Queen of the Oddballs (2 page)

My mom called out, “We’ll see you at the studio.”

“Why can’t you guys ride with us?” I asked.

As she stepped into the limo, Mrs. Renzoli answered, “Your teacher is the designated chaperone, kid. That’s how they do it at CBS.”

As we started to drive away, I noticed that along with her black coat Mrs. Renzoli was wearing beige orthopedic shoes that tied down the sides. She sucked on Clorets, which made her smell like peppermint and coated her tongue dark green. I was shaking with excitement as I pushed and pulled a button that made the tinted windows go up and down. Then I turned on a little television set. I switched the channels back and forth as Mrs. Renzoli poured a cocktail from a bar stocked with tall bottles and fluted glasses. She downed her drink then poured herself another, even though it was morning. She didn’t say one word to me as we sped down Sunset Boulevard, past the brown August hills. She just kept drinking, and when we stopped at traffic signals, she’d lower the window and wave at strangers.

A half hour later, we pulled up to CBS Television City at Beverly and Fairfax, and a tall man in a suit with a lot of Brylcreem in his hair ushered us inside. As we walked down the shiny hallways, I kept my eyes peeled, hoping to spot Lucille Ball or one of the girls from
Petticoat Junction
. No such luck. But we did see Red Skelton rehearsing his show, and he shook my hand. I had never seen him in anything other than black-and-white. He was so…well,
red.

The Brylcreem man whisked me into a tiny room, where the three other kids who would appear on the show with me were waiting. The one other girl wore a fancy lace dress and shiny patent leather shoes; the two boys wore dark suits and ties. I was embarrassed. They were all dressed for a formal party, while I was dressed for a hootenanny.

A brunette woman who looked like a movie star sauntered in and introduced herself as Dorothea M. Fitzgerald. “But you can call me Miss Dorothea.” She wore lipstick as bright as Red Skelton’s hair. After she asked us a few questions, she led the four of us onto a stage, where we were seated side by side in white woven metal chairs. I spotted my mother and brother on bleachers in the crowded studio, where an expert whistler was warming up the audience by whistling the theme to channel nine’s
Million Dollar Movie.

The hot lights beat down on me; I heard a man counting down, “Five, four, three, two…” and around us the studio signs blinked *APPLAUSE*. The audience obeyed, clapping loudly as Art Linkletter dashed onto the stage. After he made some joke, he began asking the boy beside me some questions. Personal questions. And right then and there it sank in. Art Linkletter was going to ask questions of
me
, not of any other character or personality—but of
me.

The audience laughed and clapped at the clever things the boy next to me said, and before I could even take a breath, Mr. Linkletter was kneeling by my chair, thrusting the microphone into my face.

I heard Dr. Troupe’s words echoing through me: “Why do you want to be other people when you’re such a fascinating young lady yourself?” but all my shyness washed over me, and I couldn’t utter a word. Everything began to move in slow motion. I felt the bright heat of the lights on my head, the glare of the camera in my eyes, the mounting pressure in my chest as my heart pounded loudly and slowly, steady and hypnotic. And then, still in slow motion, I saw myself talking to Mr. Linkletter, but I couldn’t hear a word I was saying—only a distorted facsimile of my voice, disembodied, out in the studio audience like some skilled ventriloquist’s trick. I wanted to cry. I wanted to go home and pet my dog, Laddie. I felt as if my simple shift with the bouncy bow had vaporized into thin air, and I was completely naked onstage in front of millions.

As Mr. Linkletter stood, I snapped out of my trance. This was my last chance. I had to say something funny, or I’d be a big flop, and my life would be ruined. If I couldn’t do it as me, then I’d call on one of my other personas—act as tough as the Girl from U.N.C.L.E., as spunky as Pollyanna, as carefree as Holly Golightly.

“Last question for you Hillary,” Art said into the microphone. “What’s your favorite thing your mom cooks?”

Out of nowhere, as if I were a medium channeling some ancient hayseed deity, I suddenly was Elly May Clampett from
The Beverly
Hillbillies
—thick Southern accent and all. “Well, Mr. Linkletter, she makes some mighty fine vittles—cooks up all sorts of critters!”

The audience went crazy. Art Linkletter was laughing so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eyes.

I did it. I was so relieved, I basked in the applause and smiled during the whole time the last two kids were interviewed. A man’s voice announced parting gifts as a woman sauntered onstage and piled the items into our laps: a piece of Samsonite luggage, a watch, and an assortment of games—including Green Ghost, my favorite because it glowed in the dark.

Miss Dorothea whisked us off the stage and led us to a place called the commissary, where our chaperones met us. Mrs. Renzoli smiled at me, then said, “Good job, kid. Let’s eat.”

A large woman dressed in a white uniform, hair scrunched up in a hairnet, handed us orange speckled plastic trays and told us to help ourselves. I had been to Griswold’s Smorgasbord off the 10 freeway with my parents, so I knew all about buffets. I began to pile food on my tray, selecting everything white or beige: mashed potatoes; macaroni and cheese; cottage cheese; tapioca pudding. I returned for several helpings, convinced everyone in the commissary—including Red Skelton, who had just walked in—was looking adoringly at me, too shy to ask for my autograph.

At home that night I sauntered into the kitchen, knowing my awaiting public would be there to greet me with cheers.

“HOWARD, STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” My mother was yelling at my brother, who had shredded his white paper napkin into french fry–shaped strips and stuck them up his nose.

“I hate Salisbury steak,” he screeched back. “I want Swiss steak!”

“You’ll eat what your mother puts in front of you,” my dad snapped.

I sat at the table and lay my napkin in my lap.

“Hey, Hill,” Dad said, “Sorry I wasn’t able to leave work and come to the show. How did it go?”

“Well, at first I was kinda shy—”

“Yeah, she sat there frozen, like a spazz!” Howard said, then threw a rolled-up piece of napkin at me.

“Nonsense, she was adorable,” my mother chimed in.

Adorable?
I started to perk up. “So then Mr. Linkletter asked me one more question—”

“Spazz,” my brother interrupted.

“Would you let me finish?!” I turned back to my dad. “And, well, I made everyone laugh when I said—”

The phone rang. My mom answered it and told my dad it was Mrs. Goldman from up the street, who said he had offered to help her decide where to put her new furniture. “She wants to know if you can come by now.”

My dad, a latent interior decorator, smiled. “Sure. Tell her I’ll be right over.”

I stood up and left the kitchen. I heard my dad calling, “Sorry, Hill. Tell me more when I get back?” As I walked up the stairs to my bedroom, I channeled Holly Golightly—English accent and all—whispering, “You don’t have to worry. I’ve taken care of myself for a long time.”

Again, for days I barely left my room. My mother forced me to go with her to Party Smarty, where she picked out colorful paper plates for one of her upcoming dinner parties, and every afternoon she insisted I ride my bike. Whenever she asked me what was wrong, I just said, “Nothing.” How could I explain? At the end of the week, she walked into my room without knocking. “Nanny sent you something.”

I lit up a bit, envisioning my grandmother who lived in Columbus, Ohio, sending me one of her famous packages of homemade cookies piled in layers of wax paper: thin, leaf-shaped shortbread, delicately covered in chocolate; butter cookies with dots of raspberry jam in the center. But my mother handed me an envelope. It was addressed to me in my grandmother’s distinct, curly handwriting and was stamped DO NOT BEND. I opened it and found a stack of black-and-white photographs. Of Art Linkletter’s
House Party
.

I looked closely at the snapshots. There seemed to have been some mix-up at the photo lab; my grandma had mistakenly sent pictures of some other girl from some other place and time. This girl was laughing—she even had a gleam in her eye.

As I studied the photographs, familiarity came into focus. I noticed the striped shift with the white Peter Pan collar and bouncy bow, the forehead fringed with messy bangs. I began to recognize who that child was. It wasn’t Elly May Clampett, Pollyanna, or even Holly Golightly. It was the little girl Dr. Troupe found fascinating. It was me.

• Even though Helen Keller dies, my fellow sixth-graders and I continue telling Helen Keller jokes. One of my favorites: What did Helen Keller’s parents do to punish her for swearing? Washed her hands with soap.
  
 

• I win first place at a “Hat Day” contest at my elementary school with a hat I made from a birdcage. Years later, I’ll see Anaïs Nin wearing a birdcage hat in the experimental film
  Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome.
  
 

• After delivering his “mountaintop” speech, Martin Luther King Jr. is assassinated. Riots break out in more than one hundred cities.
  
 

• My cousin, a college freshman, is one of the protesters who seize the administration building at Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, and hold the trustees hostage, demanding scholarships for African Americans. Just days later, student protesters at New York’s Columbia University take over the administration building and shut down the university for a week, causing police to storm the campus and violently remove the students and their supporters.
  
 

• Yippies are at the center of massive anti-war demonstrations at the Chicago Democratic National Convention.
  
 

• Apollo 8
  astronauts, the first humans to see the far side of the Moon and planet Earth as a whole, carry Silly Putty into space to alleviate boredom and, during weightlessness, use it to help fasten down tools. Meanwhile I’m busy using Silly Putty to lift impressions off my Archie, Dot, and Little Lotta comic books.
  
 

• Moments after declaring victory in the California Democratic presidential primary, Sen. Robert F. Kennedy is assassinated at the Ambassador Hotel.
  
 

• My friend Ava Atkins and I make love beads, then set up a stand to sell them on her street—busy Sunset Boulevard, where no cars can stop.
  
 

• I am crushed when the final episode of
  The Monkees
  airs but manage to perk up when two new groovy shows debut:
  Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In
  and
  The Mod Squad
  .
  
 

W
hen my progressive, liberal parents announced that I would be attending cotillion, I was sure they had lost their minds. Well, that was after they explained to me what cotillion even
was,
since in all my eleven years I had never before heard the word.

“Dance classes,” my mom said, as she cleared our empty TV dinner trays off the table. “It’s in a ballroom at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, and you get all dressed up. You even get to wear gloves.”

“Really?” I said, trying to contain my excitement. I appreciated that my parents would allow me to wear gloves again, considering the last time I did, I’d been suspended from the third grade.

But it made sense. My parents were always trying to convince me to wear more girlie things—well, actually
anything
other than my jeans and Monkees sweatshirt.

“It’s not just any cotillion, it’s Mrs. Paul Henreid’s,” my mom added, like I wasn’t already sold on the idea.

“Who’s that?”

“Paul Henreid’s a well-known actor,” my dad said, putting down his newspaper. “He did a famous scene in the movie
Now, Voyager
where he lights two cigarettes at one time.”

“Neat.”

“Your friends Ava and Karen are going, too,” Mom said as she put down a plate of Ding Dongs and Ring Dings. Could life get any better?

“When do I start?”

It was one long week before cotillion began. After school on Wednesday, Ava’s mom dropped the three of us off at the Beverly Hilton Hotel. We walked into the chandeliered ballroom, where it looked like all the white-gloved girls were attending an antibacteria convention. As usual, I was underdressed. While the other girls were clad in fancy white frocks—some with tulle that looked like atomic mushroom clouds—I wore a beige wool dress embroidered with psychedelic hippie flowers.

An older woman with two slashes of dark brown lipstick between her nose and chin welcomed us all in a thick, indistinguishable accent. “I am Mrs. Paul Henreid, and we’re so veddy happy to have you here wid us. I would like to introduce you to your teachah, my part-nah, Mrs. Marie Sawyer.”

A glamorous lady with an exotic poof of hair sculpted together with an entire can of Aqua Net, strolled gracefully to the middle of the vast ballroom. I had only seen hair like hers on mannequins at Bullocks department store.

“Welcome, young ladies and gentlemen. In cotillion we will teach you not only ballroom dancing but also proper manners and etiquette.” I felt pools of sweat forming in my armpits, and my wool hippie dress began to itch. “In our weeks together, you will learn how to curtsy and bow as well as fox-trot, waltz, tango, and cha-cha, all leading up to our…” she paused for effect, her manner creating a silent drum roll, “…
grand Trophy Ball!
”

A murmur of excitement swept the room. It was at this point I noticed in the corner an adorable boy with blond hair and dreamy blue eyes. He looked familiar but I couldn’t place him.

“Today we will begin with the cha-cha,” Mrs. Marie Sawyer said. “Boys, please form a line on one side, girls on the other.”

We stepped into our lines, and as I took my place next to Ava and Karen, I heard a few of the girls whispering. They motioned toward the boy with the dreamy blue eyes. “That’s Darby Hinton,” a girl in shiny patent leather shoes said.

“Who?” another girl with long, braided hair whispered back.

“He plays the son on the TV show
Daniel Boone
. I want him for my partner.”

The word startled me. Partner? We would dance with partners? Of course, that’s why the two lines. Well, if that were the case, then I wanted blue eyes to be
my
partner—I spotted him first, even
before
I knew he was Daniel Boone’s son.

Mrs. Sawyer stepped between the lines. “Before we begin, I would like you all to introduce yourselves. Ladies first.”

One by one, thirty girls in white gloves announced their names, giving me time to check everyone out. Two girls, Jamie and Kelly, said they were sisters. I remembered their names because I thought one day I’d like to be just like them—bubbly and jazzy. Also, it was hard not to notice that Kelly had the same dreamy eyes as the
Daniel Boone
boy. Too bad
she
couldn’t be my partner.

After the boys introduced themselves, Mrs. Sawyer chimed in, “I would also like you to meet the TAs—teacher’s assistants.” She introduced three teen girls, whose names I missed, and then the teen boy TAs—Jacques, an exotic foreigner; Scott, who wore a stylish turtleneck; and Corbin, a handsome blond teenager whose last name was Bernsen and who years later would star on
L.A. Law
. The TAs waved at us.

“Now boys,” Mrs. Sawyer said as she turned to the line of eleven-year-olds, “each of you please pick a partner.”

It was a smorgasbord of possibilities. Though my first choice was Kelly, I would be happy with Daniel Boone Jr. or any of the older TAs. I nonchalantly flipped my short hair back, waiting to see who’d whisk me away first.

Darby Hinton headed toward me but walked right past and went up to the bouncy sisters, offering his hand to Kelly. Darn. Two down. I stood still and watched as boys sauntered over, picking one, then another, then another girl. When the handsome boy TAs veered in my direction, I felt my skin grow hot. But they passed me by and asked Ava and Karen to dance. One by one pairs strolled off. And then I realized the horrible truth:
I was the only girl left standing in the line.
My heart sank. The remaining boy, the fattest boy, the boy who kept wiping his sweaty hands down the legs of his black suit pants, waddled over and put his arm out toward me. I hesitantly linked my arm through his and smiled an exaggerated, overcompensating smile, swallowing hard so that I wouldn’t cry.

Mrs. Sawyer began to lead the class in the cha-cha, and my two friends demonstrated steps with their handsome TA partners.

“One, two, cha-cha-cha. Three, four, cha-cha-cha.”

I felt awash in shame. I cha’d where I should have
cha’d,
stepped forward when I should have stepped back, and by the time everyone else seemed to have caught on, I was actually glad my partner was the loser boy—at least I didn’t mind stepping on his feet.

“Lovely, lovely,” Mrs. Sawyer cooed over everyone’s performance except for mine and my partner’s. “This will be one of the competitions at the Trophy Ball!” she chimed in an exaggerated fashion—Trrophhhy Baaallll. “So be sure to practice at home. Five, six, cha-cha-cha.”

When I arrived home that night and we all sat down to dinner, I begged my parents to let me quit.

“You were so excited about it,” my mother said, holding on to a tray of hot Tater Tots with a large, plaid oven mitt. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” I answered defensively. “It was just stupid. When am I ever going to need to curtsy or cha-cha? I’m not going back.”

For the next week, we had the same conversation nightly, while my brother drummed Beatles tunes on the table with his fork and knife, and my dad kept shushing him. Dad didn’t even care about cotillion, except for the fact that they had already paid for it. Mom, however, was adamant. “It’ll get better,” she kept saying, “just give it more time.”

It didn’t get better. In fact, it only got worse. Week after week I was the fat loser stuck with the fat loser boy, and my two winner friends danced with the winner TAs. I tripped doing the fox-trot, slipped doing the waltz, and when I was dipped during the tango, I prayed that my partner’s sweaty hands would lose their grip and I would drop to the floor cracking enough vertebrae to ensure I would never be able to dance again. No such luck.

And if I wasn’t miserable enough, each week Mrs. Sawyer reminded us again and again about the upcoming Trrophhhy Baaallll.

“It’ll be a star-studded night,” she’d say with a gleam in her eye.

I couldn’t imagine why any stars would want to come watch some lame dance contest featuring a bunch of eleven-year-olds.

The afternoon of the ball, I pretended I was sick so I didn’t have to go be humiliated in front of even more people, including my own parents. “So, I guess I’ll just have to miss it,” I croaked to my dad, feigning disappointment.

He didn’t buy it. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” he said.

“Fun? I’d rather eat shards of glass.”

When my parents and I arrived at the Beverly Hilton Hotel and parked in the self-park garage, we saw a line of limousines snaking in front of the entrance. Signs in ornate calligraphy pointed the way to Mrs. Paul Henreid’s Trophy Ball in the Grand Ballroom, which I discovered was much larger than the less-grand ballroom we had used for class each week. Round tables with white tablecloths and elegant bouquet centerpieces were arranged to face the dance floor. The silverware and crystal on the tables gleamed under the chandeliers.

We sat with the Atkinses and the Spences at a table across from the table where sisters Kelly and Jamie sat. When I looked at their mother, I felt this weird shiver crawl up my spine, and I had no idea why until Mrs. Atkins leaned toward my mom and dad and whispered in her Southern lilt, “Can you believe we’re sitting so close to Janet Leigh?”

No wonder I was creeped out. The last time I’d seen Kelly and Jamie Lee Curtis’s mom, it was on TV in a movie my babysitter had let me watch as long as I didn’t tell my parents—
a movie where she was naked and being stabbed to death in a shower
.

“And look over there,” Mrs. Spence chimed in, pointing to another table where a few of my classmates sat. “Michael Landon, Vincent Price, and Charlton Heston.”

“And there’s Jack Benny!” my mother yelped giddily.

I finally understood why Mrs. Sawyer kept saying the night would be “star-studded.” The stars studding the event were my classmates’
parents
.

Dad was leafing through the souvenir program placed on each plate. I peered over his shoulder and read the inside cover: “Guests of Honor—All Our Fathers,” and a list titled “Patrons and Patronesses.” Mr. and Mrs. Atkins were first on the list. I was trying to locate our name when suddenly I saw my dad’s bottom lip begin to curl. This only happened when he was really mad—like when we were at the Palm Springs 31 Flavors and the ice cream guy didn’t pack my Jamoca Almond Fudge tightly enough on my cone and, at first lick, the scoop fell onto the sidewalk, and then the guy wouldn’t fix it
or
give us our money back.

Dad elbowed Mom. Her finger traced the list, moving down the alphabet to the Cs. I could tell by the look on her face that our name was not on the list.

Oh no. I slinked down in my chair. Would my father get up and brazenly demand the wrong be righted just as he had at 31 Flavors? Would he embarrass me more than I already was? Was that even possible?

Thankfully, just in time to distract my father, Mrs. Paul Henreid, who hadn’t appeared since our very first class, strolled to a podium and leaned into a microphone that squealed with feedback. “Good evening Ladies und Gentlemen. I am honored to welcome you to Mrs. Paul Henreid’s Cotillion Trophy Ball of 1968!”

I sneaked a peek at my dad, who was now lighting a cigarette and sucking on it with his still-curled lip.

“I would like to introduce you to my husband, Paul Henreid.” The actor joined his wife at the podium, then began to speak. But I wasn’t listening. I was too busy concentrating on my father, wondering if now it would be him, instead of Paul Henreid, lighting up two cigarettes at one time.

Then Mrs. Henreid introduced Mrs. Marie Sawyer, who clapped her hands together and said, “Let the competition begin.”

The first dance she announced was the fox-trot. Crap. This was the one category I’d been assigned to compete in. My fat, sweaty partner approached with extended arm. I looked away from my parents so I wouldn’t see the disappointment on their faces.

Once on the floor, I curtsied; my partner bowed. There was no turning back now. We began, and while twenty young couples danced, several judges walked through, staring at our feet, our arms, our torsos, studying our every move.

My partner and I fox-trotted—or at least we attempted some unrecognizable semblance of what had once been considered the ballroom dance. After three excruciating minutes the music finally ended, and we all sat down. The parents clapped as enthusiastically as they could while maintaining their requisite Beverly Hills’ reserve.

The judges then moved to the podium and whispered to Mrs. Sawyer, who called out the names of the first-, second-, and third-place winners. Hmmm. Fascinating coincidence. Every winning couple included a child of a celebrity. Flashbulbs popped as the winners returned to the dance floor to receive their trophies.

I could finally take a breath. I had served my sentence, and in just an hour or so, I would be a free woman/girl. I could go back to my bike-riding, hill-climbing, Monkees sweatshirt-wearing days. The eight agonizing, humiliating, soul-crushing weeks of cotillion were almost over.

I dived into my cup of what the program called “Supreme of Fresh Fruit Princesse” and ate every bite. I glanced at the back of the program and read another list of people who “sponsored or presented trophies from 1958–1968 and their sons and daughters.” Eddie Albert, Lloyd Bridges, James Garner, Bob Hope, Jerry Lewis, Karl Malden, Jack Palance, Maureen O’Hara, Robert Wagner, and Natalie Wood.

What the hell were we doing here? My dad ran a baby furniture business. He had met my mom in Columbus, Ohio. The only stars I had ever seen in person were at the corner market: Miss Jane Hathaway, buying meatballs; and Alfred Hitchcock, who I overheard asking for his favorite ice cream, “Vanillllllllla.”

Thank God it was almost over.

The next two competition categories were the waltz and the tango. As more celebrities’ children won trophies, the rumbling at our table grew deeper and more pronounced. I personally had never expected to win, place, or even show, but Ava and Karen had. And clearly other “ordinary” children
and their parents
had as well.