Striding past Spence, and a father on his cell:
“It is the rare teenager who cares about Halloween,” he scoffs to someone with gruffed certainty – except, of course, he’s wrong.
12th grade, age seventeen, I am a Jackson Pollock (an excuse to ruin a sweater and jeans, but it still looks really cool).
11th grade, age sixteen, I am Sally Simpson from the Who’s Tommy record (an excuse to impress a boy I like; it works and I wear bell bottoms and glitter).
10th grade, age fifteen, I am a fairy princess (an excuse to wear what I wear every day, but with wings).
9th grade, age fourteen, I am Ernie and my best friend Lauren is Bert. Pay attention, since this is where everything changes:
We find striped shirts, face paint, beanies. We cut our candy bags to look like rubber duckies. We are, I will say it, adorable and awesome, and in the world of 9th grade, that means we are doomed.
Our Vans crunch through leaves to neighboring houses; our thoughts swell with sugared insomnia. “I want to try out for cheerleading,” she says. A secret she doesn’t know: The senior cheerleaders already said I should join. I said no, because of a secret that everybody knows: The cheerleaders are sluts.
Parents like us, always have. We get extra candy; we get grins. Across the street, the dorkiest freshman we know is dressed like a robot, with a circuit panel that lights up. “Cute!” I exclaim and Lauren pinches my yellow-painted hand. “You called him cute,” she cringes, “Ew.”
Five houses from mine, we knock on the door. “Oh hey,” comes the answer from inside, “You’re freshman, right?”
It’s School President, a senior, a hottie, and we are dressed like gay men from Sesame Street. He flashes the hugest smile, a real one, but it doesn’t matter because this is – omigosh – the most embarrassing moment of, like, our lives.
“You so get extra candy,” he says, “Ernie. Bert. Nice.”
Behind him push two new faces to the door – juniors, cheerleaders, dressed as French maids. (What did I tell you?)
“Cuuuute!” giggles one, and she smacks my butt.
Five minutes later, we scrub the Crayola colors from our faces in my sink. “Faster,” growls Lauren, and the paint swirls down the drain, and the fun, and the sugar, and the way we’ve been glued for six years. Some makeup remover and too many Twixes, and it’s gone. “I’ve never noticed,” she remarks as we inventory Snickers, and Kit Kats, and gum, “Your hair. It’s like the same as pubic hair, isn’t it?” I stare at her for a second, hit. “I don’t know,” I finally muster, “You’re the expert, aren’t you? You’ve seen a lot more pubic hair than me.”
The next day at school, School President says hi in the hall, but Lauren ignores me, which means I have nowhere to sit at lunch. “Here,” says the butt-smacker from the night before, and I plop like a puppy who’s learned a new trick. Across the room, Lauren glares.
The next week, she calls me to go to the mall. We hit The Gap, and my lunch place is restored.
The next month, I decide to change schools.
Senior year, I see her at Starbucks, the first time in ages. She’s in her cheerleading sweatshirt; I’m with my mom.
“That looks good on you,” I grin. “You got so stylish,” she replies, and she almost seems shy. “I like your hair like that.”
We haven’t spoken since. For Halloween this year, I’m going to be Carmen Sandiego.
[JODIE HARSH - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]