Queen of the Oddballs Read online

  And if I wasn’t miserable enough, each week Mrs. Sawyer reminded us again and again about the upcoming Trrophhhy Baaallll.

  “It’ll be a star-studded night,” she’d say with a gleam in her eye.

  I couldn’t imagine why any stars would want to come watch some lame dance contest featuring a bunch of eleven-year-olds.

  The afternoon of the ball, I pretended I was sick so I didn’t have to go be humiliated in front of even more people, including my own parents. “So, I guess I’ll just have to miss it,” I croaked to my dad, feigning disappointment.

  He didn’t buy it. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” he said.

  “Fun? I’d rather eat shards of glass.”

  When my parents and I arrived at the Beverly Hilton Hotel and parked in the self-park garage, we saw a line of limousines snaking in front of the entrance. Signs in ornate calligraphy pointed the way to Mrs. Paul Henreid’s Trophy Ball in the Grand Ballroom, which I discovered was much larger than the less-grand ballroom we had used for class each week. Round tables with white tablecloths and elegant bouquet centerpieces were arranged to face the dance floor. The silverware and crystal on the tables gleamed under the chandeliers.

  We sat with the Atkinses and the Spences at a table across from the table where sisters Kelly and Jamie sat. When I looked at their mother, I felt this weird shiver crawl up my spine, and I had no idea why until Mrs. Atkins leaned toward my mom and dad and whispered in her Southern lilt, “Can you believe we’re sitting so close to Janet Leigh?”

  No wonder I was creeped out. The last time I’d seen Kelly and Jamie Lee Curtis’s mom, it was on TV in a movie my babysitter had let me watch as long as I didn’t tell my parents—a movie where she was naked and being stabbed to death in a shower.

  “And look over there,” Mrs. Spence chimed in, pointing to another table where a few of my classmates sat. “Michael Landon, Vincent Price, and Charlton Heston.”

  “And there’s Jack Benny!” my mother yelped giddily.

  I finally understood why Mrs. Sawyer kept saying the night would be “star-studded.” The stars studding the event were my classmates’ parents.

  Dad was leafing through the souvenir program placed on each plate. I peered over his shoulder and read the inside cover: “Guests of Honor—All Our Fathers,” and a list titled “Patrons and Patronesses.” Mr. and Mrs. Atkins were first on the list. I was trying to locate our name when suddenly I saw my dad’s bottom lip begin to curl. This only happened when he was really mad—like when we were at the Palm Springs 31 Flavors and the ice cream guy didn’t pack my Jamoca Almond Fudge tightly enough on my cone and, at first lick, the scoop fell onto the sidewalk, and then the guy wouldn’t fix it or give us our money back.

  Dad elbowed Mom. Her finger traced the list, moving down the alphabet to the Cs. I could tell by the look on her face that our name was not on the list.

  Oh no. I slinked down in my chair. Would my father get up and brazenly demand the wrong be righted just as he had at 31 Flavors? Would he embarrass me more than I already was? Was that even possible?

  Thankfully, just in time to distract my father, Mrs. Paul Henreid, who hadn’t appeared since our very first class, strolled to a podium and leaned into a microphone that squealed with feedback. “Good evening Ladies und Gentlemen. I am honored to welcome you to Mrs. Paul Henreid’s Cotillion Trophy Ball of 1968!”

  I sneaked a peek at my dad, who was now lighting a cigarette and sucking on it with his still-curled lip.

  “I would like to introduce you to my husband, Paul Henreid.” The actor joined his wife at the podium, then began to speak. But I wasn’t listening. I was too busy concentrating on my father, wondering if now it would be him, instead of Paul Henreid, lighting up two cigarettes at one time.

  Then Mrs. Henreid introduced Mrs. Marie Sawyer, who clapped her hands together and said, “Let the competition begin.”

  The first dance she announced was the fox-trot. Crap. This was the one category I’d been assigned to compete in. My fat, sweaty partner approached with extended arm. I looked away from my parents so I wouldn’t see the disappointment on their faces.

  Once on the floor, I curtsied; my partner bowed. There was no turning back now. We began, and while twenty young couples danced, several judges walked through, staring at our feet, our arms, our torsos, studying our every move.

  My partner and I fox-trotted—or at least we attempted some unrecognizable semblance of what had once been considered the ballroom dance. After three excruciating minutes the music finally ended, and we all sat down. The parents clapped as enthusiastically as they could while maintaining their requisite Beverly Hills’ reserve.

  The judges then moved to the podium and whispered to Mrs. Sawyer, who called out the names of the first-, second-, and third-place winners. Hmmm. Fascinating coincidence. Every winning couple included a child of a celebrity. Flashbulbs popped as the winners returned to the dance floor to receive their trophies.

  I could finally take a breath. I had served my sentence, and in just an hour or so, I would be a free woman/girl. I could go back to my bike-riding, hill-climbing, Monkees sweatshirt-wearing days. The eight agonizing, humiliating, soul-crushing weeks of cotillion were almost over.

  I dived into my cup of what the program called “Supreme of Fresh Fruit Princesse” and ate every bite. I glanced at the back of the program and read another list of people who “sponsored or presented trophies from 1958–1968 and their sons and daughters.” Eddie Albert, Lloyd Bridges, James Garner, Bob Hope, Jerry Lewis, Karl Malden, Jack Palance, Maureen O’Hara, Robert Wagner, and Natalie Wood.

  What the hell were we doing here? My dad ran a baby furniture business. He had met my mom in Columbus, Ohio. The only stars I had ever seen in person were at the corner market: Miss Jane Hathaway, buying meatballs; and Alfred Hitchcock, who I overheard asking for his favorite ice cream, “Vanillllllllla.”

  Thank God it was almost over.

  The next two competition categories were the waltz and the tango. As more celebrities’ children won trophies, the rumbling at our table grew deeper and more pronounced. I personally had never expected to win, place, or even show, but Ava and Karen had. And clearly other “ordinary” children and their parents had as well.

  The displeasure was not restricted to our table, and I could feel the tension in the room grow as thick as Mrs. Marie Sawyer’s hairspray. I felt like we were in West Side Story—the Curtis/Leigh, Heston, Price, and Landon kids were the Sharks, and the rest of the just-plain folks, the Jets. And I didn’t even figure into this dance-off. I was the tomboy, Anybodys. Or, more aptly, Nobodys. By the time the cha-cha competition ended and Jack Benny’s grandson won first place—Mrs. Atkins blurting, “But he can’t even dance!”—I was sure I was going to see an uprising. And judging by my father’s lip, which was by now so curled it completely obscured his mouth and made him look like a sideshow freak, I knew who would be leading the rebellion. I just didn’t know how. I couldn’t decide whether to excuse myself and hide out in the ladies room or stay and try to calm my father down.

  Then Mrs. Marie Sawyer leaned into the microphone. “We have one last competition not listed in your souvenir program. In honor of tonight’s theme, we have a surprise category called the Father/Daughter Freestyle! Fathers, daughters, hit the floor, it’s time to dance!”

  “Come on,” my dad snapped, grabbing my gloved hand. “We’ll show them all.”

  Oh. No.

  He dragged me to the dance floor and started to let loose. And I mean loose. Dad was not dancing the way the stars or even the Beverly Hills socialites danced. My dad was feeling the music. Eyes closed, he began to gyrate and spin, offering up interpretive dance moves as if he were listening to the Rolling Stones instead of Tony Bennett. Dancing with abandon, fingers snapping, arms flailing to the beat, he was groovy, man.

  I looked up and saw everyone staring at us. The Hestons. The Landons. Even Janet Leigh. A few people pointed. Some laughed.

  Then s
uddenly, the dancers on the floor stepped aside—just the way they did on American Bandstand when a featured dancer began doing some killer moves. My father twirled me into the middle like I was one of the Jackie Gleason Show’s June Taylor Dancers. I did my best to keep up with him, but there was no hope. Despite my total ineptitude, my father’s carefree attitude seemed to be infectious. People began to clap along. I was so utterly mortified, I was ready to fling myself off a balcony into the deep end of the Beverly Hilton swimming pool. I swore then and there that I would never speak to my father again. Never.

  The song finally ended. My dad’s lip had unfurled, and he was smiling, in his glory, as the crowd went wild with applause.

  “Well, wasn’t that something?” Mrs. Sawyer called out over the microphone. The judges whispered in her ear, and she announced, “I guess there’s no question who wins first-prize trophy for the Father Daughter Freestyle dance. Hillary Carlip and her father, Bob Carlip, congratulations!”

  I floated out of my body. Instead of standing in the spotlight of attention, I imagined myself sitting next to my first choice for a partner, Kelly Curtis, casually sipping Shirley Temples, laughing and discussing how embarrassing parents can be.

  Flashbulbs popped, bringing me back. And there I was, holding a trophy. Me. My father gripped my other hand and held it high in the air. And I let him. I smiled at Dad, sharing our victory.

  As Mrs. Henreid and Mrs. Sawyer bid everyone “Adieu, till next year,” classmates came up to me saying things like, “Wow!” and “That was something!” My fat, sweaty partner put out his hand to shake mine. “Thanks, you really showed them all.” And then Darby Hinton came up to me, too. “That was really cool.”

  Not only had my dad saved the day for the everyman and every-woman in the room that night, he had also upped my credibility. Maybe, I thought, I’d never again be the one picked last. Maybe now I would dance with a handsome TA or a dreamy child star. Maybe I could even have a say in things and insist, “Girls and girls or boys and boys can dance together.”

  But wait a minute…if I wanted all that, I’d have to come back to cotillion next year. Well, I thought, as we drove home into the suddenly sweet night, if someone has to kick the Goulets’ and Montalbans’ asses, it might as well be me.

  Spring

  1971

  Though Happy Face buttons hit their peak of popularity with more than fifty million sold, the button I wear says: “Impeach Tricky Dick.”

  I hang out with my good friend Brina Gehry at her cookie-cutter, suburban home in Westwood while her father, Frank, is off working—though I don’t even know what he does for a living.

  Most kids in my school wear Frye boots, gauchos, ponchos, and puka shells. I wear peasant blouses, army jackets, Earth Shoes, and a halter top I make out of an American flag, which provokes many strangers on the street to scream at me, calling me unpatriotic.

  My working mother discovers the newly introduced Hamburger Helper and couldn’t be more thrilled.

  At a Grateful Dead concert in San Francisco, more than thirty fans go to the hospital after unknowingly drinking apple juice laced with LSD. Meanwhile, I smoke a joint with a friend that we find out later was laced with PCP, and I end up passed out in an alley, hallucinating the head of my dead grandfather, whom I never met, flying around on wings.

  After he’s my classmate for a short stint at Emerson Junior High, Michael Jackson has his first solo hit single, “Got to Be There.”

  They’re Very Loyal Fans, and They Bake

  Music helped drown out the dissonance of my adolescence. I’d climb out to the roof from my second-story bedroom window and blast Cat Stevens’s “Wild World” so I wouldn’t have to hear my brother constantly arguing with my parents. I’d listen to Laura Nyro’s “Lonely Women” so I would stop thinking about the boys who didn’t like me, and to Joni Mitchell’s “I Don’t Know Where I Stand” to forget the twenty-two pounds I lost and had rapidly gained back, plus ten.

  After a while, the records weren’t enough. That’s when I began frequenting the Troubadour, the hottest nightclub in seventies L.A.

  The “Troub,” as we regulars called it, was an intimate joint where the great singer-songwriters performed two shows a night, six nights a week. I saw Joni Mitchell, Bonnie Raitt, James Taylor, Laura Nyro, and even Elton John, whose sweat dripped onto my arm as I watched from a table right under the stage. It didn’t matter that I was only fourteen years old—no one at the Troub ever checked IDs.

  One warm April night, the scent of honeysuckle drenching the air, my friend Molly and I hitchhiked to the Troub to hear Cat Stevens. First in line, I caught my reflection in the window of the martial arts studio next door to the club. Dressed in my favorite thrift store outfit—embroidered peasant blouse, patched bell-bottom jeans, and a long fifties-style blue wool coat that I rarely took off—I actually felt uncharacteristically attractive. Well, until I spotted Molly’s reflection next to me—blonder, a foot taller, and much shapelier in a halter top than I.

  Once inside the club Molly and I grabbed one of the front tables, ordered bubbly ginger ales, and sipped them through pink cocktail straws. Nobody, including us, had ever heard of the opening act—a lanky, tall woman who sauntered onto the stage with a guitar, followed by her backup band, three guys with a lot of hair.

  An announcer spoke over the PA. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to new Elektra recording artist, Miss Carly Simon.”

  The singer’s voice was rich, deep, and intoxicating, her smile so broad it lit up like an angelic jack-o’-lantern. I knew immediately that this woman was different from all the other girl singers. Her lyrics were defiant: “You say we’ll soar like two birds through the clouds, but soon you’ll cage me on your shelf. I’ll never learn to be just me first, by myself.” I had goose bumps. Carly captivated me. I knew I had to return for the next five nights. I knew I would meet Carly Simon. No, I wouldn’t just meet her.

  I would befriend Carly Simon.

  When the show was over and we were filing out of the club, the only teenagers in a sea of adults, I grabbed Molly’s arm. “Come on,” I whispered, dragging her up a set of narrow, carpeted stairs. Without question Molly followed, playing Ethel to my Lucy.

  At the top of the stairs, I found what I was looking for: Taped to one of two paint-splattered doors was a yellow scrap of paper with Carly’s name scrawled on it in ballpoint pen.

  I knocked tentatively.

  The door swung open, and there she stood, towering over me, tall and graceful, wearing a long paisley dress and brown lace-up boots. “Yes?” she asked in that lush, resonant voice.

  I nearly fell over backwards. “Uh, hi. We just wanted to tell you how amazingly talented you are.” Shit. That sounded stupid—like something a fan would say.

  I quickly added, “And you’re a true artist.”

  Much better. Weightier.

  Carly beamed. “Well, thank you. You girls want to come in?”

  “Sure,” I stuttered, surprised by the invitation—especially after my lame opening.

  We stepped into clouds of cigarette smoke that nearly obscured our view of the three band members crammed into the tiny space. The pianist, a skinny man with a ponytail that spilled down his back, moved over to make room for us on a ratty, plaid couch. We squeezed in between him and the drummer, who was dabbing his damp head full of curls with a paper towel. “So, you guys like the show?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding? It was fantastic,” I yipped, then toned it down. “You’re all very talented.”

  “Yeah,” Molly added.

  Carly looked right at me. “I want to know what you really think. Good or bad. Be honest.”

  Oh my God. Someone wanted to know what I really thought. I had better come up with something good. “Well…” I began hesitantly, “your songs are moving, your voice gorgeous, and the band’s fantastic. My only criticism is that it’s hard to hear your voice on some of the more upbeat songs. Maybe they need to turn up your vocal m
ic?”

  Carly smiled, those full lips spreading across her face. “Excellent point. So, do you girls go to a lot of concerts? What kinds of music do you like?”

  I was blown away. Most adults asked the same idiotic questions: How old are you? What’s your favorite subject in school? What do you want to be when you grow up? But not my new friend Carly.

  “I like female singer-songwriters. Joni Mitchell, Laura Nyro.”

  “Janis Joplin,” Molly added.

  “You guys have great taste,” Carly said, smiling that smile again.

  We hung out for more than a half hour, chatting with Carly and the band. When the guitarist with the muttonchop sideburns began to organize his gear for the second set, we stood up to leave. “We gonna see you again this week?” he asked.

  “Sure, definitely.” I said.

  “Definitely,” Molly echoed.

  “Good,” Carly said.

  It was a solid good. Like she meant it. Then, at the door, Carly Simon hugged me.

  We floated out of the club and onto Santa Monica Boulevard, nonchalantly walking past the martial arts studio, then across Doheny. It wasn’t until we reached a small, secluded park where we were certain no one could see or hear us that we both finally let loose our screams.

  “Oh. My. God. That was surreal!” I slalomed through a line of trees, then flopped onto the grass and rolled around in circles.

  “I can’t believe you just knocked on her door,” Molly shouted, “and that she invited us in!”

  “Watch,” I said, “she’s gonna be a huge star. I just know it.”

  I didn’t want to go home yet, back to my solitary bedroom, my ordinary existence where no one asked questions that mattered.

  The next day, trapped in my beige stucco junior high school, I couldn’t concentrate. I kept replaying the night before, anticipating what would happen this night. How excited Carly would be to see me. How we’d sit on the couch together, talking about music, art, literature, philosophy.