Chapter 2
After speech class, the FAFSA sat on my dresser, taunting me. It was a whole booklet. I opened it. I had all sorts of questions about the questions. What was an adjusted gross income? I slapped it down, biting my lip. Maybe I could call Bryan and ask him about it. I doubt he knew.
Why was this so hard? Half of these questions, I didn’t know the answer.
Then I flipped open to a page asking for my parents’ marital status. With coals stoking in my insides, I closed the booklet.
I couldn’t fill out the form. I’d have to find a job somewhere other than the library. Where else had books?
Marie sat at her desk and studiously did her homework. She was so self-disciplined, so perfect.
“Hey, other than the university library, where could I get a job with books?”
“You like books?”
Like books? Reading was my escape from reality. Where we lived out in the boonies, the Internet connection was so spotty we couldn’t stream anything. But reading drew me in. Between buttery pages was my one happy place. I could sit and read for hours and be completely swallowed in another world.
“You could try some local used bookstores. Or maybe the thrift store.”
Thrift store! That was one place I knew well! Only one small thrift store existed in Honeyvale, but they knew me. Although most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from Gayle, if I needed shoes, since I had bigger feet than her, we’d head to the Second Life thrift store. And the last Tuesday of every month, anything you could stuff in a plastic grocery bag was only three bucks! I loaded up on shoes, belts, and other accessories. I made a mental note to check for jobs at the local thrift store. I needed a job soon! But right now I needed to focus on schoolwork, like this terrifying speech about myself my teacher assigned us earlier this afternoon. I didn’t know where to start.
* * *
My nerves rankled my spirit.I couldn’t even think straight. Terrified was an understatement. First week of class and already we had an assignment.
I stood behind the wooden pulpit, my mouth dry, my armpits wet. The students stared at me, expressionless.
Introductory Speech. Comm 101.
My speech was supposed to be only three minutes, but I timed myself last night, and it dragged to five. I had to keep it quick and snappy.
“Your time starts now, Gabby,” said Michael Dune, the adjunct faculty running the class. One of the cool things about college was the ability to call your teachers by their first names.
He sat in the front row of the stadium seats of the lecture hall, a pen poised above a yellow legal pad.
Quivering, I started. “My name is Gabby VanGunderson.” I swallowed hard.
Every student slouched in a chair. A few in the back texted. Nobody wanted to be in this required class. But they were supposed to listen and give feedback.
“I grew up in a small town east of Tucson…”
My speech wasn’t rambling. I had carefully written to avoid any mention of goats or livestock. But I was surprised when Michael called, “Time.”
Mid-sentence, I stopped. My face flamed to my ears. I hadn’t even finished. Dejected, I moved toward my seat. I wanted out of the hot spot as soon as possible.
“No. Stay up there for your critique.” Michael waved me back.
I hid behind the podium again, wincing against the coming pain.
“Alright. Who has some positive things to say about Gabby’s speech?”
Crickets.
“Okay.” Michael glanced at his notes. “I saw a few good things.”
A boy in the back had his feet on the seat in front of him. “I like how she knew her name.”
The class erupted in laughter. My face flushed. What a stupid compliment! Of course I knew my name.
Michael ignored him but read notes from the small desk attached to the stadium seats. “You structured your speech well.”
He seemed to really be searching. My scalp itched from the sweat prickling my body. I just wanted to get away from this podium!
Michael turned in his seat to address the class behind him. “Now does anyone have any constructive critiques for Gabby?”
The same boy in the back raised his hand. “It stinks.”
Laughter again from my peers.
I wanted to pelt the boy.
“That’s not a constructive critique. Perhaps you can elaborate on what you found objectionable so Gabby can improve.”
Sounded like Michael didn’t like the peevish boy either. I hope he flunks him.
“The whole thing just stunk to high heaven.”
“Saying it stunk is not helpful.”
From his tone, I guessed Michael lost his patience.
“Anybody else?”
Michael nodded to a girl in the front—one of those Put-Together girls in a pastel cashmere sweater—when she raised a delicate hand. “Her slumping shoulders implied she was self-conscious, that she didn’t want to be up there. It’s a real turn-off to us as listeners if the speaker doesn’t think the message is important.”
“Good.” Michael still faced the students. “What else?”
Did he agree with her? My face burned so hot you could bake cookies on it. Didn’t anyone care I was broiling up here?
One other kid raised his hand. “Apart from her utter lack of self-confidence, she also didn’t seem to care about us as an audience. She never looked up from her notes.”
Well, I was nervous I’d forget something. I didn’t want to see them staring at me.
“Eye contact with your audience is good.” Michael flipped to a new piece of paper and asked, “Who’s next?”
Finally! An air of relief washed over me. I’d never been so happy to feel my chair! Mortification pounded through every part of my body. How could I ever come to class again? Maybe I could drop the class and take it again next semester when the articulate jerk in the back wasn’t there. He seemed to only know one word: stinks. I couldn’t wait until he got up there. Boy, would I say something scathing about him! What made him think he can get away with telling people their speeches stunk?
At the end of class, Michael hailed me. “Gabby, can you come here for a minute?”
I stepped out of the crush of people making their way toward the door. Dejected, I stared at my shoes.
When the last student filed out, he inhaled. “You did a great job accepting criticism today.”
“Yeah, especially since my speech sucked.” I spoke from the corner of my mouth.
“Don’t worry about Gable. He’s failed this class twice. He needs it to graduate so hopefully he won’t be bothering you too much this semester.” His eyes were so dreamy. I liked how he looked at me, sideways with his head slightly tilted like he wasn’t sure how to take me. “Besides,” he said. “It didn’t suck. You need to work on your skills, but everybody has to. That’s why this class is required. Don’t be discouraged. Your next one will be better.”
A change in the atmospheric pressure must’ve happened because I was pretty sure I floated out of that class. Michael Dune was totally hot and totally encouraging!
I added another item to my list:
3. Not be Self-Conscious
Walking out of class, I crossed the mall, a grassy area where students lounged and ate lunch or studied. Then across the street, I saw a familiar outline. My blood froze, despite the triple digits.
Beau.
I would recognize him anywhere. My heart crashed against my ribs! He was here at UA?
After brutally breaking up with me two years ago, I had avoided him like the plague—like a mortifying plague that cut off fingers and toes. I didn’t even know he was attending UA. Was it too late to transfer?
No. No. This was fine. Over thirty thousand people attended school here. I ducked into the Student Union to avoid him. What were the odds that I would actually see him again?
* * *
My first weekof college was disastrous. The failed speech attempt wasn’t the only bomb. I needed to make some changes, and I needed to make them quick. I reviewed my list of needed improvements and jotted notes:
1. Learn how not to be frumpy
I mean everyone could make some improvements right? I mean, look at my roommates. They were as clueless as me. Except Marie of course.
2. Learn how to be well-spoken (and figure out how to say hard things)
I added especially with guys. This sounded really simple. Most girls my age already know how to talk to guys. But I was all thumbs. And I was not talking about texting. I didn’t know how to talk to guys much less text them. Thinking about that guy in the library, what could I have done better? He seemed so nice, and I blew it!
3. Not be self-conscious
My speech was a disaster. But then I wrote,
3a. Be self-confident
I also added:
4. Figure out who I want to be
I meant, for the rest of my life. What did I want to do? I’d like to make decisions about career, and hopefully love. I needed to make a plan for the rest of my life and stick to it! I did not want to be like Gayle floating through life with no plans.
5. Iron out all my personality flaws.
Oh, boy! Did I have these in bucket loads! I bit my nails, I talked about myself too much, I overate, and I didn’t have any manners.
6. Stop being so negative about myself.
I sent my vision out into the universe and waited for the universe to reply and show me the path.
The universe responded in two weeks.
The answer literally knocked me in the head. At work.
I’d been hired at St. Albert’s Thrift Shop on Speedway, an old strip mall converted to a charity warehouse, that was filled floor to rafters with the odd detritus of American cast-off consumerism.
Of course, the best thing about working here wasn’t the pay—which was piddly. The workers got first dibs on all the new books! Though I loved to escape into fiction, non-fiction books were the jelly to my fiction peanut butter. I combed the shelves looking for odd or interesting books. Trivia books were the best, following by books on how things work and self-help books.
I spied an interesting book, high up on the shelf just above my reach entitled, One Hundred Events that Shaped the World.
The books were wedged tightly together. Releasing one required grasping the top of the spine and yanking it downward with great force. Well, as the book was just out of my reach, I dragged the plastic milkcrate filled with books to shelve and carefully balanced my feet on opposite sides of the bin.
I still had to give the spine a good yank. The book come free, but I felt my carefully placed feet teetering.
Losing my balance, my arms flailed for anything to hold. I snatched the shelf, the only stable thing within my reach, but it was too late! The bin underneath me capsized. My feet failed under me. My hand brought the shelf down on top of me with a thundering crash of books, like a mudslide.
Ow! I reached up and rubbed my head where a particularly large hardbound book had struck my head and landed with its covers open, expecting a hug. Smarting and annoyed, I picked up the book and slapped it closed. In pale blue ink on pink binding was the title:
Mrs. Prim’s Primer to Poise, Charm, and Beauty
A casual glance through the pages showed drawings of Audrey Hepburn-era girls with clutches, scarves, and kitten heels under headings such as “Accessories,” “Beautification,” and “Hair and Nails.”
I gasped in awe at pencil-drawn two-tone illustrations. Faces with pink lips and long eyelashes smiled at me.
Flipping back to the front, I found Section 3: Charm—Conversation and Communication.
I hugged the book to my chest. Did I want it! All the answers to life’s hard questions popped from the page. I turned a few more pages. The book seemed to be a course of instruction instead of just a how-to book, with practice exercises after each chapter.
Hardcover meant I had to pay half the cover price. I flipped it over. No barcode or pricing info.
Curious, I balanced the book in one hand and opened to the publishing information. My eyes scanned the information looking for a date. When I saw it, I sucked in my breath.
1962.
This book was antique! Classic! Retro. I hugged it to my chest again. What a find! This book would change my life.
I asked my supervisor about it. She said it was a course book for a class. And since it didn’t have a barcode, I could have it for free.
Free!
I admired the cover again. The course had to be the answer to all my problems. This book would transform me and help me find my true self. I couldn’t wait to get started.
* * *
We calledto order our second roommate meeting to discuss The Book.
I placed it on our coffee table for all to see. “I found this book at the thrift store today. I think we could all really use it.”
Even Kat pored over it like it was the Holy Grail or something. “This is so retro!”
Marie flipped through the contents. “This is the kind of stuff that we learned when I was in the Miss Social Teen pageants.”
No surprise Marie was in pageants.
“We should read it,” I said. “I’d like to learn to dress better.”
Kat nodded. “Maybe it will help me get a boyfriend.”
Marie smiled.
Lisa was the only holdout. She stuck her nose in the air. “I don’t need a book to tell me how to dress.” She sniffed. “I’m fine. I don’t need to learn anything to get a boyfriend.”
Raising a brow, I glanced at her outdated jeans and overly-modest attire.
“You don’t need a boyfriend. You’ve got romance books.” Kat hit the book away from Lisa’s hands.
Scowling, Lisa picked up the book and walloped Kat with it.
“Friends.” Marie held out manicured hands. “Let’s not fight. What Gabby found is not just for attracting boys. The lessons in this book are for ourselves. This book can help us be more self-assured. So we can feel self-confidence in a job interview and acquire the career we want.”
“And if it happens to score us hot dates, that wouldn’t be so bad either.” Kat waggled her brows.
Lisa rolled her eyes behind her glasses and continued to read.
Marie held the book in her lap. “All in favor of reading this book together every night, raise their hands.”
I held my breath. Three of us raised our hands.
“Lisa!” Marie hit her slightly on the shoulder.
“I don’t care if you read it out loud. Just don’t expect me to listen or to participate in your beauty bible rituals.”
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Close enough to agreement. What should we start with?”
Kat flipped to through to the Table of Contents. “Holy cow! There’s like a bazillion chapters in here!”
“But only ten sections.” Marie withdrew the book from Kat, delivering it to me. “How about we read them one by one?”
“Okay.” I cracked open the tome to the Table of Contents so everyone who wanted could see. “‘Section 1: Introduction,’” I read the chapters under that section with a loud voice so even Lisa would have to listen. “‘Section 2: Personal Hygiene.’ I think we’ve all got that mastered, right?” I glanced up and everyone nodded. The solemnity settled upon us. “‘Section 3: Charm—Conversation and Communication.’” I took a deep breath.
Kat rolled her eyes. “Don’t read the title of every chapter. Just the sections and a hint of what they’re about.”
I nodded. “‘Section 4: Poise:—Body and Posture.’ This is how to walk and sit so you don’t look like a slouch. ‘Section 5: Beautification.’ Tons of chapters on makeup, even a chapter on choosing perfume. ‘Section 6: Clothing and Body Type.’ Chapter one is how to determine your figure type”—I flipped through several chapters—“clear down to accessories and shoes.” I needed that! “‘Section 7: Diet and Exercise.’ These exercises might be a little out-dated. They looked like face yoga and leg lifts. We might need to up that game. ‘Section 8: Hair and Nails.’ There’s a chapter on picking your hairstyle that flatters your face. ‘Section 9: Body Spa.’ Looks like home remedies for spa treatments. And ‘Section 10: Improving Your Soul.’ Looks like several chapters on do-gooding. There you have it!” I let out a big breath, sitting back on my feet.
I knew where I wanted to start, but this was to be a group project. The tips contained in this book weren’t just for me. We all needed this transforming guide. Lisa needed manners. Kat needed self-awareness. Marie needed nothing, and I needed everything.
“Let’s start with beautification,” Marie said.
Kat shrugged. “I don’t think it’ll have a chapter on black lipstick, but you never know.”
“All right, section five,” I said, flipping the pages open to that section. But then I stopped. “Before we start, I think we should make a collective promise that we’ll follow whatever the book says. If you promise, put your hands on the book.”
“Like make an oath?” Marie’s eyes lit up.
Slapping the book on the coffee table, I nodded.
Kat shrugged, already into a digital game on her phone.
“I’ll do it.” Marie placed her hand with pink painted nails on the book. “Great idea.”
I smiled and touched the book. “I will, too.”
Marie smoothed her dark hair to face the others. “Come on you two, if we don’t all do it, the book won’t work its magic.”
Kat paused her game and coiled her hand around until it landed on the soft baby pink cover.
Lisa rolled her eyes and dropped a pinky onto the linen cover.
I led the oath. “Repeat after me: I promise…”
“I promise,” they all repeated in unison.
“To read from the book faithfully….”
“To read from the book faithfully.”
“Every night and follow its precepts.”
“Gah, do I have to say it?” Lisa asked.
Marie gave her a nervy stare.
“Every night and follow its precepts.” Lisa rolled her eyes and finished, trailing behind everyone else.
“Good.” I sat back.
“Good,” Kat said.
I frowned. “You can stop repeating everything I say.”
“You can stop…oh.” Kat returned to her game.
I returned to the book. It tingled in my hands. I flipped it open and read the heading in a loud, clear voice:
“Beautification, Section Five: Chapter One, Surround Yourself With Beauty. ‘Before picking a flower from a tree, one must be sure that the flower will continue to blossom. A late bloomer may be best, for it will bloom longest—Mrs. Prim’s Primer of Poise, Charm and Beauty.’”
“It seems,” I said, skimming the chapter. That we need to not just beautify us, but we need to have a clean environment.
“‘Before starting with your person, be sure your dwelling is impeccably clean and tidy. Organization is beauty. Everything must have a place but not every place must have a thing. If you do not use it at least once a year, clear it out from your life. It will only drag you down.’”
I skimmed the chapter. Mrs. Prim seemed to have opinions about everything. There was no way we would get Lisa to keep up her part of the chores or keep her stuff out of the common areas. Or toss any of her extraneous stuff. We needed to focus on something we could control.
“All right,” Marie said, chewing on her lip, presumably thinking the same thing I was about Lisa. “Skip to the part about personal beauty.”
I skimmed a few pages on personal organization then halted at the next chapter.
“Ah, here we go.” I cleared my voice. “‘True beauty radiates from within. While there is scientific evidence as to the rules of beauty, symmetry, and proportion, don’t be discouraged if your face doesn’t match up to the ideal. All women are beautiful. You must build on that foundation. You’ll be surprised at how much beauty can come from just a few small changes.’”
I glanced up. My voice was already getting hoarse. Kat and Lisa weren’t really paying attention. “Let’s just read this silently together.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and that is you. You have to be happy with how you look. Every time you look in the mirror, smile, whether you appreciate what you see or not. Having a positive reaction will help establish how you feel about yourself. But remember, the rest of us are looking too, and if you are going to put forth the effort of getting dressed, you might as well do it beautifully. Beauty comes from within.”
I pored over the book with the greatest of unease. Makeup, beauty, hairstyling—not my strong suits.
Marie read over my shoulder.
Anxiety bubbled up. I shook my head. “Give me a registered doe and tell me to groom her, train her, and feed her, and I could give you a beautiful, milk-producing, award-winning goat, but me?” I glanced to the wobbly and obviously plastic full-length mirror leaning against the wall in front of the hall, testing my smile. “I can’t do it.”
But I didn’t like what I saw. My boring brown hair hung in a bangless pony from the back of my neck, limp, and wispy. I wore an oversized T-shirt I stole from either my dad or Bryan. And some baggy cargo pants hiding my figure. My brows grew into one uniform mass over my eyes.
Sensing my self-doubt, Marie slid the book from my hands, forcing me to stare at her. “If someone gave you a scrawny little kid, could you make that goat into showmanship quality?”
I nodded, tears pricking my eyes. “As long as there was nothing physically wrong with the goat, no broken bones or missing teeth.”
“Okay, you’ve got good bones,” Marie continued. “What would you do first? For the goat, I mean.”
I sighed, then blew my nose. “I’d first train the goat for great muscle tone and feed it well.”
“All right. Exercise program. Morning aerobics with me. What next?”
That made me laugh. “I’d also make sure she was clean.”
“Hygiene: check! We can look into more about that.”
“And well-groomed.”
Marie bit her lips together. “How do those things help it be a show goat?”
“It helps the judges to see its potential. Judges have a hard time seeing past the fa?ade to the quality.”
“People are no different than goat judges. Even if you had a great, producing goat, you would still groom her, right?”
I nodded.
“Then you should take the same care for yourself.”
A shock of realization flooded into me: I took better care of my goats than I did of myself.
“Think of all those people on campus as judges. They will walk right past even if you are a great producer. You have to show them who you are by being who you are, inside and out.”
I glanced to the mirror again. All these years I’d treated goats with more respect than I treated myself. I knew their value and made sure it came across to the judges, yet hoped that other people would see me for who I was without making the same effort.
“I don’t know where to start.”
Marie ran a thumb across my monobrow. “Oh, I do. Let’s read the chapter about makeup.”
“That’s toward the middle.” I flipped through a couple of sections. “Beautification. This section is huge.”
Marie slapped the book closed. “Don’t read it now. We’ll come back to it. I’ll let you use my stuff tonight. Later, we can go shopping and buy your own.” Marie already owned a whole makeup counter’s supply of stuff. She led me into the bathroom, and sat me on the lidded toilet facing her. “Let’s just try a small experiment.”
With a flourish, she handed me a tube and a weird contraption. I wrinkled my nose. It looked torturous. “What is this?”
Marie frowned. “It’s an eyelash curler. And this is mascara.”
I recoiled, my shoulders rising to my ears. I wanted to grab my mildewy-smelling bath towel and cover my head. “But I’ve never used an eyelash curler before or mascara.” Nor had I ever applied eyeliner before. I gulped. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
Marie sighed, sharpening her eye pencil. “I have my work cut out for me. We obviously don’t wear the same foundation.”
She helped me blink my way through application, taking the small brush and running it over my lashes.
The mascara weighed on my eyelashes and made me more aware of blinking because now I could see flashes of the lashes when I blinked. Eyeliner was tricky, but Marie didn’t blind me, so I guess it was a win. Then she worked down the rest of my face, finishing with my lips.
When she was done, she held out a hand mirror. “Transformation number one complete.”
For seven full seconds I stared at the mirror. My eyes looked larger, more pronounced—attractive even. “That’s not me.”
“Of course, it’s you.”
I held the mirror sideways, still taking in the difference. “The person staring at my reflection doesn’t look like me.”
“It’s you.” Marie squeezed my shoulders in a little hug. “And you were beautiful before, we just had to emphasize it. And we only did your eyes.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl in the mirror. I looked so different. My eyes, which I once thought boring and plain, now popped with the help of liner and mascara.
“I look different.” I wanted to meet the unfamiliar with the person looking back. This was a girl worth smiling at.
Marie dusted her hands and re-zipped her makeup bag. “You look beautiful. All I did was use liner to bring out your eyes. The rest is just you. It was there all the time.”
“Wow!” I wanted to go somewhere and show off my new eyes. But then I looked down at what I was wearing; my baggy khakis and T-shirt didn’t seem to match the rest of me anymore.
“What’s next?”
Marie plucked at my pony hanging lifelessly down my back. “Next, is hair.”
That night after I wiped away the eye makeup, I slid under my knotted sheet.
Marie turned out the light and climbed to her bed. “You know, outer transformations are easy and sometimes superficial.”
“What do you mean?” At first, Marie’s nighttime talks troubled me. My sister Gayle went right to sleep in our shared bedroom. And when she got older, she came home too late for such conversations. And my dad rarely talked to me. Bryan was probably my closest confidant.
Marie rolled above me. “If we only focus on beauty, we’ll nurture conceit and vanity.”
“True. Any outer transformations should be balanced with inner transformations.” My head sunk into my decades-old ratty pillow. It smelled like armpit. I flipped to my back.
“We need to find something to transform our souls.”
“Any ideas?” I focused on the curtains blowing in the swamp cooler. Through the vertical blinds, light from the street sliced lines into our room.
“No, but when I find something I’ll let you know.”
Inner beauty baffled me more than outer beauty. Would I ever catch up to Marie?