Babe in Boyland
Chapter one
My name is Natalie Rowan. Everyone knows that. Only a select few, however, know I'm the evil genius behind my nomde plume, Dr. Aphrodite. That might seem like a pretty hefty title for a seventeen-year-old junior who's not even sure she's officially made it to what my mum refers to as "heavy pet ting" (Ew. I know. But my other option's "third base," which is suspiciously '80s, right? Comeo on, inventors-of-sexual-euphemisms, get on the job!)
To be honest, I dig having a secret identity, even if it is kind of a misomer. I think everyone should have at least a part of them that's self-invented; in fact, the world would be much more interesting if we all created our own identities afresh whenever we felt like it. Otherwise you're just walking around regurgitating what's expected, which is like, why bother? I actually plan to mess up my life and start over every seven years. That way, I'll never get in a rut. I read somewhere that most of your cells only live about seven years antway, so in theory you literally are a new person; I figure that's the best time to start over.
I created Dr. Aphrodit when I started writing our school paper's relationship column last year. It's mostly a Der Abby type deal, where people write in with questions about love or sex or whatever and I answer them. Occasionally I sound off blog-style on some current obsession of mine--as long as I can get it past our semi-fascist censors and it's relationship-oriented, you'll see it in my column. I've covered topics like Promnesia (when prefectly sane people forget about everything except spary tans, strapless dresses, and dyed-to-match pumps), Brazilaphodia (fear of overly zealous hair removal), and Face Relations (getting it on with people via Facebook).
Just so you know, being Dr. Aphrodite isn't always easy. I have to guard my clandestine writing life so carefully, I sometimes feel like a secret agent. I sort of hoped writing about romance might help me scare up a little of my own, but far that plan hasn't worked in the slightest. While I dispense sage advice to the masses about how to make their love lives thrive, my own is virtually nonexistent. That's one of the reaons nobody can know my alias, who's going to seek advice from a love expert who's never been in love? Even though my column's super-popular, it doesn't exactly earn me friends and admirers. Only my two best friends and my editors know it's me behind the smoke and mirrors. You'd think at least they would respect me for my massive following, but I sometimes suspect they don't take Dr. Aphrodite very seriously.
Which is sad, really. Because what's more serious than love?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
As I walk into the Journalism room I can hear my editors, Rachell and Chas, snickering, They're hunched voer the computer screen, avidly reading some thing on the Mountain View News website. At the sound of my footsteps Rachel turns. For a second she looks caught, but the guilty impulse passes almost instantly from her face. Her eyes sparkle as she peers at me over her glasses, pink rabbit nose twitching with delight.
"Look at this one," Chas says, all excited. "Some guy actually called her a---"
Without taking her eyes off mine, Rachel lets out a polite little cough.
Chas spins around and, seeing me, plasters on a fake smile. "Hi, Natalie,"
Rachel says, "How's Dr. Aphrodite?"
"Fine" My voice comes out high-pitched and nervous; my gaze flits from Rachel to Chas and back again. "What's up?"
"You Latest column's getting lots of attention." Chas leans back in his chair. "Have you seen the message board?"
"Not since last night. Why? What's going on?" My tongue suddenly feels dry as sandpapaer.
He stands and gestures at his chair. "Go ahead--check it out. We haven't gotten this many comments since those hackers posted porn on our homepage."
Relucatnatly, I sit. The page shows my column, it's borders afflicted with hearts and cupids. I was able to override the cheesy layout in our print version, but somehow it slipped through online. Bleh. I write a thought-provoking, cutting edge collumn about dating in the new millenium, not a Hallmark card. Whatever. I skinm my column, comforted somewhat by it's familiarity.
Dear Dr. Aphrodite,
Help! I really, really like this guy and I think he likes me, but is afraid to make a move. I'm very popular (sorry, but I am) and he's kind of a notch below, socially (don't hate me! I'm just being honest.) Sometimes I catch him looking at me, but he never says anything because he's super-shy. A few times I've tried to start up conversations with him, but it didn't go anywhere. I think he's intimidated by my social satus. Should I ask him out?
Sincerely,
Hot for the Art Boy.
Dear H-FAB,
I can see your quandary. You're a gorgeous, charismatic, goddess of fabulosity (I don't know you, but I'm reading between the lines). Art boy is obviously imtimidated! You're like the sun and he's squinting up at you, barely able to see because of your blinding radiance
Should you ask him out? Of course you should! I bet he's pining away for you right this second, trying to work up the courage just to say hi. Put the boy out of his misery! What do you have to lose? If he says yes, and he can get over his inferiority complex, you might make a great couple. If he says no, don't even trip; it would only prove that he's too insecurse to handle your temendous power and beauty.
I scan the page and see a series of comments have been posted--fifty three, to be exact. As I reach for the mouse and scroll down to view them, I can feel cold sweat breaking out along the back of my neck. Chas mutters something under his breath and Rachel supressess a laugh, which turns into an unattractive snorting sound. I shoot her a dark look; she bites her lip.
Posted by Shredder103:
I've been reading your column ever since you started it last year, and I haven't said anything, but I've got to speak up because it's getting out of control. Every single week girls write to you for advice and all you ever tell the is wht they want to hear. You have no idea how guys think or feel about anything! All you're doing is helping girls at this school perpetuate their delusions about the world and how it works. Not once have you ever told htem anything useful or sane from a guy's point of view. Do us all a favor and stop!
Posted by: Beerdog
I fully agree w/ shredder. who do you think u r dr. aphrodirte? last month my gf wrote you complaining i play video games when i should be w/ her and now she's nagging me about going 2 couples counseling. COUPLES COUNSELING? WTF?? im 15!! damn, gimme a break.
Posted by: Joey
srsly, ur ruining our lives! all the chicks @ mt view high listen to u and all u do is fill their heads w/ BULLSHIT! chas, fire her already!!!
And so on. The abuse goes on and on. Every once in a while someone pipes up in my defense---always a girl and obviously one of my fans. I turn away from the computer when I can't take any more and fold my arms in front of my chest, forcing myself to look Chase in the eye.
"Any publicity's good publicity, right? At least they're reading/ That's really something when you consider how illiterate most of these idiots are." It takes all my concentration to keep my voice from trembling. An ache behind my eyes tells me tears are imminent, but i refuse to give in. Not here. Not in front of these two, the editorial team from hell. I'm going to write a book someday called The Devil wears His-and-Her Gap Cardigans. Everyone knows I Should be in line for editor-in-chief next year, but Chas is obviously groomin Rachel for the position instead. Together, they're so conescending they make me feel like the literary equivalent of chewing gum--cheap, saccharine, and utterly disposable.
"That's a good attitude," Chas's smile shows no teeth.
"Actually, that's precisely the attitude readers are offended by," Rachel says.
"What's that suppose to mean?" I snarl.
"You're cockey, Natalia, You think all girls are superior to guys or something. It's reverse sexism," She cuts her eyes at Chas. "You've heard of misogyny? This is mansogyny!" I groan in repsonse, Ridiculous.
Chas hoist his laptop bag over his shoulder. "Well, I'm not going to fire you, so don't worry,"
"Gee, thanks." Like he even could! There's nothing else in his pathetic rag readers bother with, and they both know it. The only reason they're gloating about his whole fiasco is because they're jealous of my column's popularity.
Chas pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.
"Guess we'll catch you later. We're headed to the library"
"Yeah?" I feign iinterest, eager to change the subject.
"What are you working on?"
"Story of the Year entries are due a week from Monday." Rachel's tone implies only serious drug users could possibly miss such an important deadline.
"What's that?"
She nods at the annoucement board. It's meticulously arranged, with a board of yellow corrugted paper and shiny capital letters at the top saying MOUNTAIN VIEW NEWS. Under that is a typed notice that reads Please consult with Assistant Editor Rachel Webb before posting your annoucements. Everything on it is prefectly straight, like she took a ruler and lined each notice up before impaling the edges with shiny silver thumbtacks. Rachel points at the Day-Glo yellow paper neatly tacket to the very centre of the board. Story of the Year Award, it says. Win $1,000. Show your pontential as an investigative reporter by covering a social issue relevant to your generation. Deadline: Monday, September 20, 5:00.
"Oh, Yeah," I say. "I was thinking I should enter something"
After a moment of silence, Chas and Rachel burst out laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"You're hardly an investigative reporter, Natalia," Chas punches my arm lightly.
"So? I'm a wrieter. I know how to do research."
Rachel catches her breath and puts on a mock-serious face. "When they say 'social issue relevant to your generation.' they're not talking about H-FAB and her crush on Art Boy."
THis cracks them up. I glower.
"This just in!" Chas says in a cheesy reporter voice.]
"H-FAB and Art Boy Go to Homecoming!"
I offer the weakest of smiles. "What are you guys writing yours on?"
"Prescription drug abuse." Chas nods. "It's a real epidemic,"
"Eating disorders," Rachel says solemnly. "Speaking of whic, are any of your friends bulimic? I need a good quotes."
"Sorry." I shrug. "No one I know is puking."
"Don't get offended. It's common amoung theater types, and I know you used to act."
"None taken, " Which isn't exactly a lie, since of all the things they've said to me in the past ten minutes, this is the least insulting.
"All right, see you," Chas says, heading for the exit. "Get to work on that H-FAB piece. Sounds like a front-page feature."
They're still laughing as they walk out the door.
When they're gone, I go back to the Day-Glo annoucement and read it agian. I try and picture the expressions Chas and Rachel wil wear when they learn I've won. For once in their lives, they won't look so smug. They think Dr. Aphrodite's a big joke, huh? Think she can't investigate? They're about to realize just how serious Dr. Aphrodite can get.
To be honest, I dig having a secret identity, even if it is kind of a misomer. I think everyone should have at least a part of them that's self-invented; in fact, the world would be much more interesting if we all created our own identities afresh whenever we felt like it. Otherwise you're just walking around regurgitating what's expected, which is like, why bother? I actually plan to mess up my life and start over every seven years. That way, I'll never get in a rut. I read somewhere that most of your cells only live about seven years antway, so in theory you literally are a new person; I figure that's the best time to start over.
I created Dr. Aphrodit when I started writing our school paper's relationship column last year. It's mostly a Der Abby type deal, where people write in with questions about love or sex or whatever and I answer them. Occasionally I sound off blog-style on some current obsession of mine--as long as I can get it past our semi-fascist censors and it's relationship-oriented, you'll see it in my column. I've covered topics like Promnesia (when prefectly sane people forget about everything except spary tans, strapless dresses, and dyed-to-match pumps), Brazilaphodia (fear of overly zealous hair removal), and Face Relations (getting it on with people via Facebook).
Just so you know, being Dr. Aphrodite isn't always easy. I have to guard my clandestine writing life so carefully, I sometimes feel like a secret agent. I sort of hoped writing about romance might help me scare up a little of my own, but far that plan hasn't worked in the slightest. While I dispense sage advice to the masses about how to make their love lives thrive, my own is virtually nonexistent. That's one of the reaons nobody can know my alias, who's going to seek advice from a love expert who's never been in love? Even though my column's super-popular, it doesn't exactly earn me friends and admirers. Only my two best friends and my editors know it's me behind the smoke and mirrors. You'd think at least they would respect me for my massive following, but I sometimes suspect they don't take Dr. Aphrodite very seriously.
Which is sad, really. Because what's more serious than love?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
As I walk into the Journalism room I can hear my editors, Rachell and Chas, snickering, They're hunched voer the computer screen, avidly reading some thing on the Mountain View News website. At the sound of my footsteps Rachel turns. For a second she looks caught, but the guilty impulse passes almost instantly from her face. Her eyes sparkle as she peers at me over her glasses, pink rabbit nose twitching with delight.
"Look at this one," Chas says, all excited. "Some guy actually called her a---"
Without taking her eyes off mine, Rachel lets out a polite little cough.
Chas spins around and, seeing me, plasters on a fake smile. "Hi, Natalie,"
Rachel says, "How's Dr. Aphrodite?"
"Fine" My voice comes out high-pitched and nervous; my gaze flits from Rachel to Chas and back again. "What's up?"
"You Latest column's getting lots of attention." Chas leans back in his chair. "Have you seen the message board?"
"Not since last night. Why? What's going on?" My tongue suddenly feels dry as sandpapaer.
He stands and gestures at his chair. "Go ahead--check it out. We haven't gotten this many comments since those hackers posted porn on our homepage."
Relucatnatly, I sit. The page shows my column, it's borders afflicted with hearts and cupids. I was able to override the cheesy layout in our print version, but somehow it slipped through online. Bleh. I write a thought-provoking, cutting edge collumn about dating in the new millenium, not a Hallmark card. Whatever. I skinm my column, comforted somewhat by it's familiarity.
Dear Dr. Aphrodite,
Help! I really, really like this guy and I think he likes me, but is afraid to make a move. I'm very popular (sorry, but I am) and he's kind of a notch below, socially (don't hate me! I'm just being honest.) Sometimes I catch him looking at me, but he never says anything because he's super-shy. A few times I've tried to start up conversations with him, but it didn't go anywhere. I think he's intimidated by my social satus. Should I ask him out?
Sincerely,
Hot for the Art Boy.
Dear H-FAB,
I can see your quandary. You're a gorgeous, charismatic, goddess of fabulosity (I don't know you, but I'm reading between the lines). Art boy is obviously imtimidated! You're like the sun and he's squinting up at you, barely able to see because of your blinding radiance
Should you ask him out? Of course you should! I bet he's pining away for you right this second, trying to work up the courage just to say hi. Put the boy out of his misery! What do you have to lose? If he says yes, and he can get over his inferiority complex, you might make a great couple. If he says no, don't even trip; it would only prove that he's too insecurse to handle your temendous power and beauty.
I scan the page and see a series of comments have been posted--fifty three, to be exact. As I reach for the mouse and scroll down to view them, I can feel cold sweat breaking out along the back of my neck. Chas mutters something under his breath and Rachel supressess a laugh, which turns into an unattractive snorting sound. I shoot her a dark look; she bites her lip.
Posted by Shredder103:
I've been reading your column ever since you started it last year, and I haven't said anything, but I've got to speak up because it's getting out of control. Every single week girls write to you for advice and all you ever tell the is wht they want to hear. You have no idea how guys think or feel about anything! All you're doing is helping girls at this school perpetuate their delusions about the world and how it works. Not once have you ever told htem anything useful or sane from a guy's point of view. Do us all a favor and stop!
Posted by: Beerdog
I fully agree w/ shredder. who do you think u r dr. aphrodirte? last month my gf wrote you complaining i play video games when i should be w/ her and now she's nagging me about going 2 couples counseling. COUPLES COUNSELING? WTF?? im 15!! damn, gimme a break.
Posted by: Joey
srsly, ur ruining our lives! all the chicks @ mt view high listen to u and all u do is fill their heads w/ BULLSHIT! chas, fire her already!!!
And so on. The abuse goes on and on. Every once in a while someone pipes up in my defense---always a girl and obviously one of my fans. I turn away from the computer when I can't take any more and fold my arms in front of my chest, forcing myself to look Chase in the eye.
"Any publicity's good publicity, right? At least they're reading/ That's really something when you consider how illiterate most of these idiots are." It takes all my concentration to keep my voice from trembling. An ache behind my eyes tells me tears are imminent, but i refuse to give in. Not here. Not in front of these two, the editorial team from hell. I'm going to write a book someday called The Devil wears His-and-Her Gap Cardigans. Everyone knows I Should be in line for editor-in-chief next year, but Chas is obviously groomin Rachel for the position instead. Together, they're so conescending they make me feel like the literary equivalent of chewing gum--cheap, saccharine, and utterly disposable.
"That's a good attitude," Chas's smile shows no teeth.
"Actually, that's precisely the attitude readers are offended by," Rachel says.
"What's that suppose to mean?" I snarl.
"You're cockey, Natalia, You think all girls are superior to guys or something. It's reverse sexism," She cuts her eyes at Chas. "You've heard of misogyny? This is mansogyny!" I groan in repsonse, Ridiculous.
Chas hoist his laptop bag over his shoulder. "Well, I'm not going to fire you, so don't worry,"
"Gee, thanks." Like he even could! There's nothing else in his pathetic rag readers bother with, and they both know it. The only reason they're gloating about his whole fiasco is because they're jealous of my column's popularity.
Chas pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.
"Guess we'll catch you later. We're headed to the library"
"Yeah?" I feign iinterest, eager to change the subject.
"What are you working on?"
"Story of the Year entries are due a week from Monday." Rachel's tone implies only serious drug users could possibly miss such an important deadline.
"What's that?"
She nods at the annoucement board. It's meticulously arranged, with a board of yellow corrugted paper and shiny capital letters at the top saying MOUNTAIN VIEW NEWS. Under that is a typed notice that reads Please consult with Assistant Editor Rachel Webb before posting your annoucements. Everything on it is prefectly straight, like she took a ruler and lined each notice up before impaling the edges with shiny silver thumbtacks. Rachel points at the Day-Glo yellow paper neatly tacket to the very centre of the board. Story of the Year Award, it says. Win $1,000. Show your pontential as an investigative reporter by covering a social issue relevant to your generation. Deadline: Monday, September 20, 5:00.
"Oh, Yeah," I say. "I was thinking I should enter something"
After a moment of silence, Chas and Rachel burst out laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"You're hardly an investigative reporter, Natalia," Chas punches my arm lightly.
"So? I'm a wrieter. I know how to do research."
Rachel catches her breath and puts on a mock-serious face. "When they say 'social issue relevant to your generation.' they're not talking about H-FAB and her crush on Art Boy."
THis cracks them up. I glower.
"This just in!" Chas says in a cheesy reporter voice.]
"H-FAB and Art Boy Go to Homecoming!"
I offer the weakest of smiles. "What are you guys writing yours on?"
"Prescription drug abuse." Chas nods. "It's a real epidemic,"
"Eating disorders," Rachel says solemnly. "Speaking of whic, are any of your friends bulimic? I need a good quotes."
"Sorry." I shrug. "No one I know is puking."
"Don't get offended. It's common amoung theater types, and I know you used to act."
"None taken, " Which isn't exactly a lie, since of all the things they've said to me in the past ten minutes, this is the least insulting.
"All right, see you," Chas says, heading for the exit. "Get to work on that H-FAB piece. Sounds like a front-page feature."
They're still laughing as they walk out the door.
When they're gone, I go back to the Day-Glo annoucement and read it agian. I try and picture the expressions Chas and Rachel wil wear when they learn I've won. For once in their lives, they won't look so smug. They think Dr. Aphrodite's a big joke, huh? Think she can't investigate? They're about to realize just how serious Dr. Aphrodite can get.