Focus Girl

Bridgette

 

Quite truly, dear reader, the place offended my sensibilities. Of course it did, really -- any young man carrying a college degree in philosophy is unlikely to enjoy the overbearing feminine silliness that characterizes such a place as Claire's, the beastly store in the shopping mall which I had been forced to enter. Though my charmless cousin is a putrid teenybopper, easily washed over by trends and fads, she is nonetheless my cousin, and was nonetheless turning 13 on the weekend. Not really the best cousin am I, but I'd be willing to suffer a tad of such indignity to mark her turning a year older. Of course, we're not so close I'd go to a clothing store and pick something out for her there -- we're not that close.

Hence I find myself staring at the bewildering array of colorful and useless knicknacks, and jewelry, and what have you. I was utterly lost, and wasn't thrilled with the assault of cookie-cutter, meaningless music that blared over the speakers of the store. You can imagine, then, that I did not object when an employee came to offer my services with a simple "Can I help you find something?"

Now, I assure you, I quite knew the answer to such a question. But I was taken aback by my questioner. I suppose I'd always figured a store such as this would hire similarly vapid girls, maybe a bit older to ensure they could do basic math, as employees. In other words, someone who could reason why bracelet #64 would be a better choice than bracelet #65. Instead, I am face-to-face with a cross between Willy Loman and a turtle -- in front of me stands a tall, gaunt man, a comb-over not in the least covering the bald spot, and a face etched with such worry that he projects the air of a man who will ensure Pepto-Bismol never goes out of business.

Mind you, this all occurred to me in a flash -- in my 24 years, I've learned to hide away my less that pleasant opinion of the plebians who clog up so much of this world. So I quickly explained my situation in bite-size pieces: cousin turning 13, no idea what her tastes are, something less expensive yet not obviously so. And my good man here instantly responded: "Well, we have a new style of jewelry which is going to be all the rage for girls like your cousin. We don't have it up front yet, but if you'd follow me out back, we can give you, shall we say, an advance copy."

Well, corking, what? Not only would I end up giving little Kaylee a gift, she'd actually get something good and before anyone else, all courteous of dear cousin Isaac! I willingly followed Harris (as his nametag labeled him) to the crowded back. Sadly there were none of this little accessories but salvation! A truck had just arrived in the employee parking lot. So we redirected ourselves out back to the garishly painted Claire's truck. I was following him past a large black van (how I should have suspected! All owners of black vans are incipient criminals!) with the door open.

Educated to the heavens I am, a fighter I am not. So when two burly gentlemen jumped me and hustled me in the van, I had no time to react. I was rather in shock as Harris jumped into the driver's seat, and the van took off. By the time I start to struggle, the strapping lads who pulled me into the van had thoughtfully buckled me down in the middle seat, far from any window. I couldn't move an arm and had to content myself with shouting insults.

"What in blazes is going on here? What kind of sales tactic is this, you knavish Philistines? Let me out!" I commanded. This was not turning out to be a good day for anything but my vocabulary.

Turns out my erstwhile salesman did have a rudimentary sense of humor. Talking to the man in the passenger seat, he remarked. "Hear that, Paul? He wants out. Maybe you should help." By all appearances, Paul is a doctor. I knew that because, first of all, he was wearing a lab coat, and, second, he immediately pulled out a needle whose contents plunged into one of my immobile arms. And sure enough, I was soon out.

********

I have no idea if I was out a week, a day, an hour. But in retrospect, I must come to believe it was a week at least. Regardless, I awoke to...well, nothing really. The room I was lying in was pitch black...and I remained lying down thanks to some sort of straps which secured my wrists, waits, ankles, and head to the bed. My body felt sore, my head felt sore, and I still wanted out. But there was no chance of that happening. I stared groggily up, trying to wake up and orient myself, and I became aware of the faintest soundtrack, just tickling the range of my healing.

The voice was a lot like my cousin Kaylee's -- remorselessly perky and young, high-pitched and clipped. I could only make out some the words, but the cadence and the content seemed to remain the same, almost hypnotic. As best I could make out when I concentrated, the room was filled with this soft voice declaring "I can never have too much lip gloss...pigtails are so cute...I love shopping...math is way too hard...cheerleaders rule...I am so boy crazy...boys don't like smart girls" and so forth. I say, I didn't listen to it all, so hard it was to track. Besides, I'd the vague feeling I'd had already listened to it for quite some time.

Somebody clearly noticed that I had awoken, as images were suddenly projected on the screen in rapid order as above me. I couldn't help but look -- my head was fixed in that direction by the restraint, and my eyes seemed to tear up quite easily if I closed them for more than a split second. A strange series of images they were too, and stranger still was the feeling they endeavored. Half the images seemed like the thoughts of the vapid girl whose voice whispered in my ear -- interchangeable pop stars, make-up products, magazines like 'Teen and Cosmo Girl, beanie babies... These images led to a frankly enjoyable feeling that spread from my right arm, as far as I could tell. The remainder of the set was made of images that typically bring joy to me -- symphonies, hockey games, advanced technology, Lucy Liu -- only now they brought waves of intense nausea and discomfort. I never though seeing Lucy Liu would turn my stomach. Someone was obviously messing with my head.

More days like this...how many I don't know. I phased in and out, probably according to drugs they were pumping into me. I never felt the need to eat, or to relieve myself, as I lay on this bed. Eventually, I had grown accustomed to this routine. So imagine my surprise when I awoke in a bright room joined by two people I'd never seen before, and two I had.

********

I was one of the people I'd never seen before. Blinking aware the whitish glare, I noticed that I was shorter as always -- about 5-6, but everything about me had changed...for the worse. My inspection was short and perfunctory, and I was wearing a hazy lavender robe that covered most of my body. I did notice, however, that my hair had now grown to below my shoulder blades, and was a flaxen yellow. My nails, on my feet and hands, were longer, and my body hair had disappeared. And I had an unpleasant notion that my chest was protruded a bit more than I remembered. So understandably, I squealed in surprise: "What is going on?"

I was rather quiet after that, stunned that I would even squeal, never mind that it would come in a high-pitched, feathery voice. I was on the verge of fainting, I think, when Harris put a hand on my shoulder and handed me a glass of water. I gratefully drunk it down, which settled my nerves and oncoming nausea nicely. Harris then proceeded to address me.

"I should think you'd be glad, dear. We've just made your fantasy come true! We know the type of young man who skulks around stores like that place I found you, buying trinkets for their 'cousin' or 'neighbor.'" He actually formed quotation marks with his hands. "Now you'll be able to go in without anyone looking twice! Which you are definitely encouraged to do."

"You see," he said, kneeling down next to me "I represent a consortium of companies who market their products to young teens: Limited Too, Abercrombie and Fitch, Claire's, what have you. To keep up with them, we could spend millions of focus groups, asking questions that probably won't get satisfactory answers, trying to dumb our inquiries down so they can be understood. Do you realize how hard it is to get a girl to tell us not what she thinks would be cool, but what she'd actually buy?? And those privacy and consent forms could drive a man crazy. So, alternatively, we have you!"

"You're going to be a one-person focus group...a 'focus girl,' if you will. All your purchases are going to be tracked, and your ideas carefully surveyed. Unobtrusively, of course -- it's essential that you have a typical life of a typical one of our customers. We're working hard to make sure it's as normal as we can make it."

I was so furious I hardly noticed how pathetic my voice sounded. "I'm a focus group? You kidnapped me for your product research?! How dumb a move is that! There is no way...I'm going to make your lives a living hell! When I go to the cops and explain what's going on, you are gonna be so screwed! You can't watch me all the time...let down your guard once and bam!" Not bad for some rage, but not as impressive when it sounds like pathetic mewling.

Harris looked at me for a moment, then leaned over to murmur to Doctor Paul, who started making notes on his clipboard. I caught only scraps of his conversation "diction still too....needs to be less aggressive..."

Finally he turned to me. "Really now. We wouldn't make it that easy. Chloe -- that's your name now, by the way, has all the requisite records, from birth to last summer's camp. You have an easily traceable documentation that says you are who you are. And naturally your dental imprint has changed, as have your fingerprints. Your DNA is the same, but should respond to typical tests a little differently. If you go to a cop with a crazy story about being a man, all he will see is a young girl who is fighting with her mom and dad." At this, he gestured to Paul and a woman who'd been silently watching -- a woman so nondescript that after six months in her home I still have trouble telling anyone what she looks like.

This struck me as a blow, but I was still determined to be angry. "Maybe I'm stuck as a girl, but I'm still me on the inside! And I'm not buying a damn thing for your research! One pair of short, one t-shirt, all the time will be me!"

Paul cleared his throat before speaking. For such a horrible guy, he has a nice voice. "Well, no, that's not really true. We've done some remarkable things to your body chemistry, as you'll soon find out. That water you had was a complex mix of compounds that your body is frankly addicted to, at this point. That nausea you felt upon awakening is going to strike anytime you don't keep up with that consumption. This once, we gave it to you in a glass of water. In the future, you'll need to absorb them from several places...consumption, through the skin, etc., all at regular intervals. Here's a list of what your body's improved neurology requires..."

I held the sheets of paper he gave me, peering at the tiny print. Here I learned that I required 20 grams of fluronitrocine per week in combination with trace amount of red dye #15. In other words, useless information. Paul watched me try to decipher the papers, before kindly producing a second series of sheets, which put the situation in clear, horrible language. "Think of these, Chloe, as a translation of what you just saw. We've sketched it all out for you."

"Required daily: 3 cubes of gum (bubblegum only), 1 ounce of lip gloss, 2 grams of mascara, 2 ounces perfume, 1ounce Noxzema..." The weekly sheet read in part "1 pound cotton candy, 3 ounces tan lotion, 5 ounces nail polish, 2 ounces glitter..." I ruffled through the sheets, learning in addition that I could no longer consume meat -- I was to be a righteous Vegan -- and that the skin on my thighs had limited tolerance for fabrics, meaning that I would be spending most of my time in skirts or dresses.

At this point, I was defeated. Ordinarily, being consigned to painting my fingernails semi-daily, eating large quantities of bubblegum and cotton candy (both disgusting for me) would have sent me over the edge. But instead, I meekly followed Paul and Mamie -- Dad and Mom, I imagine, into the next room to get dressed. I hesitated surely, but one steady gaze from Paul, and I disrobed and pulled on the entirety of what laid on the chair: a baby blue miniskirt, and white peasant top with a lace-up collar, matching platform heels, and a series of friendship bracelets and beaded necklaces. I picked up my new megaphone-shaped purse and walked out, cringing at the load clip-clop from my shoes echoing down the hall, counterpointed from the jangling caused by all my jewelry.

Sure enough, just as I got in the car, I started feeling ill, and started to dig into my purse. I found a piece of Bubble Yum and popped it into my mouth, ignoring the sickly taste. I lined my lips with the only lip gloss I saw (Strawberry Angel), and felt much better, physically. Mentally, this demonstration only worried me. During the long drive, I played with the bracelets on my wrist, staring at the window at suburbia. Eventually, we pulled into a pleasantly large house -- fit for a doctor, even a corrupt one -- and I entered my new home.

I was rather quiet on entering the house, quite naturally. I was less than thrilled, however, when Paul announced he had a gift for me. Thankfully, it wasn't some twisted sexual advance -- they all seem normal enough in that respect -- but rather, a necklace with my name spelt out in cursive, cast in gold. I gulped out a delicate thank you while Paul fiddled with the catch behind me. Finally satisfied, he invited to the living room for a chat. The room was tastefully decorated, save for an inflatable, garish chair with the words "princess" emblazoned on it. I sat on the couch.

My "parents" glanced at each other, and much to my surprise, "Mom" spoke for the first time. "Chloe, you're probably wondering what I'm doing here. Paul, I imagine you've figured out, is going to make sure you're body behaves they way we want it to. Me, I'm a behavioral scientist. My job is to make sure that you behave the way we want you to."

"The folks at Harris' group offered me too much money to turn this experiment down. They wanted me because I have multiple doctorates and a reputation for knowing what makes teenaged girls tick. And I'm here to make sure you tick the same way. You'll be allowed to make many of your choices, as restricted by your body, but as long as you live here, I'll be helping you act and talk like a 13-year old girl -- the 13-year old girl we want in this house, understand?"

I nodded slowly, amazed that this shrinking violet had seemed to transform into something fierce....mother-hen syndrome I suppose. She continued "Now, if you co-operate, your life will be pleasant. If not, well..."

I don't know if she said anymore, as I leapt up at the unpleasant tingling, a shock really, which seemed to radiate through my body from my necklace. Mamie...Mom...had produced a control and was watching me intensely. Ten seconds into it, the feeling subsided, but her finger remained poised above the control. "Can I be assured of your cooperation?"

I gasped, nodding. I was catching my breath as she continued "Now, that necklace will help you understand the reality around here, as well as tell us where you are at all times. If you try to remove it, you...well, you'll be incredibly sorry. Now, can you think of anything you can do to demonstrate your willingness to accept your situation?"

Looking down, I silently padded over, and lowered myself into the inflatable chair. "My" chair. Both my parents smiled as Mamie produced a sheet. "You don't have to do this all alone. I'll be helping you learn what you will need to understand. Here's a schedule of the classes I'll be teaching you to get you to where you need to be."

And thus I learned how I'll spend my day. Seven hours a day of courses in gossip, make-up, dance, hair, boys (socializing with, evaluating, comparing, flirting with, etc.), and all other manner of things. Soon enough, Mamie spoke again. She seemed determined not to allow me to spend too much time thinking. "Of course, you'll be dressed appropriately for these classes. Now you'll find a stack of magazines and some tins of house paint in the first room on the right upstairs. I want you to decorate that room as you think is proper for a girl like you."

What defiance I had left in me faded as my stomach started to turn. Accepting defeat, I spritzed some floral perfume on myself to quell some rolling discomfort as I went upstairs.

At least the room is big, I thought, upon opening the door. And sure enough, there appeared to be a few years' worth of Cosmo Girl issues to complement the tins of brightly colored paint and decorating supplies arranged in the center of the room. The though of defiantly coloring the whole thing plain white were quickly quashed by the feel of the necklace on my collarbone -- and the camera looking down at me from the corner of the room. Opening the topmost issue of the magazine, I proceeded to cut out a poster.

********

"Chloe! Get down here!" That is SO typical. I'm almost finished with this article for my homework and Mom needs me again. How am I gonna be ready for my Celebrity class tomorrow if I can't even finish?? And why are the articles in this magazine so long! She knows if I can't finish the article, I need to start all over from the beginning. School is so hard!

But when Mom says come, I come. As always, I check myself in the mirror before going down. Last week, I had changed my top without redoing my nails and caught heck for not having everything coordinate. And it was my fault...a red top and dark blue nails, imagine! Not this time, though. I looked pretty normal for a Thursday night: short sandblasted denim skirt, with a pink rugby shirt up top...my pink sequined bracelet on one hand that I made in class two weeks ago, and my cherry necklace. Nails a matching pink. I redid my lipgloss and pushed the hair out of my eyes -- the tiara looks SO cute on me, but screws up my hair, and came downstairs.

Harris...Mr. Tyler...was there. That meant bad news. After every time Dad and Mr. Tyler talk to me, and give me something to drink, something changes. Like, all I know is I look at my old diary entries and they're filled with words I don't understand. So I wasn't all sunshine as I plopped down on my throne.

Most of it was the usual...what did I think of this store or that thing. I told him how nasty those new headbands were they were selling down at the mall, and how much I loved my cotton candy perfume, and he took a couple notes as always. But this wasn't about that...I could tell.

"Chloe, what's the one major difference between you and other girls your age?"

I knew that saying I was really a boy, or used to be a boy, is a big no-no. So I went with the obvious one.

"Well, I go to school here and don't really go out that much. I don't even really have classmates."

Mr. Tyler nodded. "And do you have a yen to attend school?"

I didn't get it, and asked him why I would want to go to school in China. I guess this was really funny...I didn't get it, but smiled anyway like Mamie tells me to when I don't understand.

"No, I meant do you want to go to school with all the other girls, and er, boys?"

Well, duh, the only answer is yes. I told him so, and he was all thrilled. He told me I'd be starting at East Ashdown Junior High (go Tigercats!) starting next week in eighth grade. To celebrate, we all toasted to the occasion. I go another one of those nasty drinks I have to drink when they want to mess with me. I could've faked it, but I avoid being "tickled" by my necklace whenever I can. It's been a week now since they had to do that.

Usually I only find out long after what the drink made me do...sometime I can't even tell. But Mr. Tyler must've been in a good mood. He looked and nodded, so Mamie asks me "What do you think about boys, Chloe?"

That was weird, since like a third of my classes are about boys. But I guess My. Tyler wanted to hear about it. So I giggled like I always do and talked about how I though boys were awesome and I was a little obsessed. I told him about my favorite singers and everything.

"Well, that's great Chloe. We've been talking, and we've agreed when you start school it will be time to start dating," he said with a big grin on his face. I wasn't totally thrilled, as that corner of the old me still causes trouble. And the old me hated that idea. I guess it showed, because Mr. Tyler turned all serious.

"Chloe, you don't have much of a choice. Your latest cocktail is making two changes to you right now. In about a month, you're going to have a new need to match what you need from your lotions and make-up and all that. In a month, you'll need, every two or three days, a certain combination of enzymes, er, stuff, only available in one place: the saliva of boys your age."

I must have still been red when Mom joined in "You must be so excited! I think the best way to show Mr. Tyler your appreciation would be to recite that little poem you learned last week, you know, about plums?"

Mom has always taught me that I should love to perform, so putting a big smile on my face, I told Mr. Tyler that "A peach is a peach, a plum is a plum, but a kiss ain't a kiss without any tongue, so open your mouth, close your eyes and give you tongue some exercise."

Mr. Tyler clapped which made me feel good, and then he told me something else. And the second big thing is that your legs are going to get real itchy and painful unless they are brushed with some special chemical, and he said "Chloe, there's only one place where that cloth exists. The cheerleading uniforms my company is donating to the junior high. So I hope you've been practicing."

So of course I HAD to show off a couple cheers Mom had me write up. I was so excited anyway -- I had seen those new uniforms and they're so cute. Two pieces in red and gold with a big growling tiger on the top with EAJS in big letters...they're like made for me! They were so happy, and sent me up to my room while they talked about grown-up stuff. Who cares, anyway? I had much more important things to think about...what am I going to wear on the first day?

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Bridgette. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.