . . at least during my lessons. But as soon as I was back to practicing, the race was on. I gained a few bad habits in the process (like my bent wrist) but I’m only human.
As the years passed I continued to play faster than I should have, but I improved in spite of it. Since my playing no longer annoyed Jennifer with the same gusto, I found new motivation to practice by joining the elementary school orchestra. I wanted to sit in that front chair, gosh darn it! Of course there were days when I would have preferred playing with Beanie Babies to playing Bach, but with some prodding from my mom I usually practiced anyway.
I was fond of sitting at the front of the orchestra for obvious reasons, and for years my progress fueled my desire to practice longer, harder, and faster. It was an energizing cycle. But when I got to high school I lost some of the fire and my ability plateaued. I still loved the violin and I was constantly making up my own music, but the classical pieces I played in school and for my lessons didn’t hold my attention. Then one day I turned on my iPod and started jamming to Jimmy Eat World, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t worry about my bow hand or the placement of my wrist; I listened to the music and played whatever came to my mind. I always knew I would never be one of the best classical violinists—because I didn’t love classical music—but I have always loved the violin, and rock ’n’ roll, and creating. When I put the three together, it felt like magic.
This was a few months into my sophomore year of high school. It was a more innocent time, when Chad Michael Murray was a total hottie and you were only as cool as the color of your Vans sneakers. Around this time Stomp on Melvin had a monopoly on the local garage band scene. They sang love songs, they wore skinny jeans—they were basically Greek gods but without the muscles. My friends and I were regular fangirls, and we attended every house party and show they played. But after a while I wanted to take a turn on the stage and tried to convince my friends to start a girl band. Our name was going to be Baked Fresh Daily and I had already written a few songs. Shelley usually humored my antics, but in this case she was the voice of reason.
“Great idea, Linds, except no one besides you knows how to play any instruments.”
Shelley’s brother was the drummer of Stomp on Melvin, so to get me off her back she finally asked him for a favor.
“Please let Lindsey jam with you at a few band practices. Please! I
f you don’t, she’s going to force me to play the bass guitar!”
Somehow, her brother agreed. That winter he invited me to play violin on one of their songs at a Battle of the Bands. As he put it, “Stomp on Melvin could use the extra edge.” We got second place and the guys invited me to play a few more gigs. Then one day Randy—the skinny jean–wearing, smooth-talking lead singer—turned to me and said, “By the way, you’re pretty much part of the band now.” My stomach did somersaults but I played it cool and nodded.
One day during practice the lightbulb burnt out in the band room, and all the boys agreed I was the only one light enough to stand on the card table to replace it. I crawled up, Randy handed me the new bulb, and Adam stood by to steady the table. While I reached for the light I felt my shirt rise above my jeans, exposing my stomach. My belly was right about eye level with the boys, but I had pretty nice abs so I wasn’t worried about it. I finished my job, lowered my arms, and jumped off the table like a nimble fawn. A few minutes later I went to the bathroom to wash my hands. Out of curiosity, I looked in the mirror and raised my arms. Instead of seeing an impressive stomach, I was mortified to find I was wearing my “last-resort underwear.” I know you have them, too—a pair you keep around just in case you run out of clean “first choice” ones. Well, even if you don’t, I had a few saggy, high-waisted Hanes I kept around for such emergencies. That day I was sporting a pair that sat at least three inches above my low-rise jeans, covering any hint of those “nice abs” I was so confident about.
No, no, no! You have got to be kidding me!
There was no way the boys hadn’t noticed. What could be sexier than the puffy top of a pair of granny panties? I’ve been keeping the mystery alive since 1986. I pulled myself together, made up a quick excuse to leave, and went straight home where I burned all my last-resort undies—which was a behavior only slightly crazier than wearing them in the first place.
The Only Pirate at the Party Page 4