Garrett Nickelsen Tastes Like Fart

“I’ll get it!” my father called from the family room. I could hear him scurry over the hardwood floors he installed himself last summer as he answered the phone in the kitchen. When he held the phone to his ear, he finally saw my bemused expression as I sat at the kitchen counter eating a late breakfast of frosted shredded wheat and a glass of fruit punch.

“Hel-oh?”

“Who is it?” I mouthed. Father just gave me a confused expression, pretending like he couldn’t understand what I was trying to ask. I shook my head and returned to rounding up the crumbs of cereal floating in my milk.

“Yeah, she’s right here. Elise?”

I dropped my spoon into the bowl and looked up. “Hmm?”

“Phone,” he told me before tossing it across the kitchen island.

Luckily, I caught it, but not without nearly knocking my glass of juice over. “Jeeze, Father. Be a little bit more careful, huh?” I said as he shrugged and left the kitchen, humming to himself as he went.

“Yellow, capitán.”

“Found a party, Elise. It’s in a week. This one’s a goner.”

“Goner? What?” I stood up from the stool and took my bowl to the sink, turning on the faucet.

“Total chaos. Tons of people. Lots of booze.”

I shook my head, licking my lips. “I don’t want those three things at a party. Actually, any party would do as long as it’s not… oh, what’s the word? Illegal.”

“Oh, come on, Elise. This is the first thing on your list: ‘Go to a party.’ And besides, there’s no such thing as a party without alcohol. It’s a total given. I mean, it’s the first thing on the list of givens. It’s common sense, dude.”

I scoffed and placed my rinsed bowl into the dishwasher. “And it’s also common sense to not go to a party with alcohol because there’s such a thing called police. Have you heard of them? They like to prowl around on weekends checking up on noise complaints, hoping to bust some minors for possession mid-party.”

“Oh, your tales of sarcasm always get to me, Elise. But seriously. Dude…” I took the phone from my ear to shut the dishwasher. “…to do this. This is the party to be at.”

“No,” I easily replied.

“Hey, how ‘bout… How about I take you home before curfew. No, wait! I could take you home right after curfew. That’s another thing on your list, right? To break curfew?”

“It’s been a pleasure, Heather."

“No, wait—”

“What?”

“I—I’ll pay you.”

“Heather, you’re broke. What’s the prize? An organ?”

“Hey, I won’t be broke for long,” she quickly retorted.

“Yes, because we all know that dressing up as Bobby Burrito is such a wonderful summer job.”

“Shut up,” she mumbled. “At least it’s money.”

“Uh-huh.” I smirked and nodded my head. “Well, what would I get for following you to this party?”

A few moments passed before she feebly spoke up. “I, uh… um… Diet Coke?”

“Okay, now you’re talking,” I mused, turning around and leaning against the sink. I folded my free arm under my elbow and nodded, a small smile growing on my lips. “What’s your offer?”

“Four twelve-packs. And I get to dress you.”

I waited a moment to keep Heather on the edge, though I already knew my answer.

“Deal.”

|||

Growing up in a house with four boys, you sort of grow into the mold of not caring about how you look all the time. Though I was still scared of bugs as much as any other girl my age, and I was still effeminate enough for my mother to be somewhat pleased, my dress and appearance didn’t quite follow. There was always either grass stains on my jeans or mud on my shoes. I didn’t care; I just followed my brothers’ example. I always avoided dressing up. I never let my hair from its constant ponytail until my freshman year, the same year in which I finally conceded to wear “real” bras instead of sports bras. And I hated compliments. I really did.

The only dress I owned, I wore only to the rare event that was church. It was a long, sleeveless, flowery number and it probably didn’t fit me anymore considering the last time I wore it was two years ago at my chain smoking Uncle Pete’s I-Won’t-Have-Anyone-Wearing-Black-and-Mourning-Me funeral. I only owned three pairs of shoes: my trusty, beat-up Vans, some men’s surf sandals, and ugly, scuffed, beige pumps. The rest of my wardrobe consisted of multiple casual button-up shirts, a couple of cardigans, and three pairs of jeans. Corny always told me that my simplistic taste in clothes and lack of want for frivolous things would make a future boyfriend very “monetarily relieved.”

Which was also why Heather had lugged over close to a fifth of her closet, which was still more than what I shamelessly owned.

“You don’t think it’s too… yellow?” I asked, reluctantly eyeing my reflection in a yellow blouse and skirt combination in the mirror that hung on the back of my bedroom door.

“Eh…” Heather came up behind me, folding an ugly, frilly purple blouse, and scanned over my reflection before padding away on the soft carpet to her suitcase crammed full of "stylish" options - her words, not mine. She came back up behind me and ran a hand over my shoulder, smoothing the miniscule wrinkles of the mustard yellow shirt. “You might have a point.” She went back to the suitcase and rummaged through it a moment before pulling out a cream button-up shirt, one much like the ones I owned. I mentally breathed a sigh of relief. “Try this. It’ll look better.”

I caught it when she tossed it to me and eyed it precariously, an eyebrow raised in hesitation. “You think it’ll match?” I asked, holding the shirt at my shoulders and glancing in the mirror.

“Ooooh, yeah,” she exaggerated, giving me a flirtatious wink through the glass.

I shot her a glare before shrugging off the putrid mustard blouse and buttoning up the shirt, leaving it hanging un-tucked over the wide waist of the skirt. I adjusted the slightly wrinkled collar, bringing my necklace out from under the shirt. I gave a short twirl in front of the mirror as Heather came up behind me, obnoxiously clapping her hands, a smirk on her face.

“Now that works on you. Plain and simple, yet… eye-catching.” She nodded in approval, then went over to my boom box to change the track on the CD copy of a Cat Stevens album. "But you'll have to tuck in the shirt," she told me over her shoulder.

“I look like a flower,” I mumbled, pinching the white, flowing petal on the skirt. I shifted the waistband lower on my hips as I caught Heather’s disapproving look through the mirror. She came up behind me and slapped my hands away before messily tucking in the shirt and shifting the waistband back up over my bellybutton.

“You look great,” she reassured.

“Aah, aah,” I snapped, rubbing toe of my Vans against my Achilles’ heel and pointing a finger at her reflection in the mirror. “I thought we agreed? You dress me up, you don’t compliment anything.”

“Fine,” she huffed, “but there’s no way you’re wearing those god-awful shoes.”

“What’s wrong with them?” I mumbled, making fists on my hips and defiantly sticking a foot in front of the mirror. Heather gave the sneaker a disgusted look and shook her head.

“Everything, Elise.” She left for her suitcase again and came back up behind me quickly, dropping a pair of black gladiator sandals over my shoulder onto the carpet in front of me.

“No.” I shook my head and squinted my eyes at Mirror Heather. “No way.”

“I thought we were doing this my way.”

“I said you could dress me, and ‘dress’ doesn’t imply touching my feet nor does it imply changing my shoes.” I quickly picked up the sandals and marched to her suitcase, dropping them in on top of the same ugly purple blouse she had just folded.

“Fine, suit yourself.” She sighed and nudged me out of the way, taking the sandals into her hands and turning to face me. “‘But you’ll regret not using us! Won’t she, Heather?’” she imitated in a low voice, bouncing the sandals on her palm. “Yes, she will,” she assured the sandals, sadly nodding her head and turning back around to deposit them on my bed beside the suitcase.

“It’s not like I’m looking to find Prince Charming tonight!” I complained, tossing up my hands. “And besides, when did it ever depend on what you wore on your feet if you could get a guy or not? Hmm?” I challenged, crossing my arms.

“Unless you count Cinderella and that missing slipper of hers, it's never depended solely on what shoes you wore.” She turned around and sat on my bed, crossing her own arms. “No pun intended.”

“Oh, you’re so hilarious, Heather.” I played with my necklace, tossing the small pearl in between my fingers. “I still think I look like a flower,” I muttered.

“Ahh,” Heather announced, standing up and gripping my shoulders, giving them a small shake. “But a very cute and adorable flower.” She turned me around in the direction of the mirror, looking at my reflection. “Trust me, even with the shoes, you’d kill any guy that would try to approach you tonight.” She nodded and lightly ruffled my hair. “Time for makeup.”

I let a sarcastic laugh bite through Cat Steven’s voice in the background. “No, no, no, no, no, and, uh… what was that last response? NO.” I shook my head in front of the mirror, and turned around out of Heather’s grasp to sit on my bed next to the suitcase. “I’m just not going to do it. No.”

“Oh, c’mon. At least a bit of cover up?” she pleaded, walking up to her suitcase and pulling out a travel makeup kit. She held it against her face, a pout on her lips. She comically batted her eyelashes as I groaned and smacked a hand against my face.

“Who said cover up?” my mother asked, walking into the room, a folded bed sheet in her arms. She looked decently surprised, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she had been waiting outside my door for the perfect time to butt in with a chance to dress up her only (and, sadly, hardly effeminate) daughter.

“Me,” Heather sadly confessed. “But this little lady finds the idea of any Maybelline touching her face to be up there on the list of fears with public speaking and death,” she exaggerated, flicking her wrist.

“Oh, Elise, let Heather have some fun,” my mother pleaded, hugging the sheet to her chest and giving me a small, beseeching smile.

“I don’t want to end up looking like… looking like some harlot.” I mumbled, standing up and heading to my stack of burned CDs next to my CD player, eager to change the background music. I already knew it was the stupidest excuse ever; I just wanted to get out of letting Heather make me look like a clown. Ever since the makeover we gave Corny one summer when we were thirteen, the confidence I had in her fashion sense had been sufficiently shaken.

“What’s a harlot?” Heather quietly asked my mother as she clicked her tongue.

“Never mind that.” She waved her off and spoke to me again. “Please, Elise. It’s just a bit of makeup.”

“Nope.” I stretched the word and popped the final syllable, finally locating a David Bowie mix to exchange with Cat.

As I changed out the discs, my mother shook her head in defeat and stopped at my doorframe before leaving the room. “You should at least consider it, Leesey,” she told me before going back to her room to fold more laundry and finish her weekend Oprah marathon.

I loved my mother, I really did, but I felt like she was always trying to change me. It must have been strange, bearing four boys in the span of five years, then shooting out a girl on the last run at age forty-two. I didn’t blame her; she was quite old-fashioned and always stuck out like a sore thumb at PTA meetings with her long dresses and array of knit sweaters compared to the soccer moms in jeans and school t-shirts. But since day one, she had always been a bit overbearing, and sometimes it was a bit too much to handle.

“What’s a harlot?” Heather asked herself, sitting her clueless self down on my bed. “I know I’ve heard that word before…”

“A harlot is a whore, Heather. I don’t want to look like some sort of slut,” I muttered, pinching my forehead at the temples and shaking my head. Like her boyfriend, Heather could be the most clueless at the least appropriate moments.

“Oh, c’mon. I’m not that bad with makeup,” she weakly defended, playing with her fingers.

“I know, I know. It’s just—”

“Makeup isn’t for you or whatever.” She scoffed. “You’re just stubborn if you ask me. Afraid of looking like a whore my ass.”

“Ha!” I tossed up my hands and backhanded her shoulder. “Not true!” I called, walking out into the hall to the bathroom.

“You keep telling yourself that. Just… At least let me do your hair,” she pleaded, following me behind the sink and setting her chin on my shoulder. “Give me that much.”

I shrugged her head off and turned to face her, gripping her arms. “Just this once, you can mess with my hair.”

“Yes!” she quietly cheered with a fist pump (house rules forbade any sudden, loud noises; Heather learned this when we were 14 and watching the final results show of American Idol).

“But! I reserve the right to take a shower to rid your chaos if I don’t like the results.”

Heather gave me a small frown for a fraction a second before cheerfully clapping her hands together and ushering me into the hallway towards the stairs. “Let’s go eat. Then you’ll change into a t-shirt and we’ll get you beautified.”

|||

I was forced into the bathroom and into a chair from the living room for about half an hour after dinner as Heather had her way with my plain hair. It was short and a dark blonde, almost brown, always wavy enough to be unmanageable. It went near my shoulders, and when I tied it up (a sight my mother always hated to see), there would only be a short, stubbly stump of hair at the nape of my neck. It was very thin and monotone, but I could care less about it or how it always looked.

But thankfully, Heather never did anything rash with my hair. After forcing me to quickly stick my head in the shower so she could shampoo it, she blew my hair dry, let it fall in a place that she deemed hipster enough for the party I was to attend, and lightly sprayed it in place despite my feeble complaints. Before all the chaos had commenced, she had thought aloud about dying its monotone color, but I refused adamantly enough that she raised her hands in surrender. She went back to running her fingers through my hair, grimacing once or twice at the absolute anorexia of its volume.

After she messed with a few miniscule hairs, she had called her boyfriend Jude as I carefully peeled off my t-shirt and changed into the newly christened “Upside-Down Flower” outfit that Heather had picked out for me. I took one look at the sandals by the skirt and stifled a gag before tossing them back into the rugged suitcase.

I had known Jude since pre-school. We were close friends until a combination of cooties and his being held back in the third grade for repeatedly failing math split us up. He lived just a few streets down from my house, so it only took a few minutes for him to walk over. As I was putting the silver ring I always wore back on, he tentatively knocked on the outside of my door, sticking his head through the doorframe. His dark brown hair flopped with his jerky head movement, stringy and slightly greasy. His bright blue eyes caught Heather’s, and she rushed from her lax position against my dresser to kiss his cheek and pull him into my room, a simple black t-shirt and skinny blue jeans draped over his thin frame. He wasn’t that tall – maybe around six feet – but he towered over me, my stature only adding up to a mere five-one. At their innocent display of affection, I quickly stared at my room’s fuzzy beige carpet, turning one of the many rings around on my finger.

“So, Jude… what do you think, hmm?” I could just imagine her turning at his side to face me, a fist on her hip and her elbow sticking out, as she would widely smile at Jude.

“What’s the difference?” I heard a small thump and a low grunt. “Okay, okay, sorry. She looks great, babe.”

“That’s better.” Another smooch echoed, and she walked back to my bed and sat beside me, draping an arm over my shoulders. “You ready to party your ass off, Elise?” I could hear Jude softly chuckle as he turned around and tuned out our conversation, fumbling through my mix CDs next to an old boom box.

“I’m not so sure that partying one’s butt off is even possible,” I mumbled, awkwardly scratching at a non-existent itch on my forearm. I gave Heather a timid, cheeky smile. She grunted and hopped from my bed, quick to crouch in front of me, and set her hands on my knees.

“Brush your teeth and we’ll leave, okay?” She stood up and turned to leave my room with Jude, but stopped in the doorway, her white summer dress floating around her ankles, almost touching the straps of her matching gladiator sandals. “And please just try to enjoy tonight. Don’t think, just... Just go with it, okay?”

And she let Jude pull her out of my room and to her car parked in front of my house.