How Not To Be Popular (10 page)

I can’t believe I’m doing this; normally I can’t stand being seen with kids so off the charts on the weirdo scale. But my school life isn’t normal right now. And one thing’s for sure: I’ll definitely be able to spend time here without growing too attached.

“By the way,” Frank says, leaning across the table toward me, “that’s an awesome backpack and lunch box.”

I almost say “Seriously?” but I catch myself just in time. “Thanks,” I reply.

“All right, listen up!” Mrs. Pratt’s voice hacks through the noise like a guillotine through cheese. Mrs.

Minnow should make recordings of it. “Our president has
finally
arrived, so if you all will kindly shut your yaps, we’ll get started.”

We all fall silent. I turn my chair to face the front and instantly go stiff.

“We have a new member today,” Mrs. Pratt says, pointing to me.

“Yeah, I see that.” Jack smiles his salesman’s grin and straightens his blue-flecked tie. “Welcome to the club, Maggie.”

Is paisley print in fashion or out of fashion?

Rosie is at her late class, so I’m helping Les in the shop. The smell of Les’s eggplant lasagna is wafting down the stairs, making me swallow and drool every few seconds.

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I’m flipping through the racks, trying to find something weird to wear tomorrow, but unfortunately most of the stock in my size is very tasteful and flattering. Right now I’m wondering if a paisley quilted jacket is bizarre enough for my needs. I decide it has potential and put it on over the jumpsuit. Just a little big, but that could be a plus.

“How’s school going, Sugar?” Les asks as he pulls a circular clothing rack several feet to the left. Lately he’s convinced himself that the store has poor feng shui, and he’s rearranging it for better energy flow.

“It’s okay.” I hold my breath, hoping the reply will be enough.

“So”—he grunts a bit as he pushes the rack into its new spot—“tell me about it.” I make a muffled groan as I exhale. That’s another thing about my parents that makes them different from most. When they ask how I am, they really want to know, and they never accept safe answers like

“fine” or “okay.”

“It’s just
going,
Les, whether I want it to or not. Not great. Not awful. School just…is.” I’m sounding sort of snippy. I really don’t want to restart the whole why’d we-have-to-move fight, so I toss him a little nugget to throw him off track. “I joined a club today.” It works. The M-shaped worry lines on his forehead fade away and he breaks into a huge smile. “That’s wonderful, Shug. Which one?”

“The Helping Hands. It’s a community-service organization.”

“Good for you. I’m sure they’re happy to have you.” Les points his nose upward and takes a couple of big sniffs. “You know, I think dinner smells about ready. Can you watch for customers while I go take it out of the oven?”

“Not a problem. Go. I’m starving.”

He gives me a pat on the shoulder before charging up the stairs.

I heave a shaky breath and move on to search a new rack, trying to ignore my Stabby stomach. Lately I feel like I’m marinating in guilt. I’m hiding stuff from Les and Rosie. Not just my experiences at school and the details of my grand unpopularity plan—but all my feelings too. I’ve always told them everything—even stuff most teens wouldn’t, like what guys I like, what kinds of stuff I did or was tempted to do at a party, even my thoughts about sex. The thing is there’s no reason to be sneaky with them because they don’t forbid me to do anything. Their philosophy is to arm me with lots of facts and a few cautionary tales and then tell me how much they trust me to make good decisions. You’d think I’d be the most X-rated, extracurricular, drugged-up teenager on the continent, but I’m not. Maybe I’m too chicken to really go wild. Or maybe it’s just not my style. But I also think maybe I don’t want to destroy their faith in me.

I hate that I secretly hate my parents. I have this blimp-sized problem, and for the first time ever, I can’t talk to them about it. Because
they’re
the problem. Them and their endless national tour of life.

Will I ever forgive them for dragging me away from Trevor?

As I angrily flip through the rack, I think about the club and the unpleasant surprise of discovering Jack was president. For most of the meeting, I wasn’t even paying attention. I was too busy mentally
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rehearsing ways to
un-
join the club. But then I realized I have no other choice. I have to sign up for something, and all the other organizations are probably full of potential friends or boyfriends, more so than this one. Besides, what am I afraid of? Jack isn’t even my type. I mean, I know we sort of hit it off at the movies that day, and there are times I find him cute, but I’m just missing Trevor so damn much, it might not be long before I think Norm’s sexy.

After thinking it through, I decided to stay put. I accepted their complimentary hand-shaped sticker and even agreed to work some big park cleanup this Saturday.

Note to self: find extra-weird outfit for Saturday.

The tinkling sounds of the front door zoom me back to the here and now. I blink a few times to readjust to my surroundings and then, remembering I’m by myself, head to the front to seek out our customer.

A girl is standing in front of the shoe display. I notice her hip jeans, cool wraparound top, and designer-looking print handbag. Good. Maybe we can make some real money tonight.

“Can I help you?” I ask, stepping forward.

The girl turns around and we both do a double take.

It’s Shanna. As in
Caitlyn’s
Shanna. Looking more clueless now than ever.

“You…?” she says after a while.

“Yeah, me. I work here,” I reply. “What are you doing here?”

“I…I…” Red blotches appear on her face and she glances around as if surprised to find herself in our shop.

“Well, I was right. It’s done. But we need to give it ten minutes to cool off before we dig in.” Les’s voice grows louder as he tramps down the stairs and into the showroom. He spots Shanna and instantly zips right up to her. “Hello there!”

“Hi,” she says, staring down at her sandals.

“I’ve got your stuff right here.” Les walks behind the register, grabs a group of plastic-sheathed items off the mounted rod, and holds them out to her. “Here you go.” Shanna hesitates for a full second before snatching the bundle from his hands. She quietly hands him a couple of twenties and stands stock-still, blatantly avoiding my eyes as he rings up her change.

“Come back again soon, okay?” Les sings as he places a couple of bills and a few coins in her outstretched palm.

She mumbles something inaudible and then, without the slightest glance in my direction, practically runs out of the store.

“Do you know her?” I demand of Les.

He looks past me at the door. “That young woman? No. She came in here yesterday and asked to put
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some clothes on hold till today. Why? Do you know her?”

“Not really.” I finger a nearby blouse and try to act casual. “She goes to my school, but I don’t know her.”

I must sound a little wistful, because Les comes over and hugs me. “Give it time, Sugar,” he says.

“You’ve only been there a few days.” He squints toward the window. “Sun’s going down. Why don’t you close up while I make us a salad? I doubt we’ll get any more customers tonight.” I nod silently, unable to speak.

As Les clomps back up the steps, I start walking around, turning off lights and picking up a couple of fallen items off the floor. I’m just reaching toward the front door when it suddenly opens wide and Shanna swirls in with the evening breeze.

“Don’t tell anyone you saw me here, okay?” she blurts out.

I gape at her stupidly. I’ve never heard so many words come out of Shanna’s mouth at once. I didn’t even know what her voice sounded like—which is ironic considering she’s a cheerleader.

I guess Shanna realizes how abrupt she was and mistakes my look of shock for insult. “Please,” she adds, staring down at her pedicure.

Who, exactly, does she think I’ll blab to? Penny? And for another thing…

“Why not?” I ask. “What’s the big deal?”

Shanna’s face contorts into a series of awkward expressions. “You won’t understand,” she says finally.

She watches me long enough to recognize that I won’t accept that as an answer and adds, “Look, if my friends find out I’m buying used designer clothes, they’ll…she’ll…” Again her face distorts this way and that. “Let’s just say Caitlyn will throw a special pep rally just to give me shit.” I freeze up again, spellbound by her sudden display of personality. Apparently Shanna isn’t the empty-headed snit I thought she was.

“It’s just for a short time,” she goes on. “My dad just made some bad investments recently. It’ll get better.” Her pitch is low and somewhat disconnected—as if she’s talking to herself more than to me.

I feel kind of bad for her. After all, I know what it’s like to be at the mercy of your parents’ actions. And I remember the fear of being targeted by the power crowd back before I purposefully tried to be unpopular.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I won’t say anything.”

Shanna looks right at me, pupil to pupil, and I can tell she’s afraid to trust me.

“Come on,” I add. “Who’d listen to me, anyway? Look at who you are and look at who I am.” I watch her slowly relax. This she understands.

“Okay.” She gives me a small smile. “Thanks.”

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“Yeah, sure.”

T
IP: Unpopularity is a state of mind. Feel nerdy.

Think uncool thoughts.

It also helps to use the word “vaginal” a lot.

It took forever
to get to school today. I had to take itty-bitty steps because the kimono I’m wearing is tied on way too tightly. Then, when I finally reached the front lawn, I saw something that—combined with the severe squeezing of my outfit—almost made me faint.

It was the Goth girl. As usual she was dressed all in black, but there was something very different (and yet jarringly familiar) about her look. As I got closer, I could see she had on an industrial jumpsuit, exactly like the one I wore the other day—only jet-black and without all the food stains.

What the hell?

For a moment I just stood there, gasping and staring, wondering if she was trying to go friends-free too.

If so, it wasn’t working. Her artsy crowd seemed completely indifferent to it.

Eventually the bell rang and I restarted my slow walk, telling myself it was probably a strange coincidence. Maybe she worked in a garage. Or maybe she just loved all the nifty pockets—the better to carry around extra eye makeup and femurs, or whatever. As it turns out, I really wish I’d thought to wear another jumpsuit.

There are no pockets in kimonos, and today the school is conducting some sort of testing. You know, the kind where you figure out what shape a flattened diagram would make if you folded it up. Anyway, everyone is supposed to test in homeroom and no one can bring backpacks. I’d forgotten this until I saw a big sign on the door reminding us to leave most of our stuff in our lockers.

Mine, by the way, is at the opposite end of campus from my homeroom. I swear I saw kids pass me both ways during the first leg of my journey. And the balding teacher-guy looked extra grumpy. Finally I limped into Mrs. Minnow’s class, seconds before the bell, my arms loaded with paper, pencils, extra erasers, my lunch box, and a paperback.

I then had to sit down for three straight hours. Only it’s really hard to bend the right way in this kimono, so I had to fold my body into about a 120-degree angle, perch my butt on the edge of the seat, and lean my shoulders against the top of the chair back. I can’t imagine how this was ever standard dress for women in any culture. Maybe Japanese women learned to breathe from the very tip-tops of their lungs.

That or they never sat down.

I’m just glad the test was easy, especially since I had to take it at arm’s length. Now that it’s over, I’m slouched way down in my seat, reading
Gulliver’s Travels.

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I’m way ahead of where we’re supposed to have stopped. That’s one unintentional perk about Operation Avoid Friends: I’ve been extra good about doing schoolwork. Normally when we first move someplace and I don’t have anyone I can hang out with yet, I spend lots of time with Les and Rosie. But I’m still all guilty-mad. And anyway, they keep inviting Norm over. If that kinky-haired orangutan asks me one more time why my Cancerian eyes are filled with sadness, I’ll give him a good karmic kick in his Zang Fu organs.

I try to take a deep breath and turn the page. Gulliver is with the horses now. Trevor loved horses….

I guess I’m sort of caught up in the book, because all of a sudden Jack’s face materializes next to me, whispering, “Maggie.”

I let out a James Brown–sounding squeal and almost pop the sash off my dress. Everyone around us starts laughing.

“What?” I snap, more embarrassed than annoyed.

“
Shhh
. A few people are still testing,” he scolds. “Mrs. Minnow has been trying to get your attention for about five minutes. She got a note saying to send you straight to the office.” He’s using that President Dweeb voice of his, the one that makes him seem to think I’m an irresponsible third grader.

“Sorry,” I mumble. Then a new thought hits me. “Did it say why?” He lifts his shoulders. “Don’t know. Maybe they just need you to sign something.” He gives an urgent nod toward the door. “You should hurry and go before they send another note.”

“Yes,
sir.
”

“And Mrs. Minnow says to take your things. It’s almost time for lunch.”

“Great,” I grumble as I gather up pencils, lunch box, and battered paperback and try to hold them up against me.

I’m rising to my feet, moving extra slowly so I won’t burst open my dress, when suddenly I get all wobbly. Jack catches me by the arm.

“You got it?” he whispers, steadying me with his strong hands.

“Yeah-huh,” I say, feeling kind of dopey. The belt-thing must be cutting off blood flow to my head.

Jack smiles the same snug smile he gave me at the movie theater that day—right before I ended up flashing my panties. If it hadn’t been for his quick reflexes, I might have accidentally done it again just now.

It occurs to me that I’m grinning back at him. “I should leave,” I say, commanding the sides of my mouth to go down.

Remember the grouchy, heavyset man with the bad comb-over? The one who kept making vulture faces at me in the hallway? (No offense to vultures, which serve an important role in our ecosystems.)
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Well, turns out he isn’t some teacher burnout. He’s the principal. His name is Dr. Wohman (which, in my mind, I see as Dr.
Whoa, man!
), and he’s a real huffy puffy type.

I’m not so innocent that I’ve never been summoned to the principal before. I’ve dabbled in delinquency a few times. Never by myself, though—always with a group of new friends. The last time was with Lorraine in Oregon. We got yanked into Mrs. Everson’s office for switching our English teacher’s classical background music with one of Lorraine’s rap CDs. Trevor was in that class too. I remember he laughed so hard he fell out of his chair.

So being here now dredges up a whole smorgasbord of emotions. Shock and frustration, fear and homesickness (or Trevorsickness). I’m not exactly sure why I’ve been called in, but I have a feeling this has something to do with all the scowly faces he makes at my outfits.

“Your mom and dad should be here any minute,” Dr. Wohman announces almost gleefully while easing back in his seat to watch my reaction. I imagine most kids reward him with tears or spasms or pleas to reconsider, but not this delinquent. Threatening me with my parents is like threatening me with a cup of cocoa and a long bubble bath. But at least my look of annoyance seems to satisfy him.

I study the curlicue pattern on my satin slipper shoes while playing music in my mind, something I’ve gotten really good at over the years. Right now my mental boom box is spinning Radiohead’s “Karma Police” for some reason.

“Karma police, arrest this girl,

Her Hitler hairdo is making me feel ill…”

It’s obvious Dr.
Whoa, man!
is a little stoned on his own power. In fact, his office seems designed for maximum intimidation. He sits his extra-large frame in a gargantuan executive-style pleather chair, behind a desk the size of a Volvo. Meanwhile we visitors have to squeeze our heinies into square plastic seats, with nothing to hide behind and with no choice but to face his almighty massiveness. The walls are covered with diplomas and certificates and photos of him shaking some politician’s hand. All that’s missing is a buzzy purple neon sign that flashes “I’m important” in big script letters.

After a few restless minutes, I catch sight of the Bumblebee puttering past the rectangular window on my right. Soon after, Les and Rosie step into the principal’s precinct.

“Hi, butterfly!” Rosie greets me as if she hasn’t seen me in weeks. I thrash about and finally make it upright to give her a hug.

“Hey there, Sugar,” Les says, throwing his arms around me.

After they finish fussing over me, my parents face Dr. Wohman.

“Hello there!” Rosie grabs his hand and pumps it up and down. “I’m Rosie Littlefield-Dempsey and this is my mate, Les.” She motions to my father, who flashes the principal a peace sign.

“Uh…yes. Hello,” Dr. Wohman says stiffly.

“You have a very lovely school,” Rosie gushes, making upward flourishes with her hands. “So much natural light! Good for growing kids as well as plants. Isn’t that right?” she adds with a giggle.

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Dr. Wohman glances my parents over, taking in Rosie’s handmade turquoise jewelry and Pakistani scarves and Les’s woven tunic and Moses sandals.

“Yes…. Thank you,” he finally says. “Won’t you please have a seat?” Rosie and Les settle into the chairs on either side of me. Rosie reaches over and squeezes my knee excitedly, as if we were all buckling ourselves in for a roller coaster ride.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dempsey, I’m afraid I—”

“Call us Les and Rosie,” Les interrupts.

Dr. Wohman blinks a few times, his train of thought obviously derailed. “Fine. Yes…. As I was saying…we have been having problems with your daughter, Sugar.” He pauses, waiting for the news to trigger a response. My eyes pop wide with surprise, but Rosie and Les just smile back at him.

He clears his throat and continues. “It’s her wardrobe. For several days now, I’ve noticed she has a tendency to dress…
inappropriately
for school.” Dr. Wohman’s voice gradually grows louder and bossier. “This blatant attention-seeking has gone on long enough. If it doesn’t stop, she will be severely reprimanded. I’m sure you will do everything you can to assist me in this matter.” At this Dr. Wohman frowns at me, signaling the end of his rant. I clench my jaw so hard my temples start throbbing.

Stupid, smug, self-important slave driver! I expected the other students to give me crap about my clothes. But the
principal
?

“I don’t understand.” Rosie turns to Les. “What rule has she broken?” Les shrugs. “Please explain,” he says to Dr. Wohman. “Exactly which part of the dress code has she gone against?”

Dr. Wohman rubs his forehead. “Well…
technically
she hasn’t broken the dress code. But her manner of dress is very…distracting.”

“Oh? Have the students been complaining?” Rosie asks.

“Well…no, but—”

“The teachers have?”

“Eh…not formally, but…but it’s quite clear that she is dressing in a way meant to upset the status quo—for fame or maybe scandal, I’m not sure. In fact, a couple of ill-advised individuals have already begun imitating her. Such behavior could prove to be very disruptive and interfere with the educational process.” He sits back and resumes his haughty expression.

Rosie and Les exchange one of their fleeting telepathic looks—one I’ve seen often enough to translate as
Poor, poor, misguided man.

Les leans sideways and places his hand on my shoulder.

“Sugar bear, is that what you’re doing? Are you trying to cause a scene and prevent people from
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learning?”

“No,” I reply honestly.

“Can you tell us why you dress the way you do?”

I bite the inside of my cheek and mentally rehearse my reply before saying it. “I just…like it.” Rosie grabs my other shoulder. “You see, Dr. Wohman? She’s not trying to cause any harm.” Dr. Wohman closes his eyes and pinches the skin between his eyebrows. “Mr. and Mrs. Dempsey,” he says, sounding sort of worn-out, “I realize this is not an obvious case of deliberate wrongdoing, but I do have a PhD in education and I can assure you that—”

“You do?” Les brightens up. “From where?”

The principal pauses, once again yanked from his line of bull. “University of North Texas.”

“Is that so?” Les nods while stroking his wavy beard. “That’s a great school. I got mine from the University of Arizona. And the University of Wisconsin–Madison.” I try not to laugh as a look of shock flattens Dr. Wohman’s features. He makes a few fishlike motions with his mouth before saying, “You have a PhD?”

“Oh sure. Two.” Les leans forward and rests his elbows on his freckled knees. “Now, about this wardrobe business…Rosie and I have noticed that our daughter is going through a phase and, like all teenagers, is trying out different identities. In this case, by dressing the part. Wouldn’t you agree that this seems to be the case?”

“Well…I don’t—”

“And it appears in the absence of any formal complaints that the only person bothered by this is you,” Les continues. “Now, I can see how you might take this as a personal affront, considering your obviously well-run school…”

“So lovely,” Rosie adds. “Love all the big trees out front.”

“But I don’t see how you have a legal recourse—especially since there has been no real infraction of the rules. Now, Rosie and I don’t like to make a fuss. Do we, Rosie?”

“That’s right. We don’t.”

“And it’s a good thing. Because if we were that kind of people, we could accuse you of harassing our daughter and obstructing her right to freedom of expression.” Les leans back in his square-framed chair and rests his right ankle on his left knee. Suddenly all the power in the room has been sucked over to our side. Dr. Wohman looks shriveled. Even his desk seems to have shrunk.

I let out my breath, surprised to find that I was holding it. I still sort of hate my parents for bringing me to this place, but right now I want to kiss them.

The principal exhales slowly and digs his knuckles into the skin above his nose.

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“I can help you with that,” Rosie says.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Wohman glances up at her with a tired expression.

“Your headache.” Rosie taps her own forehead to illustrate. “I know some pressure points that can release that tension for you.”

“Uh…no. Thank you.” His eyes fall on me. “Miss Dempsey? Will you please wait outside while I speak with your parents?” he asks at about one-third his previous speed.

“Yeah. Okay.” As I rise to my feet, Les squeezes my hand and Rosie calls, “See you in a minute, doodlebug!”