Connie Mason was the girl that all the guys adored and who all the girls wanted to be. The other freshmen girls and I at Northpoint High School would analyze Connie Mason’s every move. We would take mental notes as she sashayed down the hall, swinging her long, uncombed hair and flashing her huge, white teeth. We would admire her attire, Salvation Army vintage wear that hung on her starving body. Connie Mason had made out with all of the dreamiest boys in school, had elaborate parties, and had these amazing parents that no one had ever met. She was a mystery, a glimpse of perfection. She was everything I wasn’t –beautiful, sophisticated, and confident. So on March 23, 1997, I decided I was going to become Connie Mason. My first step in my transformation process was to become friends with the “Connies.” They were Connie’s elite group of friends who modeled themselves after her image. Of course, no one came close to being like the infamous Connie. One of the Connies and I were neighbors, so she was my mentor in making my climb up the social ladder. My neighbor, Terese Bingham was inducted into the Connies a few months before. She was a talented guitar player and had a throaty laugh that made everyone else laugh. Terese dated the captain of the hockey team and had a near perfect figure, thanks to years of diet pills and laxatives. Her credentials were upstanding and I was nowhere near possessing them. The closest I got to the hockey team was when I made out with Kris Stenson, their waterboy. My figure was average, not bulimic or anorexic. I often interrupted people, snorted when I laughed, and nervously played with my earring whenever I could not answer a question in class. My talent claim to fame was I was on the school’s dance team and could play some songs on the piano with my feet. Terese had invited me along to one of Connie’s exclusive sleepovers. The rumor was that at these sleepovers the Connies viewed potential new members. I had worn my most alternative looking tee-shirt and practically gagged on baking soda to make my teeth look extra white. My mom drove Terese and me to Connie’s home, which was not what I thought it would be like. After hearing stories of Connie’s wealthy parents, I imagined her house to be straight out of a Homes and Gardens magazine. However, Connie’s house was no larger than my two-story, comfortable home. It was painted an
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ugly green color and the garage door looked unhinged. When we approached the door, the porch smelled like a mixture between marijuana and kitty litter. One of the Connies, Kate Browner, answered the door. She had dyed her black hair into Connie’s shade of dusty blonde. Kate’s dark roots were extremely obvious, but she was still a knockout. She wore purple colored contacts, knew every word to popular rap songs, and possessed a wardrobe straight out of a J-Crew catalog. Kate looked at me like I was a leper and then led us into Connie’s living room where the rest of the Connies sat. Terese began to introduce me to the girls that were like me, the Connie Mason wannabes. Terese raised her voice as if she were announcing the homecoming king and queen. “This is my neighbor, Laura Platt,” Therese proclaimed. The Connies studied my glowing teeth and unkempt bun and seemed to simultaneously nod in approval. Jenna, one of the Connie’s most annoying members, asked, “Are you in my Geology class?” “Yeah. You sit right next to me.” “Do you like that class? I can hardly keep my eyes open. We need to give Mr. Warbel some heavy dosages of Red Bull or something,” she joked. I nervously responded, “Or maybe a Red Bull and Vodka. Now that would add some spice to plate tectonics. The Connies all giggled at my remark and I felt my confidence slowly rising. My first conversation with a Connie had proved successful. We all plopped ourselves into Connie’s living room which was as disappointing as her house’s drab exterior. Dying plants decorated the dimly lit room. Ashtrays, holiday knick knacks, Post-it notes, and old National Geographic magazines cluttered the plastic coffee table and spread across the brown carpet. The Van Gogh posters were the only decoration that appealed to me, for not only do I love the artist, but the bright colors helped cover up the walls oldfashioned brown checked wallpaper. I was wondering where the hostess was –probably chatting on the phone with a popular senior, purring to him about how his blue polo shirt brought out the color of his eyes. She was creating her outfit masterpiece, something she would say she just “threw together.”
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The Connies did not seem to be concerned about where their leader was. They were too busy discussing Counting Crows tickets and if Farra Hinnedal was pregnant or just ate too much Pizza Hut pizza. I assumed that they were used to Connie’s grandiose entrances and made a mental note to remember this distinct characteristic of the Connies. With her lips pursed together, Terese haughtily declared, “Farra Hinnedal is pregnant. I heard it from Beth Loman.” “Beth Loman is a major weirdo,” one of the Connies added. Ally VandenLangen joined forces with Terese. “Well, Farra does have that boyfriend from South,” she informed, “and I heard from tons of people that Farra and him have this crazy sex life.” “Farra’s a virgin, idiot. She is way too unattractive to have a boyfriend.” Ally challenged her fellow Connie, “Ugly girls can get action you know. Especially if they put out.” Mustering up my courage and neglecting my integrity, I decided to chime in. “You guys, I know the real story.” I did know the real story, but I was not going to completely tell it. I needed to add some excitement and intrigue to the story to get a reaction from the Connies. Farra and I went to grade school together. I always liked her, even though she wasn’t the prettiest or most outgoing girl. But I needed to change, so I wouldn’t become what Farra was in the eyes of the Connies. I did not want the Connies gossiping about the pimple above my lip or I how I made out with the waterboy. I was the only non-Connie there and I needed to make an impression. I took a deep breath and then began to weave my exaggerated story. “The story is that Farra is pregnant with her boyfriend’s baby. They’ve been dating for years. And I guess she is trying to hide her pregnancy and keep it a secret from everyone. She’s pretending that she just gained weight. Her parents supposedly have no clue that Farra is having a baby.” The Connies, all wide-eyed and curious, drank in my story like a bottle of Evian after a hangover. Monica Meyer, Connie’s closest confidante spoke with an annoyance in her voice. She looked at her chipped middle fingernail and said in a bored voice, “Her parents must be really stupid.”
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“Actually, I think Farra is the stupid one here. How in the world does she expect no one to figure it out?” Kate justified, “You can hide your pregnancy. My cousin did, and no one knew until Christmas Eve when her water broke during dinner. It was a crazy fiasco. I think her parents thought she was a 30-year old virgin and then… “That’s different Kate,” Monica explained, “your cousin was old, so that’s not even close to being scandal. Farra’s only a sophomore in high school.” I watched them all bicker with each other and began to feel my Taco Bell start to revolve in my stomach. My late lunch burrito began to tango with my guilt. I knew that Farra’s parents were aware of her pregnancy and she was not really trying to hide it. She confessed to me that she did not want to advertise her teenage pregnancy because gossip spread like wildfire at our school. Here I was, setting flame to the gossip and my burrito was now begging me to let it come out. The hysteria over Farra’s hushed pregnancy finally died down, and the Connies started analyzing the show, Dawson’s Creek. The show was my favorite and I gave them my insight into Pacey and Joey’s relationship. I began to wonder where the magnificent leader was. I found her presumed grand entrance to be overbearing. The Connies never questioned where their leader was. My overactive imagination began to stir up scenarios about what this sleepover might entail. Maybe the Connies were playing a joke on me and wanted to taunt and threaten me about how I could never be like Connie. They wanted to stress how I could never be a member of their exclusive crowd. I did not fit any of their qualifications for a friend. I did not abuse diuretics, my hair was too straight to look uncombed, and I never got felt up by a popular senior guy. I wasn’t pretty or talented enough. I did not have a quirky laugh or colored contacts. I thought Connie’s house was gaudy and unimpressive while the Connies thought it was very new age and unique. So after my wavering thoughts signed a peace treaty with my runaway imagination and temperamental burrito, I decided to speak up and questioned, “So where’s Connie?” Monica challenged my simple question. “What do you mean, where is Connie?” “Well, it is her party and she’s not even here.”
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“Your point is…” “My point,” I continued now more annoyed than apprehensive, “is that we have been here for about two hours and haven’t seen a sign of our hostess.” They all stared at me with blank and tantalizing looks. The Connie wannabes were glaring at me as if I betrayed each and every one of them. I pleaded my case, “I’m sorry guys. It’s just that I’m not a Connie, nor have I ever attended one of these sleepovers before. I don’t even know Connie that well.” Monica stood up still gazing at her defected nail. Her self-righteousness and need to challenge everyone’s opinions was becoming nauseating. “Well, we all know Connie. And it is not a big deal that she is late. I am sure she will be here soon.” I backed down to Monica’s defensiveness and nodded my head in agreement. “Actually I totally see your point.” I looked over to see my ally in the war against the Connies. It was Jane Nichols, the quietest of the Connies. I did not know much about her except that she sometimes modeled for Shopko ads, wore a lot of body glitter, and that her older brother was president of the senior class. All I knew about her was her “Connie credentials,” which is what I only knew about any of the Connies. I smiled over at Jane, silently thanking her for appearing to be remotely human. Jane proceeded, “Connie should have been here when we came. That was two hours ago, and I am starving for some greasy pizza. This no carbs diet I am on is kicking my butt. Monica, when Connie gave you her house keys, did she mention that she might be late or where the hell her parents might be?” The Connies’ looks became less menacing. Jane was one of their own, and her words spoke truths they so often ignored. Who were Connie’s parents, and why was Connie mysteriously not present at her own party? The night was turning into a mystery party instead of a sleepover consisting of gossip and pizza. “I think Connie is at...” The phone interrupted Monica’s intended lecture, and she took the initiative of answering the phone. “Hello, Mason residence. No. He is not. Can I take a message? Carol? Does he know your number?” Okay, thanks.”
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Kate asked, “Who was that?” “Some chick for Mr. Mason. She says she works with him.” “Where does he work?” “No clue.” “Didn’t Connie ever tell you where her dad worked?” Monica shrugged her pointy shoulders and said, “I don’t remember. Actually, one night Connie mentioned something about records or music or something, and how her dad was in the music business.” The Connies then hurriedly began discussing Mr. Mason’s possible occupation. Ally exclaimed, “I bet Mr. Mason is some hot shot in the music industry, and Connie is way too polite to brag about it.” I had to hold in my laughter at their dreamlike portrait of Connie’s dad. I wonder why if he was supposedly this tycoon of the music world, why he did not live in a larger market area. I highly doubted that De Pere, Wisconsin was America’s hidden music capital. Monica and Kate disappeared into Connie’s kitchen which from my viewpoint looked like an unorganized haven for mismatched plates and Tupperware containers. Kate came in the living room delicately holding a neon pink Post-it note. She began to talk to us like we were 5th graders. “This is the cell phone number for Mrs. Mason. Maybe she’s with Connie. Actually she has to be unless Connie took up driving as a freshman.” Kate picked up the phone and called the unknown Mrs. Mason. She laughed and said, “Okay. That was weird. Maybe it is not the right number. It said to leave a message for Marcella Blanik.” “Marcella is Connie’s mom’s first name,” Ally informed Kate. “Yeah, but what is with the last name?” The Connies began analyzing the new clue. They reminded my of the geese I used to feed corn kennels to, swarming and picking at each other. The Connies concluded that Mrs. Mason was probably one of those feminist types that chose to keep her maiden name. The Connies certainly set high expectations for Connie’s life. I wondered why any of them, even Monica, did not possess any insight into Connie’s personal life. The night was dragging on. The Van Gogh pictures were surrounding me
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and trying to torment me into chopping my own ear off. I was fed up with listening to this nonsense. Pretty soon I was going to find out that this was not even Connie’s house. The Connies decided to test my loyalty towards them and their leader by holding a pre-party at this trashy house. They were pretending to not know what was going on. Connie’s parents would drive up in their Explorer and whisk the Connies and me away to their hidden mansion. Connie and her high maintenance group would applaud my patience and sense of humor and ask me to be a member of their society. The phone rang again. Monica, of course, answered it. “Hello, Mason residence. Omigod? Hey! Where are you? So Keith Anderson asked you on a date today. I love his hair! He’s so hot! So, where are you again? Yeah, everyone’s here including you-knowyou. Pretty curious where you are. Actually, we all are. What’s going on? Sure I’ll hold.” Jane spoke up, “What’s Connie saying?” “Not much,” Monica replied, “she keeps on changing the subject every time I ask her where she is.” Monica’s know-it-all façade was slowly fading, and she looked perplexed and almost innocent. “Well, tell Connie we’re leaving because we feel rude staying at her house when she is not here.” Monica halfheartedly nodded and began to talk hurriedly to Connie. “Hey. Are you there? Okay, good. Connie Leigh Mason, now can you tell me where you are? The girls are all ready to call their parents to pick them up and this is making a bad impression on our visitor. You will be here in a few minutes. Who is driving you home? A taxi? What about your parents? Okay, I guess. Great. We will see you in a few minutes. Adios.” Monica looked at all of us and smiled her toothpaste advertisement grin. I made a mental note to myself that the Connies appeared to smile whenever they seemed to feel remotely awkward. The Connies didn’t further question Monica’s baffling conversation with Connie. They just dove into convincing Terese to break up with her hockey playing boyfriend and move on to Jeff Ridges, the basketball star who supposedly has a “massive
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crush” on Terese. I was glad I never made out with the basketball team’s waterboy, because basketball players seemed to be the Connies’ newest infatuation. Jane reintroduced the topic of Connie’s invisible presence. “I think Connie and her mystery crap is annoying. I mean we all come her to her house and she’s not even here, and then she calls and tells us nonchalantly that she will be arriving in a taxi for her own party. At her house.” “Connie is way too much sometimes,” added Kate. Terese joined in and said, “Sometimes I wonder why everyone makes such a big deal out of her. Why is she considered so wealthy when her house is a piece of crap? Plus, this house smells like my cat, Lupe’s poop anyway.” “Maybe her parents spend their money on other things. You can’t judge people’s wealth based on the style of their home.” “I think all of the stories that everyone tells about Connie are a bunch of lies. She’s not that drop dead gorgeous and the older guys only like her cause she’s easy,” Ally fiercely said. “Connie is not a whore. She just has experience.” Jane’s timid voice was turning more forceful and passionate. “Well, Farra Hinnedal has experience too but you don’t see the senior guys lusting after her.” Terese gave an exaggerated sigh and said, “I think we are all being stupid for staying here. I feel like I’m trespassing. I’m going to call my mom to pick us up. She’ll bring the van so we can all fit.” Terese went to call her mother and I sat in the living room bewildered over what I just heard. The Connies were revolting against their leader, the perfect, popular Connie Mason. It was the first time I heard anyone even utter a harsh word against her. I felt the Taco Bell once again twirling like a washing machine in my growling stomach. The Connies exchanged more back-stabbing comments about their impeached leader and I just listened. Then, over by the stairway, I caught a glimpse of someone. There she was, my once perfect idol, peaking her head over the banister. I kept silent as the Connies continued to insult her. They started poking fun of Connie’s hair which “looked like a bird’s nest” and her “sickly body.”
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Connie could not see me glancing at her. Her long, dusty blonde hair was in a messy ponytail and she had tears pouring down her face. Even in her sadness, I thought she looked stunning. I felt sick again. The entire situation was nauseating and I wanted to get out of Connie’s house as soon as possible. I did not know what to think or feel. I feel so bad for Connie, yet I questioned her motives and intuition. Why didn’t she come downstairs this whole time, or did she sneak in the back door and go upstairs at one point? Did she call from an upstairs line and pretend she was somewhere else? I looked up at Connie, who was listening to her best friends ridicule her in everyway possible, and decided a walk to Amoco’s pay phone sounded appealing. I needed my parents to drive me away from here. So, I said good-bye to my temporary elite group of friends, and then decided to do something brave. I looked directly at the silent crying Connie and smiled. “Hi Connie. Thanks for having us, but I need to go,” I said. The Connies’ eyes were wide with amazement and fear as they turned to face the direction of the stairway. I closed the door behind me and grinned. It was at that exact moment on March 23, 1997, that I came to an epiphany about high school life and wanted to gain back my old individuality as soon as I could. The fresh air seemed much more refreshing than a room full of hypocrites and their messed up leader. I made a mental note to myself to not be a follower and to go and buy a small gift for Farra Hinnedal’s baby.
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