The Rites and Wrongs of Janice Wills by Joanna Pearson Page B

even when you apparently also have some Secret Boyfriend. You think you’re so pretty and cool and blah blah blah, but you’re NOTHING. Nothing but a fake and a cliché.”
    “And YOU, Janice, are a fraud,” Margo said, her breath hot and sour in my face. “You’re afraid to do anything but sit on the sidelines and judge everyone. And you call yourself an ‘anthropologist’ like it’s this great excuse.” She laughed a dry, hard non-laugh. “Ha. You don’t know the first thing about actual anthropology.”
    We stood statue-still for a beat, just staring at each other. I blinked back tears. Then Margo walked out of the house. “I want to go home,” I heard myself whimper.
    FACT:
I sounded like a small baby mammal on a nature documentary, calling for its mother.
    I stumbled back up the gravel drive to my mom’s car, where I sat for a long time, crying, before I drove away.

ANTHROPOLOGICAL
OBSERVATION #12:
    . . . . . . . . . . . . 
    . . . . . . . . . . . . 
    “Janice, my sweet,” my mom said, knocking on my bedroom door. “Are you okay?”
    “Janice?”
    “Janice?”
    “Mmmmm,” I answered through my pillow, holding my breath until my mom left.
    I was thinking about my anthropology notes, neatly laid out, Word files and Word files. I’d always liked how my voice sounded authoritative and wise in those notes — in control, like those voice-over narrators on nature shows or during movie previews. I thought of Margo’s angry words, of Paul’s list, even what Jimmy had said about my observations. And it occurred to me: I was not part of the action.
Oh, God
, I thought.
I’m not an anthropologist. I’m the Lonely Voice-over Narrator of Adolescence. The Bitter Voice-over Voice
.
    And the rest of the weekend was like this:

ANTHROPOLOGICAL
OBSERVATION #13:
    To understand a culture better, one must study avidly all means of writing, art, and ritual, but one must not underestimate a key source of wisdom: the matriarch
.
    When I emerged from the blankness of the weekend that Sunday night, I assessed. The postparty tally was: one pair of vomit-stamed shoes, one lost hoop earring from the pair I’d borrowed from my mother, a pair of jeans that smelled of old wine vomit and cheap beer, and zero friends. I would have to retire from party appearances yet again.
    I told my mom after dinner, “Margo hates me. Junior year has turned into a disaster.”
    My mom replied, “Oh, darling. Y’all will make up! And the Miss Livermush Pageant is coming up! Won’t that be nice?!”
    “Yeah,” I answered through gritted teeth. “Something to look forward to.”
    “Well, let’s try on dresses for the big event, shall we? There was a great sale at Belk so I picked up a couple for you to try,” my mom said. I could tell by her voice that she thought she was being helpful. She was almost as excited as when she dresses our dog, Pouncer, in a holiday sweater. Almost. I took the first dress to try on.
    ANTHROPOLOGIST’S NOTE:
If you are an American adolescent female and your mother picks out some on-sale dresses for you to try, they will never be beautiful. You will hate these dresses.
    “Hold your shoulders back!” my mom barked. She tried to square my shoulders, making my shoulder blades stick out all the more. This dress was a hot pink concoction with a full, frothing skirt. It looked horrible. I noted with disgust the dark hairs sprouting on my bony ankles.
    “Oh, don’t you just look gorgeous! The bow really adds some nice volume to your chest.”
    The bow was very large and perched on my shoulder, covering my entire left breast. Correction: the area where my left breast should be. I had noticed that my breasts, or lack thereof, were actually even smaller than the breasts of Melva High’s rumored-to-be-anorexic girl. Or else the Supposedly Anorexic Girl just had more naturally pointy nipples, giving the illusion of more breast than I’d ever possessed. This bow would hardly fool