Gawky (27 page)

Life carried on nicely like this for some time. Then, somewhere around mid–senior year, everything at school changed. Previously, my public regional high school was broken down into the same typical cliques you'd find in other schools: jocks, skanks, skaters, pregnant girls, thugs, guitar-playing pot smokers wearing T-shirts with messages about saving the environment, and nerds. The nerds were a tight-knit group of straightlaced boys who all shared the same jam-packed schedule of AP classes and resumé-building extracurriculars. They were all fighting to be valedictorian and to get into the best colleges in the country and therefore never really hung out with us civilians.

The nerds had all applied early decision to Ivy League schools and been accepted way before we B+ students even finished our last applications. I was still battling my father and his never-ending game of solitaire for an hour of home computer time to finish my college essay about how babysitting those twins down the street taught me the “value of sisterhood.”

And once they got those letters of admission? The nerds. Went. Wild. These dudes who had spent the last three and a half years candy-striping on Friday nights had seven months to catch up on everything they had missed. And they weren't wasting a minute of it. I would go to use the bathroom and there would be a nerd smoking in the stall.
I'd come to school and all the nerds would be cutting classes to go to the beach. They started throwing parties, and not just beer parties, but acid parties. Even I had never done acid, despite my Vietnam War–chic clothing and my wild weekend in Pennsylvania. This was awesome!

Best of all, the boy nerds started having sex—full sex, not just oral sex, which I now knew was way different than talking on the phone
about
sex—with moderately hot chicks. When I heard that, I knew I had to get in with a nerd. After Rodreigo, I no longer stank of rejection. I was an experienced woman. Rodreigo liked me and not in that creepy killer way that Corey did. I stood up a little straighter since my trip to Puerto Rico and felt better about life.

I already had a long-standing promise to go to prom with Eli, the short guy I shared the car ride to the Garden State Arts Center with. Ah, that ticket-questing Camaro ride that turned into the Willy Wonka acid trip . . . the memories . . . Since that fateful ride, Eli and I had become close friends, and a lot had happened to him over the years. He literally had been struck by lightning while hiking alone in the woods during a storm, and if that weren't enough, he had to have intense surgery on his jaw, which was not going to be fully healed in time for prom. We were a perfect match.

If I didn't already have a friendly date with Eli, I would have totally wanted to go with Adam Sizemore, the second-hottest nerd. The first-hottest nerd was Michael Goldstein, whom I determined to be undateable when I watched him Windex the windows during a wild drug party he was hosting. (Eventually Mike Goldstein ended up with another girl who I heard had a lot of sex with him in the shower. Which was perfect for Mike, who could now orgasm and clean up the mess at the same time.) Adam, on the other hand, was a hot nerd who didn't care about anything once he got into Brown. I had never noticed how good-looking he was until he started partying harder than Grace Jones in 1981. And he was really funny. Not in a funny nerd “Steve Urkel”
kind of way but in a legitimately funny Bob-Saget-after-dark kind of way. Considering Adam and I barely spoke until the end of the year, there was no chance we would have gone to the prom together, but it was fun to wonder what if.

Still, I was happy to go with Eli. I just refused to give in to the stupidity that was expected to go along with attending a New Jersey prom. I was not interested in the local traditions, such as trial nail art before deciding on your real nail art and spending upwards of $1,000 on a Jessica McClintock prom dress. I didn't understand how girls whose parents couldn't afford to send them to college could suddenly afford prom dresses that cost as much as a used car. But none of that mattered. What my prom date Eli lacked in funcional jaw and height, he made up for with attitude. He felt that the prom was just as stupid as I did, but he also didn't want to miss it and always wonder what if. So we decided on a compromise: We would go to the prom, as friends, and wear Elizabethan attire. We would be making a social commentary on how stupid this all was, but we would still be noticed à la Madonna's live performance of “Vogue” at the 1990 Video Music Awards. I searched high and low and finally found a gold ball gown complete with a bustle, corset, and petticoat. Eli had trouble finding his outfit, so we decided to rent a Ben Franklin costume from Backwards Glances and not wear the glasses or powdered wig that came with it. I loved that Eli was my prom date, as we were not into each other at all beyond friendship, and that took the pressure off the whole night.

Meanwhile, the nerds continued to rock out. I understood where they were coming from. Not that I had spent four years studying and not enjoying high school. But I had spent the majority of the past four years either working at the drugstore, wishing I was at camp, or writing in my journal during third-period lunch about how depressed I was. Now I had just a few months to enjoy myself before high school ended. I was so close to getting out, having made a decision on college. I ended
up getting into all five schools I applied to (not sure of what I wanted to do with my life, I applied to half as a fashion design major and half as a theatre major). I decided to go to Ithaca College for theatre because Ithaca had some amazing vintage clothing stores and the college seemed the least excited to have me as a student. The other four schools really courted me, following up with phone calls, some even offering scholarships. However, I've always agreed with Groucho Marx, who said, “I don't care to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.”

And once I accepted Ithaca College's offer, I too wanted to make up for lost time.

Prom night came, and Eli a.k.a. Ben Franklin picked me up in his maroon 1984 Chevy. Everyone else was going in a limo. On my way out my mother reminded me for the four-hundredth time, “Don't forget, Margot, I was runner-up for Snow Queen. This could be your night!” I groaned and headed to the beat-up car as she called out, “Have fun!”

I climbed in the car and we headed out. Before we went to the prom, we stopped for some photo ops at my new bakery job. It seemed like the avant-garde choice to make, and baked goods are so timeless that they seemed a perfect backdrop to our prom costumes. At the bakery, we took photos in front of cream pies and Black Forest cakes dressed as a lord and lady. There was no way we were going to do some cheesy traditional pre-prom shots in front of a stretch limo. Besides, we didn't even rent a limo, claiming it was stupid, but really no one had asked us to go in on one with them.

Half an hour of bakery photos and we arrived at the prom, in an excessively air-conditioned wedding factory a few towns away, which was themed “Sweet Sweet Fantasy Baby” after the Mariah Carey/Ol' Dirty Bastard song. As we entered the overcrowded banquet hall, heads turned to see gargantuan me, arm in arm with a short kid dressed as Ben Franklin. Some kids snickered and I tried to ignore them, but as we entered the main dance floor, heads turned. After years of no one
noticing anything I ever did—stealing a song from Wham!, seducing a thirty-year-old bank teller at age twelve, finding a faux crack pipe on the beach, starting a protest against the Gulf War in the cafeteria, even handing the coolest girl in school my teeth—suddenly everyone wanted to know who I was. Whispers could be heard: “What the hell?” “Who are they?” “Once a freak, always a freak.” Eli and I proudly danced to “Gangsta's Paradise” and then walked through the judgmental crowd to sit at our table. Well, Eli sat—I had to stay vertical due to my oversize bustle and petticoat.

While we ate a few too many dinner rolls at the table, I watched the nerds cut loose. Mike Goldstein was grinding with a slutty hippie, the valedictorian was making out with a skater chick, and Adam the second-hottest nerd appeared to be obliterated on one too many swigs of Mad Dog. I thought to myself,
Let's have some fun.
I grabbed my date and hit the dance floor. “Be My Lover” by La Bouche played and we rocked it. We partied all night, and I even got to slow-dance with Adam Sizemore.

Halfway through the night, I had to pee, and knowing it would take a little while to disengage from my bustle and corset, I headed for the bathroom right away. While attempting to fit a modified hoop skirt into an extra-small stall inside the restroom I bumped into the school Spanish teacher. She also moonlighted as the performing arts teacher, but we weren't that close. As she leaned into the mirror to apply a thick coat of lip liner underneath a maroon lipstick, she said, “You and Eli are the best dressed here. I have total respect for what you've done tonight. I've admired your originality your four years here. A lot of us have. You've really made a statement tonight. Go out with a bang, Margot.”

I was shocked. This cool teacher had noticed me for all the right reasons. We had that one class together but I figured she hadn't given me a second thought after that. I didn't know she remembered me. I had
never even taken Spanish—I had taken two years of French, mistakenly thinking I would be a natural at it due to the fact that I have a silent
t
at the end of my name. Was it possible I had silent fans all along? There was no time to think, though; I had to undress, pee, and re-dress quickly because I heard the prom advisor/math teacher begin to announce the prom court. I wanted to get back in there so I could see which member of the White Lipstick Posse would be selected to be queen for yet another day. I also wanted to see if a nerd gone wild could break the barrier and get on that court.

I returned to the banquet hall just as the prom advisor was announcing the winners.

“Second runner-up for prom queen is . . . Jessica Rosenstein.”

Big surprise. Jessica had been so kind in seventh grade to tell me I could be pretty if I didn't dress like such a freak. I guess she followed her own advice, because she looked like she was on top of the world. I guess Jessica didn't peak at her Bat Mitzvah after all.

“First runner-up . . . Dawn Riser.”

Another big surprise. Dawn was so pretty, of course she was up there curtsying like the royal subject she always knew she was.

I was spreading a tiny chunk of butter on the last dinner roll when the prom advisor turned back to the microphone. There was one more title to declare before the queen.

“First runner-up . . . and our prom princess . . . Margot Leitman.”

What? WHAT??? There was a pause, long enough for me to hear people say “What the hell?” and “Who?”

Eli gave me a push. “Go up there! Congrats!”

I looked out into the crowd. A few were clapping, mostly teachers and nerds gone wild. There was a lot of whispering and a lot of frowning girls wearing Jessica McClintock dresses with matching nail art. I guess runner-up ran in the family; my mom would be so proud. I took a few strides, remembering my mother's words, “Posture, Maaargot,
posture!” I stood up proudly and went to collect my tiny Claire's Boutique rhinestone crown and medium-size bouquet.

Then the prom advisor/math teacher announced the prom queen . . . dragging out the moment for dramatic effect. What member of the White Lipstick Posse was she going to call? Finally she spoke a name. Her own daughter. The crowd cheered, feigning surprise as her fairly popular daughter took the crown with very little excitement on her face.

After the nepotistic crowning, the male court was announced, filled mostly with hot drug dealers teachers were scared of and jocks they wanted to sleep with. Then they announced the prom king. As I tried to pull the crinoline out of my underwear without anyone noticing, I heard the advisor say, “And your prom king is Eli Rothberg!”

Eli! Eli! I couldn't believe it! My little Ben Franklin, fresh off of jaw surgery, was the king! Eli stood up proudly and danced his way to get his crown. Everyone seemed confused at what was happening. The freaks were getting some recognition just as we were all out the door. Eli didn't care. He reveled in the moment as the crown was placed on his head.

There was moderate applause and then “Fantasy” by Mariah Carey started blasting. Eli tried to dance with the queen, but she wasn't interested in dancing with him. Despite their equivalent crownings they were still in vastly different social circles. I didn't want Eli to be left up there all alone, so I danced with him.

It was turning out to be the best night ever. I guess lightning can strike twice! Hey-oh!

We left the prom to discover that Eli had left his lights on all night. Which really worked out for the best, because as we were stuck in the parking lot waiting for a jump, we were able to receive repeated congratulations from sneering seniors as they piled into their limos empty-handed. Waiting for the jump was like an impromptu receiving line for Eli and me, though I imagined everyone who congratulated us
was secretly planning our demise. Maybe this was what it felt like to have a Bat Mitzvah.