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 Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jen Lancaster
are full of kids from neighboring farms. Just like one of those E. F. Hutton commercials, the second I step on the bus and attempt to find a place, all conversation stops and everyone stares at me. Sure, it’s nice to be noticed, but not like this. No one speaks to me. They just stare. Jaws hang slack. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear dueling banjos at this point. 28
School is five miles away in the middle of a soybean field and I count seven different kinds of livestock en route. 29 The school bus is a virtual oven and I can feel a bead of sweat roll between my shoulder blades, so I stuff the shawl in my book bag. The heat magnifies every odor and there’s a sickly-sweet smell coming from the floor. I try to open a window but the dirty kid next to me tells me I’m not allowed to touch them while the bus is in motion. Sure. Great. I’ll just breathe through my shawl, shall I?
My mom registered me last week, so I know where I’m supposed to go. I make my way to the sixth-grade classroom and take a seat. All the desks in the back are full, so I wind up in the front row. When the bell rings, my new teacher Mr. Hauenstein welcomes us to sixth grade and mentions he sees new faces and he asks me to introduce myself to the class first.
I stand up and turn around, assessing the students for the first time, and I realize I’m the only person not in jeans or some variety of T-shirt. A few of the kids are even wearing their barn boots because they came to school directly after feeding their livestock. Guess that explains why the bus smelled like poop.
The kids in the class look me up and down. I shift in my clogs, adjust my shawl, and begin. “Hi, I’m Jennifah Lancastah and we just moved heah from Bergenfield, New Jersey, which is right outsiddah New Yawk City.”
A few giggles erupt in the back of the room.
Did I just say something funny? I turn to Mr. Hauenstein for guidance and he encourages me to tell the class more about myself.
“Um, I’ve been a Girl Scout for a coupla yeahs and I also usta play violin in the orchestrah.” The tittering gets louder and I see kids using their hands to cover their mouths. “My ballet teachah was a membah of a real New Yawk ballet company and took the train from the city fuh class every week. Right befowah we moved, we wah gettin ready to do powint wahk in toe shoes.”
I fear I may be losing the room for some reason. Then it occurs to me there are no orchestras or principal dancers with the American Ballet Theatre here in Cow Town and I’ve got to do something quick to be more relatable. I decide to end my introduction with the statement I’m sure will turn all these farm kids toward my side. “And I like hawses!”
What feels like several years later, the laughter in the room finally stops. Red-faced and shaking, I take my seat. As I do, I hear a kid in the back row mumble, “Hey, New Joisey, nice clawwwwghs,” and then the giggling starts again.
Yeah?
We’ll see how funny these clogs are when I use them to kick you in the jimmies at recess.
I manage to make it through the first week of school without stomping on anyone’s spleen, but not without effort. There’s another new kid in my class, too. My dad brought his dad out here from Boston to help run his distribution center. The other new kid also has an accent, and every time he speaks he gets the same treatment as I do. How is his saying “idear” instead of “idea” any more weird than when local kids talk about the “crick” that runs behind their houses or how George “Warshington” was our first president?
Regardless, I’ve been studying the newscasters on the Fort Wayne 21 Alive! ABC affiliate and trying to make myself sound like them. Yes, I’d like to stand out, but for cool stuff like my shoes and not because of how I sound. I’m finding if I try really hard and pay attention to every word that comes out of my mouth, I can approximate the regional dialect. I look forward to it
School is five miles away in the middle of a soybean field and I count seven different kinds of livestock en route. 29 The school bus is a virtual oven and I can feel a bead of sweat roll between my shoulder blades, so I stuff the shawl in my book bag. The heat magnifies every odor and there’s a sickly-sweet smell coming from the floor. I try to open a window but the dirty kid next to me tells me I’m not allowed to touch them while the bus is in motion. Sure. Great. I’ll just breathe through my shawl, shall I?
My mom registered me last week, so I know where I’m supposed to go. I make my way to the sixth-grade classroom and take a seat. All the desks in the back are full, so I wind up in the front row. When the bell rings, my new teacher Mr. Hauenstein welcomes us to sixth grade and mentions he sees new faces and he asks me to introduce myself to the class first.
I stand up and turn around, assessing the students for the first time, and I realize I’m the only person not in jeans or some variety of T-shirt. A few of the kids are even wearing their barn boots because they came to school directly after feeding their livestock. Guess that explains why the bus smelled like poop.
The kids in the class look me up and down. I shift in my clogs, adjust my shawl, and begin. “Hi, I’m Jennifah Lancastah and we just moved heah from Bergenfield, New Jersey, which is right outsiddah New Yawk City.”
A few giggles erupt in the back of the room.
Did I just say something funny? I turn to Mr. Hauenstein for guidance and he encourages me to tell the class more about myself.
“Um, I’ve been a Girl Scout for a coupla yeahs and I also usta play violin in the orchestrah.” The tittering gets louder and I see kids using their hands to cover their mouths. “My ballet teachah was a membah of a real New Yawk ballet company and took the train from the city fuh class every week. Right befowah we moved, we wah gettin ready to do powint wahk in toe shoes.”
I fear I may be losing the room for some reason. Then it occurs to me there are no orchestras or principal dancers with the American Ballet Theatre here in Cow Town and I’ve got to do something quick to be more relatable. I decide to end my introduction with the statement I’m sure will turn all these farm kids toward my side. “And I like hawses!”
What feels like several years later, the laughter in the room finally stops. Red-faced and shaking, I take my seat. As I do, I hear a kid in the back row mumble, “Hey, New Joisey, nice clawwwwghs,” and then the giggling starts again.
Yeah?
We’ll see how funny these clogs are when I use them to kick you in the jimmies at recess.
I manage to make it through the first week of school without stomping on anyone’s spleen, but not without effort. There’s another new kid in my class, too. My dad brought his dad out here from Boston to help run his distribution center. The other new kid also has an accent, and every time he speaks he gets the same treatment as I do. How is his saying “idear” instead of “idea” any more weird than when local kids talk about the “crick” that runs behind their houses or how George “Warshington” was our first president?
Regardless, I’ve been studying the newscasters on the Fort Wayne 21 Alive! ABC affiliate and trying to make myself sound like them. Yes, I’d like to stand out, but for cool stuff like my shoes and not because of how I sound. I’m finding if I try really hard and pay attention to every word that comes out of my mouth, I can approximate the regional dialect. I look forward to it
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