Chapter 7
Journal Entry One
Today is the first day of Project Gamma Glamma, an experiment to examine outward personal factors in social mobility. It’s Sunday afternoon and I have spent the weekend clothes shopping for three test subjects to help them adapt to the fashion habits of preselected assimilation groups.
I have also created samples of colognes, perfumes, and oils calculated to specifically stimulate and appeal to the olfactory senses of these same peer groups. And lastly, I have engineered disguised photographic devices for each subject to secretly document their experiences and gather additional and essential data that I would be unable to observe directly.
The first subject to which the transformation will be implemented is B., a freshman at Gamma High. My hypothesis is that if I can alter just three basic elements of B.’s self-presentation, this will initiate a corresponding response in the student body’s opinion of her, and begin the process of her acceptance into a new social group.
Tonight I will go to the subject’s house and introduce her to a new wardrobe combination along with a new hairstyle and a new fragrance, and I will also coach her in developing a more agreeable tonality of laugh.
I read over my journal entry. It sounded kinda dry but, hey, it was a start. I didn’t write that Bridge had a fit when I tried to put her in navy and red because she felt like she looked like a Fourth of July float.
“Now why am I doing this?” she asked.
“Because you’re my best friend and my science partner in crime. And I really need to go to the dance because up until now this will be the biggest moment of our lives. Now which shirt do you want—the red or the navy?”
“Oh, I guess the red, because it’ll bring out the red in my eyes after I’m finished crying because I look like a freak.”
“Bridge, please. Oh, before you put that on, try on this bra I got you,” I said, holding up a Gap bag.
“What? What’s wrong with the bra I have?” She clutched her chest defensively as if it weren’t attached.
“It’s a sports bra,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, but it lets me breathe and it’s ergonomically aerodynamic.”
“They’re boobs, Bridge, not airplanes.”
“But, I like how it looks seamless under my oxford.”
“Yes, well today you and your chicas are getting a makeover. Don’t you want Brad Walker to notice you?”
Bridge made her “duh” face.
“Good. Then let him wrestle with this!” And that’s when I pulled out this amazing and sizzling bra from Gap Body. I could tell I embarrassed Bridge, but, hey, we’re growing up and it’s science. Our bodies are changing every day, so it made sense that our wardrobe should as well. After Bridge put on the gravity-defying and shape-defining fab bra and the little red va-va-voom sweater, I think she was a bit surprised.
“Wow!” she said.
“How do you feel?” I asked, hoping she would like it.
“Well, with all the metal in this bra, like the bionic woman.” Bridge laughed her cartoon chipmunk laugh.
Bridge loved that old TV show called The Bionic Woman, because, sadly, it was the only thing that she and her mom had in common. Mrs. Joiner ran a high-end clothes shop that was really frilly and, by contrast, Bridge was a bit more of a sporty prep type. So, when Bridge first started to take an interest in the wonderful world of science, her mom didn’t know how to connect anymore, so she made Bridge watch countless reruns of The Bionic Woman.
I laughed out loud with her. “You look fabulosa!”
“Yeah, but I think I need to balance out the proportion of my new boobs to my curvy hair.”
“Duh, I’m a scientist and I already thought of that.” I handed her my mom’s heavy-duty flatiron. “But first check out this scent.” And then I reached down in my bag of tricks and pulled out a small bottle of perfume and I took Bridge’s wrist and squirted a wee bit of Gucci’s Envy. It was just enough to smell, but I was careful not to go crazy, so my mom wouldn’t notice the volume disappearing.
“Can you smell it?” I asked.
Bridge wrinkled her nose. “No.”
“How about now?” I squirted her again.
“No,” she said while inhaling at least a gallon of air.
“Is your nose working?”
“Yeah. Is your perfume working?” Bridge said defensively.
“I think so.” And with that I shook up the bottle really hard, and when I sprayed Bridge, a gusher came out right in her eyes and mouth! Her room began to reek.
“Ahhh! I told you I’m glad I picked the red sweater, because now my eyes should really match,” Bridge said, literally spitting out Envy.
“Sorry, B. At least it smells expensive.”
“Okay, what’s next before I chicken out?” Bridge ordered.
“Next let’s work on your hair.”
Bridge has the longest, thickest, waviest hair. And sometimes when folks look at us from the back and see we have matching dark brown hair, they think we are related. But Bridge’s hair is much thicker and wavier than mine. And I knew it was going to take a while to straighten it out.
An hour and a half later, progress was finally being made. But because I was getting tired, I didn’t notice that I had already straightened out this one section and proceeded to sorta fry it. I could see and smell the smoke, but thank goodness Bridge couldn’t, because she was studying for Dr. Hamrock’s next pop quiz and the room still totally reeked of perfume. We were almost done.
“Are you ready to look at yourself?” I teased.
“I guess ...”
After seeing my BFF all brand new and put together, I was so proud of what we had accomplished together. But I remembered one last thing—Bridge needed to ditch the glasses. She had really cute Polo glasses, but if she was going to stand a chance at the J+L table, she needed to amp it up all the way. And with that, I helped her put in her contacts.
She had a box full of them in her dresser drawer but never wore them because she got squeamish about touching her eyeballs. And this is the same girl who can dissect any dead creature laid before her in the science lab and not flinch, can play with molds, fungus, and gooey invertebrates, but if she touches her own eyeball, get out the smelling salts, because the child’s gonna hit the floor.
“Hey, Bionic Woman, are they in?”
“Yesss,” Bridge said with uncertainty as she was still barely poking her eye.
“Can you see now?” I asked as I waved my fingers in front of her.
“I think so,” she said as she tried to bite one of my fingers.
Bridge squinted her eyes like a ground hog coming out of its hole or like the Hollywood starlets who are so tragically loaded when they spill out of their limos.
“C’mon. Are you ready to see your final transformation?” I couldn’t stand to wait another second.
“Yes, Dr. Frankenstein,” Bridge said, rolling her eyes.
As I turned Bridge to the mirror in her hot chili pepper red sweater, her really straight, long locks, her modified mini, and her bionic bra, I even shocked myself. Bridge took a long look at herself. I couldn’t make out if she was sad, happy, or mad at me for burning some of her hair, but then I realized she was in pure shock.
“What do you think?” I whispered.
“I’m kinda hot,” she gasped.
“Yeah, you are,” I confirmed. “Okay, do you think you can go through with the experiment now?”
“I think so,” Bridge said, still not believing in her own reflection.
After our long look-see in the mirror, we practiced Bridge’s laugh for hours, and it was so funny to hear her go from a little baby laugh to a hot mama laugh that she had me cracking up, too.
I reassured her that Adam would be at her side at lunch. And if she forgot to laugh properly or couldn’t come up with any good lunch table convo, she should just listen and mimic Venus. I told her to remember to continually flip her hair, and not to worry, because I would make my daily sweep at the J+L table to say hello to my faux loverboy, Adam. But even with all this instruction, I could tell Bridge was still a bit nervous.
So, we decided to take our minds off tomorrow by testing out Bridge’s nail-growing serum. While Bridge was working on her hands, I decided to try out some of my hair harnesser shampoo. When I got some shampoo in my eye, I panicked, but Bridge, being my BFF, helped me wash out my eyes so I wouldn’t become blind or something worse.
Later when I went home, I tried to calm myself. The more I thought about Bridge being nervous, the more nervous I became, too. I just had to deal.
Bridge, Mase, and Jabba had already trusted me with their social lives; Dr. Hamrock was expecting a win at Regionals; and Swen was ready to make a date at the library. Retreating wasn’t an option.
Since sleep wasn’t an option either with my brain operating in overdrive, I decided to be productive and finish the disco version Pic Purse for Bridge that I had been promising her for weeks, and she would now be needing in order to document the experiment. When I was finally done, I looked at my alarm clock—it was already six in the morning and I hadn’t slept all night. This was officially day two of Project Gamma Glamma.
When my mom dropped me off at school, I immediately spied Bridge hiding by the buses because her little red sweater outfit popped out against the yellow background. I knew that her Pic Purse would be the perfect accessory, and the extra bling would help get her mind off her nervousness. I quickly ran up to meet her, and as we started going up the stairs at the front of the school, I said, “You know, you really, really look cute.”
“Really really?” she said, still surprised.
“Yeah. But before you go, let me give you one more squirt.” I took out my mom’s perfume and doused Bridge. She smiled.
“At least it smells good.” She wrinkled her nose as if she was about to sneeze.
“At least. And Bridge, I just want you to know I really appreciate you doing this for me and I want you to know I have your back... .” I looked her straight in the eyes so she’d know I meant it.
“I know.” She smiled back.
“And this is for you.” I handed her the Pic Purse.
“Ooooh, Luz, I love it. It’s so tiny. It’s a Pic Pouchette!” Bridge gushed, ready to take her first picture.
Suddenly, Bart Marquez came roaring up behind us like a freight train. He ran smack into Bridge, spilling her across the front steps like a rag doll.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” said Bart as he scooped her up and brushed her long, straight locks out of her face.
Then three other guys came out of nowhere to Bridge’s rescue. Her legs could have been amputated but she wouldn’t have cared with the attention she was getting. It was horrible and beautiful at the same time. I wanted to cry, but first I had to take a picture to document this moment. The boys escorted her to class as I trailed behind the small group like a long-lost puppy. When Bridge finally reached the doorway at Mr. Hashem’s history class, I said, “Bridge, are you okay?”
Bridge stared at me as if she was looking through me and said, “I’m fabulous.”
I flipped my hand through her newly straightened hair and said, “Yeah, you are. Now, pay attention and tell me what else happens to you today so I can put some notes in my journal.” I winked.
“Got it,” Bridge said.
And then the new and improved Miss Joiner floated above the ground and beyond everybody’s expectations into class.
As I walked away, I could hear all the students squealing compliments about Bridge’s Gamma Glamma makeover.
For a minute, I was feeling like a science fiction fairy godmother and it felt as fabulous as Bridge looked. With a wave of my manicured magic mano would everybody else’s dreams come true, I wondered?