How Not To Be Popular (14 page)

“You know, you’re really sexy when you’re angry. Are you some sort of bad girl?” he asks, his voice low and husky.

I have no idea how to answer. A no would be asking for the usual torment. But a yes could trigger new and different abuse.

“What?” He opens his arms in a nothing-to-hide gesture. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me.”

“No!” I snarl, then immediately regret it. I’ve fallen into a trap.

“Good. Then how about you and me go for a walk and…talk.” He grins widely enough to expose his dimples, and again his eyes seem to gleam. Like metal hooks.

Mother Nature can be such a sarcastic bitch. How could she make a creature that looks so beautiful and acts so repulsive?

“Miles?” I say sweetly.

“Uh-huh?”

I raise my trash-grabber stick and point the sharp end toward the fly of his shorts.

“You should go catch up with your friends.” I smile as if a halo frames my face. “Before you get hurt.” At first his perfect features go slack with surprise. Then his smug smile returns. “Yeah, right. Like you’d really do that.”

“How do you know I won’t?” I keep grinning like a supervillain. “You don’t know anything about me.

Maybe I
am
bad. Or maybe I’m just…mad.”

He glances down at the spike hovering inches away from his crotch. Gradually his smirk falters.

“I’ll say it was an accident. That I thought you were a big piece of filth, and accidentally shish-kebabbed you,” I go on in a scary-sweet voice. “And besides, I have witnesses.” I give a backward nod toward my fellow club members, hoping they’re still there and not cowering in terror.

They must look convincing enough, because Miles appears even more uncertain. He meets my gaze and I finally see what I need to see. Fear blooms unmistakably in his ice blue eyes. He takes a step back.

“Crazy bitch,” he says sort of poutily. “What’s your problem, anyway? Think you’re too good for me?” Before I can reply, he does a quick about-face and starts marching toward the pool house.

Once he’s a good distance away, I turn and face the Helping Hands. They’re all just standing there, stupified, looking like they might dive for cover at any second. Penny’s mouth is gaping wide enough for a whole burger, Carter is pearly pale, and the twins are waving in the wind, looking a little faint. Drip, on the other hand, is bouncing on the toes of her sneakers.

“That. Was.
Awesome!
” she says, uttering one word per bounce. “You rock!”
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“I can’t believe she did that,” Hank says to Frank.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Frank says to me.

“Yeah,” Carter adds. “Way to
stick
it to him.”

Drip lets out an aggravated moan. “Maggie, can you chase him off next?
Please?
” All of a sudden I hear a rhythmic footfall and the crunching of leaves. Jack is racing toward us, his T-shirt stained with sweat.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly. “What happened? I saw those guys come over. Were they trying to start stuff?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Drip replies. “But Maggie took care of them. Especially Miles.” She and the others start laughing.

Jack turns to me. “Really? Are you okay?”

He seems worried. Maybe too much so. “I’m fine,” I answer.

“But…what did he do?”

“Nothing. He just…talked trash.”

“Yeah. And she almost bagged him,” Drip cuts in.

Jack walks right up to me. “You need to stay away from that guy.” I stare back at him, thrown by his slightly pushy attitude. “I can handle Miles.”

“She’s right about that,” cries one of the twins.

Jack rakes his fingers through his sweaty hair. “Look. Just trust me on this,” he continues, his voice barely audible. “That guy is scum. You don’t want to egg him on.”

“Who says I was? And who are you to boss me around?” I can’t believe this guy. My own parents don’t lecture me the way he does. Does he think I’m some flaky kid who can’t take care of herself?

“Okay. I’m sorry,” he says. Only he doesn’t sound sorry. He just sounds irritated by my reaction. “I just…” He pauses and lets out a sigh. “I just don’t want to see anyone get hurt.” He looks at me, and for a second it seems like he’s going to say something else. Then he shakes his head and walks away, heading back to the dead tree.

A voice comes from below.
“Hmmm.”
I glance down and see Drip staring after Jack.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she replies. “Just…
hmmm
.”

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“You should have seen it. It was, like, ten to one.”

“No it wasn’t. More like twelve to one.”

“What are you talking about? You were so scared you practically climbed the tree. You weren’t even looking.”

My standing up to the gang of Bippies has become a subject of debate for the twins. Once everyone started relaying the story to Mrs. Pratt, the facts seemed to go out with the Hefty bags. To hear it now, you’d think I was a weapon-wielding martial arts master and the Bippies had brass knuckles and chains.

Frank keeps calling me Warrior Princess and Hank won’t stop humming some superhero theme song.

After the incident with Miles and Caitlyn, the rest of the morning went fine, and before I realized it, it was time to pack up and head over to Mrs. Pratt’s house. At first I wasn’t sure about it. I really didn’t want to see Jack again; that guy already had me wary before all this ordering me around. But I was hungry.

And Norm was back at my place, getting ready for another astrology class. So I got Penny to draw me a new map and biked into the neighborhood behind the park.

“I’m so glad you joined our club!” Drip says for the seventh time, walloping me on the back.

The only ones not joining in the dramatic retelling are Jack and Penny and I. I keep shoving mini egg-salad sandwiches into my mouth so I won’t have to talk. Jack is sitting in the leather recliner, listening to the others and shooting me disapproving looks every few seconds. And Penny, other than asking if the soup is dairy free, hasn’t said much at all.

That’s twice she and I have been in a confrontation with Caitlyn and the others, and Penny hasn’t acknowledged either time. Is it because it bothers her so much she can’t bear to talk about it? Or has she been beaten down so much by those types it isn’t even newsworthy anymore?

“Well, now. Sounds like you guys had quite an exciting time out there,” Mrs. Pratt remarks in a not entirely sincere voice. She’s also been giving me strange glances, as if she were Jack’s illegitimate mother or something. Probably afraid I might try to take over the club and turn them into a fighting force.

I’m really starting to regret losing my temper with the Bippies. Not because I fear retaliation—which is a possibility—but because I now realize it was the wrong thing to do. I don’t mean ethically. I mean planwise. None of these Helping Hands members would have faced them down (except maybe Drip). I should have just hung my head and taken the abuse like a good loser.

“Okay, everyone. I hate to be a party pooper, but we do need to discuss some club business,” Mrs.

Pratt shouts from her seat on the couch. “The big dance is coming up soon and we still have a lot of work to do.”

“Dance?” I look over at Penny, who is carefully lining up the plastic spoons. “What dance?”

“Every fall the Helping Hands Club has a dance fund-raiser for the charity of our choice,” she says, as if reading from the official bylaws. “This year we decided to donate all the money from tickets and drinks to the Arts Outreach Program.”

“What’s that?”

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“It’s this organization that provides used instruments and supplies to kids who want to take music or art classes but don’t have the money. I already gave them my old harp. And Carter gave them the tuba he stopped playing when he got braces.”

She carefully nudges one spoon that’s slanting away from the rest and then heads over to the couch, where the other kids are crowding around Mrs. Pratt. I hang back.

“Maggie? Are you going to join us?” Mrs. Pratt calls out, tapping a stack of papers against her knees to straighten them.

“I don’t know. I think I should be getting back home,” I reply. I really don’t want to be here anymore.

I’m all sweaty and mucky from our morning in the park, and the egg salad isn’t sitting well in my stomach.

Besides, something’s wrong. It all feels a bit too chummy after my face-off with the Bippies, as if we’re suddenly brothers-in-arms.

Mrs. Pratt gives me another probing stare. “This won’t take long, but it is very important.”

“Come on, Maggie. Don’t go,” Drip says, motioning me toward them. “The dance is our big thing. And this year we’re getting a really cool DJ named Master-Man!”

“Yeah,” Hank mumbles. “Maybe more than forty kids will show up this time.”

“Please stay,” Mrs. Pratt adds. “We have such a small club, one person’s absence makes a big difference.”

The others join in the urging.

They convince me. Feeling icky is too lame a reason to take off, and my overwhelmed brain can’t come up with anything better. Anyway, if Mrs. Pratt gets all disappointed in me, she might not write a letter of recommendation like I need her to. She has major power over my future—and whether I ever get reunited with Trevor.

I yank my reluctant, weighed-down-with-egg-salad body over to their corner of the living room and sit down next to Penny. As Mrs. Pratt starts going on about the price of sodas and the cost of hiring a cleanup crew, my mind starts to wander. I’m in complete zonk-out mode when I suddenly hear my name.

“Huh?” I say stupidly.

“What do you think?” Drip asks me.

“Uhh…” I consider faking it, realize I can’t, and finally say, “I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else. Could you repeat that?”

“They want to know if we should serve just soda, or also a healthy alternative, like punch,” Penny says.

“Whatever. Doesn’t matter to me.” I’m trying to be all easy-breezy but I can tell they’re let down.

“Well, I guess that’s all we need to cover today,” Mrs. Pratt says, rising to her feet. “This meeting is officially over, but you all are free to hang around. I’m certainly not eating the rest of that food.” She
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laughs heartily and then trots over to me. “Maggie, could I speak to you a second in the kitchen?” Her ultraquiet tone tells me this is serious. Again I ransack my mind for a way out of it but come up empty.

“Sure,” I reply.

I follow her through a swinging door into her tile and stainless steel kitchen, where I somehow manage to stand and face her.

Mrs. Pratt gets right to it. “I’m worried about you,” she says.

“What?” I practically choke on my own tongue. “Why?”

“It’s obvious something is wrong. I’ve been watching you. Not just here today, but at school too. And I hear things in the teachers’ lounge.” She cocks her head, and her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “I have to ask, are you having a tough time fitting in?”

“No! Not at all!”

“Are you sure? It’s just that you seem rather…aloof. I know it can be hard moving to a new place and finding friends.”

“No. Everything’s great. I have friends. Like…the Helping Hands. They’re great.” The Stabbies are on the assault, whacking away at my insides. How is it that she can sense all this about me? Have I been that obvious?

“Well, good. It’s nice to know that. These are the sweetest kids. You’ve picked a good bunch to hang out with.”

I nod vigorously. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry to pry into your business. I just wanted to be sure something serious isn’t going on.” She smiles at me—a warm, motherly smile—and it almost makes me want to cry. “You know, if there’s anything you want to talk about, you can always come to me, or any teacher you trust.”

“Nothing’s going on,” I say, making myself smile back even as a cloudy glaze covers my eyes.

But what
is
going on? First Norm, now Mrs. Pratt. Is Austin full of nosy psychics?

Suddenly the door swings open and Jack strides in. “Sorry,” he says, looking from me to Mrs. Pratt.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no. Come in,” Mrs. Pratt says. “I was just getting to know Maggie a little better. Did you need to speak with me?”

“Actually, I…uh…I wanted to talk to Maggie.”

“Go right ahead.” Mrs. Pratt turns and walks toward the sink. “I’m going to get these brownie pans soaking.”

“Those were delicious,” Jack says, never missing a chance for brownie points. In this case, literally.

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“I know,” Mrs. Pratt says, smiling wryly. “Why do you think I look like this?” As soon as she turns the water on, Jack faces me. I figure he’s going to start nagging me again, so I’m completely struck stupid when he says, “Uh…I was just wondering…would you like to go out to dinner with me tonight?”

A voice inside me starts screaming. This is the
last
thing I need right now—especially after Caitlyn and Miles and Mrs. Pratt. What exactly did my horoscope say for today? That if I don’t hide under my bed, everything I don’t want to happen will occur in the next twelve hours?

But what can I do? Just five seconds ago I assured Mrs. Pratt—no, I
pledged out loud
—that I wasn’t being purposefully aloof, and that these people were at the top of my friends list. And even though she appears to be washing dishes, I can tell by the way her right ear is tilted toward us ever so slightly that she’s listening in.

“Um, uh, sure,” I say.

Jack’s brows and mouth flip into perfect semicircles. He looks as if he just captured a key voting precinct. “Great! That’s…great!”

To my left, Mrs. Pratt starts humming as she scrubs her pans.

When did my life get so odd? Never did I imagine I’d someday be coerced into a date by a brownie-pushing history teacher. What’s next? Frog rain? Abduction by Oompa-Loompas? Mrs.