The Makeover of James Orville Wickenbee

by Anya Bateman

  Alex lifted the bottle of Gatorade he’d found in the refrigerator, took a swig of it, and then said, “And that’s why I don’t think she’s someone I’d be interested in getting to know better. Thanks for putting it into words for me!”

  “Alex, we’re talking about Lyla Fannen!” I looked for something to throw at him and settled on a soggy sponge that our latest kitchen helper hadn’t bothered to put away. “Can’t you, just for once, not spend all your time talking to people who aren’t going to get you anywhere?” Yes, I actually said those words.

  “You mean people like James?”

  I paused. “Well . . . you and I know James is okay but . . .”

  “Just okay?”

  He and I both knew that James was much better than okay so I relented. “All right, you’re right, he’s a great guy— interesting and fun to talk to— but that becomes a little beside the point when he . . . Alex, look at him. We’ve talked about this before.” But I hadn’t felt this guilty before. Why did I feel like I’d stabbed a good friend in the back? Was it because I just had? On the other hand, my brother was my primary concern, I told myself. “It’s just that he’s . . . you know! You know what people who don’t know James think of him.”

  “You’re the dork,” said Alex, aiming the sponge right back at me. It hit my new denim jacket. I grabbed a clean dishtowel, narrowed my eyes and sighed with disgust at my brother’s stubbornness. Couldn’t he just for once cooperate?

  Chapter Nine

  •••

  I realized that maybe it was good Alex wasn’t a yes- man two days later when we received a phone call from Lyla.

  “Oh, hi, Lyla,” I said, trying not to sound too astounded. It was a known fact that Lyla rarely called people. They called her.

  “I’m having a little get-together tonight and wondered if you and Alex would like to drop by,” Lyla said, her words slightly slurred. “In fact, why don’t you put Alex on and I’ll ask him myself.”

  “Sure. You bet.” I turned to Alex with a don’t- blow- this expression. “Alex, it’s Lyla Fannen.”

  Alex frowned and knotted his eyebrows. “What does she want?”

  “I told you she likes you,” I whispered, my hand blocking the sound from the phone. I was trying really hard not to let Alex see how excited I was at this new development. Never mind that it sounded like Lyla had taken a little something from her parents’ liquor cabinet.

  Alex rolled his eyes but held out his hand for the phone. “Alex speaking,” he said formally. I was peeved he wasn’t acting more friendly. He could have at least acknowledged her by name. I didn’t want to leave the kitchen so I busied myself with the things in the dishwasher, all the while listening carefully.

  “Sure, if I can bring a few friends.” Alex looked in my direction with a mischievous smile.

  I gave him a disgusted expression, shaking my head.

  “Oh, I’m thinking Cassie, Terrance, James. You know, that group.”

  I sunk into myself and sighed. What was Alex doing? I wondered.

  “Well, in that case I’ll politely decline, as they say.” Alex shifted the phone to his other ear. “Oh, I think I understand.” The next pause was longer. My brother’s eye twitched and he thinned his mouth into a sharp line. Alex turned his back to me and walked toward the dining room. Luckily, I take after Mom when it comes to the ability to hear. “Just you and me, huh?” he said quietly. Alex glanced in my direction. “No, she’s not acting like she’s listening.” Alex lowered his head and thrust his chin forward. “Uh- huh, I think I understand. . . . Think about it? I don’t even think that’s necessary.”

  After another long pause, I heard, “Wait, I don’t think you understand, Lyla. I don’t need to think about it because I already know that I’m going to have to turn down your offer. . . . That’s right. Uh- huh. Look, why don’t you get yourself a cup of coffee or something and sober up? I’m not sure you’re yourself today. . . . Yes, that is what I said.”

  Lyla apparently wasn’t believing what she was hearing. I’m sure she wasn’t expecting this level of resistance, or any level of resistance. What had she offered?

  “Oh, no, I don’t think I’ll be changing my mind,” said my brother. “Not now. Not ever.”

  I shut my eyes. “Okay, what was that about?” I said, my voice tired. “Did she ask you out or something?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Alex said, hanging up the phone.

  I widened my eyes and began to stutter. “Oh, well . . . seriously? Are you sure that’s what she meant?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, you did the right thing then, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Well, couldn’t you have played along for a little while longer?” It’s still hard to believe that’s what I said.

  “Why would I do that?” Alex stared at me in disbelief.

  “Because who knows what’s going to happen now.”

  “I don’t really care what happens now, Jana.”

  Alex amazed me sometimes. I could have named quite a number of classmates who would have jumped at what Lyla had offered. In fact, I couldn’t think of many who wouldn’t. But the truth is I admired Alex for what he said to Lyla and always will. Even though I couldn’t very well ask him to be less than he is, however, I still found myself wishing he’d been more diplomatic. Lyla had just been bashed royally and I was fearful about what she’d do next. Very fearful.

  “She’s going to be soooooo unhappy,” I said to my brother.

  -B-

  What Lyla did next surprised both Alex and me completely. Apparently she wasn’t one to give up easily. I saw her in the hall the next day between third and fourth, running her manicured index finger around the top button of Alex’s shirt. I pulled to a halt, readjusted my books, and turned toward the drinking fountain. When I saw her sashay away, I hurried toward Alex to find out what she’d said.

  “Just that she’s sorry,” he replied. “She said she had a little too much cough medication yesterday and that she hoped I wasn’t angry with her. She said to stop by her house and she’d fix me a drink and a little something to eat to apologize.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her I don’t drink and that that wasn’t necessary.”

  “Not even a ‘maybe sometime’?”

  “Not even a ‘maybe sometime.’”

  I’m not sure how many more times Lyla made plays for my brother those next few days and how many times he not so politely declined. When would she catch on? I was guessing it wouldn’t be long. Sure enough, it wasn’t.

  Maybe it was the angle Lyla had her head cocked that lunch period or maybe it was the extra lift of her eyebrow that tipped me off. I’d known for some time that Lyla would eventually realize that Alex was not and never would be interested in her, and now I recognized that that time was here. We were going to see the real Lyla now and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  I nervously followed her gaze and saw that she was staring at James in what I called his Shirt of Many Colors. Not only was her eyebrow lifted, but one corner of her mouth was curled in a poisonous smile. James’s shirt was a country- western number with patches of bright patterns. It was the strangest shirt he owned and that was saying something. And, as was the case with most of his clothes, it didn’t fit him properly. I made a few comments trying to get Lyla sidetracked, but like a cobra focused on its prey, she was concentrating on James and James alone.

  Finally, after he and Alex had stopped talking and the two were contentedly eating the homemade sandwiches James made for both of them now, Lyla struck. “Wherever did you find that interesting shirt, James? Was it handmade in Idaho?”

  James, who was just lifting his sandwich for another bite, set it back down and smiled at Lyla contentedly. If he was aware of the sarcasm in her voice, he wasn’t letting on. “Yes, I guess you could say it was,” he said congenially. “Thanks for asking. My Great- Grandmother Ingebritt made it for me.” But then James studied
the front of the shirt more carefully. “On second thought, I think this is the one she made for my brother Felix. Mine was a little brighter, but I got phosphate on it.”

  “Phosphate, oh dear.” Lyla scratched the corner of her mouth with her carefully manicured pinky fingernail. “What’s that? Some kind of manure?”

  “Well, no, but manure does often contain phosphate.”

  “How interesting. You must give us all an in- depth report on manure one of these days. But you say this other shirt was even brighter?”

  Did James have any clue about what was happening? It was spring- water clear to me that Lyla had given up and was apparently planning to take out her anger at Alex’s rejection on poor James. Thumbing her nose at him was going to be her way of letting us know she was finished with us. Or was she just getting started? I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know. I just wanted James removed from this mortifying situation. I wanted us all away from Lyla and our lunch table and maybe even our school because I was highly aware of Lyla’s modus operandi by then.

  Lyla pulled her beautifully formed lips into a smirk. “And you say your brother’s name is Felix?” she asked, smiling at Dolly who seemed uncertain about whether to smile back.

  I jumped in and began paddling because I really did not want James to embarrass himself further by announcing that Felix was on an LDS mission. “James has a big family,” I said. “He has five brothers and two sisters. Isn’t that right, James?”

  “Wow!” said Lyla. “Eight children in the family?”

  I blinked. What had I done?

  “My brothers Fred and Felix—” James tried to continue.

  “Felix is just older than James,” I explained quickly.

  “And I’m guessing quite a bit shorter,” Lyla said, lifting her arm and encircling her wrist with her manicured index finger and thumb, then sliding them upward to indicate she was referring to the large portion of James’s wrist that wasn’t covered by the sleeve of his brother’s shirt. “So is this older, shorter Felix home on the potato farm in Idaho?”

  I looked from Lyla to James. It was useless. I knew James would be delighted to tell Lyla where his brother was. Things began moving in slow motion.

  “Felix is in Brazil,” James said happily. “On a mission for our church. And my brother Fred is serving a mission in Argentina.”

  I readjusted myself in my chair and silently popped my lips at Adriana.

  “How interesting!” said Lyla. This was a double- eyebrow- lift revelation, and Lyla glanced over at Dolly again, at Melinda, and then back at James. “Don’t tell me you’re Mormons?” I could tell she was thrilled at this new and unexpected tidbit of information.

  “Some people call us that, but it’s not the official name. Our church is called The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter- day Saints,” said James without apology.

  “Uh- huh. Uh- huh,” Lyla nodded, her mouth open. “I see.”

  “Mormon is just a nickname,” Alex chipped in.

  Stay out of this, Alex, I thought. Don’t even stick in a toe.

  It was too late. Lyla turned in Alex’s direction. “And how do you know so much about this, Alex?” She was practically hissing with glee. “Are you planning to join the Mormon church too? Are you planning to give up partying for praying? Gosh, maybe you already have! That would explain a few things.” Lyla chortled at her cleverness.

  Alex just smiled. “Well, you never know.”

  “Oh, wow!” Lyla was having a wonderful time. “Or wowsers as your little friend Cassie puts it.” She turned to me. “And are you planning to join too, Jana? Maybe you could all move to Idaho and start a potato farm. You could get matching shirts.” Lyla smirked at her friends.

  Melinda smiled nervously at Lyla and then at me. Dolly picked at her salad with her fork.

  “So, Jana,” Lyla lowered her voice in a confidential tone, “is there something going on between you and James that we need to know about? Something we should announce in the Fairport Gazette?”

  I didn’t answer because I was still staring at Alex, concerned about how he’d answered when Lyla asked him if he was planning to join the Mormon church.

  “Jana? I asked you a question.”

  “Oh . . . what?” Lyla mistook my loss of focus as fear.

  “I asked if this is just an Alex- thing or if you and James are bestest friends too? . . . Or are you two . . . you know?”

  “James and I play chess together.”

  “You play what?” she laughed a little and smiled a crooked smile at her friends, her eyebrows again lifted.

  It’s a funny thing with anger—sometimes it begins slowly and gradually festers until you either need to water it down or allow it to erupt. Other times it comes quickly and you either explode or you rein it in and control it and use it. In debate my sophomore year, anger helped me choose words that struck hard and with impact. Right now I suddenly no longer cared about all the effort it had taken to get Lyla at our table and all the hours of brown- nosing that was just about to be blown out the window.

  “Chess,” I said to Lyla, facing her now, the phony social veneer no longer lubricating my voice. “James and I have gotten to know each other, and yes, we’ve become friends because we play chess together. And no, I’m not studying his religion or him, I’m just studying chess.” I said the words calmly.

  “Chess, you say? Oh my.” She smiled again at her friends.

  I really was not appreciating Lyla’s efforts to ridicule my brother and my friend and me. Further, making fun of chess was like mocking Uncle Bartho, and nobody could get away with that. I was feeling outright hostility toward Lyla Fannen now. And a hostile Jana did not a pretty picture make.

  “Yes, Lyla,” I responded patiently. “James and I play chess. That’s c- h- e- s- s.” Even as I was spelling it for her, I knew that I was giving her information she could use against me— information she could grab onto and fly around the school like a kite. Gathering information about people was her hobby.

  No, playing chess wasn’t any stranger than attending operas or taking singing lessons, but in the wrong hands anything could be made to appear strange and unacceptable. Playing chess was not quite the same as belonging to a strict church that didn’t allow even an occasional cappuccino, but Lyla, I was sure, would find a way to use it against me. Oh, I’d seen and heard her in action. If she couldn’t use the overly religious angle, Lyla would be happy to go for the overly intellectual angle. And that’s exactly what she did.

  “My aren’t we bright!” Lyla smiled over at Dolly, who was nervously adjusting her skintight shirt. It had all happened so suddenly that I think it was news to Dolly and Melinda that we weren’t all friends anymore. Lyla tipped her head at Adriana who looked down at her soup.

  Lyla returned her gaze to me. “I can just see you and James sitting for hours, Jana, staring at the chessboard . . . and at each other,” Lyla continued, a lilt in her voice.

  Possibly because I was studying my peach low-fat yogurt and not looking at her, Lyla thought she had already won, that it was all over and she’d, so to speak, just checkmated my king. But Lyla had gone too far with her taunting. With a cold smile, I stared her down. “You know, you’re right, Lyla. Not many people here at Fairport are into chess like James and I are. Most students here really aren’t that into anything that might require a few brain cells. I’d say the majority of Fairport students don’t know the difference between a neuron and a neutron. Certain people in this school have approximately the same IQ as their Louis Vuitton handbags. When it comes to emotional IQ and maturity, they’re even lower. And when it comes to moral principles of any kind they’re scraping lake bottom.”

  Lyla opened her mouth but nothing came out. It was a satisfying moment.

  The next day, Lyla, her Louis Vuitton bag, and her other accessories— Melinda and Dolly— were no longer at our lunch table. They’d moved to the table with Carson Parker and Dan Ravino, the most popular preps, and even a few athletes.

 
Dolly kept looking back over at our table, apparently confused and undoubtedly concerned about what had happened. This seemed to annoy Lyla, who at one point took hold of one of Dolly’s white- blonde curls and jerked her face away from us. Then Lyla whispered something to the others as she sneered at us. Soon all the people at her table and a few at the next were looking over and laughing.

  I sighed into my carton of raspberry low- fat yogurt. The

  satisfaction of stinging Lyla had worn off and I was already regretting what I’d done. My quick tongue had more than likely just cost Alex the school presidency. And I’d criticized Alex for his lack of diplomacy? Still, I marveled at Lyla’s timing. That very Friday, our birthday no less, all candidates wishing to run for school office had been asked to meet in the library to register. Lyla couldn’t have dumped us at a worse, or from her perspective, I suppose, a better time.

  I apologized to Alex that night. “I guess we’ll be having that small birthday party after all. And I guess there’s no point having you sign up to run for president of the school.”

  “It’s okay, Jana, because like I’ve told you about four thousand times, I’m not running for an office anyway.”

  “I suppose we could assess our losses,” I suggested, “and go for what’s feasible now. Maybe you won’t make president without the queen of the school’s blessings, but you don’t need nearly as many votes to be elected as a school senator. You could probably even get in with just the dork and geek votes alone.” I knew I had probably once again offended him with my harsh wording, and I blinked a little, but my concern was quickly overshadowed by the excitement that was flooding back at what I saw as a real possibility. “In fact, I’ll bet you could make the school senate.”

  “Dork and geek votes, huh?” Alex hit the remote channel button three times in a row before he looked up at me. “Look, since you like to label people and place them in groups, put me in with the group who is not interested in earning votes of any kind. In fact, I have a question: Could you finally let it go!?”

  I wouldn’t. I couldn’t let it go, so I used Mom’s psychology. “Well, I guess it’s up to you.”