yelled.
(It is a characteristic of Riccis to yell as if in argument when we’re actually saying mundane or even encouraging things to each other.
Example (read as shouted) :
MOM: WASH YOUR HANDS BEFORE COMING INTO THE KITCHEN!
FELICIA: DID YOU GET THE MAIL?
DAD: LOOK AT ALL THOSE CATALOGS!
FELICIA: DON’T THROW AWAY MY MAGAZINES!
DAD: WHY IS THE STOVE ON LOW? BRING THE WATER TO A BOIL FIRST, THEN TURN IT DOWN!
MOM: YOU LOOK NICE TODAY!
DAD: YOU DO, TOO!
FELICIA: HEY, I GOT AN A ON MY PHYSICS TEST!
MOM AND DAD: YOU’RE A GENIUS!)
“Anyway, I have to go,” I said, unrolling my sweatshirt and climbing out of the tub. “Tonight I’m going to meet the cast and watch the show.”
I looked in the bathroom mirror at my belted muu-muu, bird’s nest hair, and chapped colorless lips.
I hope the other kids like me.
“Well, have fun, sweetie, and call us any time,” said my mom, coming down from her compliment frenzy.
I said goodbye to my parents and gathered my things, resisting the urge as I headed out the door to call home once again—to ask one final question.
Will you come drop me off at school, Mommy?
In the one-and-a-half minutes it took David to lead me down the hall to the girls’ dressing room, the version of me that was cool, collected— modern marvel able to leap social barriers in a single bound —still existed. In those moments, I still stood a chance of being totally agreeable, or, if we’re aiming high, likeable.
Soon I heard a soft stream of hip-hop music coming from the doorway. I fiddled with my belt, tipped my head back, and put on an expression that oozed warmth and friendliness. One that said, “Nice to meet you, coworkers!” Yes, my plan was to act like a Disney park employee.
David knocked on the door with his knuckles.
“Ladies? Everybody decent?”
Soon we were standing inside the doorway, amidst the pulsing music—louder now—thumping with my heartbeat, while I stood, grinning so wide it tingled.
“This is Felicia, everybody!”
And there I saw civilization, enlivened, filled with people, coming at me in droves.
“Hey there!” “Hello!” “What’s up?” “How’s it going?” everybody chorused back. I tried to match voices to faces but could see only twelve or more people-pillars, with eyes, ears, mouths—all the appropriate parts—somehow impossible to differentiate.
It’s just nerves.
Finally, I stepped forward, in my dazzling muu-muu, and introduced myself.
“Hi, I’m Felicia,” I said, brilliantly.
One by one, with nylon wig caps stretched across their heads, girls began materializing from the crowd.
“I’m Annie,” chirped one, her hair looped in curls. Her smile was wide, like a double-decker bus, square and stacked taller than seemed possible.
“Annie, hi! Thanks for the Facebook message!”
“I’m Kristen, nice to meet you.”
“Allison, hi.”
“I’m Alexa,” said another girl with platinum hair and large breasts who sat next to,
“Laura, nice to meet you,” another girl with large breasts, who sat next to,
“Fiama! Welcome to the cast,” a slightly older woman with large breasts.
Laura, the one in the middle, was the girl I’d be replacing in the ensemble.
“We get to sit next to each other,” confirmed blonde Alexa, in a high-pitched voice.
“Penelope!” “Neka!” “Kehau!”
The roll call continued, kind of like that scene from The Sound of Music when all the kids marched forward and shouted their names.
A few minutes into the meet and greet, and it was smooth sailing. I struck up a conversation with Fiama about her husband and young son, mostly to divert my roaming eyes, which kept getting drawn down almost magnetically to the enormous breasts that surrounded me. When it would come time for me to sit among this well-endowed middle row, my own chest was going to look like the only two guppies in a sea of marlins, the only two raisins at the grapefruit stand, the only two (you get the
(It is a characteristic of Riccis to yell as if in argument when we’re actually saying mundane or even encouraging things to each other.
Example (read as shouted) :
MOM: WASH YOUR HANDS BEFORE COMING INTO THE KITCHEN!
FELICIA: DID YOU GET THE MAIL?
DAD: LOOK AT ALL THOSE CATALOGS!
FELICIA: DON’T THROW AWAY MY MAGAZINES!
DAD: WHY IS THE STOVE ON LOW? BRING THE WATER TO A BOIL FIRST, THEN TURN IT DOWN!
MOM: YOU LOOK NICE TODAY!
DAD: YOU DO, TOO!
FELICIA: HEY, I GOT AN A ON MY PHYSICS TEST!
MOM AND DAD: YOU’RE A GENIUS!)
“Anyway, I have to go,” I said, unrolling my sweatshirt and climbing out of the tub. “Tonight I’m going to meet the cast and watch the show.”
I looked in the bathroom mirror at my belted muu-muu, bird’s nest hair, and chapped colorless lips.
I hope the other kids like me.
“Well, have fun, sweetie, and call us any time,” said my mom, coming down from her compliment frenzy.
I said goodbye to my parents and gathered my things, resisting the urge as I headed out the door to call home once again—to ask one final question.
Will you come drop me off at school, Mommy?
In the one-and-a-half minutes it took David to lead me down the hall to the girls’ dressing room, the version of me that was cool, collected— modern marvel able to leap social barriers in a single bound —still existed. In those moments, I still stood a chance of being totally agreeable, or, if we’re aiming high, likeable.
Soon I heard a soft stream of hip-hop music coming from the doorway. I fiddled with my belt, tipped my head back, and put on an expression that oozed warmth and friendliness. One that said, “Nice to meet you, coworkers!” Yes, my plan was to act like a Disney park employee.
David knocked on the door with his knuckles.
“Ladies? Everybody decent?”
Soon we were standing inside the doorway, amidst the pulsing music—louder now—thumping with my heartbeat, while I stood, grinning so wide it tingled.
“This is Felicia, everybody!”
And there I saw civilization, enlivened, filled with people, coming at me in droves.
“Hey there!” “Hello!” “What’s up?” “How’s it going?” everybody chorused back. I tried to match voices to faces but could see only twelve or more people-pillars, with eyes, ears, mouths—all the appropriate parts—somehow impossible to differentiate.
It’s just nerves.
Finally, I stepped forward, in my dazzling muu-muu, and introduced myself.
“Hi, I’m Felicia,” I said, brilliantly.
One by one, with nylon wig caps stretched across their heads, girls began materializing from the crowd.
“I’m Annie,” chirped one, her hair looped in curls. Her smile was wide, like a double-decker bus, square and stacked taller than seemed possible.
“Annie, hi! Thanks for the Facebook message!”
“I’m Kristen, nice to meet you.”
“Allison, hi.”
“I’m Alexa,” said another girl with platinum hair and large breasts who sat next to,
“Laura, nice to meet you,” another girl with large breasts, who sat next to,
“Fiama! Welcome to the cast,” a slightly older woman with large breasts.
Laura, the one in the middle, was the girl I’d be replacing in the ensemble.
“We get to sit next to each other,” confirmed blonde Alexa, in a high-pitched voice.
“Penelope!” “Neka!” “Kehau!”
The roll call continued, kind of like that scene from The Sound of Music when all the kids marched forward and shouted their names.
A few minutes into the meet and greet, and it was smooth sailing. I struck up a conversation with Fiama about her husband and young son, mostly to divert my roaming eyes, which kept getting drawn down almost magnetically to the enormous breasts that surrounded me. When it would come time for me to sit among this well-endowed middle row, my own chest was going to look like the only two guppies in a sea of marlins, the only two raisins at the grapefruit stand, the only two (you get the
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