We Thought You Would Be Prettier: True Tales of the Dorkiest Girl Alive

Doing America

1

Are you stupid the man behind the counter at the garage yelled at me. Just how stupid are you How could you be so stupid

Honestly, I just stood there, too shocked to say anything.

Are you an idiot he asked, shaking his hand at me.

Funny you should ask that, I said, trying to make a joke as I reached into my purse. As a matter of fact . . .

I slid the book across the counter toward him.

What s this he asked, looking over the rim of his grimy circa-1970s glasses. Idiot Girls Action-Adventure . . . what Club Is that Club You one of these idiots

Yeah, I said and tried to laugh. Pretty much. Guess you could say I wrote the book.

And to tell the truth, that was no lie.

In fact, I was only a matter of days into my book tour and I had already been called an idiot numerous times.

I think if you get on a plane right now you re an idiot, my mother warmly informed me a week before my plane left for New York. It s an ORANGE ALERT, you know. ORANGE. Orange isn t something to fool around with! Fool around with yellow, green, or purple, but don t mess with orange! Because I ll tell you right now, if the orange terrorist gets on a plane, it s going to be the one you re on.

I know, I said, trying to reassure her. At least if it was the purple terrorist, he d be easy to spot. He can sing I Love You all he wants, but when that giant eggplant marches down the aisle, no one loves Barney if he s gonna be sitting in your row.

You shouldn t be kidding around, you should be scared, my mother said, simply because she was.

Scared I questioned bravely. Listen, I ve got a freckle on my arm that s changing colors more frequently than a Rainbow Brite, I have a tooth in the back of my mouth that s thumping louder than a stereo in a 79 Monte Carlo with a chain steering wheel, and either the zipper on the back of my sweater got bent at the dry cleaner s or I now have a neck hump the size of a bagel. I ran out of fear before I even left the house this morning.

But honestly, even I didn t believe myself.

Although I was determined not to let a silly old orange alert keep me from my long-awaited book tour, my mother had planted a seed. In fact, I had caught my imagination wandering about such an event. I had even choreographed scenarios in my head of lunging at the terrorist with a Vulcan grip and a swift kick where it counts. Then I would throw the weeping, bruised evildoer to the ground and shout, You tell Osama Yo Mama to bring it on with the chicks who simultaneously have acne, gray hair, and suspicious moles, buddy! Because THAT is anger, Captain Cave, THAT IS ANGER!