How Not To Be Popular (12 page)

“Why’d you stop me from saying hi to that girl?” he asks once we’re out of earshot.

“Huh? What girl?”

He studies me for a second. “My mistake.” I know he thinks I’m lying, but I also know he won’t press it.

The truth is I really
don’t
know why I wanted to stop Shanna’s big secret from being exposed. It’s not like I’m her friend or ever will be. Maybe it’s because I gave her my word. Plus there was just something about the way she looked—all wild-eyed and shivery, like a scared bunny in designer wear—that kick-started my compassion.

When we arrive at our seats, all the girls at the table behind us are angled toward Rosie, listening intently.

“Tighten…release. Tighten…release,” Rosie is saying, opening and closing her fists for effect. “One hundred reps a day is all you need. I’m doing them right now and no one can tell.” I look over her audience and catch the attention of the girl closest to me, a cute Halle Berry look-alike. I instinctively make so-sorry eyes at her.

She leans toward me. “Is that your mom?” she whispers.

I make myself nod.

“She’s cool!” the girl goes on. “My mom never talks about stuff like this. You’re so lucky.” I glance over at Rosie, who is now discussing the wonders of yogurt with active cultures. Les sits down beside her and slings an arm around her, pulling her close so that he can kiss her on the cheek.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I whisper back. The girl smiles and leans forward again, tuning back in to the lecture.

She just doesn’t understand. I don’t feel lucky or grateful. Lately, instead of loving my parents, I love-hate them.

And right now, I sorta feel like kicking them.

“Tighten…release. Tighten…release. Rosie says it helps prevent your organs from falling into your vaginal canal.”

Penny is relating our lunchtime follies to Helen, Mabel, Doris, and Barb as we get ready for water aerobics in the locker room. I can tell they’re a little put off by all this sex-organ talk—especially Mabel.

But they also seem to understand Penny’s fascination with bodily functions and all things health related,
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so they don’t complain.

“And it also helps prevent the loss of bladder control later in life,” Penny goes on.

“Too late for me,” Barb says gruffly.

Mabel gives her a horrified stare and Barb busts out laughing. “Gotcha!” she says.

“Is your mother a doctor?” Helen asks me.

“Not really,” I reply as I try for the third time to tuck my hair into my swim cap. “But she’s studied herbology and she’s about to get a certification in therapeutic massage.”

“Oh, I see,” Helen says in a way that tells me she really doesn’t.

“She just likes to give advice,” I add, feeling the need to explain some more.

Helen must pick up on something in my voice, because she reaches over and gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“Come on, ladies,” Barb bellows. “Time to hit the pool. That sadistic drill-sergeant teacher of ours will be out any second.” She turns toward me and Penny. “You coming, young ones?”

“In a sec,” I say. “I just need to get my hair up into the cap.” Penny watches them, rather longingly, as they line up by the exit. Then she looks back at me and chews her lower lip. Half of my hair has yet to be tucked into the swim cap and only one of my Aquashoes is on. The other is nowhere in sight.

“I’ll wait for Maggie,” she says morosely. I know how she hates not being on time.

Barb shrugs. “Suit yourselves.”

As they head out the door, I hear Helen ask, “Should we worry about Barb getting into that warm water?” The rest of them crack up.

“You could have gone with them,” I say. “I can get there on my own.” Penny plunks down on a bench. “That’s okay.”

“Sorry I’m so slow today.”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All afternoon I’ve been draggy—and not just because my dress fit like a condom.

The Stabbies are back, worse than before. After lunch today, six different people came up to either congratulate me on standing up to Dr. Wohman or tell me how cool my parents are. One guy who high-fived me was even wearing galoshes. I told myself it was no big deal (after all, it’s still muddy out from the storm), but it was scary anyway.

Each time someone was nice to me, I felt a sharp pain in the center of my midsection, as if I were getting
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a series of belly-button piercings. All this plotting to be unpopular is wearing me out. And it isn’t even working.

“You look like you have a headache,” Penny remarks. “Do you need one of those plants?” I shake my head, causing another several strands to fall out from under the cap. “I’m just tired.” I try to explain. “I just want to go away and do nothing. Like on an island somewhere. Me and no one else.”
Except maybe Trevor.
I zone out for a moment, imagining the two of us sneaking away and meeting up in some tropical paradise. We could live in a hut and eat coconuts and sleep snuggled up in a hammock together. He would tell me how stupid he was to think he could ever let me go; then he would feed me bits of banana and pledge his everlasting devotion….

“I used to want to live on a cloud,” Penny says. “I’d be all alone up there, except for the birds, and I could float wherever I wanted.”

I look over at her. She’s staring off toward the showers, but her eyes seem to be focused on something beyond the painted brick walls. Her mouth is partway open, the way it always is when she’s thinking hard.

I used to daydream about the same thing when I was little. Clouds always looked so soft and fluffy and safe from all the craziness on the ground. Just a poufy paradise where the only thing to worry about is the occasional jumbo jet.

Seems strange that Penny, of all people, would have this fantasy. She’s always so darn literal.

In my distracted state, I loosen my grip, and my swim cap slips sideways, causing most of my hair to tumble back down.

“Aaaauugh!”
I hate this stupid cap. I hate my stupid hair! I hate my parents for bringing me to this stupid place! “Crap!” I shout, grabbing the cap and whacking it against the bench. “Crap! Crap! Crap!” Eventually the freaking stops.

Penny’s jaw drops even more.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I forget. She’s probably allergic to high volume.

“You know, it’s easier to do that in front of a mirror,” she points out.

“Good idea.” I smile to reassure her that I’m not crazy. Then I trot around the corner and start the whole process again before the mirrors above the sinks.

After a few seconds I hear the door squeak open. I figure Penny probably couldn’t stand waiting anymore and decided to catch up with the ladies. Then I hear a familiar droning voice.

“…need to get better subs. I mean, rully. No way am I getting a workout from that woman. Did you see her thighs?”

Caitlyn.

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The door squeals shut, followed by a round of snickers. Penny must still be there, in the line of fire.

“Oh. My. God! Where did you get that swimsuit?” Caitlyn screeches.

“My mom ordered it off the Internet,” Penny replies.

Like I said: literal. Her tone is wary, but she doesn’t realize that the question is rhetorical.

“Looks like someone barfed up fruit salad,” says somebody with a different, nasally voice.

Sharla.

Snorts and laughter echo through the humid air. I can’t take it anymore. I let go of the cap, which snaps tightly around my skull, and march around the corner to the locker area.

What I see brings on a surge of anger so intense I’m amazed I don’t burst into flames. On one side of the dressing area stands Penny, with her knock-knees and protruding belly. She looks so pitiful I just want to pat her rubber-covered head. Meanwhile on the other side of the room stand Caitlyn, Sharla, and Shanna in their fancy workout wear, their hair neatly clipped or braided and their runway-model limbs cocked at huffy angles.

It’s such a disgusting imbalance of power I want to retch.

“Don’t listen to them, Penny,” I say, surprising the three Bippies with my presence. “Orange is a much nicer color for swimwear than it is for
skin
.” My voice echoes back to me, all high pitched and growly. I can’t remember the last time I let myself feel so mad.

Both Caitlyn and Sharla look like they’re trying to vaporize me with their stares. Shanna stands behind them, gazing into the distance. I used to think that look made her seem shallow and stupid, but now I see it for what it really is: fear. She’s scared of them. And she’s scared of me. She’s afraid I’m going to rat her out.

I just might if this doesn’t go well. I’m that mad.

“Well…,” Sharla says testily, breaking the silence before it becomes obvious I got them good. “What do you know, anyway? You two look like roll-on deodorants with those stupid caps on.”

“Rully!” Caitlyn lets out a loud squawk of laughter, and Sharla grins smugly. Shanna concentrates on the nearby water fountain.

I take a shaky step toward Sharla. “Maybe. But did you know that whenever you make fun of people, your frowny rat face gets even uglier?”

It’s a lame comeback—straight from third-grade recess. But it’s the best I can do. When you’re the child of peace activists, you’re not very fluent in clever retorts.

I glance over at Penny, expecting a look of gratitude or an awkward high five, but her eyes remain neutral. Other than a few beads of sweat on her upper lip, there’s no outward reaction to what’s going on around her. It reminds me of those nature movies where an animal’s only defense against a predator is to lie completely still and act dead. Makes me wonder if she’ll roll into a ball if she gets any more confused.

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“Stop it!” someone shouts.

I look back at Caitlyn and Sharla, but they seem just as surprised as I am. I watch them turn in unison to gape at…
Shanna?

“Just stop it!” she repeats. Only we aren’t doing anything—not anymore. We’re too duhed by her outburst. Even Penny is staring at her. “Come on, guys,” Shanna continues in an impatient whine. “Let’s just
go
!” With that, she whirls about, pushes open the steel door, and stalks out into the corridor.

Caitlyn and Sharla exchange a look of astonishment. Guess they’ve never seen Shanna display so much emotion before either. After giving us one last follicle-frying scowl, they turn and follow her out.

“Go ahead!” I shout after them. “Keep glaring at people that way! You’ll get even more wrinkles!” I plunk down on the end of a bench and let out a long, moaning breath. Penny is still standing by the lockers, staring blankly at the door.

“You okay?” I ask.

She looks over at me and I can tell she’s surprised by the question. “Yes,” she replies. “Did the mirror help?”

It takes me a second to realize she’s asking about my swim cap. “Oh yeah. Thanks.”

“Sure. Can we go to class now? We’re already late.”

It’s after two in the morning and I’m still wide awake. Thoughts and memories of Trevor keep coming at me, like an army of angry ghosts. After crying and moaning for a couple of hours, I give up on sleep, slide out of bed, and open my window.

So
this
is when it isn’t hot.

I stand there, enjoying cool wafts of air as I listen to the whispery sounds of cars on a nearby highway.

Austin doesn’t have the in-your-face beauty of Portland, but it’s nice, in a steamy scrubland sort of way.

I could maybe even like it here, if I’d let myself. Which I won’t.

I lean against the sill’s scabby paint job and replay parts of my day—my run-in with Dr. Wohman, my parents’ visit, my losing my temper with Caitlyn and her attendants. Things have never before gotten so crazy so fast. And yet nothing bothers me more than all the nameless students who smiled at me in the hallway today. That’s not supposed to happen.

Maybe I should step up my plan a bit. Next week I’ll wear
extra
-ugly clothes.

Of course, when the school paper comes out, that’ll solve everything. As soon as everyone reads all the weirdo things I said (real and made-up), they’ll run from the sight of me.

Thinking about that makes me feel better. I decide to leave the window open and climb back into bed, hoping the shushy waves of traffic will lull me to sleep. I’ve just gotten comfortable when somewhere in
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the distance a cat starts up a mournful yowl. Great.

The sound calls up a new memory. About a kitten I once had.

Actually she wasn’t really mine; she just ran wild in the small commune we lived in outside Santa Fe. She had light green eyes and white fluffy fur with big peach-colored spots. I named the cat Gladys, because she always looked so glad to see me.

During the eight months I lived there, she and I developed a little routine. She would be waiting outside our door in the mornings for scraps of eggs. When I walked down the road to the parent-run community school, she would scamper along beside me. Then, after school, she’d follow me back home and play with the string toys I made for her. She’d hang around long enough for bits of dinner, wash herself, let me pet her awhile, and then disappear to wherever she spent her nights.

When we packed up to move (to an organic farm in Oklahoma), I begged Les and Rosie to let me bring Gladys with us. But they said no. They explained that Gladys didn’t belong to me—that she didn’t belong to anyone—and that she’d be happier and better off if I left her at the commune.

That was the beginning of my starting to question the way we lived. I cried and pleaded some more to take Gladys, but eventually I figured they must be right. After all, that was their whole philosophy about life. Les and Rosie don’t believe in ownership. To them, people should share everything. I’ve seen Les give our last twenty-dollar bill to a drifter. And once, when a lady went on and on about how she loved Rosie’s earrings, Rosie took them off and gave them to her. Sometimes I wonder if they would consider handing me over if someone made a big enough fuss. I’m sure they wouldn’t, but when it’s come down to it, they’ve always let me be free. They’ve never imposed their will on me or said I had to do things because they “said so.”