I knew my sister had asked me not to seek deeper clarification of her life-changing advice because I had been specifically instructed that the struggle was part of the process. But at least ninety minutes had passed since we’d last spoken, so I figured she wouldn’t think I was pestering her unnecessarily.
I was wrong.
“Please do not tell me that you are already seeking deeper clarification on my life-changing advice when I specifically instructed you that the struggle was part of the process,” she said instead of saying hello.
“Uh,” I stammered. “It’s just that, well, I’m already kind of confused about the first one, you know, about wearing something different.…”
She sighed so loud that I bet I could have heard her clear across the state of New Jersey even without the phone.
“I am a very busy girl,” she began. “It’s so hard juggling an active social life, an active love life, an active philanthropic life as part of the sorority sisterhood…”
“And your academic life?” I added. “Your classes?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” she said breezily. “Anyhoo, you’ll figure out how to use the IT List to your greatest advantage. Trust yourself.”
Trust myself. Yikes. I thought I could trust how to handle myself in junior high UNTIL SHE TOTALLY MESSED WITH MY HEAD.
“More important, trust me.”
Trust her. If I can’t trust my own sister, who can I trust? It’s never been my ambition in life to be popular, but at the very least I can try to uphold my sister’s legacy by not being a total dork. Bethany of all people wouldn’t encourage me to do anything to dorkify the Darling name, right?
RIGHT?
“I’ll check in with you at appropriate intervals,” she promised. “Until then, consult my closet for inspiration. Oh! And tell Mom and Dad they need to deposit more money in my checking account to buy, uh, books and stuff. Okaythanksbye!”
With that, my big sister left fate up to me.
Her closet! Which is in her bedroom!
Bethany’s bedroom is right next to mine, but it might as well be on the other side of the planet. Bethany has always been very particular about protecting her privacy. My whole life I was warned NEVER TO SET FOOT IN HER ROOM. When she was my age, she actually paid a neighborhood nerd to design and install a baby booby trap involving a laundry basket, bungee cords, and a talking teddy bear. By the time I was a toddler I knew well enough to KEEP OUT OR DIE. This rule stands even now that she’s away at college, not that she still openly threatens me or anything. It’s just habit. Or survival instinct.
Being granted permission to access her closet was, like, totally unprecedented. This made me all queasy with excitement and trepidation because it spoke to the magnitude of importance Bethany placed on starting off junior high the right way and my strict obedience to the IT List in particular. Even so, I was, perhaps, overly cautious about opening the door to Bethany’s room. I hesitated with my hand hovering over the doorknob because, okay, I was paranoid Bethany was testing me somehow and that her room might be rigged with an invisible magnetic fence system like the kind that prevents your dog from peeing on the flower beds.
I might still be wimping out in the hallway if my parents hadn’t unintentionally intervened.
“Help your mother with the laundry, Notso!”
“Most of this stuff is for you!”
Bethany’s room was the last place they’d think to look for me. I grabbed the knob, flung open the door, and slipped inside. I was safe from sorting whites from darks for the time being.
Bethany’s room was decorated with a lot of pictures of… Bethany. Bethany in her CHEER TEAM!!! uniform, Bethany as Homecoming queen, Bethany chugging out of a big red plastic cup, Bethany in a sorority sweatshirt. There were other girls and boys surrounding her in the pictures, too, but the focal point of every photo was always Bethany, Bethany, and more Bethany.
Bethany is very pretty. Have I mentioned that? And the pictures with all her many male and female friends indicate that she is also popular. And therefore—according to the indisputable experts on yearbook committees—perfect.
Even though she hadn’t slept here in a week the room still smelled like her—a powdery, flowery perfume mixed with something chemical. Maybe her Bombshell Blond hair dye? (“Highlights!” she’d protest.) I wondered if my room had a signature scent. If it did, it probably smelled like contraband chocolate chip cookies, Cap’n Crunch, and Coke.
Anyway, Bethany’s room was otherwise beige and very boring. It was a huge letdown, really, like waiting in line for two hours for a roller-coaster ride that lasts ten seconds and sucks for nine of them.
I had to stay focused.
Consult my closet for inspiration.
The closet! I’d learn everything I needed to know about dressing the right way for junior high by looking inside this closet.
I opened the closet doors and…
COLORS! SO MANY! TOO MANY! COLORS! BLINDING! COLORS! And MORE COLORS! And PATTERNS! PLAIDS! FLOWERS! STRIPES! POLKA DOTS! SQUIGGLY THINGIES I THINK ARE CALLED PAISLEY!
Bethany’s closet was about a bazillion times crazier than the rest of her blah bedroom. Consult my closet for inspiration. Inspiration? Ha! I’d need anti-nausea medication.
I took a deep breath and struggled to push the clothes-heavy hangers from one side to the other, hoping that one item—a purple satin tuxedo jacket, a rainbow-striped maxi dress—would finally present itself as the perfectly “different” thing for me to wear on my first day of seventh grade. I slowly made my way from front to back, left to right. After more than an hour of searching, I couldn’t possibly imagine myself wearing any of it! I slumped to the floor of the closet in fatigue and frustration.
“Why won’t you just tell me what to do?!” I shouted at a photo of Bethany dressed as a slinky kitty for Halloween.
I might even have banged my head against the wall in despair. Just a little. But it was enough to cause an avalanche inside the closet. The next thing I knew, a huge pile of T-shirts had come tumbling down from the top shelf into my lap. The first shirt stuck its tongue out at me: nyeh-nyeh boo-boo.
I turned it over. Aha! The Rolling Stones.
The second T-shirt screamed for “HELP!”
The Beatles.
Okay, so some of these geezer bands on the T-shirts were familiar because my dad loves to humiliate me (and himself) by blasting classic rock in the car and playing air guitar at stoplights. Others I only sorta recognized, like the Velvet Underground, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin, but it didn’t really matter because the shirts were cool in an authentic and ancient kind of way. Best yet, they’re not from the mall and were guaranteed NOT to be seen on anyone else at school! I could definitely wear something different every day and I wouldn’t have to wear some crazy purple tuxedo jacket to do it! Woo-hoo!
With these shirts, I could totally cross off #1 on the IT List. As I gathered up the stack, I couldn’t help but think that my big sister would be oh so proud of how ready I was to rock seventh grade.