How Not To Be Popular (2 page)

“Cool!” exclaims Caitlyn. “Did you meet any movie stars?” I try not to roll my eyes. People were always asking me this in Portland too. For some reason, they equate the entire state of California with Hollywood. (We lived in Berkeley.) And they seem to think the place is crawling with celebrities—as if they line the highways, waving to their fans.

“I once met Ashton Kutcher at an Animal Rescue League benefit,” I tell them truthfully.

“Cool!” Caitlyn and Sharla squeal in unison.

I smile somewhat guiltily. No need to tell them I was one of maybe four hundred people he shook hands with that day.

“You know…” Caitlyn cocks her head at me, apprising me with her light brown eyes (which also have an orangish hue that matches her overly tanned face). “You rully should join our club. Don’t you think she should be a Belle?” She pivots her head between Shanna and Sharla.

They nod in agreement.

“A Belle?” I repeat, confused.

“Oh yeah. The Austin Belles. It’s rully cool. We have all the best parties and all the best people, you
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know.”

A tickly sensation sweeps up the back of my neck.
Oh no, no, no, no. What are you doing, Maggie?

You aren’t supposed to be making friends! Remember?
School’s been in session only a few minutes and already I’ve forgotten my big plan. I just automatically started copying these girls’ body language and rhythm of speech, the way I always do when I try to worm into the power group.

Now what?

I start tugging the fingers of my left hand. “Um…I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Caitlyn’s nose twitches slightly and her heavily mascaraed eyes seem to ice over. “What do you mean you ‘don’t think so’?” she asks, mimicking me in a snotty little mouse voice.

“I just…can’t,” I answer. “Sorry.”

I watch her exchange looks with her posse. Shanna seems completely stunned, while Sharla just glowers at me. But then, maybe she always looks that way.

“Whatever. Your loss. And I mean
rully.
” Caitlyn sits back in her seat, signaling the end of our conversation. A second later Shanna and Sharla lean in and they all bow their heads together for a whisper session.

I face the front of the room, feeling heavy. It’s obvious I’ve just made a big-time mistake—at least in their minds. For a moment or two, I rehearse different ways of undoing it, pretending I was joking with them, or claiming to have misunderstood their offer. But I know it’s too late for that. Besides, this is what I want, right? Score one for Operation Avoid Friends.

It’s better if it hurts a little now than a lot later, when I move.

Lunchrooms are all the same. Hundreds of students’ voices jacked up to an earsplitting level. The dizzy aroma of rancid grease and pine-scented cleaner. A sticky film on every surface. Tables like torture devices, with their sharp metal runners at knee level and those crooked plastic lily pads for seats.

Lunch at a new school is like the SAT of social tests. It determines your immediate standing. Whomever you choose to sit with tells people who you are, or who you see yourself as. Choose a crowd too low on the social scale and you’ll forever be associated with that power level. Aim too high and end up getting rejected—that’s even worse. Then you have to pick all over again and the rest of the groups will know you viewed them as second best.

Today, for the first time ever, I don’t have to worry about all that. I’m just going to eat by myself.

Only…it’s not so easy.

I pause at the entrance to the cafeteria. To the casual observer, I’m simply stopping to let past a custodian who’s pushing one of those giant rubber trash cans with the word “inedible” stenciled on the side. (And may I just add:
Duh!
Don’t see many kids mistaking them for vending machines.) But as I wait, I secretly check out the dynamics of the lunchroom.

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The Stoners are over by the window. A group of Spanish-speaking kids are sitting near the exit. A few artsy types are congregated in the back corner. And the jocks are sitting at the table in front of the small stage. In fact, some of them are sitting on the stage itself. Judging by their level of volume and activity, I’d guess the in-group routinely gets away with rowdy behavior—something that’s true at most schools. I spot Caitlyn, Shanna, Sharla, and the other popular girls. I also check for the cute guy from this morning—Miles, I think. He isn’t around, but I do see his posse.

I have to find a place soon, before I end up looking so obviously lost I get some pity-induced invitations.

And then…I see it: a small section of about eight empty seats at the end of one table. As soon as the lady and her garbage can move by, I head for the spot and settle into the next-to-last chair.

My first-day powers sense dozens of eyes on me, and my ears pick up a few snickers and whispers.

“That’s the girl who…mumble mumble…”
I dig my food out of my lead-free rainbow-colored bag and line it up in front of me, acting as if I’m deaf, mute, and eternally happy.

I figure I have to endure only about five minutes of intense curiosity before they lose interest. But that’s a downside to my first-day ESP: five minutes can feel like five life cycles…of a sea turtle…in a really toxic ocean.

I do some deep, yogic breathing and try to concentrate on my ABC sandwich. It’s my own invention—avocado, bean sprouts, and cheese on two slices of lightly buttered pumpernickel. Normally it’s one of my favorite things to eat, but this time it has all the flavor and texture of dryer lint. Guess taste is the only one of my senses that
isn’t
enhanced today.

Eventually the whispers die out. I’ve made it through. But it’s hard to feel triumphant knowing I have four months of this ahead of me.

In Portland, on a sunny day like today, Trevor and I would be sharing a bench outside on the quad. We ate together all last spring, only I ended up losing a couple of pounds since we did more kissing than eating. Plus I avoided anything that would give me bad breath or leave food in my teeth—which, when you’re a vegetarian, is half your diet. Salad, celery, corn, beans, fruit—they all love to hang around in your dental work.

I wonder where Trevor’s eating today, and who he’s with….

The table suddenly wobbles and I glance up from my tangerine to see a girl sitting across from me. She’s chubby, with straight brown hair parted right down the middle and held back by two metal clips. Her white blouse is buttoned all the way up to the lacy collar at her neck, and she’s wearing a gold strand with a pendant in the shape of a capital letter
P
.

“They were supposed to have a nondairy option for the mashed potatoes, but they forgot,” she says, scooting her cafeteria tray toward her. “So they gave me two apple crisps instead.” Her voice is rather low, and when she talks, she hyperextends her lips, like a pouty little kid. A new round of whispering wells up around us.

“Uh…” I want to say something, but I’m not sure what magic words would get rid of her. When I thought up my plan, it never occurred to me that someone might just choose to sit with me.

As I watch her slice through her chicken breast with her plastic knife, I get a brilliant idea.

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I grimace at the meat and start packing up my lunch bag. “Hey, um…I’m sorry but I’m vege—”

“Oh poopy doo,” she grumbles suddenly as her plastic fork breaks.

Poopy doo?

“Excuse me, please, while I go and get another,” she says, rising to her feet. “You can have one of my apple crisps if you like.”

“Oh…thanks, but I…” Before I can get out a coherent sentence, she’s already ambled off toward the condiment table.

Now I have no idea what to do. Should I just get up and leave while she’s gone? Maybe I could eat not only her crisp but her whole lunch.
That
would drive her away. Of course, there’s no way I could force down the chicken.

As I sit there debating myself and ripping my tangerine into wedges, the light dims slightly and I realize someone is standing behind me. I turn to find the guy from this morning, Miles, grinning at me like a toothpaste model. At my level I have the perfect view of his chiseled jaw and the faint cleft mark at the tip of his nose. I’m also close enough to pick up the wet, treelike aroma of his cologne.

“I see that thing leeched on to you,” he says, nodding toward my new tablemate. “Why are you over here, anyway? Come sit with us.” He points his cleft in the direction of the stage and widens his smile.

I feel a little fraction of me following him, as if I’m a set of nesting dolls and the teeniest one in the very center is stuffing things into her lunch bag and leaping up to join him. But the rest of me stays put.

“Aw, come on,” he says. “Are you mad about this morning? The guys were just having fun.” Once again, I’m struck dumb by how cute he is—and yet he also seems like the type of guy who wears his looks like a weapon.

“Uh…shouldn’t you be glad to see me?” he goes on. “I’m here to rescue you. To take you back to the land of normal people.”

Another doll inside me joins up with her sister, and together they beg me to listen to the guy and do whatever he says I should do. But I can’t. What if I start really liking him? What if I find a bunch of friends at the new table?

“Um, hello?” he continues, somewhat impatiently. “Did you hear what I said?” Right at this moment my lumpy tablemate reappears. She slowly sinks into her seat, keeping a wary gaze on the Miles guy. She looks like a gazelle at a watering hole trying to figure out if the nearby lion is there to hunt…or just drink.

Miles heaves an annoyed sigh. “Are you coming with me or not?”

“Not,” I blurt to a chorus of doll gasps inside me. “I already have a place to sit.” Miles’s eyebrows stretch up and under his bangs. He’s so obviously shocked he loses all attitude. For a
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couple of seconds, he looks less like a perfect pinup boy and more like a completely real guy—a Trevor-like guy. My mind starts conjuring up pictures of us taking walks and riding bikes and doing all sorts of Maggie-and-Trevor things….

And then his brows come down and hang over his eyes in a seriously peeved expression. He mumbles something like “What’s her problem?” and lopes back toward the popular table.

The girl across from me and several kids within earshot are all frozen in place. Most have big round Japanese-cartoon eyes that radiate panic and curiosity. But the weird girl just gives me a slack-jawed stare—attentive but not all that animated.

As Miles’s shadow passes, movement and conversation start up again. The strange girl continues to gape at me in that spacey way—as if
I’m
the one who plunked down across from
her
and started talking about my dietary problems.

“You just turned down Miles Larson,” she says, her tone all hushed and churchy.

“Uh…yeah. I guess so.” I try to sound all la-di-da, as if I blow off movie star–looking guys on a daily basis, but my knees are really shaking and my voice comes out quivery. I can’t help wondering if I made a big mistake.

“Nobody does that,” the girl continues in her awed way. “He can be bossy sometimes, but he’s the cutest of all the Bippies.”

“Bippies?”

She nods. “It’s short for ‘beautiful people.’”

I stare across the lunchroom and watch Miles rejoin his pals. He straddles his seat, and the others automatically slant forward as if magnetized. His face is all scrunched in disgust and I can tell he’s bad-mouthing me—especially when he turns and points a dimple in our direction. Score two for Operation Avoid Friends.

My weird lunch mate follows my gaze to Miles and back again—her expression never wavering from that limp, openmouthed state.

Finally she spears a piece of chicken with her new fork and pushes it between her parted lips. “I’m Penny,” she says between bites.

“Maggie,” I reply.

“How was school today, Sugar?” Les asks as he slides a battered-looking cardboard box out of the back of the Bumblebee.

“It sucked.” I can tell I’m still all mad about the move, because every time I get near my parents, these little pains pierce my gut from all directions…. I call them the Stabbies. Right now they’re doing a saber dance through my small intestine.

“Oh? How so?” he asks.

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“It just did. The kids are shallow. The classes are boring. Even the food is fattier here. Plus it’s so damn hot all the time.” I seize the moment and look him right in the eye. “I wish we could go back to Portland.” Les hands me the box and grabs another for himself. “Every place has its own beauty. You know that.” I blow out my breath extra slowly, trying to soothe that carved-up feeling in my midsection. I don’t know what made me think my father would hear me
this
time when he hasn’t the last few thousand. To Les and Rosie, complaints are nothing but negative energy that needs to be thwarted by sunshiny statements and bear hugs.

“Don’t worry, Shug,” Les adds, kissing me on the temple. “Before you even realize it, you’ll love it here.”

Not if I can help it.

He closes up the back of the hearse and we carry our packages through the rear door of the shop, which is also our new home. On the first floor is the funky thrift/ vintage-clothing shop Les is running for his pall Satya while the guy goes on some spiritual retreat to India. In the back, next to the rear door, is a set of rickety wooden stairs that leads up to our second-floor apartment. As we pass the stairwell, I hear Rosie sweeping up after dinner, humming a Joni Mitchell song. I can still smell the curry-pumpkin soup we ate, along with other things, like mildew and mouse pee.

I’ve learned from experience that it takes at least a month before a place stops smelling like someone else’s home.