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The Idea

I guess I should start from my end of the freshman year. I was known as Gwen Nazereth, a cheerleader, an airhead, a stuck-up snob, who loved the color pink and shopping, who flirted with every guy in sight, giggling and telling them that I loved them, and also ate frickin' breadsticks for lunch. Yeah, not exactly like the guy the people from Cali know.

So, it's the last day of school. All my girlfriends were being depressed and moping for me at lunch—well, I was being depressed and moping for myself, too—because it was going to be my, like, seventh-to-last day in Minnesota. But then, one of my friends, Patricia, said, "Omigod, Gwen, I have the most hot idea!"

"How can you have a hot idea about…me…moving…to…California!?" I sobbed into my half-eaten breadstick tray. All my girls cried with me, including Patty, but she said, "Okay, so you know how you're such a popular girl here in Frocksen? But when you move, you can, like, be, like anyone you want! No one knows you!"

"And your point would be…" said Beatrice, waving her hands. Patricia rolled her eyes. We were all still crying.

"So!? Remember the movie She's the Man?"

"I don't get it," said Roberta.

"You could totally pretend to be a boy!" yelled Patricia excitedly.

"Omigod, that's totally hot!" Beatrice shouted. "Omigod! You should totally do that, Gwen!"

"Well, I want to," I mumbled. "But Viola was at a boarding school, so her parents didn't have to know. Besides, how am I supposed to cover my boobs?"

"Um, I dunno," said Erica. "Use your imagination. Maybe plastic surgery."

"Oh, did you guys hear that Mrs. Pattinson got a nose job?" asked Patricia.

"Omigod, it's so ug-lay!" agreed Beatrice. "Did you know that she got it at Orchard Dunes?

"I heard that place kills!" said Andrea, who was typically quiet. Erica nodded.

"Yeah, but did you see-?"

"Um, guys?" I said. "Back to me moving to California."

"Oh yeah," said Erica. "Maybe we can get, like, one of those actress pads. You know, like breast plates? Only, like, they're for girls who are acting for guys. Ooh! My mom has a friend who has a niece who has a friend who has an aunt who has a friend who has a daughter who's a famous actress."

"What's your mom's friend's niece's friend's aunt's friend's daughter's name?" I asked eagerly. Erica shrugged. "Dunno, she's an extra."

"But can she get an actress pad?" asked Beatrice. Erica nodded.

"But where can I get boys' clothes?" I asked. "And what are my parents going to say when they see me dressed—no, not dressed, totally looking like a boy—every day to school? And everyone is going to introduce me as Gwen Nazereth. And when I'm going to the bathroom, what will guys think when I use the stall? It's not like-It's not like I'm gonna grow a penis!"

"Oh, honey, we'll work on the kinks later," said Beatrice. "But we totally got to put this plan into action. So, shopping spree for boys' clothes tomorrow? It can be Gwen's good-bye present!"
"Totally!" I cried, forgetting my depression. "But if I'm gonna be a boy, if I, like, talk with a girl voice, wouldn't they know I'm a boy? Or are boys that stupid?"

"I dunno what we should do about your voice," said Patricia. "Use your guy voice. Say that you love to go shopping."

"I love to go shopping," I said in a deep, growly voice. My friends laughed. I grinned, and said, "It's probably the same, just a bit deeper."

The end-of-lunch bell rang. We got up with our half-eaten breadsticks, and dumped it into the trash can.

Thus started my boy study.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"Hollister, it is!"

I love Hollister. Boy or not, popular or unpopular, whatever, I will always love Hollister. Music, dark, boy/girl sides, it's amazing.

We pranced into the boys' side like we belonged there. A man who was putting back some clothes onto a shelf glanced at us, then came over to us. "Are you guys lost?"

"He-llo! Does it look like we are?" asked Erica, looking at her newly manicured nails (we all got French manicures for the sake of getting them before coming here). The man looked at us for a second, then said, "Um, I guess not."

"Well, then why did you ask?" asked Beatrice, curling her nails forward so she could blow them dry. The man just looked at us before going back to his job.

We bought weird guy jeans that were really baggy (well, compared to girls' flared jeans), guy shorts—really long—and baggy sweatpants, weird baggy stripe polos, those open-polos guys where over baggy tees, which we also bought, vests, jackets and sweat shirts. (Five of each, actually. That makes it, like, forty-five pieces of clothing)

When we went over to the counter, the cashier was the same guy we ran into earlier. He looked at us, looked at the, like, forty-five pieces of clothing, then said, "For your brother?"

"Erm…no," I replied, blowing around my nails. The guy looked at us, then said hesitantly. "Cousin?"

"Nope."

"Dad?"

"Nope."

"Uncle?"

"No."

"Friend?"

"No."

"Grandfather?"

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

"No."

"Ex-boyfriend?"

"Eww! No way!" yelled Patricia giggling. "There is no way she is getting clothes from Hollister for Trevor!" (Long story)

"Patty!" I yelled, whacking Patricia over the head with my purse. "You don't have to tell the whole world about him!"

"So, who are the clothes for, then?" asked the guy. I rolled my eyes. "Hello, silly, they're for me! Who do you think they'd be for?"

The man just gave me a look before checking out my stuff. I sighed to my friends, who rolled their eyes in the same annoyed tone as me.

After that, we went to Adidas. We, like, never went there. But I always heard that at guys went there for shoes, so we decided to go there at get out of there quickly so no one would see us. Well, my friends. I'm not so concerned about my reputation, since I'm, like, moving tomorrow.

We found a random pair of guy shoes that were giant. We brought them to the desk. "Can we have this in an extra-extra small?"

"Um, shoes don't really come in large-small sizes," said the girl behind the counter. Oh. Well, I just try on my shoes then decide which one to buy, and I don't really pay attention to size-signs. But there is no way I'm trying on that...thing.

"Okay...then, just get them in the smallest size," said Erica. The girl looked at us weirdly before going into the back room. Still blowing my nails, I said, "I wonder if guys like shopping."

"They're probably just like, 'Shopping. Cool,'" said Beatrice, lightly tapping her nails impatiently. The lady came back from the back and said annoyedly, "These small enough?"

I looked at them. Probably kinda big, but if I wear, like, three pairs of socks, it's probably going to fit. Probably.

Once we were done with that, we went to go get our hair done. I asked for short cropped hair, although I was planning on wearing a wig. We sat at the waiting benches, and Erica flipped her cellphone open.

"Hello? Frederica?" she said. "Omigod, hi! Really? No way! No! No way! Omigod! No! No way! No way! I know!"

"Erm, Erica?" I said. "Ask her about the actress pad and the wigs and stuff."

"Right," Erica mouthed to me. She said into her cell," Freddi! Freddi! Freddi! FREDDI!"

A bunch of people in the salon looked at us interestedly and annoyedly. Beatrice, Patty, Andrea and I glared at them until they stopped.

"Thank you," Erica mouthed to us. "Freddi, Gwendolyn—you remember her?--has a favor to ask. She, um, needs an actress pad and a guy wig – blond hair. Yeah, that will do. No way! A hot wig! He-llo! She needs to be a hot guy. Sure. Okay. Yep. Bye. Kisses too." She hung up and turned to us. "She can get them to you tomorrow. I told her I could email her your new address. She's in California, anyway."

"Omigod! Guys! I just thought of something!" said Andrea, from annoyedly tugging a strand of hair that hung to her cheek. "What would Gwen do when she has her period? I heard that guys' bathrooms don't have the little trash cans!"

"Omigod!" I shrieked. "I don't know! Um...uh, we'll figure it out later."

"Right," Beatrice said.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"Bye guys," I said sadly to my friends, wiping a tear. We were all crying, and I leaned out the window of Wilma's (my sister's) car, half-hugging them. Wilma looked at us annoyedly. "Gwen, my friends left a half an hour ago."

"So? My friends actually are considerate," I pointed out. Wilma rolled her eyes. I just grinned teasingly. "You know I'm just joking. Bye guys!" I added to my sobbing friends. "I'll remember Freddi!" I added to Erica. She nodded back. I rolled up the window and sighed.

Fourteen hours in a car must be tiring for a driver, but apparently, Wilma could hold up. The passengers, on the other hand (Josie and I) –

Two hours: "Are we there yet?"

"No."

Four hours: "Are we there yet?"

"No."

Six hours: "Are we there yet?"

"Damnit, no! Now shut the hell up! God, I should have ridden with Mom and Dad."

"Wilma, what does 'dammit' mean?" asked Josie, playing with her Barbie doll dressed like a ninja. I rolled my eyes.

"Shame, shame, shame Willy," I said. "Vulgar language in front of the three year old. You're such a bad influence."

"Well, at least I'm not the one who taught her to tell people to fuck off," sneered Wilma.

"She didn't know what it meant until you just said it," I pointed out. "As said before, shame, shame, shame."

Eight hours: "Are we-"

"No!"

"Well, I was just asking if we were going to have a pit stop. God, what's your problem?!"

Finally, after enduring all fourteen hours in a car, with us, since we didn't want to spend any money on the airplane for our house (we wanted a big house), we finally arrived. Josie was asleep, I was doing my makeup, and Wilma was listening to her iPod connected to her CD player when we pulled into our mansion. God, it was big! (I wonder if guys say "God" and "like" a lot.)

"Gwen, get Josie out of the car," said Wilma as she parked in the driveway.

"Get her yourself," I replied, getting my purse, and climbing out, trying to regain the feeling in my legs. (I get annoyed and mad at my sister when she's annoyed at me.) Wilma shot me a nasty look, which I ignored.

Following Wilma's car, my parents' car and the moving truck, was a light blue convertible sports car that held a girl with light brown hair and sunglasses. She looked at us, her eyes scanning until she saw me. She clambered out of her car and ran up to me.

"Hi!" she said peppily. "You must be Gwen, right? I'm Frederica, Erica's mom's friend's niece's friend's aunt's friend's daughter! I'm sixteen! I have all the materials you need!"

"Um, hi," I said, kind of tired. "Yeah, I am. Thanks. These are my sisters, Wilma and Josephine. And my parents. And the moving guys." I did the gestures.

"Um, Gwenny, who's this?" asked my mom, climbing out of her car. Frederica perked up.

"Hi! I'm Gwen's friend's mom's friend's niece's friend's aunt's friend's daughter! My name is Frederica. Did, uh, Gwen tell you about her needing an actress pad and the blond wig with sideburns?" rambled Frederica. My parents looked at my confusedly. I grinned sheepishly.

"Heh, well, you see, about that..."