How Not To Be Popular (3 page)

Our new apartment isn’t that bad. It’s small and stifling and it seems kind of neglected, but it has charm.

Cinder block walls painted the color of butter, scuffed wooden floors, little shelves and nooks—including one for the phone (which we have yet to buy). When you turn on a faucet, the water spurts out different shades of brown before eventually running clear. And when you open the windows, you can hear the sounds of the traffic on the street below and sometimes catch a whiff of the Greek restaurant on the corner.

But compared to other places we’ve called home, this is a royal hall. Over the years we’ve lived in tiki huts, earth lodges, yurts, various trailers and shacks, modified buses, rat-infested rental homes, slummy apartments and even a tent. In Portland we stayed in some rich guy’s tree house. Les did some landscaping for him and helped maintain his grounds, and in exchange we stayed in this massive playhouse he had built for his daughter when she was young. It had electricity, three large rooms, a working toilet, and a full kitchen—but no bathroom. So every day I’d head up to the main house with my towel and a bottle of herbal shampoo to use their guest bath.

I remember wandering around their posh designer home and thinking how nice it would be to have a place you could make all your own. It wasn’t so much the luxury stuff I envied but the hominess. Their photos were framed and hung on the walls instead of stuck in easy-to-transport scrap albums. They had paintings and African figurines and beautiful groupings of shells and sea stones. I imagined them picking out furniture and rugs to match their art and discussing which rooms to enlarge for family gatherings.

It made me think of birds and how some migrate and others, like cardinals, bulk up for the winter and stay put. Those people were definitely cardinals, whereas we’re wild geese. I wondered what it would be like to set up a real nest and stay put for a while.

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Les and I set our boxes in the middle of the shop, atop the industrial blue carpeting. Dudz looks like your typical thrift store, with chrome-finished clothing racks and shelves stuffed with shoes. In the back are three wooden stalls with thick nubby curtains and a large cheval mirror. And along the side wall, near the entrance, is a green boomerang-patterned laminate counter holding up an ancient cash register.

Les walks up to the counter and grabs a box cutter. Then he slits the tape on the first box and pushes back the flaps. I reach in and pull out the first item: a beautiful beaded top. Next come a couple of black velvet skirts, followed by a linen suit.

After a while we fall into a rhythm, unpacking clothes and hanging them on the rolling garment rack for Les to steam (if necessary) and price. The whole time I think about school and how my genius plan didn’t work out the way I’d hoped it would. For some reason, it just isn’t enough to keep to yourself. People still make assumptions about you and try to be friends anyway—like that bizarre girl in the lunchroom, Penny. What’s her deal? And there were other students in my classes who insisted on being friendly. Plus if that cute Miles guy continues being nice to me, I’m not sure I can stay strong and keep ignoring him.

Maybe I just had the wrong plan. I should have pretended to be an exchange student from some tiny Slavic nation and spoken in broken, heavily accented English. Or I could have turned mute for these four months.

Whatevs. Too late now.

“Is that the last of them?” Les asks, lisping slightly from the clothespin in his mouth.

“Just one more thing.” I snatch the last garment out of the final box and hold it up, letting gravity unfold it.

“Oh my god!” I exclaim, cracking up. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try to sell this thing. Who’d buy it?” Les looks it over and smiles. It still amazes me that he’s running a clothing store. Him. A man who’s worn the same outfits since I was born.

“Satya sells all kinds of stuff,” Les explains. “Says people always come looking for costumes for Halloween or local plays or for acting out sexual fantasies.” This makes me laugh harder. “Who’d find this thing sexy?” I press the outfit up against me and swing back and forth in front of the cheval mirror. It is, without exaggeration, the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen. A chintzy, flower-patterned number with short sleeves that poof up to my ears, a big bow that ties in the back, and a layered skirt that reaches to the middle of my shins and ends in an eyelet ruffle.

Unless Laura Ingalls Wilder herself comes in looking for a prom dress, no one would dare buy this thing.

Not even Penny. Just being seen in it would mean instant, incurable loser-ship.

I stop laughing and hold the dress out at arm’s length, studying it closely.

Hmmm…

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T
IP: In order to be unpopular, you must look the part.

Remember four words: “plastic flowered swim cap.”

Never in my worst cold sweat nightmares
did I ever think I would go to school looking like a pimped-up Little Bo Peep. But here I am, setting phase two of Operation Avoid Friends in motion. I realized yesterday that it’s not enough to
not seek
popularity. I have to actively pursue
un
popularity. And dressing like a loser is the quickest and easiest way to make people keep their distance.

Crossing the school’s front lawn this morning, I instantly see the results of my new plan. Everyone is staring at me. Some point, some cup their hands to whisper to nearby friends, and some (like the happy Goth couple) burst out laughing.

Even though my mind is totally sold on this strategy, my body isn’t. My legs are literally shaking in my lace-up boots, which are also borrowed from the shop. (Les, who’s all about bending rules in the name of free expression, didn’t even lift a brow when I asked if I could borrow the dress. Nor did he question my sanity—something I’m doing this very second.)

I keep propelling myself forward, concentrating on the light clopping of my heels and the rustle of my bag brushing against the big bow on my butt. Eventually I near the front entrance. I instinctively clamp my molars together, readying myself for the final gauntlet: Miles and his cronies.

“Holy…!” cries one of the lesser jocks, too stunned to finish.

The others turn in unison. I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and keep my eyes on the double glass doors, which seem absurdly far even though I’m only a few steps away.

“Jesus!” exclaims Miles, his Texas drawl stretching the word into three syllables. He busts out in staccato laughter, his friends’ guffaws adding a jarring harmony.

All at once, I want to take it back. I’d wanted my plan to work, but not this effectively. I’m really not sure I can handle a whole day of this. Already my heart is pumping so fast I can’t make out individual beats.

I suddenly get an image of me lying unconscious on the floor, EMTs zapping my chest through the Holly Hobbie dress…. Maybe you really can die of humiliation?

Somehow my feet keep working and I find myself at the glass doors. All I want to do is scurry to my locker and hide until first bell. Unfortunately I’m a little too vigorous in my movements, and as I swing my arm forward to pull the handle, my big Guatemalan bag goes flying off onto the ground below. More chuckles follow. Now I have to break my momentum to retrieve my stupid purse.

I bend over, having to lift my skirt a little to perform the movement successfully, and reach for my bag.

But before I can grab hold of it, it’s snatched away. I look up and find Miles crouched beside me. His eyes are all sparkly—no doubt from his hearty laughing fit—and his mouth hangs in a lopsided smirk.

Like the proverbial deer, I freeze. Being this near to him makes me a little breathless. I can’t help imagining what it would be like to get even closer. Would kissing him be like kissing Trevor?

“That is one butt-ugly dress,” Miles says. “But you know, you totally make it work.”
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He hands me my satchel and we rise simultaneously.

“Thanks,” I mumble. It’s a preprogrammed response—triggered entirely by his fetching my purse for me. But as soon as my sound waves enter the atmosphere, I realize he thinks I’m grateful for his crude and rather backhanded compliment.

Miles’s grin widens. “Knew you’d talk to me eventually.” He lopes back over to his friends and mutters something I can’t hear. They immediately start laughing like a pack of howler monkeys.

My mind fills with curse words.
Way to play it cool, Maggie.
I reshoulder my bag, yank open the door, and enter the student center, as dignified as a clompy, skirt-swirling, butt-bowed creature can be.

Which is not very.

It almost becomes worth it when I enter Mrs. Minnow’s homeroom. As soon as she sees me, she looks me up and down, pushes her glasses up on her nose, and then looks me over again.

“Yes?” she says, taking a couple of tentative steps forward. “May I help you?”

“Uh…I’m new. Remember? From yesterday?”

She continues to frown and blink until a flash of recognition rekindles her features. “Oh yes! Mary!”

“Maggie.”

“Please take your seat, Mary. Announcements will begin soon.” Caitlyn and her ladies-in-waiting are all huddled together for a gossip session, so they don’t catch sight of me until I’m heading down the aisle toward them.

Shanna is the first to react. Her eyes grow alarmingly wide and I hear her suck in her breath. Sharla follows her gaze to me, and her whole face seems to drop an inch: her brows lower, her nose stretches downward, and her jaw falls open, revealing a giant wad of purple gum.

Caitlyn, who had been the one talking, first gives an angry huff at having lost her audience. But the instant she spies me, her scowl washes away.

“Oh…
my
…god!” she exclaims. I can’t help noticing the emphasis on “my.” Seems she lays claim to absolutely everything.

As I take my seat, Caitlyn lets out a cackling laugh. Taking their cue, the other girls join in.

“Nice dress,” Sharla says between giggles.

I decide to play it dumb. “Thanks!” I reply, flashing her a big clueless smile. As soon as I face forward again, I hear the sizzly hisses of their whispering.

This is exactly what I figured would happen. Yesterday these girls wanted to be my friends. But now that I’ve dared to wear something outrageous, I’ve gone from potential pall to “total loser we can’t be seen
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with.” As much as I don’t like it, I do understand. I’ve done the catty, behind-your-back talk myself at other schools. It’s sort of standard behavior if you want to be part of the incrowd—a way of constantly reminding people that you’re on top.

I lean forward, straining to hear Mrs. Minnow, who’s jerking her arms and trying unsuccessfully to get the class’s attention.

“God! Look at that bow!” A loud whisper comes from behind me (Sharla, I think), followed by a mocking laugh (Caitlyn, I think).

I petrify my body so that they won’t get the satisfaction of any response. Still, my face feels all electrified.
You wanted this,
I remind myself.

I guess I still have some residual effects of yesterday’s ESP, because I’m suddenly aware that I’m being watched. This is not as amazing as it sounds, since most of the class is gawking at my dress. But when I turn around, I notice Jack gazing right at me. Me. My face. Not my outfit. Unlike yesterday, though, there’s no friendly grin. And as soon as he sees me staring back at him, he looks away.

Guess my new clothes have changed Jack’s mind about me too. Ironic, really, since the guy always looks as if he just stepped out of a courtroom. Like today. His gray pants seem starched and carefully ironed. His dress shirt is a brighter white where it covers his wife beater. And his thick brown hair is slightly wet and separated into neat furrows by a comb—except for one little doinky piece in back. I have a weird urge to reach over and pat it into place.

As I watch, Jack and his flappy lock of hair rise. “Come on, guys! Keep it down!” he hollers. “Let’s get quiet.” He pauses, waiting for everyone to stop talking before he sinks back into his chair.

Behind me, Caitlyn lets out a sarcastic snort. “What a spaz,” she whispers. “Who named him high king ass-kisser?”

“For real,” I want to reply.

But then I remember: I’m not one of them. Not this time.

At lunchtime that Penny girl plunks down across from me again. Today she’s wearing big plastic flowery clips in her hair and a pink smocked blouse, also with puffed sleeves—not exactly like mine (which graze my earlobes) but somewhat similar.

I wonder if people will think we planned this.

“I brought my lunch today, too, because the cafeteria has taco salad and that always gives me gas.” She chats away while unloading plastic-wrapped items from a paper sack. One of these she holds out to me.

“You want one of my pigs in a blanket? I have tons. I made them last night while watching that game show on TV. The guy lost. I felt bad for him.”

“No, thanks,” I say with a little wave. “I’m vegetarian.” Penny stops unpacking and watches me awhile, breathing through her mouth. “Really? Why?”
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I haven’t been asked this in a long time; people always just accept it. So it takes me a moment to frame a response. “Because…I don’t believe in murdering animals for food,” I finally reply.

“Oh.” She watches me bite into my tomato-and-Muenster-cheese sandwich. “I guess I do. Although I wouldn’t call it murder like I hate them or anything. I just think they taste good.” She’s so unapologetic and matter-of-fact that I have to smile. It amazes me how blank faced she is about
everything.
Not once has she seemed to pick up on the stares and the snickers being lobbed at me in the lunchroom. Makes me wonder, is she clueless? Or does she simply not care?

Penny takes a huge bite out of a pig in a blanket, making her pudgy cheeks puff out even more.

“Mmmm,” she exclaims, sounding more scientific than passionate. A couple of seconds later, she swallows the glob and claps the crumbs off her hands. “This brand of weenies is better than the last one I bought. These are good by themselves, too. You can make a great dipping sauce by mixing grape jelly and mustard and cooking it in the microwave awhile.” A thoughtful look comes over her face. “If you want to quit being vegetarian, I mean,” she adds.

I eat my strawberries and try to ignore the group of cowboy-looking kids at the next table who are pointing at me and laughing.

“So did you think he’d win?” Penny asks, opening a bottle of chocolate soy milk.

“Who?”

“The man on the game show. He was from Illinois, I think.” I shake my head. “No. I mean…I didn’t watch it. We don’t have a TV.” It surprises me a little to hear myself say this aloud. Normally I try to avoid confessing this for as long as possible, since it automatically marks me as an oddball greenie freak. But that doesn’t seem to be a big worry for me anymore. At least, not with Penny.

“Oh,” she says. “My parents let me watch one hour a day as long as I’ve finished my homework, done all my chores, and practiced the harp.”

“You play the harp?” I blurt out in amazement. “Are you in the band?” She shakes her head, and her hair skims her puff-ball sleeves. “Uh-uh. I was in orchestra but dropped out. This school is all about marching band and it’s real hard to march with a harp.” Again I have to grin. The way she used “real hard” instead of “impossible” makes me wonder if she might have actually tried it.

“Besides, band kids have B lunch. This is A.”

I wonder if this is why she has no one else to eat with. I consider asking but don’t.

“I do private harp lessons now,” she adds.

I notice her staring at my strawberries. “Want some?” I ask, pushing the container toward her.

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“No, thank you,” she replies, still gazing at them somewhat longingly. “I love them, but they give me hives.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she says with a shrug. “Did you know that King Richard the Third was allergic to berries? He was mad at this guy and ate strawberries on purpose right before giving a speech to people.

When he broke out in bad hives, he said the guy was a demon and had put a curse on him. So they chopped off the guy’s head.” She bites off half of a pig in a blanket and chews it thoughtfully awhile before swallowing. “Did you know you can stay alive for four minutes after getting beheaded?”

“Um…no.” I find myself trying to imagine it. Would you feel excruciating pain? Would you know what was going on? Or would you just zonk out from the shock of it all?

How does she know all this stuff, anyway?

I’m lost in thought, absently rubbing the high collar of my dress, when Penny grumbles, “Oh pooper scoop!” She’s staring at her watch, her sparse brows wavy with panic. “I’m on this new asthma medicine and I was supposed to go take it ten minutes ago.”

“Aw, well, I wouldn’t worry.” I try to reassure her as she hurriedly tosses her food back into her bag.

“Ten minutes isn’t that lo—”

“Bye!” she cries as she leaps from her seat and bolts down the aisle. I’m left saying “—ng” to an empty space.

With Penny gone, I feel suddenly open and vulnerable in the loud, crazy lunchroom. I can’t help hunching over, all forlorn-like. The plan is working. I’m alone and friendless.

And that’s when it occurs to me: Penny never once mentioned my weird outfit.

Midway between the school and our new home, on a curvy creek-side avenue, stands a building with a big hourglass out front. The sign above it reads Gym-Perfection: for Ladies in pink script lettering.