Chapter Nine

Candice wears her new skirt to school, and it does not go unnoticed.

You’d think by the end of the day the shocked expressions or the number of people doing double takes when I walk into a classroom would die down. Yeah, well, they’re not.

                If anything, more eyes of on me now that when I first stepped out of Shannon’s mom’s car. Let me tell you how much fun that car ride was. Shannon was proud, her mother was appalled and I sat in silence while they bickered over what my sudden change in apparel meant. Shannon claimed maturity, Mrs. Jones stuck to the more traditional ‘she’s troubled’ mentality.

                I just want to wear a damn skirt! I shaved my legs for the first time in a very long time, let me have this. Granted, it’s probably not so much the clothing choice that’s being questioned so much as the person wearing it. After all, I’m just Sweatpants Girl.

                Seated in the back of class, per usual, everyone’s heads are turned around. Only this time, I didn’t get asked a question and start stumbling through an answer. All I did was sit down.

                Shannon notices it too, and with her being the knowledgeable one on all things high school, she’s eager to point out exactly what’s happening. “Candice, you’re borderline popular right now.”

                Popular? God, I f*****g hate that word. I hate its connotations, I hate that it exists. Hate, hate, hate. I can’t emphasize that enough.  

                “You’ve had eight periods to get over this and you’re still gawking.”

                Shannon anchors her head down, her chin drawing closer to her sternum. “New clothes, big words? Who are you? Where’s Candice?” She grabs the ends of my hair and lifts them up, acting as if she’s searching for something on the back of my head.

                I’m quick to swat her hand away, like the appendage is a pesky fly that won’t leave me be. “Stop that.”

                Shannon narrows her eyes as she nods in some form of approval. “New girl’s feisty too.”

                Giving my greatest eye roll yet, accentuated by the eyeliner and mascara that she applied for me in the backseat of the car this morning, I turn my head away from her. “You’re so dumb.”

                “Come on, now. You know you love me.” She’s so playful all the time, it’s no wonder everyone seems to like her. What I have yet to understand is why she turned down the life she could’ve had to be a loner with me.

                Freshman year, we sat next to each other at the welcome rally they held on the first day of school. Everyone in our grade vied for her attention. I sat there unimpressed by the whole ordeal, and she ignored them all only to yank the hood off of my head and introduce herself.

                She’s been my only friend ever since. She lied to her guidance counselor this year so she could get the same schedule as me. This girl is my life. Now, she seems like a little girl on Christmas morning opening an N’SYNC poster. Except there’s no posters or boybands, I’m just getting a little attention. Why does this make her so happy?

                Mr. Penn, our literature teacher, enters the room just as the bell rings. Poor Mikey Harrison is right behind him, but Mr. Penn pulls the door shut just before he can get in. We see his eyes and the top of his head in the window, the boy is only a mere five-foot-two, peeking in. “Oh no, so sorry! You’ve just missed the boat. But you can go get a pink ticket for late boarding up at the office!” Mr. Penn says loudly to the boy through the closed door.

                He’s so animated. While he’s a stickler for the rules, particularly punctuality, he still manages to remain everyone’s favorite teacher. Standing at six feet tall with an additional five inches on top of that, he towers over everyone in the class room. Poor self-conscious basketball players lined up in the desks along the far side wall. You’ll grow one day.

                With a voice reminiscent of the likes of James Stewart, his gentlemanly apparel seemingly traps him in the fifties. This is by no fault, since we’re currently studying that time period. It’s as if he’s always changing characters, the core of Mr. Penn always remaining but a new exterior appearing every day.

                “Alright, alright. How are we doing tod-” he stops talking, and I immediately start to draw my shoulders up in a way that makes my neck virtually disappear. I don’t need to look up to know he stopped talking because he saw me. He’s still looking, and I know that because he hasn’t started talked again.

                “Uh oh, unwanted attention!” Shannon practically sings so me in a volume just above a whisper.

                I peek up, my eyelids barely opening as I see my teacher, up there in age, turning around quickly to begin writing something on the board. It’s neither swift nor convincing, and if anything it only intensifies the awkward atmosphere.

                The chalk slamming against the black wall is the only sound in the room before the quiet snickering begins. Whispered jokes of “new teacher’s pet”, “now she’ll start passing” and “maybe she’s not so dumb after all” swirl around the room and enter my ears despite my best efforts to shut them out.

                These eyes that have been on me all day aren’t beheld by admirers, no, they belong to a judgmental peer system that fears change and its effect on their well-established status quo.

                I’ve spent my life staying clear out of the path of scrutiny. No scandal, no drama. At school, anyway. I deal with enough of that at home.

                Now here I sit, again in a changed environment due to my own alternative behavior and choices, with eyes fixed on me.

                If Shannon has it her way, it’ll be like this for a long time. We’ll audition for the fall musical, we’ll be the leads and all eyes and illegally smuggled cameras will be focused on us.

                I just don’t know if I like it…

                But I guess I don’t hate it either. Old Candice would’ve, but it’s as if in an instant she was erased. In reality it wasn’t an instant, it was a slow internal transformation over many years.

What caused these changes? My mom, Connor, Shannon, puberty? All of them. A perfect storm, or something.

                Clearly I’m not the only one aware of this change either. Sure the obvious evidence is that everyone is making mental notes, some probably not with the purest of intentions, of my new wardrobe. It’s deeper than that. This morning, Connor was taken back by my willingness to stand my ground and just moments ago Shannon asked where Candice went.

                I’m right here. Be it in rare form or new form, I’m still here.

                “Well that was awkward,” Shannon blurts out finally, dragging me out of my self-reflection and back into the moment.

                “Is it too late to take off the skirt and put my sweatpants back on?” There’s still shades of my ‘former self’ in here, believe me.

                “Sorry, Candy Corn. Candice is history.”

                Candy Corn… Shannon’s always called me that, I just never paid attention until this moment. She’s always seen me as someone that people reading my name off of an attendance sheet or out of the yearbook didn’t.

                Not only that, I remember Connor telling me how I got my name. It was certainly not a traditional way to gain a name, but then again the circumstances surrounding the trip to the hospital weren’t exactly ‘normal’.

                It’s not every day a ten-year-old is behind the wheel of the Labor-And-Delivery Mobile.

                “God, this is so perfect. Get yourself noticed, Candy.” Shannon begins, and I’m afraid to question where she’s taking this but my own curiosity is stronger than any will power I may have.

                “Why is this perfect?”

                “We have two days until auditions. Talent’s important, seniority’s a plus. But star power is what’ll get you in!”

                “Star power? I put on a skirt. That hardly makes me Janet.”

                “I’m sorry, that sounds like Candice talking. I don’t remember talking to Candice.”

                If you’re tired of my constant eye-rolling, I apologize. I just can’t help it! “Candy Corn is going to be a star.” I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth. “Oh God, I sound like a stripper.”

                “You look like one. What fool told you that skirt was okay?” She smirks, knowing it’s her purchase that currently envelops, very tightly I might add, my thighs and butt.  

                “Start making the campaign fliers. ‘Candy Corn for Ingénue’. “

                “You don’t need fliers. The real campaigning will be when you walk down the hallway in the boots that I give you.”

                Boots? Like Mr. Penn, my exterior is changing but there’s still a piece of my old self still inside. And that part of me fears drastic change. Boots are too much. I’m going to stick to the skirt. For now, at least. Don’t want to sound like a stripper and dress like a stripper.   

Reviews

[Lalochezia]

As always, I admire your sophisticated phrasing and Candice's gloomy reflections.

One question about Mr. Penn: does he adapt his clothes to the time period the class is currently studying? I did not quite understand that part.

I can certainly imagine that Candice's environment will take such strong notice of her, but in my opinion one or two admiring voices or looks wouldn't hurt. Or does Candy simply not notice those?

[Mark Alexander Boehm]

Mr. Penn is never necessarily in costume at any point in time, but he will wear patterns and colors reminiscent to a certain era.
As for Candice: She's coming out of her shell a little bit at a time but she's still quite blind to people's perceptions of her.

I appreciate all of the reviews/advice so far!