Prologue
Camelot’s Red Panties Fable states that she who covets them shall become what they represent. Arthur pulled the sword from the stone to become king, so too, she who slips on the red panties will become queen—the queen of the perfect female form—or so I believed.
Chapter 1
The Real Day That Will Live in Infamy
Do you want to know why I bought them? Do you? Do you really want to know? Because I’m sick and tired of being looked at as a scrawny, nerdy—whatever—and having it make me feel like one.
Tonight, I decided to write down everything that happens to me. Why? Because it’s either write or bust! And I’ll write everything!! The truths, the fantasies, the frustrations!!! I’ll hold nothing back!!!!
To start with—who has the right to say that a nerd can’t buy and wear red panties? There are two women inside every female. The sexy Marilyn Monroe type, desiring nothing more than to draw out the lust in every male. And the gentle, Jackie Kennedy type, the sophisticated female soaking up every ounce of respect and dignity she knows she deserves.
Do you want to know what pushed me over the edge? Do you? Do you really want to know?
Both the women inside me, Katina Klingenpeel, were brutally assaulted today, Friday, September 20, 1963—the real day that will live in infamy!
******
I sat on the steps of the school entrance just after the last bell and paused at a page in my Life magazine when I felt them behind me. I turned and looked up. One hand dug under each armpit and yanked me to my feet. Life flopped down a step and sprawled open to a large picture of my idol of female sophistication.
The big senior, whom my best friend Heidi and I called “Miss Boobs,” snatched the magazine up and stared at it. I wondered if all perfectly formed females like her were nothing more than hourglasses filled with the sand of human insensitivity. Maybe it just came with the package.
“So, Ka-teenie weenie, this is who you admire?” Her two senior companions holding me on either side laughed. “You really think your nerdy, freaky qualities will put you in the same class as Jackie Kennedy?”
She ripped the magazine in half.
“Hey,” I said. “That’s mine.”
Then, she tore each half in half and tossed the fragments over her shoulder. The wind scattered them over the steps. The other kids sitting and standing around glanced, saw it was me, then went back to what they were doing. That was how little respect I got around Aberdeen High School.
Miss Boobs pointed at me. “Hold this nerd tight. I will show her how to bring out her only feminine quality.”
Her senior companions squeezed tighter, sending ripples of pain bouncing through my body. Miss Boobs opened her shoulder bag and removed her lipstick. Pulling the top off, she moved it toward my face.
I shook my head. “What are you doing? I don’t wear lipstick.”
“You juniors need to stay out of our way,” Miss Boobs said. “Hold still, or I’ll color your whole face red.”
The girls beside me clamped their hands on my head, holding it still. Miss Boobs grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled back my head. And then—I really got mad!
I thrust my elbows backward and crushed two sets of ribs. The girls doubled over and released me. Grabbing the lipstick from Miss Boobs, I smeared it on her face and shoved her good and hard. She stumbled down the steps and fell onto the grass.
I strode toward the sidewalk paralleling Monroe Street—that was, until Bill Morgan stepped in my way. He was the second-in-command in Ricky Mason’s gang—a gang devoted to tearing apart nerds like Heidi and me.
“Whoa,” Bill said. “Wait, wait, wait.” I stared at his muscular frame as he shoved a finger in my face. “Ain’t you the nerdiest nerd there is?”
“No way.” I moved to stride around him. He stepped in my way again.
“Well, well, Miss ‘Skinny Minnie’ Katina Klingenpeel.” He threw up one finger. “You can’t just walk around me like that.”
I feigned walking to the right. Bill stepped in that direction, and I darted around the other side and scurried to the street. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Bill strutting after me.
Continuing up Monroe, I hurried toward Front Street. Another glance back found Bill talking to two other Ricky Mason gang members. They took off after me while Bill twirled around and headed for State Street in the opposite direction.
I reached the intersection, trotted across Monroe, and disappeared behind the row houses up Front Street. As soon as I couldn’t be seen, I broke into a run. I reached Jackson Street, and Bill Morgan jumped out from around the corner, grabbing my shoulders. The other two boys pulled behind me, and Bill pushed me back into them.
“Where you going in such a hurry?” Bill said.
The taller boy with the hunting cap grabbed my right arm. “Yeah. Where’s the fire?” He broke into a long, machine-gun rattle of giggles.
“Fire?” the short kid with curly blonde hair said. “Hey, you can tell people you was burned in one. That’ll explain why you’re so ugly and that it’s not really your fault.”
And then I got outraged again! I thrust forward and gave Bill a shove that sent him reeling back into the row house brick wall. “Now, just one cotton-picking, barn-burning, corn-poning minute here.”
I spun around, jumped up, and let both feet fly toward the other two boys. Each foot connected with a different stomach, and the two dropped to their knees, their mouths frozen open.
In my dreams!
I thought about last year in tenth-grade American literature when we studied James Thurber. His character of Walter Mitty always appealed to me, probably because I felt a kinship with him. He sat and daydreamed about being the ultimate hero—and he really was the ultimate zero.
And so was I. Here’s what really happened that morning:
Miss Boobs drew a hairless vulva on my cheek and ordered me not to erase it until I got home. Bill Morgan and his two henchmen bumped into me, and I ran, but they caught me and made fun of the drawing on my face.
Bill grabbed my hair and pushed me against the row house. They all made fun of my other body parts too. Bill said my putrid-brown hair looked like a wad of cooked spaghetti. Giggle Boy said I was as skinny as a stick of macaroni, and Curley said my boobs were the size of two gumdrops. All sadly true.
Then they pushed me to the brick sidewalk, causing my glasses to fly off and my books to scatter everywhere. My skirt flew up, exposing my backside, and Bill pointed out my scrawny rump. Then Giggle Boy said I looked like a Mad Magazine cartoon artist had drawn me after he and his buddies threw an all-night drinking binge.
They left laughing louder than a pack of wild hyenas, and I couldn’t help thinking it was too bad for them that the Germans lost World War II. The Ricky Mason gang would have made great Nazi guards in a concentration camp.
A weird thing happened as soon as they left. My tears dried up, and I felt too humiliated to cry. I stood still, stuffed with mixed emotions, my lousy life flashing through my mind. I hated Ricky Mason and his gang. I hated boys! And I hated shapely girls with big boobs!!
But much more than that—I hated being Katina Klingenpeel!!!
END SAMPLE CHAPTER
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