The Rites and Wrongs of Janice Wills (2 page)

“Oh, honey,” my mom interjected, “taking part in Miss Livermush is so special! It’s a memory you’ll treasure for the rest of your life! I still remember, for
my
Melva’s Miss Livermush Pageant, I had on my mother’s pearl necklace and little drop pearl earrings, my white gloves that kept falling a little from the elbows, and oh — my dress! It was —”

“Mom, please! If I’m not cheering on Margo to victory
from the audience
, I’m going to stay home with a bag of M&M’s and
my books about Australian aborigines. Being in the pageant is a memory I’m happy to skip.”

“For a smart person, you say very dumb stuff, Janice,” Margo said. “And besides, I thought you’d moved on to the tribes of East Africa now?” She whapped me with a spatula while my mom poured the first pancake onto the sizzling pan.

“True. Peoples of the Horn of Africa, actually. When Mursi girls are fifteen or sixteen years old, their lips are cut and they put in those lip plates — you’ve seen them in photos, probably — and they can stretch their lip out to fit bigger and bigger plates. That’s the socially accepted expression of their adulthood,” I said.

Mom shook her head. “Janice, you know people here will wonder if you aren’t in the pageant. It’s expected. Participating in Miss Livermush is part of being a member of this community. It’s part of growing up!”

“Can’t I just get a lip plate instead?”

My mom grimaced.

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
Let it be said that to be a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl in Melva and NOT participate in the Miss Livermush Pageant is social suicide — at least according to my mom’s view of things. According to her, if you don’t participate, people will assume that you are either physically incapacitated in some horrendous way, or else a sociopath.

Although I was neither incapacitated nor a sociopath, I did know myself to be the most awkward person in the universe — and this was a fact about which I was certain. My father told me I was his princess. My mother told me I had “pluck.” Margo told me I was “funny” and had “pretty eyes” — seeming compliments that I’ve always recognized as gentle, lethal code words for “hopelessly plain.” And I once heard the lady in the juniors’ department refer to me as “gangly.” My mom later insisted that all supermodels are gangly, and that the lady probably meant it as a compliment. I knew, however, that the lady merely meant I resembled an overgrown praying mantis.

“But you live here,” Margo said. “Not the Horn of Africa. And it’s not such a big deal just to take part, right?”

I sighed. “I’m telling you both right now,” I said, one hand over my heart as if saying the pledge of allegiance, “I hereby declare my refusal to participate in Miss Livermush. It’s my personal vision of hell, and you can’t make me do it, Mom. Since I will not be participating, I volunteer instead to assist Margo in her efforts to win the competition, thereby upsetting the evil Theresa Rose Venable. Margo, I will officially serve as your handmaiden and spy.”

Mom clucked softly to herself and stepped behind me, leaving a pancake to burn while she ruffled my hair.

“Oh, my clever anthropology girl. She can see everything so clearly and yet she can’t ever see her own —”

“Ugh, stop it, Mom! Please!” I hissed, elbowing her away. She threw up her hands in exaggerated dismay and returned to the stove.

Margo handed me the napkins. “I guess I won’t say no to having a handmaiden,” she said. “Nor would I say no to scholarship money. Nor to wiping the smug grin off TR’s face.”

I took a straight shot of pancake syrup like whiskey and smacked my lips, then offered a shot to Margo, who slung hers back with relish. We smiled, syrup-mouthed, at each other and high-fived.

And I thought then, perhaps foolishly, that that was the last time I’d have to worry about vying to be Miss Livermush.

The next day, while waiting for Margo to show up for lunch period, I escaped outside to avoid the mayhem of the cafeteria. It was like bloodthirsty imperial Rome in there, one of my favorite societies to study, but not necessarily to eat lunch with. There were also signs all over the cafeteria now that said “Get Ready for the Annual Livermush Festival!” which weren’t exactly appetizing. Besides, it was beautiful outside — the familiar Melva High School buildings set against a blue, cloudless sky.

FACT:
Melva High School is home of the proud Fighting Hummingbirds. State 2A champions in football, tennis, and swimming, depending on the year. Proud constituent of the North Carolina public school system. Big, ugly hunk-a-brick buildings right there at the highway intersection, walking distance to McDonald’s, the Tan-A-Lot Spa, Dell’s Autowash, and Unyuns Diner.
The opening to the MHS alma mater actually goes “Buzz, buzz, buzz, Melva Hummingbirds! / We loudly sing your praise! / Buzz, buzz, buzz, Melva Hummingbirds! / Look quick! We’ll fly away!”

My only claims to fame at Melva High School were having finished fourth for sophomore class president (there had only been four candidates); being captain of the academic quiz team, Hi-Q; and serving as president of Science Club (a group that was, at its most glorious, five members strong). I had once also tried founding the Anthropology Enthusiasts Club, but no one had showed up except for Bobby Whitmore — and everyone knew that Bobby referred to all girls as “ho-bags” and showed up for any after-school activity that he could mock while gobbling all the free snacks.

I opened up my notebook and reviewed the notes I’d compiled that day.

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTES:
MELVA HIGH SCHOOL, A BRIEF TAXONOMY

1. The Smart Pretty (aka Future Businesswoman of America): Adjectives frequently used to describe her include a) prompt b) cheerful c) hardworking d) anal-retentive. She eats Grape-Nuts with soy milk for breakfast every morning at 7:16 while listening to National Public Radio’s
Morning Edition
.
She does squats while brushing her teeth and listens to Japanese language lessons on the treadmill. Existing in the middle level of the social ecosystem, the Smart Pretty is hungry for social advancement. Not mean, but often ruthless. Example: Missy Wheeler.

2. The Dumb Pretty: Much like one of the Smart Pretties, only, as the name suggests, dumber. Greater emphasis on makeup. Sense of self-worth more tied to how recently she has shaved her legs. Thinks
Cosmo
is a magazine full of good and reasonable advice. Lower level of the social ecosystem than the Smart Pretty, more harmless, unless adopted into superior clique. Example: Casey Williams (former Dumb Pretty, achieved social ascendancy, and now = Beautiful Rich Girl).

3. The Softball Husky: Enormous calf muscles, maximus gluteus maximus. Thick ponytails. Healthy American farm-girl look with big, tanned shoulders, like she could help you wrestle down your runaway hog in a pinch. She slaps her friends on the back in the hallways. Not typically predatory or powerful in the high school ecosystem, but known to yell at the pathetically nonathletic if, say,
you’re on the same volleyball team in PE. Example: Tori Nathans.

4. Hipster Hippie: Artfully scraggle-haired. Often rich. Purchases expensive clothes meant to resemble clothes obtained from a dumpster. Cultivates air of artsiness without ever having made actual art. The rival tribe of the Beautiful Rich Girls — different aesthetic, but similar roles as social power brokers. Example: Darby Hunt, or Madelyn Flynn.

5. Formerly Homeschooled: Denim prairie skirts and year-round candy cane–patterned turtle-necks. Eighties bangs and scrunchies for the girls, center parts for the guys. He or she presents an otherworldly innocence about basic facets of adolescent life and sometimes has difficulty reading the sarcasm in scathing remarks made by members of other groups. Often very good at one particular thing — trombone, chess, physics — and it is this particular interest that has pulled them away from the homeschool cloister. Example: Stephen Shepherd.

6. Beautiful Rich Girl, or BRG: Take TR as an example

The rest of the pages were missing. I shuffled through my notebook before emptying my entire backpack. Where were the rest of my notes? I could hear the blood rushing in my ears like approaching white water. I’d had all my notes last in French class. Tanesha Jones, my favorite French class friend, and I had started to work on our French language skit together. She’d seen one of the pages and said, “Wow! What have you got in there? Secrets of every single social division in Melva High School or what?” I’d made a joke and quickly put the rest of my anthropological notes away. Tanesha and I had worked on our project, I’d gone to other classes, and sometime between then and now, half the notes had disappeared! This couldn’t be happening. Suppose Darby Hunt found them? Or worse still — TR? If she found my anthropology notes, I wouldn’t survive to see the end of junior year.

I pulled out my Swiss cheese sandwich, hoping I might think clearly once I ate. Or if disaster was imminent, I might as well eat one last meal. I’d just taken a bite when Paul Hansen approached.

“Hey, Janice,” he called before plopping down beside me on the grass. He tossed his backpack and a thick book,
A History of God
, down beside him. I raised an eyebrow at the book.

“What? It’s interesting,” Paul said, nodding at it. “Besides, I already read up on the history of the devil. So many depictions of the devil over the years — you’ve got your witch trials, you’ve got your
Paradise Lost
, you’ve got your
Rosemary’s Baby
— it’s fascinating.”

I exhaled loudly — for Paul’s benefit. “And yet you still haven’t realized how fascinating anthropology is,” I said.

He smiled, pulling out his lunch from a bag. “I’m leaving that to you. This town’s only got room for one anthropologist.”

We sat there for a minute in silence, each chewing our food thoughtfully. Paul was my good friend, but he was prone to passing obsessions. Recently there had been the political activist spell, during which he tried to drop out of school to campaign for the Democratic candidate for president; the playwriting interval, when he missed a month of school to finish his masterpiece; the time when he shaved his head to become a Tibetan monk but didn’t have money to get to Tibet; his temporary craze for the metaphysical poets…. It helped that Paul was a quasigenius, so he was constantly reading about some new topic — he could become interested in anything — and during each phase, he usually knew what he was talking about. But this faddishness seemed to undermine the legitimacy of his passions, and it annoyed me sometimes, as it suggested that no one our age could actually be serious about something the way I was serious about anthropology. I’d once asked Paul why he always got super-enthusiastic about new things but didn’t necessarily keep up with all of them. He’d looked at me with this sad expression and said, “Well, I’m looking for something I can feel, I dunno, passionate about — you know, believe in. Plus, the world is too interesting. I can’t help it.”

Paul, currently in a raw foods phase, crunched his carrots and sunflower seeds. We were always able to do this with each other, I thought — just sit in silence. Paul and I used to get together to listen to obscure hip-hop or old gospel recordings that he found
at yard sales, or whatever it was that he happened to be obsessed with at the time. We’d started a mix CD exchange too, or competition, really. Each of us made mix CDs for the other, striving to outdo the other’s best efforts with the most interesting or obscure finds. I liked the comfortable feeling between us, even if we weren’t really doing anything.

We hadn’t hung out as much this year, though, because Paul now spent all his time with The Girlfriend. The Girlfriend went to the county high school. Her actual name was Susannah. She was delicate and preternaturally pretty, like a girl who should live in a Victorian locket. She added to this effect by wearing high lace collars, vintage patent leather boots, and velvet hair bows. The Girlfriend made these clothes look very artsy and cool, whereas I (and almost anyone else) would have simply looked like my imaginary British great-granny had dressed me for a High Anglican church service.

I thought The Girlfriend was neither mean nor nice — I’d never really heard her talk. I hadn’t exactly avoided her, but I hadn’t sent the good ship
Friendship
sailing her direction either.

I refocused on the gazebo. I’d seen a particular dark head exit the side door of the school, moving toward it.

ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
In many societies, there is a sacred place of reflection reserved for certain members — think sweat lodge or secret society. For MHS, it was the gazebo. The theatre guys stand on the seats with their heads hidden in order
to smoke without being seen. Occasionally a teacher busts them, and no one smokes for a while. Still, they prefer to stand there like that, half-hidden, instead of sitting. And eventually, the smoking starts up again. To outsiders, they appear as a circle of dark-jeaned legs, a low grumble of voices, and the faint whiff of smoke wafting from the cupola.

“I see you looking at him,” Paul said. He tossed a carrot. It hit me on the nose. “Who?”

“Jimmy. That’s who.”

“Oh, Jimmy Denton? I barely even know him.”

“Who are you looking at, then? It’s definitely one of the theatre guys in the gazebo.”

“Hey, just because those guys are more artistic than anybody else at Melva … Besides, I’m not staring at anybody. I was just staring into nowhere. The abyss. The void.”

FACT:
I was indeed staring at Jimmy Denton. I’d spent the greater part of sophomore and junior years staring, or longing to stare, at Jimmy Denton. Ever since I’d seen him skipping class to read
Hamlet
, I’d been in love. At the time, the beginning of my sophomore year, I’d been waiting for my mom to pick me up early for a dentist appointment,
and there’d been Jimmy, half-hidden under a tree outside, reading the very play that half the kids in my English class had refused to finish or had groaned over. I’d loved
Hamlet
. In fact, I’d been a little bit
in
love with Hamlet, and so that day, watching Jimmy read, I’d begun to imagine Jimmy as Hamlet, or vice versa…. By the time he’d nodded at me, I’d already dedicated my first anthropology book to him and named our three future children. It was insta-love. And it also didn’t hurt that Jimmy was the best actor MHS had ever seen. And the handsomest.

Paul frowned, shook his head, and scooped up the rest of his food. “Listen, I gotta run inside. I told Stephen I’d return this DVD of his I borrowed….”

“Stephen Shepherd? The caped crusader of dragons? Mr. Cheese Puffs Breath?” I asked.

Paul laughed, but not really — it was more just an exhalation of air. “Yeah, Janice. Stephen Shepherd. He’s a nice guy. Smart. You should actually talk to him sometime.”

I looked at him, unsure how to respond. But he jumped onto his lean runner’s legs and was off across the lawn to the cafeteria, leaving me with half a sandwich and half a view of my crush’s pant legs.
Redirect
, I thought.
Stop looking over at Jimmy in the gazebo
. There were other, more pressing concerns — like tribal cultures dying out in Papua New Guinea, my unwritten
Current Anthropology
article, or, worse yet, my missing anthropology notes on all the
other students at Melva High, notes that were floating dangerously somewhere around the school….

And that’s when Jimmy Denton approached me.

I gazed at him walking toward me the way someone dying of thirst in the desert gazes at a glimmering oasis mirage. Me? Why was Jimmy walking toward me? I squinted to see if it was another one of the theatre guys instead. His face, however, was unmistakable — all brooding and dark-eyed and handsomely sullen. It was not another guy from the gazebo, not a mirage, not a hologram — it was absolutely Jimmy Denton in all his Jimmy Denton-ness.

Jimmy wiped his hands on his T-shirt. It was somehow terrifically manly, that gesture, and I wondered why all males are not constantly wiping their hands on their T-shirts. Beneath that T-shirt, he had actual biceps, actual chest muscles — the kind one gets from doing push-ups or, I don’t know, lifting bushels of hay and hammering heavy wooden planks. He was still walking toward me. He was
stopping beside me
.

“Hey,” he said to me. “You’re Janice, right?”

I nodded, swallowing a huge knot of saliva wedged in my throat.

“You and Margo Werther hang out all the time, right? You’re the one who’s the anthropologist?”

I nodded again, thinking this might be the greatest day of my life so far. Not only did he know my name, he knew that I was an anthropologist?! I felt a little light-headed.

“I found this,” he said, pulling a folded wedge of papers from his back pocket. “I’m guessing it’s yours.”

My hand was clammy as oyster meat as I took the papers from him and opened it up. This is what I read:

The rest of my notes! I flipped through the pages, making sure everything was there. My hand was shaking. Of course Jimmy had known these were mine — I’d idly scrawled my name and initials all over the sheet. “Janice Wills” in bubble letters, “Janice Wills” in all caps, and (oh, God!) “Janice Wills, Anthropologist.”
Oh
, I thought.
Oh, no
. If Jimmy didn’t hate me, he at the very least must have thought I was a complete dork.

I looked up at Jimmy. “Thanks,” I said weakly.