by Stephanie Lessing

Chapter One

I’m not sure if this qualifies as some sort of obsessive compulsion or just a simple fear of children, but I’ve just taken my third consecutive home pregnancy test and I’m about to reach for my fourth. One can never be too sure, that’s why I’ve taken to buying these little sticks in bulk.

Of course the results are always negative, because the truth is I’ve only gotten my period maybe a handful of times in my entire life -- and I’m about to turn thirty. There’s obviously something wrong with me.

Something very unfemale.

And yet, I live in fear.

* * *

After twenty-six rings, I pick up the phone and then hang it back up. I like to think this is our little signal but in all likelihood Chloe isn’t aware of the fact that I’m trying to avoid her, which I can only mange to do for so long -- because she keeps calling back.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“So I imagined.”

“I was just wondering what you’re planning to wear tomorrow.”

“Shouldn’t you be asleep? It’s nine-thirty.”

“I was asleep. I had a nightmare.”

“About my clothes?”

“You were wearing a turban.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you.”

“Just tell me so I can picture it.”

“Either shorts or sweats, something nice, I’ll see.”

“I’m getting up and coming over to help you.”

“No you’re not. Go back to bed.”

“Zoe, you have to make them think you’re an ally. If you dress yourself, you’ll show up looking like an angry, confrontational, anti-social freak, who came from left field. Let me help you at least appear to be one of them.”

“I appreciate your faith in me, but the truth is I refuse to use some sort of wardrobing affectation as a tool to influence people. Either they’ll like and accept my ideas for the magazine or they won’t. I couldn’t care less what they think of my appearance.”

“So, really what you’re saying is you have no idea what to wear.”

“That too. But I’m on the verge of a break-through.”

“I know that’s not true and I know you’re pretending not to care. You’re the one who always says, ‘clothes make the man because they can make a woman believe anything.’”

“When did I ever say that?”

“I don’t know, but it got stuck in my head somehow. Even though I’m not even sure what it means.”

“Me neither, but if I did say it, I’m sure it was in the context of not giving a shit. There’s no sense in trying to hide what I am. I’m sure Dan’s already explained to the editors that I intend to make changes in the magazine -- changes that reflect my values. I don’t think they’re expecting someone to walk in there dressed like a model. But if you’re that afraid, come over and do what you have to do. I’ll wear whatever you want me to wear. I’ve got eight million other more important things to worry about and I’d like to get started obsessing on them right away. So let’s get this over with. ”

When Chloe arrives at my apartment, she’s wearing a velour sweat outfit with some kind of skirt over her pants, an abnormally long, skinny, knitted scarf around her neck -- and a pair of well-oiled cowboy boots. All this and it’s about eighty degrees outside.

“Is it cold in your apartment?” I ask.

“Don’t worry, I won’t pick out anything like this for you. I was half asleep when I got dressed.”

“I’m not worried. I don’t have any sort of ranch-wear or anything velour. In fact, I’ve got nothing. You were right in suspecting I was exaggerating when I hinted at a breakthrough. All I did was walk into my closet and then walk back out. I can’t imagine how you’re going to pass me off as a Deputy Editor of anything, least of all a fashion magazine.”

“I thought Michael finally threw that thing away,” she says pointing to the “Save the Peregrine Falcon” t-shirt I’m wearing. I’ve had it since middle school and it still fits me. For some reason, I stopped growing in seventh grade.

“Nope. I still have it. He tries to hide it from me every now and then but I always find it.” I look down at my t-shirt. The picture of the falcon is so hideous and frightening, no one would want to save it, and yet I can’t part with it. I have a thing for unlovable birds.

My sister and I make small talk for about thirty seconds and then she heads off to my closet to do her job. I follow her into my room and sit on the bed facing the window, trying to make it clear that I’m ignoring her, but she doesn’t notice things like being ignored and immediately tries to get me involved.

“How is this possible?” she calls out.

“How is what possible?” I call back.

“Everything in here is pea green.”

“Pea green is my favorite color.”

There’s a few moments of blissful silence but then she starts in again. “You don’t even own a belt or one pair of normal looking shoes or any pantyhose with feet and believe it or not, I just found your field hockey skirt from eighth grade.” Suddenly the tone of her voice changes and she says, “Although we might actually be able to use this somehow.”

I walk over and take a quick look at my sister who’s sitting on the floor of my grossly oversized closet, looking up. She’s always been the type of person who believes that if you pray very, very hard, things you really want will fall from the ceiling. She looks so hopeful in there despite the fact that the only thing my closet is really good for is hiding cartons of art supplies I have no intention of unpacking. I haven’t painted anything in months. At this point it’s healthier if I just forget I ever tried and use the cartons for additional seating -- particularly since I’m not really into decorating with furniture in the traditional sense.

Chloe spots a bunch of copies of Michael’s latest book hidden in the back of my closet. She digs one out and starts flipping through it.

“Is this the one he’s traveling around to promote?” she asks. She reads the title with the same degree of enthusiasm Michael intended, ‘The New Conservatism: It’s All Right!’”

“I’m afraid so and how embarrassing is that title?”

“You should be more supportive of the books he writes. He can’t help it if they’re boring.”

“I am supportive, considering how I feel about them.” I take the book out of her hand and glance over the back cover copy.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate his long-winded, antiquated notions of the importance of American polemic supremacy. On the contrary, I find it very comforting to know that I live ‘under the corpulent wing of the prodigious father of all other nations.’ I just can’t believe anyone would go around bragging about it. The fact that I am knowingly and willingly living and sleeping with a Republican makes me the biggest hypocrite I know.”

“I wonder if Dan’s a Republican,” Chloe says biting her lip.

Everything about my relationship with Michael reminds me of the time Chloe gave a speech in front of the entire school on how high school students need to get more involved in the animal rights movement. The speech was surprisingly educational; unfortunately, Chloe wore a fur vest to school that day.

The truth is I’m in love with Michael for all the wrong reasons. And by reasons, I mean key body parts. I can’t help myself. He’s so long and lean and muscular, all of his clothes lie perfectly flat on him. His long body and long straight bangs are a killer combination for someone of my height and hair texture. Sometimes I think our whole relationship hinges on the fact that I admire him for never looking wrinkled. And like most couples whose relationships are based on purely external features, we’ve learned how to live with our differences simply by fighting.

“I need at least one shirt with buttons to create the illusion of professionalism,” Chloe suddenly yells out again, out of nowhere, trying to sound authoritative. I almost forgot she was in there.

“Michael’s closet has loads of shirts with buttons. Feel free to look in there. And check out how all his shirts face the same way. ”

While Chloe meanders back and forth between the two closets, I go back and sit on my bed and open my laptop. I still can’t believe that in less than twenty-four hours I’ll have access to the minds of literally millions of highly competitive, willingly objectified, brainwashed fashion and beauty addicts. Once I hold up a mirror to the inner workings of the self-destructive girlish psyche and show them how to stop physically and intellectually starving themselves to compete for male attention, they’ll finally be empowered to redirect their collective energy toward competing against those very same men.

It’s imperative that we get ourselves elected to positions of real power that will enable us to make the kinds of decisions that affect our minds, our bodies and ultimately our collective fate on this planet. It’s now or never. We’ve got to stop undermining one another and start building the bigger, better team. What if Oprah gets hit by car? Then what?

I glance at my headline ideas for tomorrow’s editorial meeting, hoping I’ve chosen a voice that the readers of Issues will relate to and understand. I need to appeal to them on their level and then somehow lead them down a path they’d ordinarily ignore. It’s very difficult for me to talk like them and think like them without sounding a little condescending or as though I’m just outright laughing at them. Some of them could be cheerleaders for all I know. The idea is to strike just the right chord, gain their trust and then enlighten them with just the right dose of humor about the way girls of all ages think and behave. That’s the first step toward recovery. I think these article ideas are a perfect vehicle for change:

Do You Despise Your Female Boss, Your Female Co-Workers, Most of Your
Girlfriends and Pretty Much All of Your Female Relatives? If So, You’re Not Alone!

Why Your Girl Boss Hates You Way More Than You Hate Any of Those Other
People!

Why Your Girl Boss Is Mean to You When You Dress up For Work!

Why Girls are Mean to Redheads, Fat Girls, Girls with Freakishly Large Breasts and Sluts!

Why Some Girls Eat Their Makeup!

Why Some Girls’ Teeth Fall Out When They Drive Over Speed Bumps!

Why Your Mother-in Law Still Shops in the Junior Department

I close my screen and try to hear what Chloe is saying. She sounds upset. I really can’t blame her, but she brought this upon herself.

“You don’t own one decent pair of black pants. What if somebody dies on short notice? I wish you had told me a few days ago.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Well, I hate to tell you this, but your only real option is to wear one of Michael’s shirts tomorrow. We’ll just have to roll up the sleeves and cut about two feet off the bottom. You can wear it with your field hockey skirt. That’s the best I can do.”

“Fine. Now go home and get some sleep. You look exhausted.”

“Are you kidding? That’s one outfit. I want to set you up for at least a month.”

“That’s totally unnecessary. I’ll be fine. I’m working on a plan.”

“Me too! I can already see you in a tight little 1940’s wool boucle jacket with a peplum, a knee-length, straight skirt and some really pretty vintage jewelry and pearls. It’s a shame the stores are closed. I’d love to take care of this while the concept is fresh in my mind.”

Somehow she got a second wind.

“Are you sure that’s me you’re seeing?” I ask.

“I’m positive, why?”

“Well, seeing as how I’m four-eleven, I tend to look like a prison guard in knee-length skirts. And I don’t think I should wear short, tight little jackets either,” I say, pointing to my unwieldy set of thirty-six double Ds.

“Okay, how about if we replace the jacket with a beaded sweater? You don’t have to wear the sweater, of course. Just keep it hanging on the back of your chair.”

“I have to dress my chair, too?”

“You don’t have to. But I’m trying to help you blend in. Everyone at Issues dresses their chairs with either a sweater or a cute jacket or a really adorable handbag.”

I’m already thinking my usual ugly, unblendable thoughts.

“I’m afraid dressing my chair simply isn’t in the cards at this particular juncture in my life, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never own any of the articles of clothing you just described either.”

“Work with me, Zoe. Just do a little fill-in shopping first thing in the morning and then swing by the magazine. I’ll just explain to Dan that you don’t own any clothing so you weren’t able to come in right at nine.”

“I can’t be late on my first day because I went shopping. That would be blatantly taking advantage of the fact that Dan is your husband.”

“So?” she shrugs, her eyes still scanning my closet. “What’s in that box over there?” She’s pointing to a huge carton in the corner that I was hoping would eventually shrivel up and disappear if I ignored it long enough.

“I have no idea.”

“I think there’re clothes in there,” she says.

“How can you tell?” I ask, squinting at it.

“I just have a feeling.”

I begin to pry it open. Chloe could very well be sensing something I’m naturally ill equipped to detect.

As soon as I lift one corner, I spot a big ball of t-shirts. I rip off the rest of the tape and stare into the box.

“I think you’re going to be a little disappointed,” I announce once I’ve gotten a good look.

“There must be something good in there,” Chloe says, gently nudging me aside. At first she doesn’t comment on the fact that there’s hardly anything in the box. Instead she starts pulling things out and throwing them on the floor. When the box is empty, we both stare at the wee little pile.

“How many outfits did you say you wanted to make? Because I’m thinking thirty is probably an unrealistic number at this point.”

“What are we going to do?” Chloe asks. I think she might actually cry over this.

“I can always wash and repeat. I once wore the exact same thing three days in a row when I worked for The Radical Mind. Actually, I was wearing a different pair of pants and shirt each of the three days, but they were triplicates of each other, so no one believed my clothes were clean by the third day. It was pretty amusing over there, but I doubt it would go over well at a place like Issues.”

“Did you do it to be funny?”

“No. I thought I had a little look going.”

“When you have a little look going, you still have to change something about the outfit every day. Do you even speak English?”

Odd as that question may sound, I can explain.

When Chloe was a little more than a year old, and I was three, she fell down a full flight of stairs while trying to balance in a pair of our mother’s high heels. Ever since then, it’s almost as though she has two brains. One normally functioning brain and one tiny, hard of hearing brain that doesn’t realize the other brain just said something.

I’ll never forget that day. She had just taken her very first steps only a few days before and, even without shoes, had yet to master the finer points of walking. Like most toddlers, she had a tendency to take a running start, flailing her arms around, drunk with power, unencumbered by any specific plan, time frame or even a clearly defined destination. In an effort to steady herself, she was always grabbing on to objects that made no sense. Like she’d pick up the phone receiver or a candy dish or a bottle of wine. Things were always crashing to the floor as she walked by.

I remember when she first appeared at the top of the steps in those giant heels. I felt my heart skip a beat. My whole body went stiff. The next thing I knew, she was on her way down, headfirst.

I saw the whole thing from the bottom of the stairs where I was playing with a Tonka truck (a stinging detail that never fails to humiliate me).

She must have hit her head at least seventeen times. I was so scared; I started crying hysterically, but Chloe didn’t even care. She just reached up to check that her little hair clip was still in place and then turned around and went right back up the steps. “Where are you going now?” I screamed, petrified to let her out of my sight.

“New shoes,” she answered, and then returned moments later wearing the exact same lethal pumps in a different color. I should have recognized this as an early warning that my sister would one day assign shoes, in general, much more importance than they deserve, and that her goal in life would be to grow up and become shoe editor of a fashion magazine -- which she did.
I’ve been watching Chloe like a hawk ever since and I still hold that fall responsible for half the things she does and says.

Years later when I saw her line up her shoes and assign them various office jobs, I got a flashback of her flying down the steps and naturally assumed that she was suffering from some sort of post-traumatic schizophrenia caused by the repeated head bashings. And when I witnessed her dressing up in grown women’s clothing and applying about twenty coats of lipstick so she could fire herself in the mirror for showing up to work ten hours late, I really started to get frightened. I spoke privately about it to our pediatrician, who explained that my sister was engaging in a common form of play that many normal little girls enjoy, known as “make-believe.”

Peculiar as that seemed to me at the time, I was nevertheless relieved. But I kept my eye on her, just in case.

Chloe starts sorting through the little pile of clothes, shaking her head as though I’m the one with all the mental problems. And then she spots my black boots.

“What are those?”

“They’re my boots, Chloe. You know that. You see me wear them every single day. I don’t know what I would do without them. They go with everything,” I say as quickly as I can before she has a chance to criticize them.

“What’s all over them?”

“I think it’s mold.”

She picks up a t-shirt and holds it between her thumb and index finger, keeping it as far away from her body as possible, as though it’s infested with red ants.

“Where do people buy these Ramona t-shirts?” she asks.

“Look carefully, Chloe. It says Ramones.”

“Oh right, like that old band. I almost forgot about your punk phase.”

“Punk phase? I had one band shirt and it wasn’t even mine. I would never let myself fall into the grips of any sort of pseudo counter-culture club that enslaves its members by forcing them to adhere to some mono-toned, graphically-uninspired, formulaic dress code. That’s why I refused to become a Brownie, remember?”

She’s ignoring me now because she’s preoccupied with separating my clothing into three distinct piles: Garbage, To Be Ironed and Maybe. There is no “Yes” pile as of yet. For some reason, one of my favorite t-shirts is in the Garbage pile.

“Are you throwing that away?” I ask.

“Of course I’m throwing it away. It has a hole in it,” she says, careful not to look me in the eye.

“No, it doesn’t. I just wore that t-shirt the other day.”

“I guess a moth ate it in the meantime,” she answers, faking a bored yawn.

“That’s impossible, Chloe. You ripped it. Didn’t you?”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve been standing right here this whole time.”

“No, I was sitting over there going over my notes a few short minutes ago. Don’t rip stuff you don’t like. Just put it in the Maybe pile.”

“Okay, fine,” she says.

I can’t believe her. Even I wouldn’t rip an article of someone else’s clothing just because I didn’t like it. Actually, I would. But I’d be more likely to do it while it was still on them.

She looks around some more and lets out a big sigh. We both walk toward the living area and she sits down on the box I was just about to sit on. I could really use some more cartons in this room.

“We’re going to be up all night. Call Dan and tell him I’m sleeping over,” she says.

Chloe’s husband, Dan, happens to be the editor-in-chief of Issues magazine, which is run by his father, his uncles and to some degree his mother. Chloe had been working at the magazine for about a month or so when Dan discovered her locked in the magazine’s shoe closet talking out loud to a pair of Mary Janes. He fell in love with her that same day. Then he met me and fell in love with my articles on the politics of corporate prostitution, women who compete with one another in the workplace using skirt lengths and heel height as their weaponry, liposuction addicts and girls who just go ahead and tweeze their eyebrows right off without any sort of a backup plan and offered me a job.

I accepted the job Dan offered me under one condition. I forced him to make Chloe Shoe Editor. It was something she’s wanted her entire life and I wanted her to have it. It was a mortifying moment for everyone, but Dan, like most good husbands, proved he isn’t opposed to humiliating himself to make his wife happy. Now that I’ll be working with my sister, I’ll be able to watch over her all the time.

“Are you going to keep that hat?” Chloe asks, pointing to my old beret, which landed in the Maybe pile.

“Yup.”

“May I ask why you bought it?”

“It was an emergency. My hair puffed up out of nowhere and I had to give a presentation to the volunteers for my WOMEN IN CRISIS group. I needed the hat so as not to make a mockery of the situation.”

“Big hair is very in I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah, well, not for me it isn’t.”

I tug on the ends of my hair to make sure it still reaches my waist. I never cut it, but it’s so incredibly stubborn, every now and then I find a slightly shorter, stray curl reaching for the sun. I guess for old time’s sake.

My entire childhood was ruined because of my hair -- that and my complete lack of any sort of social skills. In retrospect, the thing I found most perplexing about being a kid was that most of the girls in my class reminded me exactly of Chloe. They looked like Chloe, dressed like Chloe, talked like Chloe, and played like Chloe, though none of them had sustained multiple blows to the head at any time in their lives. Believe me, I asked. Not even a mild concussion.

It was almost as if my sister had been a member of this exclusive club I had no idea existed. They all seemed to know things instinctively that would take me years to figure out. They operated according to a completely different set of rules than the ones I had made up for myself. Almost like a secret code.

For instance, unlike the other girls, I thought that if I liked a boy, I should alert him immediately. How else was he supposed to know? Since I liked all the boys in the class, I just wrote one note that said, “I like you!” and passed it around. The other girls wrote notes to boys that said, “I don’t like you.” A lot of good that will do them, I thought.

Go figure.

That’s the interesting thing about secret codes. You have to crack them.
Everything girls did and said was a mystery to me. On my very first day of school, my mom begged me to wear the little jean mini skirt she had just bought, but I insisted on dressing more conservatively. There was something freakishly adult-like about me and I wanted to make sure the teacher knew I was a serious student. So I wore brown shoes with a buckle, navy blue anklets, a sort of brownish, greenish, gray dress that was hemmed just below my knees and what I thought was a very arresting red cardigan.

Although I’m still completely inept at dressing myself to create any sort of desirable affect, I do recall that outfit being particularly morbid. I’ll never forget my first day of Kindergarten.

“Well, how was it? Did you have a good day? Did you make any friends?” my mom asked. She was standing at the door with this huge, hopeful grin on her face. My heart went out to her, it really did, but I had to tell her the truth.

“Well, mom, I’m not sure if this qualifies as a good day, but here’s how it went: The teacher opened the door to greet us and then told us all to just walk around and introduce ourselves. I must have misunderstood her because I walked right out the door. I wasn’t sure what the purpose of the walking around the hall exercise was all about, but later realized I didn’t hear her say the part about introducing ourselves.

“While I was walking around in circles in the hallway, I suddenly felt the urge to run. I ran back and forth for a while, which made me feel surprisingly better, until the fourth grade science teacher discovered me. Once he returned me to my classroom, I noticed that everyone was sort of clumped together in the middle of the room. I walked right into the middle of the huddle and attempted to shake hands with a few of the girls, but no one really felt like shaking hands once they all knew each other. After a few minutes, I sat down on a chair next to the coat closet. Finally, a girl named Caren Westman came up to me and asked, ‘Are you going to wear that wig all day?’

“‘What wig?’ I asked her.

“‘The “Annie” wig,’ she said, tapping her foot as though she thought I was pretending not to know.

“‘This is my regular hair,’ I told her and then a few minutes later, she told on me. Can you believe that?”

“She told on you? For doing what?”

“For not sharing. I guess it was impossible for her to believe that anyone was actually born with an orange wig as hair.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” my mother said.

“Yeah, well, it would seem that way, but I’m not. And it gets worse. When the teacher asked us to find seats in the circle, I asked this girl, Emily Coddington, if I could sit in the empty seat next to her, but she said, ‘no.’
“’Why not?’ I asked her. ‘Everyone else is already sitting down and there’s no one in this chair.’ But she said she was saving it, on the off chance someone else decided to sit there later. So I had to sort of kneel down next to the chair so the teacher wouldn’t think I was standing.”

At this point, my mom, who normally forbade my sister and I to even smell sugar, took out all the cookies that my dad had hidden around the house and lined them up in front of me.

I took a bite of a Vanilla Wafer and said, “Oh yeah, and then this other girl, Ellen Clark, who I was eighty percent sure was going to be my best friend for the whole year, told the teacher I said she looked like a corpse. . . .which was entirely untrue.”

“Wait a minute. Who did you call a corpse? The teacher or Ellen?” my mom asked.

“Neither, but Ellen said I called the teacher a corpse.

And then this girl Mary Alice colored in her upper lip with magic marker and when one of the boys told her it looked horrible, she wiped it off on my cardigan. Oh and then, by mistake,

I ate Morgan Bogdanfy’s lunch instead of mine. Morgan had two Ho Ho’s in her lunch and a bag of real potato chips. I thought it was mine, sort of, otherwise I never would have eaten the entire thing, and when I offered her the lunch you packed for me, you know the one with the green tea marinated tofu chunks and the unsalted organic soy chips, she put her head down and started crying uncontrollably. She cried for so long, I thought she was going to pass out, but then, out of nowhere, she stopped and looked up at me.

“She just sat there staring at me for the longest time, almost as though she thought she knew me from somewhere else. Her head was tilted and she had this really curious expression on her face, so I thought she was going to say something like, ‘Wow, where did you buy that dress?’ but she didn’t say that. She just continued staring and slowly tilting her head from side to side, like something was confusing her, and then she said, ‘Are you a clown?’

“Oh and just as I was getting on the bus, I peed in my pants a tiny bit by accident. So, how was your day mom? Make any new friends? Cause I’m pretty sure I didn’t. And, by the way, thanks for mentioning that when you said goodbye to me this morning, you were planning to drop me off in hell.”

“Did you remember to bring home your cardigan?” she asked, reaching for the cake mix with one hand and stirring a vat of chocolate pudding with the other.

“As a matter of fact, no. I gave it to Caroline Prichard because she swore on a stack of invisible holy Bibles (that only she and five other girls could see) that it was hers.”

“Why didn’t you tell the teacher?” my mother asked. She was clearly distraught but trying to retain an air of subtlety.

“Why would I tell that corpse some girl took my cardigan? Anyway, I didn’t want it anymore. It had magic marker and saliva all over it and besides, I’ve got her shoes,” I answered, feeling justice had been somewhat served. My mom looked down at my feet, which were neatly tucked away in the toes of a brand new pair of sneakers that were at least four sizes too big for me.

“How old is Caroline Prichard?” she asked, looking at the giant shoes engulfing my tiny feet and imagining I had given up my cardigan to a grown woman.

“She’s my age, mom,” I said. “See how big her shoes are? That’s how big her feet are and that’s how big most of the kids in my class’s feet are. Is there a reason why you never mentioned that I’m a midget?”

“You’re not a midget! You’re just small for age. You’ll grow. Everyone grows. And don’t use that word,” she said, trying to convince herself.

She immediately looked up Prichard in the school directory and marched over to the phone. As she was waiting for Mrs. Prichard to answer, she asked me, “How did Caroline Prichard fit into your shoes?”

“I have no idea. She’s no Cinderella, I’ll tell you that. My guess is that she bent the heels down and wore them as slip-ons. I can’t be sure, though. I never actually saw her wearing them. Basically, she just said, ‘That’s my cardigan.’ And I said, ‘No, it’s not.’ And then she did that whole swearing on a stack of Bibles thing, surrounded by all of her friends, so I said, ‘Yeah, well, those are my sneakers,’ and she said, ‘Here, take them. See what I care.’ And then she took them off and threw them at my feet so I threw mine at her too. And that was that. I didn’t wait around to make sure she was comfortable with the fit.”

I could tell my mom was a little nervous to talk to Caroline’s mom, but the strangest thing happened. Something I never would’ve imagined in a thousand years. After only a few minutes on the phone, my mom started laughing. I mean, really laughing. At one point, I heard her say, “cute sneakers,” and then I could swear I heard, “Touche!” And then, a few minutes later, she said, “Bloomingdale’s.” The only explanation I could come up with was that my mom was challenging Mrs. Prichard to some sort of a duel in a nearby department store. And then it dawned on me. My mother and Mrs. Prichard were becoming friends by way of (and here’s the clincher) cracking jokes and pretending nothing mattered. I grabbed a pen and started taking notes.

As soon as I wrote, How To Make Friends: A) Say something funny and B) Act like nothing matters, I got an overwhelming sense that I was in serious trouble. How in the world would I be able to convince myself that nothing mattered when everything mattered so much to me? My only hope was to get my hands on a couple of really good joke books.

The next day, I officially began my study of girls. I recorded the way they interacted with one another, entire conversations, word for word, what they wore and how they did their hair. I was particularly interested in hair talk because my hair spoke volumes about me from every possible angle and I was anxious to try my hand at figuring out what the other girls were trying to make their hair say when they experimented with different hairstyles. Day after day, they sauntered into class with their long new headbands and up-dos.

“I’m a fun girl!” said Jennifer’s high ponytail on Monday.

“Fun girl. Got it!” said Rachel’s high ponytail on Tuesday.

“I’m trendy,” said Andrea’s hair clip with the dangling Lucite balls.

“I’m pretty no matter what I do,” said Laura’s defiant pigtail buns.

“Don’t even think about coming near me,” said Mary Alice’s lice on Wednesday.

I tried to fashion my curly dome into some fun shapes too, you know, for the hell of it, but no matter what I did, it always popped back into a perfect semi-circle by the end of the day. I even tried to crazy glue some of my curls directly on to my scalp, but my hair is immune to things like glue.
By the time seventh grade rolled around, I finally figured out that if you let curly hair grow long enough, it eventually keels right over. That was the same year I discovered that if you color your hair, it’s no longer red. From the moment I saw myself with dark hair, I knew there was no turning back.
Coloring my hair is the only thing I do that falls under the category of careful grooming. That and the constant showering. The showering is more of a disorder though. I think it stems from the fact that our mother bathed Chloe and me in Phisohex every night for the first three years of our lives. If we played with other children, we soaked in it for at least forty-five minutes. They eventually took Phisohex off the market -- probably because they got wind of how our mother was using it. I recently found out it’s back on the market and it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to run out and buy it. When you’ve been bathed exclusively in germicide for a number of years, regular soap is a pale substitute.

Chloe walks over to my bed and starts reading my notes.

“What is this stuff?” she asks.

“Those are just some headline ideas I was planning to present tomorrow when Dan introduces me to the other editors -- just to sort of give them an idea of what direction I’d like to take the editorial. I think these ideas will really hit home. Look at all the exclamation marks I used!”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, why?”

“These article ideas are totally sarcastic, Chloe! What could you possibly be thinking?”

“I’m just trying to subtly engage them in a little self-deprecating humor.”

“There is nothing subtle about any of this and I think you should know that the editors of Issues never engage in self-deprecating humor. They engage in hair and makeup. I know your intentions are to cure girls of their bad behavior so they can no longer be reduced to stereotypes but in the end you’re going to be the one accused of stereotyping. I promise you, Zoe, no one is going to get this bizarre method of rehabilitation you’ve cooked up.” She scrolls down a little further, her eyes bulging, “And how could you possibly suggest putting Michael Moore on the cover of our fall fashion issue?”

“I’m only suggesting Michael because he embodies the spirit of the underdog and the infinite possibilities that are created when the oppressed band together. Women need a role model, Chloe.”

“But he’s not even a girl. And what does any of this have to do with updating your wardrobe?”

“Look, we’ve got to turn Issues into something that will empower and transform our readers into intelligent, civic-minded individuals. Once we get our audience to understand the importance of banding together as a collective force in both government and the corporate world -- instead of encouraging them to sit around wallowing in who’s wearing what or who’s dating who -- the world, as we know it, will never be the same.”

“But he doesn’t even brush his hair.”

“You’re missing my point. Women need to form a coalition. In order to do that, they must first take a good long look at why they can’t get their minds off their hair, their bodies, their clothes and their obsession with undermining one another. Magazines have always pitted them against one another for the sake of their advertisers’ profits. And they keep upping the ante, forcing girls to think they need more of this and more of that to outdo one another when there are a lot more important things we could be teaching them. But first they need to really look at themselves -- and laugh -- before they can change.”

“Zoe, there are plenty of dull magazines out there for people who don’t care what they look like and besides, girls need to undermine one another. That’s how they make friends.”

“There are other ways to make friends and there will still be plenty of fashion and beauty advice, but it will be health-conscious, self-esteem building advice. Someone should at least tell our audience that it doesn’t make sense to look at girls who are five-foot nine and weigh ninety-eight pounds for outfits that will look good on them -- considering that the majority of our readers are between five-foot three and five-foot six and weigh somewhere between one-thirty and one-sixty.”

“I know our readers. They want fashion tips and beauty advice from tall, skinny girls, period,” she says and slides off the bed. As she’s walking back to my closet, she turns to look at me for a second. She looks incredibly sad.

“Chloe, I thought you were happy that I’m coming to work with you,” I say, watching her sift through the little Maybe pile.

“I was happy because I thought we’d be able to go out to lunch. I understood your plan to incorporate girl relationships into the editorial but I thought you were going to do it in a nice way.”

“How could you think that? When was the last time I was nice to anyone?
She’s walking toward me with a pair of beige socks in her hand. She puts them on the bed.

“I know they’re beige. They’re dad’s,” I say before she has a chance to say anything.

“Personally, I blame your entire clothing situation on Sarah Lawrence. Mom should have put her foot down, but you were so adamant about going there. All they did was turn you into a slob. Now we have nothing to work with. What a waste of money that place was.”

“Granted, I’m not the best dressed girl in New York City, Chloe, but college opened my eyes.”

“Opened your eyes to what? How ridiculous it is to be feminine? You should have gone to charm school, not Sarah Lawrence. Look Zoe, I think it’s great that you want girls to recognize the absurdity of their own behavior, but you have to admit, your sense of humor is a little off.”

“I like that skirt you’re wearing,” I say, changing the subject.

“You do?”

“Yup,” I say. It works every time.

“Do you want it?”

“Nah.”

“Well, take it anyway. It’s way too short on me. I wore it to work a few days ago and I think my underwear was showing all day. It’ll be perfect on you.”

“Look at that. Now I have two outfits. Maybe I’ll wear it tomorrow instead of my hockey skirt.”

“I just told you, I wore it the other day.”

“So?”

“So, no. You can’t wear it. That’s a basic rule. You can’t wear something right after I wore it. Every one will know it’s mine. How could you not know that?”

“No one will notice.”

“Uh, that’s all they’ll notice.”

“Fine, I’ll wear it the next day.”

“No, you have to wait at least a month, and even that’s risky. But try it on anyway,” she says.

“I hate trying on clothes.”

“Then at least try on the outfit I picked out for you to wear tomorrow. If there’s anything wrong with it, you need to know now. You don’t want any surprises and you’re going to be late tomorrow morning as it is.”

“Why am I going to be late?”

“Because you’re going shopping, remember?”

Like that’ll ever happen.

Chloe takes off the skirt and gives it to me. It’s brown corduroy with a brown leather buckle on each side. I think it might look great with a subtle pea green t-shirt. As soon as she takes it off, I ask her if I can have her velour pants, too. She takes them off immediately and I tell her I was only kidding.

But then I have to turn around for a second because I don’t want to laugh at her underwear. They have a ruffle on each hip. Sometimes I think she might actually be a little retarded. I slip off my t-shirt and reach for my hockey skirt and the white shirt she found in Michael’s closet. At that moment, Michael walks through the bedroom door. I’m wearing a bra and underpants and Chloe is wearing her velour sweatshirt jacket, those frilly underpants and her boots. She lost the scarf in the meantime.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” I say, standing on the balls of my feet to reach him.

“I’m not complaining, but is there a reason you’re hanging out in your underwear?” he asks, hugging me back.

“Chloe is outfitting me so we can fool everyone into thinking I’m one of the girls tomorrow.”

“Really? Since when do you care about dressing like a girl?”

“I don’t, but she seems to think it’s important for me to look the part.”

“As a ruse?”

“They’ll have their guard up if she walks in there looking like some radical feminist.”

“Good thinking, but what’s going to happen when she opens her mouth? And cute underpants, by the way.”

“You really like them?” she asks, ignoring his question.

“They’re a little out-there for me, but you look nice in them,” he says.
Chloe puts her pants on, and I put on the outfit she picked out for me. Once I’m dressed, he gives me the thumbs up and then squints a little and asks, “Is that my shirt?”

“I didn’t have anything with buttons. What do you think?”

“I think you look a hell of a lot better in it than I do.”

“Then you won’t mind if I cut the bottom off of it?” I ask, slipping it off.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says and kisses me on the head. We talk for a few more minutes and then Chloe hugs us both good night. As she’s leaving, she turns around and looks at me.

“What are you looking at?” I ask.

“Did they get bigger?” she asks, pointing at my chest.

“I think so.”

“Wow. That’s truly amazing.”

“I think they get a tiny bit bigger every year.”

“I always forget how big your chest is compared to the rest of you. It’s uncanny, if you really think about it.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Which reminds me, we need to go bra shopping too.”

“Why, what’s wrong with my bra?” I ask, while quickly slipping Michael’s shirt back on and wrapping it around me.

“It doesn’t fit you and it makes your breasts look like torpedoes.”

“In a bad way?” I ask, without looking in their direction. I typically avoid looking down at them unless they’ve caught on fire or something. They do look a bit more obtrusive than usual.

About three seconds after Chloe’s gone, Michael and I have sex. I should have taken the shirt off first, but I couldn’t wait. I really missed him. It’s looking a little rumpled at this point and now the collar won’t seem to stay down on one side. I guess it’ll be fine if I smooth it out a bit.

While we’re having sex for the second time, I look down and notice that two of the buttons are now dangling by a thread and it’s significantly more wrinkled. It occurs to me that I should try to take it off, but Michael won’t stop moving.

When it’s all over, I take the shirt off and lay it down on the floor. I vigorously rub my palms back and forth on my thighs to heat them up so I can flatten out some of the deeper creases. I can see now why irons are so popular. Next I take off the hockey skirt and lay it down neatly next to the shirt.

After I shower, I quickly take another pregnancy test and get back into bed, while Michael goes into a long, elaborate description of the discussion he had defending our current administration with the poor guy who was unlucky enough to sit next to him on the plane. As he’s talking, I get up and pick up my black combat boots and put them down next to my skirt and Michael’s shirt. I think they look pretty good together -- all things considered. Besides, no one will notice.

Copyright © 2006 Stephanie Lessing