Whip It (2 page)

Okay, I’m going to explain this once and once only. Then, you should swallow this piece of paper because I was never here. Pash and I work at the Oink Joint, a barbecue restaurant “famous” (i.e., not famous at all) for the giant, two-story pig sculpture that sits in the parking lot, the most tourist-trappy of tourist traps.

TJSAWDNSIN is so awful that I was holding out for a job at Wal-Mart before I took it. It’s the place you go when no one else will have you. Naturally, Pash and I were shoo-ins.

We share a double-dip Bluebonnet waffle cone of cookies and cream (me) and mint chocolate chip (her), sword fighting with our plastic spoons. Now, as much as I detest the tacky tourist trade that has sprung up around the Bluebonnet factory, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that their ice cream is my most beloved food group. Those Bodeen dairy cows have got some serious skill.

I could, however, do without the Bluebonnet ads that dot the town landscape. You can’t walk two blocks without having a billboard shoved in your face, and not just any billboard. The Bluebonnet billboards are a cultural phenom unto themselves. They always feature the reigning Miss Bluebonnet in a cleavage-baring milkmaid costume, smiling as she licks a glistening ice cream cone. Sexy, yet wholesome (so as not to cast doubt on Miss Bluebonnet’s chastity, this being a Christian community, and all).

Now, you-know-who cannot pass a billboard without sighing dramatically, “That’s your destiny, Bliss,” which only happens about . . . thirty-five times a day. Give or take.

The current competition for the Miss Bluebonnet crown is Corbi Booth, varsity cheerleader and a real chipmunk of a girl. Frankly, I’d just hand her the crown today if it wouldn’t send Brooke into a tailspin. Corbi and I were best friends (
BFF!
) a million years ago, but when I discovered real music and she devoted her life to the pursuit of the perfect lip gloss, it was time to go our separate ways.

Now, you know and I know, and everyone in the whole free world knows, that come December Corbi will get the crown and I’ll fade into pageant obscurity, but there’s a little hitch. Corbi’s mom, Val, a poster woman for all things plastic, still sees me as stiff competition because of my impressive Miss Bluebonnet lineage. Oh, and the fact that my mom kicked her ass the year she won.

So, no matter how much of a dark horse I seem—c’mon, a girl with blue hair?—I’m persona non grata on Corbi’s bitch-o-meter.

What Corbi lacks in intelligence she makes up for in catty gossip and tiny skirts. She also happens to be the longtime girlfriend of Bodeen High’s star quarterback, Colby Miller. Colby and Corbi—awwww, isn’t that so cute? (Answer: not cute
at all
!)

The whole town is under some sort of twisted assumption that this cliché masquerading as a sweeping high school romance is Bodeen’s answer to a Hollywood couple. They can’t get enough of the adorable twosome.

But Pash and I have had more than our fill, thankyouverymuch. We can’t even enjoy our ice cream without the dynamic duo suddenly appearing out of nowhere in Colby’s my-dad-bought-me-this-ginormous-pickup-truck-because-I-am-a-football-god mobile with his future Miss Bluebonnet nestled at his side as “Brooks & Dumb” blares out the windows (the cherry on this little torture sundae).

And what is it with teenagers who have perfect zitfree skin right in the middle of what is supposed to be the zittiest time in their lives? It is beyond unfair. Surely there will be some payback later in life for that . . . or there is no justice.

The lovebirds stop at a red light, and Colby glances at us—at me, actually. His face contorts with contempt and confusion, like,
How the hell are you even allowed to exist?
Corbi shudders and clutches Colby’s steroid-inflated biceps, as if to say,
Get me out of here before their weirdness totally rubs off on me!
(Like I’m not the girl whose bed she used to pee in when she spent the night at my house—how dare she judge me?)

The second the light turns green, Colby and Corbi speed away like terrified teen lovers fleeing a pack of hungry zombies in a trashy horror flick. I never knew I was so scary. I almost take it as a compliment.

Pash and I are silent as the hot Tejas air hangs between us. We are both thinking the same depressing thought, so there’s no point in actually saying it out loud.
How come those idiots can find love when we have to suffer a romance drought?
But Pash can’t keep her mouth shut for long. It’s physically impossible, medically documented.

“Bliss, I know my New Year’s resolution was not to obsess, but if I don’t get some serious boy-on-Pash action stat, I’m gonna explode,” she says.

“Then people really will think you’re a terrorist,” I offer, and Pash cracks up. Yes, racism is alive and well in Bodeen, and my girl has suffered her share of slurs and suspicious stares, so we mock the hillbillies any chance we get. Dark humor rules.

Le Joint d’Oink

I
could go on and on about the horror of facing the public in a heinous gingham smock, the constant stench of barbecue in my hair, and the soul-sucking task of timing unhealthy people as they try to eat the Squealer Sandwich (ten pounds of pulled pork) in ten minutes so that they can win a free T-shirt and have their picture placed on the “Squeal of Fame.”

But really, it’s not so bad as long as Pash and I have the same schedule.

We amuse ourselves by constantly rebelling against the Oink Joint system. It also helps that Dwayne “Bird-man” Johnston is totally in love with both of us. Not that that’s flattering in any way, shape, or form. Trust me. Bird-man is all geek, all the time, and not of the chic variety. Although he’s kind of been on a power trip since they officially promoted him to manager.

Like today. Pash and I were up to our old survival tricks, taking some brilliantly funny pictures (if I do say so myself), then covertly posting them on the “Squeal of Fame” billboard among all the yellowed snapshots of fat tourists holding up clean plates. Bird-man comes flying from across the restaurant waving his skinny arms.

“What do you two think you’re doing?” he said, cornering us and trying to sound authoritative, as though he’d been hiding out in the back, practicing his manager voice.

“Creating art,” Pash explained, pointing to a Polaroid of me staring down at a trash-can-sized vat of barbecue sauce. “It’s called ‘Girl Contemplates Killing Herself in the Secret Sauce.’ ”

“A very important piece, Bird-man,” I added. He tried to make us take it down, but after we ridiculed him for going corporate, he agreed to let the artwork stay for a week.

“And,” he added, “I want you guys to start calling me Dwayne now that I’m manager. It’s more dignified.”

“No way,” Pash protested. “Bird-man is way sexier.”

“Yeah, it gives you an air of mystery,” I added as we walked away.

Thus, Bird-man agreed to keep going by Bird-man. It’s really the only thing he has going for him; we couldn’t let him screw that up. It’s little triumphs like that that make TJSAWDNSIN bearable. That, and the Pash Amini / Bliss Cavendar closing routine.

Pash will be mopping and suddenly throw me that wicked smile she gets right before breaking into song. We have this game where we pretend our job is a really bad musical. We make up our own lyrics to Broadway tunes, giving the classics a little Pashification.

Today it’s “Over the Rainbow” sung at a more youth-friendly punk rock tempo. Take it away, Pash.

Somewhere over the rainbow, Bliss’s hair is blue,

There’s a land that I heard of once, full of

yummy guys!

Someday I’ll meet a boy who plays no sports,

He’ll want me for my brilliant mind and not

Cause I wear booty shorts,

In his bed—that’s where you’ll fiiiiiind me!

We bust out some hilariously bad dance moves that will never see the light of MTV, pausing dramatically for our bigger-than-big finish.

Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds play,

If blue birds play,

Then why can’t we get laid?

Pash, who’s, like, half my size, dips me, and we collapse into a booth like a laughing house of cards. I’m not sure if the genius of this spontaneous musical moment translates, but believe me, we could take this show on the road. Or maybe we’re high from the smell of slow-cooked meat.

As we lock up and bid Bird-man adieu, I look up at the Miss Bluebonnet billboard across the street. “God. If I don’t get away from these, this town is going to see my wrath.”

“Oh, really?” Pash raises a single eyebrow with devious super-villain precision. “Is someone feeling . . . criminal?”

“Oh, Ms. Amini, I thought you’d never ask,” I say in my best Scarlett O’Hara voice as we link arms and head off for some good ol’-fashioned trouble. Yeehaw.

Hootenanny on Aisle Seven

I
t’s not like I’m ga-ga in love with shoplifting. I only do it to keep my mind off more devious activities, like cheerleading and prom planning. Plus, Wal-Mart is so totally asking for it with the crappy way they treat their workers. And I’m not just saying that because they wouldn’t hire me (they had “issues” with my wardrobe—whatev). Who the hell wants to work at Wal-Mart, anyway? The polyester smocks are a total identity killer.

The gigantic doors slide open, and the store welcomes Pash and me with an air-conditioned embrace. We scout the aisles for five-finger-discount inspiration. I seductively wave a Toby Keith CD at Pash.

“Your boyfriend says hi.”

“Friends don’t let friends listen to Toby Keith,” Pash declares, snatching the offending music out of my hand and burying it under a pile of White Stripes CDs.

We mosey over to the lingerie department and giggle past the racks of monster granny panties (immature, yes, but hilarious nonetheless).

“Think of all the elastic that had to die just to make these panties,” Pash says sadly.

We press on, refusing to let the granny-brief grief derail our mission. Pash and I stumble into an abandoned, messy dressing room with our covert picks behind our backs.

“You first,” she insists, and I hold up a hooker-red bra with gold lace in exactly Pash’s size.

“You really hate me!” she squeals before producing a hot-pink leopard-print bra for me.

“Back at ya.” I laugh as we try on our tacky bras. I look over at Pash. Life is cruel. Her boobs are hall-of-fame perfect, even in a cheap, ugly bra.

“Oh, that is so not fair!” I say. “I picked the nastiest one, and it still looks amazing on you!”

“Yeah, well, I’d trade my boobs for your perfect flat stomach any day,” she counters, which makes me feel slightly better about my less-than-ample cup size.

Plus, the leopard bra is actually kinda cute on me. Sort of a retro Marilyn Monroe sex-bomb thing, only I’m not Marilyn Monroe, nor am I a sex bomb. But on the off chance I morph into such a creature, it’s comforting to know I’ll have the right bra standing by.

Minutes later, Pash and I exit the dressing room with our garish new lingerie safely stowed beneath our grubby T-shirts. We do a couple of casual laps around the store so as not to arouse suspicion.

That is, until Pash points out a black globe hiding a security camera in the gun section—technically, the “sportsman department.”
If shooting a gun is a sport,
I think,
then so is stealing a bra. I’m going to lobby the Olympic Committee to recognize my sport, petition for some sponsors. Gold medal, bra-thieving victory here I come.

“Hey, I don’t think their stupid security cameras even work,” Pash says.

“Really? Why don’t you flash them and find out?” I taunt her, forgetting that Pash will happily perform any half dare thrown her way. Which usually means I’ll have to perform it too, part of the unspoken best-friend manifesto.