Fine Print
My bare feet stood atop the cold tiled locker room, as I kept my eyes glued on my own wood-paneled locker, so as to not let anyone think I was staring at them.
8th grade girls with much bigger boobs than me, much blonder hair than me, and much tighter yoga pants than me, undressed and giggled to each other. They unbuttoned obnoxiously bright polos with tiny white whales embroidered to the right of their chests. After peeling off khaki pants spray painted to their somehow already existent curves, they spritzed one too many puffs of a midst I’d only been lucky enough to steal samples from at the mall. They slipped off brown sandals with gold detailing whose clip-clops echoed down any given hallway. I looked to my new friend Katherine, changing into the designated gray gym tee beside me, who strutted those exact shoes that day.
“Where did you get those sandals?” I asked in a hushed tone.
“Jack Rogers? You’ve never seen them before? You can get them practically anywhere”, she answered.
I made a mental note to add that to my Christmas list, along with tall Ugg boots, a Shep Shirt quarter zip, sweatshirts monogrammed with my initials, a Patagonia Chino, Lululemon leggings, Victoria Secret bras (sports bras if they didn’t carry cup sizes for mosquito bites), Sperry duck boots, and an LL Bean backpack, hoping to God I would sport one of these items after Christmas break. Oh yeah, and braces.
—
Prior to the eighth grade, I had thrived in a small but homey bubble at a private school in Georgetown, Kentucky. There, I confidently spoke in front of the whole school in class plays, took line leader to a whole new meaning, and felt I was a friend to all. Most days, I strutted down the hallway wearing the same pink zip-up jacket, purple glasses, and a scarf my best friend knitted for me, as I swung my brown ponytail I had slicked back with sink water.
Suddenly, I was forced to follow my older brother to a larger private school thirty minutes away, where I faced a new sort of dress code I couldn’t quite crack.
I had never seen these tiny scenes of mountainside logos or anchors sewn on clothing that seemed to carry so much weight. The only person at my old school who owned Uggs wore those sequined disco balls to the ground.
While I knew polos and khaki pants were required at this school, there was another type of dress code that I didn’t recall in the student handbook they gave me at orientation:
MUST DRESS IN PREPPY ATTIRE TO FIT IN.
SIGN X_______________ X
DATE_________
—
Thank God for Katherine.
Katherine was a darling, dark-haired girl I sat by in Algebra 1 and had gym with, who was practically born in a matching Matilda Jane Mommy and Me outfit. Although she’d only been at my new school two years longer than me, she had this strange dress code down pat.
On my first day in those hallowed halls, I walked alone to the lunchroom, but feeling assured I had a spot with a couple of girls from my old school who made the change too.
I confidently approached the table of comforting faces I grew up with, only to discover zero empty seats.
“Hey Ellie (alleged best friend), any room for me?”
She looked around sheepishly as she paused from her cheese and crackers.
“Sorry Erin, no room.”
What the hell, Ellie? I know you told us to “branch out” at our new school but it’s been a whole five minutes! The bustling tables began to close in on me, and I couldn’t bear to stand stupidly with my stained lunchbox another second.
It’s safe to say I didn’t not eat my meal in the bathroom that day.
The next day as I crept down to lunch, with every intention of ignoring my ex-best friends, my eyes fell on the comforting face of the dark haired girl I sat next to in Algebra. Maybe I could ask if her table of pals would scoot down a little for me.
“Of course! Guys, this is Erin! She’s in Mrs. Fruth’s class with me. She’s from Georgetown.”
Finally safe under Katherine’s wings, I let her guide me through the ups and downs of what ran this school: The Brake boys, whose parents own the most popular eatery in town and caters school events for free (and who created the most coveted garlic butter recipe in the Bluegrass); The Bruners, whose old money annually draws half of the city to their spectacle of Christmas lights (and whose son in my grade I regretfully admitted to having a crush on prior to Katherine’s guidance, rookie’s mistake); Papa John’s, which will always be there for you when you fail to remember your stained lunchbox or refuse to drop $10 at the snack shack on a pack of powdered doughnuts and string cheese.
However, these mere insights did not come close to the weight of guidelines considered most important to a pre-pubescent teen: clothes.
—
In that stuffy locker room with giggling self-assured girls, I looked down at my baggy khakis, pink Aeropostale polo, and gently touched the Forever 21 flower print headband that sat on my head. I didn’t see myself in any of these girls.
“Katherine,” I whispered. “I’m gonna need some help”.
MUST DRESS IN PREPPY ATTIRE TO FIT IN.
SIGN X__Erin Oliver__ X
DATE_10/12/14_
—
The wet landscape and naked branches meant it was Christmas in Kentucky, and our two hour car journey passing these scenes of nature meant presents in Paintsville with Nan and Pap.
I stood atop the squeaky wood floors in the room my brother and I shared. All the loot I received laid atop the striped comforter: a mint green sweatshirt with an obnoxiously large EOL all swirly and pink right smack in the middle; black fluffy Uggs; a neon pink jersey that loudly spelled PINK on the back (just in case the public needed a clue on the color I was wearing); a white and navy striped infinity scarf that held another EOL if you dug around long enough for it; a clear Kate Spade phone case with a black bow pattern.
I had done it. I upheld my end of the deal.
—
When I returned to school, I rocked my new merch. The Uggs were on steady rotation, but I didn’t want to be too obnoxious about them. I regularly changed them out for my camel colored pair from Aeropostale (certainly not as comfortable, but honestly just as cute).
With the water-gel ponytails replaced by partly curled hair, a solid group of gal pals, and a newfound confidence, I felt like I was finally fitting in here. I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d like it here.
—
My best friend growing up was a short dark haired girl named Katie. She went to the local public school with her brother, who my brother and I shared most childhood memories with. We spent our summers together making movies with fake blood and eating S’mores Pop Tarts washed down with whole milk. Despite having gone to different schools, nothing came in between me and Katie (besides the literal foot of height difference).
But that was before the deal.
“Show me your Christmas haul!” Katie squealed as she plopped atop my blue cheetah print bed the week after the holiday. She picked up some monogrammed clothing and faked a smile. “Cute.”
I suddenly felt embarrassed. What didn’t she like? Was she not happy for me? Things had certainly felt off between use since I changed schools, but I believed it was temporary while I adjusted. Could people outside of the deal still have things in common? What did we even have in common anymore?
“Um… wanna watch A Walk to Remember?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll pop some popcorn and grab some M & Ms to shake in.”
I don’t remember what we talked about the rest of that night, but I do remember that being our last sleepover.
Sure, Katie didn’t dress like my new friends, but she was my most loyal one. Was the deal going to change me in a way beyond the clothes?
—
I wiped sweat from my upper lip before I wiggled into my khaki pants (the ones my dad asked, “Can you breathe in those things?” when I stomped down the stairs that morning). I inserted both arms into the sleeves of my Ralph Lauren button-down. The blondes swiped deodorant onto their pits, stepped into their Sperry boots, and dashed downstairs for lunch. I frantically stepped into my entirely too large for my underdeveloped calves Hunter boots and folded down the matching socks. Katherine stood waiting alone in the freshman girls’ locker room pretending to be patient.
“Sorry, I just need another minute,” I pleaded.
Sweat still rolled down my back as I peered into the mirror. I blotted an oil wipe around the crevices of my nose, forehead, and chin. I brushed down my fried straight hair and spritzed something violently named Bombshell below my neck.
“Okay, let’s eat.”
It had been over a year since signing the deal. Let's recap:
I had a table to sit at every day for lunch, girls to gab and giggle with, and clothing to be admired! My first boyfriend didn’t mind my braces and was even taller than me! (if you weren’t looking too closely). I convinced Katherine to join the volleyball team with me! I had been asked to homecoming by three different dudes that fall! This whole deal had finally begun to be pretty sweet.
Walking down the hall to lunch that day in rain boots that had to weigh 10 pounds, I was struck with a thought.
Would all of these great things I now had at school have occurred if I still dressed how I did a year ago? I had worn whatever I wanted without second thought, having given all fashion faith over to the Bethany Mota collection at Aero. Would I have made the volleyball team without my lululemon headbands pulling back my invisible bangs? Would Jason Shade still have shakily asked me to homecoming in front of my entire team? Would I still feel secure enough in my new friends that I hardly thought twice about the ones who left me in the dust?
I would certainly still have Katherine (and spoiler alert, still do), but I’m not sure about the rest of it. I probably should’ve read the fine print:
MUST DRESS IN PREPPY ATTIRE TO FIT IN.
SIGN X__Erin Oliver__ X
DATE_10/12/14_
The school is not responsible for any identity crisis following the deal. Student’s discretion is advised.
—
Katherine threw me a sweet sixteen surprise party in her parents’ basement that next summer.
I cautiously moved down her stairs in a palm tree printed Old Navy dress and $15 sandals from the Altar'd State sale section. My hair was blown dry without any additional heating measures. Mascara from “Santa” traced my eyelashes, and a coral Clinique lip tint coated my mouth.
A rich chocolate cake with fuchsia icing and Katherine’s Dad’s homemade guacamole caught my attention first. The pool table was adorned with pink and blue streamers and golden “16” balloons. When my lunch gal pals, awkward nerd guy friends, now shorter than me ex-boyfriend (who could’ve seen that coming), and old friends who became new again yelped “SURPRISE” when the lights flipped on, my heart performed an Olympic worthy somersault. Perhaps it was a mix of terror and nervousness, but it was mostly pure contentment. We played pick-up basketball in the driveway and sang Macklemore as the August sun went to rest.
That past spring, I decided to ditch the green cable knit Ralph Lauren that resembled my Nana’s typical attire. I regretted asking for that second pair of Uggs that Christmas when I unboxed the fur shoes with two bows adorning the back. Those tiny whales suddenly became so uncool to me, nor could I maintain any of the seemingly countless and totally meaningless logos to be me.
There were no pitiful glances at my un-preppy clothes when I thought I felt them when changing in front of those wood paneled lockers in eighth grade. I was just an insecure, shy, (extremely) late bloomer who should’ve owned her style and embraced her self-assuredness she had always owned.
And guess what? The friends I made “preppy” were still my friends following my "dramatic" style transition. No one pointed and stared at me as I changed into the “wrong” brand of spandex in the volleyball locker room. My success with high school boys was not based on where my dumb polo was from (as there wasn’t much success to note).
And hey, do I love a little lululemon sports bra nowadays? Sure, those things last forever and are flattering as hell. And who doesn’t slip on their old Uggs to guard their piggies when you want to step into newly fallen snow? I didn’t ditch every item of clothing or decide to swear off these stores for good. I just found my groove: balancing my Alo joggers with a thrifted band-tee, appreciating a bountiful Urban Outfitters sale section over any new Patagonia fleece drop. This groove proved to be much friendlier to my bank account.
Despite this, my temporary preppy personality did not come without ramifications. You can’t try to be someone else and not expect those closest to you to notice… especially when they weren’t a part of the contract.
—
I went to Katie’s graduation cookout four years ago.
Her dad greeted me with a bear hug and high five, like he always does. I talked with her mom, who is like chatting with a golden retriever, gulping up your words with wide eyes and a bright smile. I recognized Katie’s cousins, grandparents, and new high school friends from her Instagram. I approached her small frame with a brief and gentle hug and handed her a graduation card.
“So, how’s college been for you?” she asked. “I saw you joined a sorority” (there was that fake polite grin again).
“It’s been pretty good so far. Sorority has helped me find a smaller group of friends and just made the transition of moving out so much easier, even though it’s mostly stupid (nervous laugh). You should look into it when you start in the fall!” I spoke entirely too quickly.
“Yeah, maybe.”
Our nonexistent friendship hung in the air like the season’s debilitating pollen. I politely excused myself to the chips and salsa table.
My brother (who once called Katie’s brother his best friend) met me there and whispered, “This is so awkward. Let’s peace.”
I could blame our relationship’s demise on growing up, living in different cities most of the time, and having different hobbies. But I know deep-down our innocent girl bond began deteriorating as soon as I tried to be someone I wasn’t.
My heart felt heavy and ashamed (still) of how I might’ve made Katie feel. What kind of friend forgets what to talk about just because one wears her initials like the star of David and the other wears the initials of her cousins? Katie’s parents couldn’t afford the tiny whales or sparkly boots. Her wardrobe was mostly hand-me-downs her sweet mom dumped onto her bed from large Walmart bags every few months.
These kids I walked alongside in high school were some of the snobbiest and most uptight people I had ever met. And I wanted to look like them? Be like them? Had my well-intentioned parents taught me nothing?
—
Katie’s twenty-first birthday was last year. We still text each other best wishes, our only remaining tie. I scrolled her Instagram page to discover big toothed smiles, comments of inside jokes with her sorority sisters, and selfies that could only be described as pure joy.
I wonder if I had always been myself like Katie, would we still share those big toothed smiles.
Always, always read the fine print.