VI

WELCOME TO THE TERROR DOME

1414 Sparkleberry Lane (I couldn’t make that up).

And there’s the sign: DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER ACADEMY—HOME OF THE FIGHTING MANATEES.

It appears I’m in the right place.

So.

Here we go.

First day of school.

At a NEW SCHOOL.

Starting as a senior.

 

Christ on a cracker, I am screwed.

 

One step. Two steps.

Three steps. Four.

I made it all the way to the edge of the well-tended lawn before I lost my nerve. I hid behind a tree and watched as the spectacle unfolded. What I saw was horrible and hypnotic. Worse than I ever imagined. There. In the pristine courtyard. A seething, surging, wreathing, writhing army of upper-crusties . . .

Crème de la Caucasians . . .

Nothing but nothing but Stepford teens in full preen. In your choice of blond or blonder.

Welcome to the WASP nest. . . .

 

Yes, it was Preppies on Parade: Hi, Muffy! Hi, Buffy! Hey, Binky! Hey, Biff! There’s Moose McLettersweater! And his best girl, Abby Add-a-pearl!

 

Look at them all—impossibly confident, impossibly beautiful, flawless to a fault! All of them perfectly dressed in crisp tennis whites and jaunty golf-wear. They’re so beautiful. Look at their perfect skin, their perfect smiles. No zits. No body fat. No split ends or less-than-pert noses. I love them. I hate them. They terrify me. Can I please be one of them?

Are they real? Do they actually walk in slow motion? And are they really always in soft focus? Does the sun actually reflect starbursts in their hair?

Obsenely rich and frighteningly good-looking. Truly a case of God giving with both hands.

 

But where were all the nonblonds? The non-Nazi types? They can’t ALL be Children of the Corn!

Where were the brooding malcontents? How come nobody was wearing black? Where were the stoners and the Goths? Where were the wiggers and the sluts? The K-Feds and the Brit-Brits?

Where were all the saggers, the mopheads, the club kids, fashion fags, robo-trannies, go-go goths, Hello Kiddies, sk8r boys, pixie chicks, hood rats, boho babes, betty bots, electroclashers, giant monster fag hags, Paris-ites, and angry/lesbian/ovo-lacto-vegans? Where is the great and terrible cross-section of teen culture that makes school such wicked good fun?

 

Well, there must be some sort of special theme today. It must be MALIBU STACY DAY or BRING A PROTESTANT TO CLASS DAY.

Or maybe I was mistaken. Maybe the sun was playing tricks with my eyes. I mean, they can’t ALL be leggy blond superteens.

I probably JUST MISSED all the culturally diverse kids. Yeah, that’s it. It’s probably 90 percent Blapanese or Inuit, and they’re all on the other side of the building, celebrating Cinco de September third, or something. In full tribal feathers. And maybe a lot of these students are from those superexclusive, PRIVATE countries where you have to be a member to know where it even is. And those types don’t look foreign, so you’d never know.

Anyway.

I’m sure this place is just fine.

I don’t need to panic.

(Smile.) (Whistle.) (Carry on.)