Free Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase by Jen Lancaster

arrival and being allowed to enter the school at first bell. And that’s when Kari and Jodi strike, catching me on the steps by the front door.
    “Nice pants, jerkface!” Kari hisses.
    “Yeah, they’re from Boston, too,” I smugly reply.
    “So what? You’re not allowed to wear them. It’s after Labor Day. Duh.” Jodi laughs.
    Now wait a minute, if Crestview Junior High suddenly has a dress code based on national holidays, why was I not informed? Seriously, I’m a compulsive rule follower. If this is now law, shouldn’t someone have sent a note home?
    The girls don’t get any more time to tease me because the bell rings. I dash to the bulletin board in the main hallway to see if there’s something written up about wearing white, but there’s only a poster advising me to have a safe and happy holiday weekend. What the hell?
    Kari and Jodi quickly come up behind me and then they really start cackling. When I got dressed this morning, I grabbed the first pair of white underwear I found. Unfortunately, they were the ones with “Bloomie’s” stenciled on the backside . . . which is totally visible through my sheer slacks.
    They stay behind me, shrieking and pointing and calling people over to look at my pants. My brother’s asshole friend Criss follows me all the way to the third floor, saying, “Hey? What do your pants say? What do your pants say?” Even though I have some friends at school, no one helps me. No one defends me. I’m on my own.
    Gym class, which I normally hate, can’t come soon enough, because I just happen to have an extra pair of underwear in my gym bag. Like I said, I am Always Prepared . They’re pale pink and you can sort of see the color through the pant fabric but it’s way better than advertising a department store back there, no matter how upscale.
    Today we’re square dancing, which according to my dad is absolutely the best use of his educational tax dollars. He says perhaps someone can also teach me to run a cash register and load a truck since that’s all anyone will be qualified to do after graduating from this lousy school. I make the mistake of repeating this to a classmate and my gym teacher hears me and takes me aside to yell at me for having a bad attitude. 44
    I’m already feeling kind of raw today and when Miss Franklin shouts at me, the only way I keep from crying is by focusing on her hair, which is frosted with white tips. She looks like she stuck her head in a snow bank. I mean, I may only be eleven and have committed the fashion faux pas of wearing white pants after Labor Day, but even I know that basing your hairstyle on inclement weather is a Glamour Don’t.
    As we do-si-do and promenade, it occurs to me that my mom is wrong. Appearances do matter. Clothes count. Grooming is important. And the right look may well give me the power to stop bullies.
    I don’t know how to fix myself yet.
    But I’m going to find out.

Part Two

    The Eighties

Take a Picture, It Lasts Longer

    (Jordache Jeans, Part One)
    “ You look way awesome .”
    With a wink and a lopsided grin, photographer Mike Matthews confirms what I already know. Hella-yes, I look awesome!
    But . . . perhaps I’d better check again, just to be sure?
    I glance in the mirror of my slim brown Cover Girl compact. The iridescent blue liner I carefully applied on the inner rims of my eyelids is staying in place nicely and my navy mascara hasn’t smudged a bit. The three shades of purple shadow I use totally complement the plaid of my lavender oxford as well as the fuchsia Izod I’m wearing underneath it. (Asking if my collar is popped is like asking if Michael Jackson can moonwalk. I mean, duh .)
    My lips are coated in the sparkly pink-gold “Italian Sunrise” gloss I bought at Spencer’s Gifts and it makes my pout totally kiss-able. 45 My hair’s just the right amount of poufy and feathered nicely, even though I can’t quite get it to meet in two symmetrical wings in the back like my neighbor Sara