Part 7 (1/2)

My inclusion into their Magic Circle was as painless as the invasion of Normandy. Sure, we had faces faces eventually, but for the first month or so- September, the very beginning of October-though I saw them all the time peac.o.c.king through campus, and acted as hushed, horrified journalist to the anxieties they inspired (”If I ever see Jade injured, facedown in the street, homeless, riddled with leprosy-I'll do humanity a favor and run her over,” pledged Beth Price in my AP English cla.s.s), I only ever hung out with them at Hannah's. eventually, but for the first month or so- September, the very beginning of October-though I saw them all the time peac.o.c.king through campus, and acted as hushed, horrified journalist to the anxieties they inspired (”If I ever see Jade injured, facedown in the street, homeless, riddled with leprosy-I'll do humanity a favor and run her over,” pledged Beth Price in my AP English cla.s.s), I only ever hung out with them at Hannah's.

And obviously, during those first few evenings, the scenario was more than a little humiliating. Obviously it made me feel like a dumpy bachelorette on a reality show called In-sta-love In-sta-love no one wanted to take for drinks and I sure as h.e.l.l could forget about dinner. I'd sit on Hannah's shabby chaise longue with one of her dogs, pretending to be transfixed by my AP Art History homework while the five of them talked in hushed voices about how ”hardcore,” how ”juiced,” they'd been on Friday at mysterious places they'd nicknamed ”The Purple” and ”The Blind,” and when Hannah emerged from the kitchen, immediately they'd hurl me greasy little sardine-smiles. Milton would blink, aw-shucks his knee and say, ”So how's it goin', Blue? You're awful quiet over there.” ”She's shy,” Nigel would observe, deadpan. Or Jade, who without fail dressed like a famous person working the red carpet at Cannes: ”I no one wanted to take for drinks and I sure as h.e.l.l could forget about dinner. I'd sit on Hannah's shabby chaise longue with one of her dogs, pretending to be transfixed by my AP Art History homework while the five of them talked in hushed voices about how ”hardcore,” how ”juiced,” they'd been on Friday at mysterious places they'd nicknamed ”The Purple” and ”The Blind,” and when Hannah emerged from the kitchen, immediately they'd hurl me greasy little sardine-smiles. Milton would blink, aw-shucks his knee and say, ”So how's it goin', Blue? You're awful quiet over there.” ”She's shy,” Nigel would observe, deadpan. Or Jade, who without fail dressed like a famous person working the red carpet at Cannes: ”I love love your s.h.i.+rt. your s.h.i.+rt. I I want one. You'll have to tell me where you got it.” Charles smiled like a talk show host with poor Neilsen Ratings and Lu never said a word. Whenever my name was mentioned, she examined her feet. want one. You'll have to tell me where you got it.” Charles smiled like a talk show host with poor Neilsen Ratings and Lu never said a word. Whenever my name was mentioned, she examined her feet.

Hannah must have sensed we were heading toward a stalemate, because shortly thereafter, she launched her next a.s.sault. ”Jade, why don't you take Blue with you when you go to Conscience? It might be fun for her,” she said. ”When are you going again?”

”Don't know,” Jade said drearily, sprawled on her stomach on the living room carpet, reading The Norton Anthology of Poetry The Norton Anthology of Poetry (Ferguson, Salter, Stall-worthy, 1996 ed.). (Ferguson, Salter, Stall-worthy, 1996 ed.).

”I thought you said you were going this week,” Hannah persisted. ”Maybe they can squeeze her in?”

”Maybe,” she said without looking up.

I forgot this conversation, until that Friday, a worn, gray afternoon. After my last cla.s.s, AP World History with Mr. Carlos Sandborn (who used so much gel, one always thought he'd just come from swimming laps at the Y), I returned to the third floor of Hanover to find Jade and Leulah standing by my locker: Jade, in a black Golightly dress, Leulah, a white blouse and skirt. Standing with her hands and feet together as if waiting for choir practice, Leulah looked pleasant enough, but Jade looked like a kid in a nursing home impatiently waiting for her designated fogey to be wheeled in so she could read him Waters.h.i.+p Down Waters.h.i.+p Down in a monotone, thereby earning her Community Outreach credit, thereby graduating on time. in a monotone, thereby earning her Community Outreach credit, thereby graduating on time.

”So we're going to get our hair and nails and eyebrows done and you're coming,” Jade informed me with a hand on her hip.

”Oh,” I said, nodding, spinning through the combination of my padlock, though I don't think I was actually entering the combination, only vigorously turning it in one direction, then the other.

”Ready?”

”Now?” I asked.

”Of course now.” now.”

”I can't,” I said. ”I'm busy.”

”Busy? With Withwhat?”

”My dad's picking me up.” Four soph.o.m.ore girls who'd drifted by had snagged, like garbage in a river, by the German Language Bulletin Board. They blatantly eavesdropped.

”Oh, G.o.d,” said Jade, ”not your wonderdad wonderdad again. You'll have to let us know his civilian name and what he looks like without the mask and the cape.” (I'd made the serious mistake of bringing Dad up the previous Sunday. I think I actually said the phrase ”brilliant man” in relation to him, also ”one of the preeminent commentators on American culture at work in this country today,” a line lifted verbatim from the two-page spread on Dad in again. You'll have to let us know his civilian name and what he looks like without the mask and the cape.” (I'd made the serious mistake of bringing Dad up the previous Sunday. I think I actually said the phrase ”brilliant man” in relation to him, also ”one of the preeminent commentators on American culture at work in this country today,” a line lifted verbatim from the two-page spread on Dad inTAPSIM, the American Political Science Inst.i.tute's quarterly [see ”Dr. Yes,” Spring 1987, Vol. XXIV, Issue 9]. I'd said it because Hannah had asked what he did for a living, how he ”kept busy,” and something about Dad simply invited the boast, the brag, the self-congratulating monologue.) the American Political Science Inst.i.tute's quarterly [see ”Dr. Yes,” Spring 1987, Vol. XXIV, Issue 9]. I'd said it because Hannah had asked what he did for a living, how he ”kept busy,” and something about Dad simply invited the boast, the brag, the self-congratulating monologue.) ”She's just kidding,” Lu said. ”Come on. It'll be fun.”

I collected my books and walked outside with them to inform Dad my Ulysses Ulysses Study Group had decided to meet for a few hours, but I'd be home for dinner. He frowned at the sight of Jade and Lu standing on the Hanover steps: ”Those two tartlets think they can read Joyce? Study Group had decided to meet for a few hours, but I'd be home for dinner. He frowned at the sight of Jade and Lu standing on the Hanover steps: ”Those two tartlets think they can read Joyce? Heh. Heh. Good luck to them-let me revise that-pray for a miracle.” Good luck to them-let me revise that-pray for a miracle.”

I could tell he wanted to say no, but was reluctant to make a scene.

”Very well,” he said with a sigh and a pitying look. He started the Volvo. ”Tallyho, my dear.”

As we walked to the Student Parking Lot, I heard his rave reviews.

”s.h.i.+t,” Jade said, looking at me with surprised esteem. ”Your dad'smagnifico. You said he was brilliant but I didn't realize you meant in a Clooney way. If he wasn't your dad, I'd ask you to set me up with him.” ”He looks like what's his name . . . the father in You said he was brilliant but I didn't realize you meant in a Clooney way. If he wasn't your dad, I'd ask you to set me up with him.” ”He looks like what's his name . . . the father in The Sound ofMusic,” The Sound ofMusic,” said Lu. said Lu.

Frankly, it could get a little stale how Dad, within minutes, could elicit such worldwide acclaim. Sure-I was the first person to stand up and throw him roses, shout, ”Bravo, man, bravo!” But sometimes I couldn't help but feel Dad was an opera diva who garnered reverential ratings even when he was too lazy to hit the high notes, forgot a costume, blinked after his own death scene; something about him seized approval from everyone, regardless of the performance. For instance, when I pa.s.sed Ronin-Smith, the guidance counselor, in Hanover Hall, it seemed she'd never gotten over the minutes Dad had spent in her office. She asked not ”How are your cla.s.ses?” but ”How's your father, dear?” The only woman who'd met him and not inquired after him ad nauseam was Hannah Schneider.

”Right. . . Mr. Von Trapp,” said Jade thoughtfully, nodding, ”Yeah, I always had a thing for him. So where's your mom in all this?” ”She's dead,” I said in a dramatic, bleak voice, and for the first time, enjoyed their astonished silence. . Mr. Von Trapp,” said Jade thoughtfully, nodding, ”Yeah, I always had a thing for him. So where's your mom in all this?” ”She's dead,” I said in a dramatic, bleak voice, and for the first time, enjoyed their astonished silence.

They took me to purple-walled, zebra-couched Conscience, located in downtown Stockton across from the public library, where Jaire of the alligator boots (p.r.o.nounced ”jay-REE”) gave me copper highlights and cut my hair so it no longer looked ”like she did it herself with a pair of toenail scissors.” To my surprise, Jade insisted my new grooming initiative was complimentary, care of her mother, Jefferson, who'd left Jade her black American Express card ”in case of Emergency” before disappearing for six weeks in Aspen with her new ”hottie,” a ski instructor ”named Tanner with permanently chapped lips.”

”I'll give you a thousand dollars if you can do something with those broom-bangs,” Jade instructed my hairdresser.

Also funded by Jefferson, over the next two weeks, was my six-month supply of disposable contact lenses procured from ophthalmologist Stephen J. Henshaw, MD, with eyes like an Arctic Fox's and a bad head cold, as well as clothes, shoes and undergarments hand-selected for me by Jade and Lu not not from the Adolescent Department of Stickley's, but at Vanity Fair Bodiwear on Main Street, at Rouge Boutique on Elm, at Natalia's on Cherry, even at Frederick's of Hollywood (”If you ever decide to get kinky, I suggest from the Adolescent Department of Stickley's, but at Vanity Fair Bodiwear on Main Street, at Rouge Boutique on Elm, at Natalia's on Cherry, even at Frederick's of Hollywood (”If you ever decide to get kinky, I suggest this this for the occasion,” Jade instructed, thrusting something at me that resembled the harness one dons before skydiving, only in pink). The final coups de grace to my previous dull appearance were moisturizing makeups, the thyme and myrtle lip s.h.i.+mmers, the day (s.h.i.+ny) and evening (murky) eye shadows exhumed especially for my skin tone from Stickley's cosmetics main floor, as well as the fifteen-minute application tutorial by gum-chewing Millicent with her powdery forehead and spotless lab coat. (She artfully crammed the entire white light color spectrum onto both of my eyelids.) for the occasion,” Jade instructed, thrusting something at me that resembled the harness one dons before skydiving, only in pink). The final coups de grace to my previous dull appearance were moisturizing makeups, the thyme and myrtle lip s.h.i.+mmers, the day (s.h.i.+ny) and evening (murky) eye shadows exhumed especially for my skin tone from Stickley's cosmetics main floor, as well as the fifteen-minute application tutorial by gum-chewing Millicent with her powdery forehead and spotless lab coat. (She artfully crammed the entire white light color spectrum onto both of my eyelids.) ”You are a G.o.ddess,” Lu said, smiling at me in Millicent's hand mirror. ”Who would've thought,” cracked Jade. I was no longer apologetically owl-like, but impenitently pastrylike Dad, of course, witnessing this transformation, felt the way Van Gogh would probably feel, if, one hot afternoon, he happened to wander into a Sarasota Gift Shoppe and found next to the cardboard baseball caps and Fun-in-the-Sun seash.e.l.l figurines, his beloved sunflowers printed on one side of two-hundred beach towels on SALE for just $9.99.

”Your hair appears to blaze, blaze, sweet. Hair is not supposed to blaze. Fires are supposed to blaze, illuminated clock towers, lighthouses, h.e.l.l perhaps. Not human hair.” sweet. Hair is not supposed to blaze. Fires are supposed to blaze, illuminated clock towers, lighthouses, h.e.l.l perhaps. Not human hair.”

Soon, however, rather miraculously, apart from the odd gripe or humph, most of his indignation subsided. I a.s.sumed it had to do with his absorption with Kitty, or, as she called herself on our answering machine, ”Kitty Cat.” (I hadn't met her, but had heard the latest headlines: ”Kitty Swoons in Italian Restaurant Due to Dad's Musings on Human Nature,” ”Kitty Begs Dad's Forgiveness for Spilling Her White Russian on Cuff of His Irish Tweed,” ”Kitty Plans Her Fortieth Birthday and Hints at Wedding Bells.”) It was bizarre, but Dad appeared to have accepted the fact that his work of art had been shamelessly commercialized. He even seemed to harbor no ill will.

”You're satisfied? You're responsible? You respect the youths in this Ulysses Ulysses Study Group, which unsurprisingly, spend more time roaming the mall and bleaching their hair than tracking the whereabouts of Stephen Dedalus?” Study Group, which unsurprisingly, spend more time roaming the mall and bleaching their hair than tracking the whereabouts of Stephen Dedalus?”

(No, I never quite disabused Dad of the idea that I spent Sunday afternoons trying to scale that Himalayan tome. Thankfully, Dad had no real taste for Joyce-excessive wordplay bored him, so did Latin-but in order to avoid even the most basic questioning, I told him periodically that due to the weak const.i.tutions of others, we were still unable to make it past Base Camp, Chapter 1, ”Telemachus.”) ”They're actually pretty sharp,” I said. ”Just the other day, one of them used 'obsequious' in conversation.”

”Don't be cheeky. They're thinkers?”

”Yes.”

”Not lemmings? Not leg warmers? Not nitwits, net-heads, neo-n.a.z.is? Not anarchists or antichrists? Not pedestrian youths who believe they're the first people on earth to be mizundahstood? mizundahstood? Sadly, American teenagers are to a weightless vacuum as seat cus.h.i.+ons are to polyurethane foam - ” Sadly, American teenagers are to a weightless vacuum as seat cus.h.i.+ons are to polyurethane foam - ”

”Dad. It's fine.”

”You're positive? Never rely on intoxicating surfaces.”

”Yes.”

”I'll accept it then.” He frowned as I stood on my tiptoes to kiss his rough cheek. I made my way to the front door. It was Sunday and Jade was resting her elbow on the car horn. ”Have a swell time with your chicks and charlies,” he said and sighed a little theatrically, though I ignored him. ” 'If others have their will, Ann hath a way.' ”

There were a handful of occasions when Jade, Lu and I screeched with laughter over something, like the one time they invited me ”mall slumming” and a crew of chickenheads with their boxers on display trailed us with stupid smiles around Blue Crest Mall (”Serious mafuglies-just as I suspected,” Jade said, surveying them through a rack of scrunchies at Earringz N' Thingz) or when Jade debated the mysterious dimensions of Nigel's candlestick (”Given his shortness, it could be powerful, it could be pygmy”; ”Oh, G.o.d,” said Lu slapping a hand to her mouth) or driving to Hannah's, the time Jade and I flipped off a scab (her word for any ”forty-plus hideous male”) who had the gall to drive a meandering Volkswagen in front of her. (Following her lead, I unrolled the window to stick my hand out and my hair-now a fascinating Bornite color, Atomic number 29-thrashed in the wind.) During such moments, I thought to myself, maybe these were my friends, maybe I'd confide in them about s.e.x over rhubarb pie in a diner at 3:00 A.M. and someday we'd phone each other to chat about Tuskawalla Trails Retirement Community and back pain and our turtle-bald husbands, but then their smiles fell off their faces like Visual Aids on bulletin boards missing a tack. They'd look at me irritably, as if I'd tricked them.

They drove me home. I'd sit in the backseat doing my best to lip-read due to the ear-splitting levels of the heavy-metal CD (I decoded agonizingly shadowy phrases: ”meet us later,” ”hot-a.s.s date”), knowing full well because I hadn't said anything breathtaking (because I was about as cool as Bermuda shorts), they'd drop me like laundry and accelerate into the whispery night with its plum sky and black mountains snooping over the spiked tops of the pine trees. At an undisclosed location, they'd join Charles, Nigel and Black (what they called Milton), and probably park and neck, and race cars off cliffs (don leather jackets emblazoned with T-BIRD or PINK LADY).

”Astalowaygo,” Jade said to my general vicinity as she smeared on red lipstick in the rearview mirror. I slammed the car door, heaved my backpack onto my shoulder.

Leulah waved. ”See you Sunday,” she said sweetly.

I trudged inside, the veteran who wished war had lasted longer.

”What on earth did you find compulsory to purchase at a store called Bahama-Me-Tan?” shouted Dad from the kitchen when he returned from his date with Kitty. He appeared in the doorway of the living room with the orange plastic shopping bag I'd thrown on the foyer floor, holding it as if it were the carca.s.s of a hedgehog. shouted Dad from the kitchen when he returned from his date with Kitty. He appeared in the doorway of the living room with the orange plastic shopping bag I'd thrown on the foyer floor, holding it as if it were the carca.s.s of a hedgehog.

”Bali-Me Bronzer,” I said drearily without looking up from some book I'd yanked off the shelf, The South AmericanJoven Mutiny The South AmericanJoven Mutiny (Gonzalez, 1989). (Gonzalez, 1989).

Dad nodded and wisely decided not to probe further.

There was a turning point. (And I'm sure it had everything to do with Hannah, although her role, what she must have said to them-an ultimatum perhaps, a bribe or one of her suggestions-was never clear.) It was the first week of October, on a Friday, during sixth period. It was a harsh, bright day for fall, glaring as a washed car, and Mr. Moats, my instructor for Beginning Drawing, had entreated the cla.s.s to go outside with our No. 2 pencils and sketch -”Find your melting clocks!” he'd ordered, swoos.h.i.+ng open the door as if freeing mustangs, his other hand O/eing in the air so for four seconds he was a Flamenco dancer in tight pants of Cadmium Green. Slowly, lazily, the cla.s.s floated out across the campus with their giant sketch pads. I found it tricky to choose what to draw, and wandered for fifteen minutes before deciding upon a faded package of M&Ms hiding in a bed of pine needles behind Elton. I was sitting on the cement wall, drawing my first few wimpy lines, when I heard someone traipsing down the sidewalk. Instead of pa.s.sing me, the person stopped.

”Hey, there,” he said. It was Milton. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and his stringy hair mumbo-jumboed over his forehead.

”Hi,” I said, but he didn't answer or even smile. He simply stepped over to my sketchpad and tilted his head to inspect my rickety pencil lines like a teacher looming over your shoulder, blithely helping himself to what you scribbled during an Essay Test.

”What're you doing out of cla.s.s?” I asked.

”Oh, I'm sick,” he said, smiling. ”Flu. Goin' to the infirmary, then home to rest.”

I should mention: while Charles was the obvious Ca.s.sanova at St. Gallway, popular among chicks, charlie-boys and cheerleaders, Milton, I'd learned, was sort of the Studhorse for the smart and strange. A girl in AP English, Macon Campins, who drew henna-style swirling designs in permanent ink on her palms, claimed to be obsessively in love with him, and before the bell, before fl.u.s.tered Ms. Simpson shuffled into the room muttering in escalating whispers-”no toner, nothing but legal paper, no staples, everything in this school, no, this country, no, the world, world, all going to seed”-you could hear Macon discussing Milton's mystery tattoo with her best friend, Engella Grand: ”I think he did it himself. See, I was staring at his rolled-up sleeve in Biology? And I'm pretty sure it's a huge freakin' oil slick on his arm. That's sooo s.e.xy.” all going to seed”-you could hear Macon discussing Milton's mystery tattoo with her best friend, Engella Grand: ”I think he did it himself. See, I was staring at his rolled-up sleeve in Biology? And I'm pretty sure it's a huge freakin' oil slick on his arm. That's sooo s.e.xy.”