The Makedown (3 page)

“Kind of. Well actually, not at all. People can develop and lose allergies at any time,” Nut responded with his mouth full of food. “I got to go; I’m rushing. I’m a senior, so this is my last shot; I really want to get in— be with the boys— you know, have brothers for life—”

“Um, yeah, completely. I’m rushing, too. I only have a brother. I thought it would be good balance to get some sisters. Go girls! Hey sisters! Anna’s in the house!”

Sororities evoked images of girls with Sharpies circling fat pockets on my body while laughing maliciously. I doubted those “sisters” would even let me buy their sweatshirt. However, I desperately wanted something to share with Nut, and my freshman orientation packet— a seventy-page document I’d immediately highlighted and taken notes on, as well as committed to memory— recommended rushing as an excellent way to meet people. I figured there had to be a nerdy sorority, this was the Ivy League, after all. Penn was filled with nerds; surely there was an appropriate group for me.

I opened the packet to the section on student life and surveyed my options. Why did I have to be born a godless white chick? Hadn’t I suffered enough? My lack of religion and ethnicity barred me from some very nerdy groups, which listed studying and watching television as activities. After contemplating some very unethical alternatives, I decided to try Delta Beta, a dry sorority that prided itself on academic standards, conservative politics, and the protection of women’s virtues. As an intelligent virgin, Delta Beta was a good fit, barring the conservative politics. I had always considered myself a nonpracticing liberal due to my prochoice stance. However, I was far more desper ate than I was liberal, so I registered for Republican groups online. Rocking Repubs, Teens Against Terror, and My Elephant Is an Honor Student But Your Donkey’s Not all listed Anna Norton as a member. I picked the most cutting-edge of the Republican youth groups in an effort to diminish my feeling of selling out.

A mere twelve girls showed up at Delta Beta’s orientation; apparently, its no-alcohol policy hadn’t done much to help boost its appeal. I rejoiced in its unpopularity, since it exponentially increased my odds of acceptance. The evening began with Maureen, the Delta Beta leader, asking us about our personal heroes. As luck would have it, I went first, naming Jesus Christ as my personal hero. The candidates that followed responded with Ronald Reagan, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, and George Bush. It quickly became clear that my choice of Jesus Christ was a bit unusual in the context of this politically obsessed group. After hearing everyone’s responses, Maureen decided to dig a little deeper, starting once again with me.

“Anna Norton?”

“Yes,” I responded cautiously.

“You chose Jesus Christ as your hero.”

“That’s correct, Mr. Christ,” I intoned, attempting to sound pious.

“What are some of Jesus’s teachings that have influenced you?”

“Um . . . um . . . ,” I stuttered nervously before spitting out the first thing that came to mind, “Thou shall not vote Democrat . . . or smoke cigarettes?”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Maureen asked.

“Um,” I said, racking my brain for some Jesus-ism. Damn Mother. Why hadn’t she taken me to Sunday school?

“Well?” Maureen prodded me.

“Thou shall not covet my neighbor’s wife.”

“What does that mean to you?”

“Um, no lusting after ladies . . . who belong to . . . ,” I stammered desperately.

“Moving on.” Maureen sounded irritated. I sounded like a lesbian, or at the very least a phony Jesus lover, especially once the rest of the group described their heroes with terms such as
family values, patriotism, liberty,
and
freedom.

My opportunity for sisterhood was evaporating, so I decided to convey both my regret over my inappropriate answers and my longing to be included to Maureen by staring at her with expressions that alternated between sorrow and enthusiasm. This was an ill-advised plan; Maureen watched me with a perturbed expression before asking if I needed medical assistance. When I assured her that I was perfectly fine, she snorted, “That’s a matter of opinion,” and turned on her heel to confer with her “sisters” on first-round cuts. I crossed my fingers, arms, and legs and prayed to FG. Even if I wasn’t ultimately accepted into the Sisterhood of the Traveling Twin Sets, I yearned to make it to the second round. If I made it to the second round, I would break my lifelong streak of exclusion.

After about thirty seconds, Maureen reentered the room with her sisters and a smug look of power. My stomach clenched painfully as I fought to stay positive. “First, I want to thank you all very much for applying to Delta Beta. Unfortunately, it’s impossible for us to accept everyone because”— Maureen paused to think of the best explanation— “Well, we didn’t like one of you . . . at all. Now, the following girls are advancing to the second round: Jennifer Fantini, Laurel Harrison, Theodora Marshall, Jane Murray, Harriet Nielsen, Judith Green, Bree Wallis, Marie Gordon, Alexa Hardin, Susie Coplan, and Stephanie Benedict.” Maureen had accepted everyone except me. Once again, I was rejected. I didn’t bother thanking her; instead, I stood and walked out. Screw you, Maureen, I thought as rage tempered my crashing self-esteem. Why had I even tried to be part of a sorority? They represent everything I despise about girls and society. I headed straight back to my dorm, hoping an evening of fantasizing about Nut would eradicate any memory of Republican fascist sisterhoods.

As I approached my dorm room, I spotted Nut knocking on my door. Was this a blessing from the god of nerds? The first sign of FG? “Nut, are you looking for me?” I asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the amazement out of my voice.

“Hey, can I watch
Felicity
in your room? My TV’s busted, and no one else will let me in.”

“Yes, I would love to have you over.”

“I brought Doritos,” Nut added. He sat next to me on the bed, acting as the official Doritos holder.

“How great is Ben?” Nut sighed happily as
Felicity
’s theme music filled my cramped little abode.

“I love him almost as much as I love Doritos,” I shot back with what I hoped was a flirtatious giggle.

“Definitely,” was Nut’s clever reply. We both sat contentedly pushing Doritos into our mouths.

Television was the foundation on which we would build a friendship. The two of us enjoyed weekly dates to watch
Felicity
and
Dawson’s Creek
while gorging on a variety of junk food from the local minimart. As episodes progressed, I squeezed closer and closer to Nut. One night, deep into the Felicity-hairgate, I decided it was time to take our relationship to the next level. Nut was a fan of OP corduroy shorts, which exposed his long and freckled legs. Under the influence of hormones and pent-up sexual aggression, I yanked up the hem of my maternity denim jean skirt, revealing my pale and flaccid thigh. A shiver ran up my spine, and not in a good way. Still I persevered. I raised my left leg onto Nut’s, washing over it like a tsunami swallowing a dingy. Spectacularly monstrous, I found it hard to look away as I brushed my leg back and forth over his. Nut stared at the screen, eyes locked on Ben Covington. My lack of exercise soon slowed my leg thrusts to a crawl. On the verge of a muscle spasm, I was greatly relieved when Nut leapt off the bed. “I think I should let you know something.” Nut paused as if waiting for a drum roll. “It’s really important. I am . . . a big fan of Ben’s. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I cooed seductively.

“No, I don’t think you do. I mean . . . I mean . . . this is harder than telling my parents . . . I’m gay.”

“Gay? But, but that’s impossible,” I cried out, wounded.

“You must have known,” Nut said.

“No, I didn’t,” I muttered. How could my boyfriend—
okay, pretend boyfriend— be gay?

“Anna, I spend my nights watching TV with you. Don’t you think if I was straight I would be out chasing hotties like other guys?”

He was right— I was the Liza Minnelli of the dormitory, only less attractive. It was too painful to process.

“
Dawson’s
is starting. Wanna watch?” I offered, bringing the summit of humiliation and sexuality to an end.

For the duration of my freshman year, Nut and I watched a minimum of eight hours of television together a week. He was my social life, and I was incredibly grateful for him. For the first time since its creation, I didn’t write anything in Hello Fatty. In June, I attended Nut’s graduation, to which he wore his small OP corduroy shorts under his graduation gown. He waved to his parents as he got his diploma. I beamed back from my place a few rows behind them, imagining he was waving to me. Nut’s only postcollege plan was to move to California to live in San Francisco.

“Nut, we’re two hours from New York. Why do you have to go all the way across the country?”

“Anna, look at me,” he said dramatically. I gazed into his eyes, wondering if he would have even liked me if he were straight. “If I am ever going to get laid”— Nut paused, prompting me to salivate— “by a man, I need to be with my own people.”

I sighed and honestly wished I were gay. It would be such fun to be part of a “people.”

The following fall, with Nut in San Francisco, I fell into a deep depression. He had been my only friend at Penn (technically, anywhere in the world). Unkindly stationed in a single dorm room again, my loneliness soared, engulfing my every thought and causing me to fill whole volumes of Hello Fatty. I missed companionship as I watched show after show on my tiny TV. Short of hiring an escort, I only had one option: Barney. It was actually an ingenious idea, since Barney had an active fantasy about university life. He had dropped out of community college for a variety of reasons, most of which originated from his laziness, but still clung to the idea of being the big man on campus. Dressed in the Penn sweatshirt and cap he bought online, Barney hit the quad while I was in class. He sat alone on the lush grass and waited patiently for someone to talk to him, but no one did. Frustrated, he took matters into his own hands. “What are you studying?” Barney asked a mousy brunette seated alone on the quad.

“Astronomy,” the coed replied with a bored affectation.

“Wow, I bet a lot of people . . . tell you . . . you look like a star . . . ’cause you’re so beautiful and shiny.”

The girl gave him a look of disgust, stood, and walked away.

Barney was genuinely depressed when he relayed the conversation to me. I understood his pain all too well, offered him a bag of frosted cookies, and turned on the television. We were definitely related, and we were definitely nerds.

Chapter Three

E
very former nerd has a defining moment that acts as the catalyst for change. For me it was my twenty-third birthday, a night that was filled with embarrassment, racial slurs, and general infamy. Included on this special occasion was Harry, my first boyfriend. He suited my family perfectly with his porky frame, flannel shirts, and jeans with tapered ankles. His hairline started midway across his scalp, a side effect he ascribed to his acne medication. Perfect skin came with a price.

Life was all about compromise, or so Harry liked to remind me. He certainly wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know; I ate all the Little Debbie I wanted but had Harry as a boyfriend. At twenty-three, I was seventy-five pounds over what Mother called a “healthy” weight and was plagued by acne that traveled from my forehead to my shoulder blades. This was puberty— adult puberty— at its worst.

Three and a half years after I attempted to seduce Nut, I met Harry in quantum physics. Technically, we didn’t meet in class but at Denny’s, studying over hash browns and eggs.

“Hey, can I borrow your ketchup?”

“Sure,” I said, barely looking up from my physics textbook.

“You’ve got Professor Shapiro with me.”

The shock at someone’s noticing me in a class and admitting to it outside of that class was enough to render the chapter I was reading on eigenvalue incomprehensible, so I shifted my focus to that someone. Of course, he was exceptionally unattractive, his poreless complexion notwithstanding. “Yeah, I do. I’m cramming for tomorrow. I’m a little nervous,” I confided.

“I made flash cards; want me to quiz you?” It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. Harry joined me at my booth and immediately flagged the waitress.

“We’ll have two deluxe breakfasts and a side of fries with ranch dressing.”

I loved that he knew to order ranch dressing with the french fries. The synchronicity of our relationship continued when we learned we grew up two counties away from each other in Ohio. What more could we want in a partner? We both loved to study. We both loved to eat. And considering our lack of options, we both deemed that enough.

Unlike our hormonally crazed peers, ours wasn’t a highly sexual relationship. Occasionally, we kissed with tongue, but we didn’t go much further than that. Harry may have grazed my boob while leaning for the Lay’s ruffled-cut potato chips, but that hardly counted as second base.

Two weeks before graduation, Harry and I watched
Star Trek: Voyager
while doing whipped cream shots. As I lifted the canister to my mouth and squirted a load, Harry turned to me with a serious expression. “I really like you, Anna, but if we don’t have sexual intercourse soon, I fear I could turn to . . . porn,” Harry said shamefully.

“Porn?” I asked with surprise.

“Yeah, and I’m talking about the hard stuff,” Harry said, averting his eyes.

Porn clearly held a much more negative connotation for Harry than me. Having grown up with Barney, I assumed that all men spent most of their waking hours trolling the Web for nudie pictures. “Well, I certainly don’t want to be the girl who drove you to porn,” I remarked dryly.

“So you’ll do it?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Right now?”

“Um, sure.”

“You don’t need any prep time?”

“No, do you?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said, unsure of himself. “Well, maybe a minute to get a mint and a . . . condom.”

“Good thinking; can I have one as well?” I asked before quickly clarifying, “A mint, that is. Why would I need my own condom?” I was pretty sure I wouldn’t need one, but to be honest, I was not positive how the mechanics of sex worked.