Read Online Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase by Jen Lancaster - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: Humor, Literary, General, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Literary Criticism, Girls, American, Biography, Essay/s, Authors; American, Art, Form, 21st Century, Fashion, Jeanne, Clothing and dress
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but now that I’ve started junior high, I’m the youngest person in the whole school. But what’s really scary is that I’m the youngest person on the junior high-high school bus.
I spend the first few weeks trying to be very small and innocuous. I get on the bus and open a textbook to make it look like I’m doing homework. But I’m in seventh grade and I don’t have that much work to do outside of school. My dad says this is problematic and precisely why Indiana ranks so low nationally in regard to education. He also says I’m never going to learn what I need to gain admission to an Ivy League college, but if I can’t talk him into getting me a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, I’m guessing his paying for Dartmouth isn’t an option. (By the way, ask me how many shades of purple he turned when my English teacher made the following notation on my Edgar Allan Poe essay: “This sentence needs fixed.”)
The problem is I get tired of pretending to do homework so I start to read on the bus. And apparently people who read for pleasure are stupid , at least according to the ninth graders Jodi and Kari.
Now that I’ve caught their attention, they won’t leave me alone. They make fun of my hair 42 and they call me Fang because one of my front teeth is chipped. Seriously? My minor dental imperfection offends them? I mean, Jodi’s hair is a giant, Roseanne Roseannadanna bush and she always has bits of sandwich caught in her braces and dried spittle in the corners of her cracked lips. Kari’s not perfect, either. She has some weird skin condition that’s left her with huge Palomino pony patches up and down her arms and on her neck. But I’m polite and don’t mention it (out loud).
My mom says appearances don’t matter and that no one’s judging anyone based on her looks. She says that grooming is silly and vain for a girl my age. She says deep down Jodi and Kari really want to be my friends and that the best course of action is to simply ignore them until they come around.
Excuse me, but when has ignoring a bully ever actually worked? If I try to ignore them, they’re going to roll over me like Germany did Poland back in World War II. 43
So I do what’s worked so far in my life—I fight back.
“Nice garbage bag!” Jodi taunts the minute I leave the safety of the bus.
“Same to you!” I retort.
“That doesn’t make sense. She’s not wearing a garbage bag; you are,” Kari snarls.
“I’m not wearing a garbage bag . I’m wearing cool space-age pants just like Debbie Harry. And they came from Boston. Where are your pants from? Fort Wayne?”
Check and mate, bitches.
They’re silent for a minute and then Jodi barks, “Debbie Harry? More like Dirty Harry! Ha! Ha, ha!” They both start guffawing and slapping each other on the back.
I contemplate this. “So, you’re saying my pants make me look like a middle-aged, hard-living homicide detective?”
They’re immediately silenced. Of course they are. My debating skills were formed in the highly superior New Jersey school system, and they’ve only had access to what barely passes for public education in this cow town.
Both their faces harden. Kari squinches up her eyes and Jodi narrows her cracking lips and starts breathing out of her mouth really loudly.
Oh. I guess I accidentally said that last part out loud.
You know, sometimes it’s appropriate to stand and fight.
And sometimes you should just fucking run.
As I dash down the hallway I can hear them both chanting “Plastic pants! Plastic pants!” when I duck into first period. Fortunately, I have my allergy shot this afternoon and I won’t have to ride the bus.
But there’s always tomorrow.
I’m wearing my new lightweight white pants today because it’s eighty degrees out and we’re not allowed to wear shorts to school. I manage to secure a seat up close to the driver, thus assuring myself an unmolested ride to school. Of course, there’s that brief intermission between
I spend the first few weeks trying to be very small and innocuous. I get on the bus and open a textbook to make it look like I’m doing homework. But I’m in seventh grade and I don’t have that much work to do outside of school. My dad says this is problematic and precisely why Indiana ranks so low nationally in regard to education. He also says I’m never going to learn what I need to gain admission to an Ivy League college, but if I can’t talk him into getting me a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, I’m guessing his paying for Dartmouth isn’t an option. (By the way, ask me how many shades of purple he turned when my English teacher made the following notation on my Edgar Allan Poe essay: “This sentence needs fixed.”)
The problem is I get tired of pretending to do homework so I start to read on the bus. And apparently people who read for pleasure are stupid , at least according to the ninth graders Jodi and Kari.
Now that I’ve caught their attention, they won’t leave me alone. They make fun of my hair 42 and they call me Fang because one of my front teeth is chipped. Seriously? My minor dental imperfection offends them? I mean, Jodi’s hair is a giant, Roseanne Roseannadanna bush and she always has bits of sandwich caught in her braces and dried spittle in the corners of her cracked lips. Kari’s not perfect, either. She has some weird skin condition that’s left her with huge Palomino pony patches up and down her arms and on her neck. But I’m polite and don’t mention it (out loud).
My mom says appearances don’t matter and that no one’s judging anyone based on her looks. She says that grooming is silly and vain for a girl my age. She says deep down Jodi and Kari really want to be my friends and that the best course of action is to simply ignore them until they come around.
Excuse me, but when has ignoring a bully ever actually worked? If I try to ignore them, they’re going to roll over me like Germany did Poland back in World War II. 43
So I do what’s worked so far in my life—I fight back.
“Nice garbage bag!” Jodi taunts the minute I leave the safety of the bus.
“Same to you!” I retort.
“That doesn’t make sense. She’s not wearing a garbage bag; you are,” Kari snarls.
“I’m not wearing a garbage bag . I’m wearing cool space-age pants just like Debbie Harry. And they came from Boston. Where are your pants from? Fort Wayne?”
Check and mate, bitches.
They’re silent for a minute and then Jodi barks, “Debbie Harry? More like Dirty Harry! Ha! Ha, ha!” They both start guffawing and slapping each other on the back.
I contemplate this. “So, you’re saying my pants make me look like a middle-aged, hard-living homicide detective?”
They’re immediately silenced. Of course they are. My debating skills were formed in the highly superior New Jersey school system, and they’ve only had access to what barely passes for public education in this cow town.
Both their faces harden. Kari squinches up her eyes and Jodi narrows her cracking lips and starts breathing out of her mouth really loudly.
Oh. I guess I accidentally said that last part out loud.
You know, sometimes it’s appropriate to stand and fight.
And sometimes you should just fucking run.
As I dash down the hallway I can hear them both chanting “Plastic pants! Plastic pants!” when I duck into first period. Fortunately, I have my allergy shot this afternoon and I won’t have to ride the bus.
But there’s always tomorrow.
I’m wearing my new lightweight white pants today because it’s eighty degrees out and we’re not allowed to wear shorts to school. I manage to secure a seat up close to the driver, thus assuring myself an unmolested ride to school. Of course, there’s that brief intermission between
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