Magical Thinking - Augusten Burroughs [2]
Eventually, Mrs. Ames walked back into the room, and I watched her legs, all plump and plastic-looking through her support hose. She wore high heels of an unfashionable style that made a sharp, angry sklack against the tile floor when she walked. She was kind only to the girls. And by “kind,” I mean she was not mean. She was punishing to the boys, even the prissy, girly boys like me. But for once, she had something to say that interested me.
“Children, children, may I have your attention please?” She clapped her hands together quickly. Smacksmacksmacksmacksmack.
But this was unnecessary because she already had our full attention. We’d been sitting there waiting for her, not daring to breathe lest we disturb the balance of the universe, causing her to fall and die and then not be able to tell us why the men had come to our school. Or worse: somehow cause the men to simply drive away.
“We have some very special surprise guests here today.” She looked to the door and nodded, and the men entered the room. “Hi kids,” they said. “Hi there, everyone.”
It was thrilling to hear them speak in their deep, baritone voices and to see, up close, the dark razor stubble that shadowed their chins. At the same time, an exotic aroma entered the room, one that made me feel light-headed and flushed, like I’d been on a pogo stick. Only as an adult would I be able to name this intoxicating scent: English Leather.
Mrs. Ames continued. “These men are from New York City. And I hope you all know where New York City is. Because we have studied our geography quite a bit this year. Does everyone here know where New York City is?”
We nodded yes, but we all thought, What’s the matter with you, crazy old witch? Why is your face so red?
Although it alarmed me to recognize that my own face was red, as well. Something about the presence of the men made both Mrs. Ames and me turn red and become hot. The fact that we had this in common made me wonder what was wrong with me.
“Good. Well, then. These men are here to make a television commercial.”
Here, I almost peed. She might as well have told me that as of today, I never had to come to school ever again and for that matter was free to hit anybody I wanted to, without being punished. I lived for television commercials. The only reason I watched TV was so that I could see the commercials. Faberge Organics Shampoo: “I told two friends. And they told two friends. And so on . . .and so on . . . and so on.” Or my current favorite: “Gee, your hair smells terrific!” I was also fond of the commercial with the dog chasing the chuck wagon underneath the kitchen sink: “It makes its own rich gravy.”
I watched one of the men scan the faces in the room. Occasionally he would jab his friend on the shoulder and nod in the direction of one of the students. As I was watching him he caught my eye and smiled. I thought he was a very friendly man, very nice. I admired his crisp dark suit, white shirt, and black tie. His hair was thick and glossy, combed back. I smiled at him. He nudged his friend and nodded in my direction, and then the other man looked at me. He smiled, too.
I wanted to jump up out of my seat and run to the men, hugging them around the legs. I wanted to lick the hair on their wrists.
Mrs. Ames announced to the class, “These men would like to use our schoolhouse in a commercial for their special beverage. It’s called Tang. Do any of you know Tang?”
There were gasps in the room. Of course we knew Tang, the orange crystalline powder that the astronauts brought with them to outer space. I loved Tang and would sometimes eat it by the teaspoon, straight from the jar. I loved the green label, the orange lid. The way the lid was extra wide and easy to unscrew. I even liked the paper eardrum that was over the mouth of the lid when you first opened the jar. You had to puncture