It was a warm spring day, and I was walking Liza home from the bus stop. We weren’t really friends, exactly; but she lived in my neighborhood, so sometimes we would hang out after school or on a particularly tedious summer day. She was a member of the Popular Establishment of our grade, one of about ten girls who had positioned themselves in kindergarten as the homecoming queens and cheerleaders-to-be.
As we headed down the slope of Willowcrest Way, Liza asked me, apropos of nothing, “Do you think you’re pretty?”
I kicked a pebble down the hill with the toe of my Nike cleats, which were tied with fluorescent shoelaces (one traffic-cop orange, one eye-melting chartreuse – Allison and I had each bought a pair in one color, and traded one so we could be wearing the same combination on our matching shoes).
“No,” I said, without really considering the question. This was clearly a matter of fact, and I knew the facts.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
I pushed my glasses up on my nose. “Yes.”
“You’re right.”
We rounded a bend in the road. I tugged on the end of one of my braids.
She asked, in the same even tone – not maliciously, but curiously, as though asking whether I preferred dogs or cats, or what I wanted to be when I grew up, “Do you think you’re popular?”
“No,” I said. There was really no other answer for this. I anticipated the next question and glanced at her, considering her frizzy brown hair and pink headband.
After a beat, “Do you think I’m popular?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re right.”
That was in fourth grade. By then, I was pretty universally regarded as a nerd – as I’ve pointed out, this was in part due to my own behavior, which was never a conscious rejection of conformity; but rather just me being me, a bookwormy, Laura Ingalls Wilder-loving, studious, earnest, horse-playing kid who happened to love wearing my Girl Scout uniform to school (it was important, after all, to show everyone that I had so many badges that I couldn’t fit them all on one sash).
In sixth grade, Liza went further down the road of relational aggression (when I read “Odd Girl Out” a few years ago, I put the book down and cried – I’d never known that this was an actual thing, a phenomenon: girls triangulating members of their group and ousting each other from multilateral friendships). This time, she turned my best friend against me.
They were in the same homeroom, and Liza smelled an opportunity on the first day of school. I sensed it right away. She would pull Allison aside in the lunch line or make a show of sitting next to her in assembly, being sure every time that I saw them talking – “Allison, c’mere. I gotta tell you something.” Allison and I still spent time together, but something was different. She started reading “Sweet Valley High” books while I was still poring over “Caddie Woodlawn” and the Anastasia Krupnik series. (Really, she was a victim here as well -- I've never blamed her for any of this). What tore my stomach to shreds was the little stuff – the whispering, the giggling, the conspiratorial looks. Before long, I could hardly stand to go to school.
One day after winter break, I was wearing an all-new outfit that combined every conceivable trend of the mid-1980s: a studded chambray shirt, pleated-front overalls, gold ballet flats and a gold “crocodile” purse.* I had gotten the whole thing for Christmas, and I was feeling fabulous. In Language Arts, I got up to sharpen my pencil. Liza gave Allison a Look, popped out of her seat and beelined over to me. Loud enough for everyone to hear, she said, “I LOVE your outfit.” She snickered audibly and smirked as she sauntered back to her desk. A few people laughed. Between classes, I told the teacher I felt sick and called my mom to come pick me up. I never wore the outfit again.
* Let’s set aside the fact that this outfit was shriekingly hideous and I now thank heavens that no one ever photographed me in it. Seriously, though, who ever believed that an 11-by-17-inch purse made of the most synthetic material possible and sporting a wrist-loop, and, of course, COVERED IN FAUX GOLD material and embossed to look like reptile skin, was a good idea? What in God’s name was going on in the 80s? The shoulder pads, the hair, the large belts, the jelly bracelets? WHY? WHY????
I don’t really remember whether Liza just lost interest in tormenting me vis-à-vis my best friend, or maybe the school year just ended. I do know that I loathed her on through high school, while she probably forgot that any of this ever happened. Meanwhile, Allison and I went through typical girlfriend rough patches in junior high, deciding at various moments to be best friends with different people, for no apparent reason. But we always made up, and I still put my half of our “Best Friends” necklace around her eighth grade school picture in my photo album. And by the end of high school, the drama was over. Of course, now I consider our friendship to be one of the most important relationships in my life (in addition to my family and my husband) and I lament on a daily basis that we live so far apart.
It’s still shocking to me that the conversation with Liza took place. More significantly, it’s disheartening that girls engage in this kind of behavior all the time. I envy men and their utterly uncomplicated friendships. They can be out of touch for years without anyone wondering, “Is he mad at me? What did I do? Is it because of that time I told him he should pluck his eyebrows back in 1993?” They can openly congratulate themselves for being in terrific physical shape without anyone thinking twice about it or ripping them to shreds behind their back (“Ugh, did you SEE those weeny triceps? As if he can bench 350 – dream on!”). They can tell each other, “Dude, you look like shit today,” and still go out for a beer later on. It’s no wonder that so many women surround themselves with guy friends. Who needs all the pressure?
Amazingly, even as an adult I’ve been subjected to more of this crap. Two women attorneys who used to work in my department decided they didn’t like me (it had to do with a guy) and would exchange mean instant messages about me and send paralegals to “spy” on me. They would whisper and giggle in my general direction and give each other meaningful looks at lunches and firm functions. This time, I was able to laugh it off as the pathetic display it was. It was so staggering to me that two women, over 30 and highly educated, would stoop to this embarrassing and childish conduct. I still can’t get my head around it. Thankfully, they’ve long since left, and the women I work with now are well-adjusted and secure people who have advanced beyond the fourth grade level in their emotional maturity.
As for Liza, she’s still back in our hometown, married and raising a family of her own. She seems to be happy, and I’m happy for her. I just hope that she has all boys. I’d hate for her to have daughters who might not be pretty or popular.
**cringe**
I remember that like it was yesterday.
Posted by: Allison | May 08, 2006 at 08:46 PM