How to Be Popular (12 page)

STILL DAY THREE OF POPULARITY
WEDNESDAY
,
AUGUST
30, 4
P
.
M
.

The Bloomville Gazette
is an afternoon paper, so I could check to see how the ad looked as soon as I got to Courthouse Square Books, where I work the four-to-nine shift every Wednesday.

Before I turned to the section where I’d had the ad placed (across from the cartoons and Ann Landers—I know everyone in town reads those first), I noticed a picture of the observatory on the front page, with the headline,
LOCAL MAN DONATES OBSERVATORY
,
DEDICATES IT TO BRIDE
-
TO
-
BE
. There was a picture of Grandpa inside the observatory, his arms spread wide at the domed ceiling, smiling.

I called him from the phone next to the cash register right away.

“Nice story,” I said when he picked up.

“Kitty,” Grandpa said, sounding smug, “is pleased.”

“She should be,” I said. “Not many guys build something in your honor.”

“Well,” Grandpa said, “Kitty’s worth it.”

“Of course she is,” I said. I truly believed that, too.

“Haven’t heard from you in a few days,” Grandpa said. “How’s the popularity thing going?”

I thought about the way Mark’s finger had felt against my cheek. He’d only rested it there for a moment. But it had felt like the longest moment of my entire life.

“Excellent,” I said.

“Really?” Was it my imagination, or did Grandpa sound surprised? “Very good, then. Things are going well for both of us at the same time, for a change. And how’s your mother?”

I had just seen Mom waddle out of the store, heading home to put her feet up. She was closing in on her ninth month, and her ankles looked like Lauren’s legs in her white thigh-highs.

“She’s good,” I said. “But no movement, you know, on the wedding front.”

Grandpa sighed. “Can’t say I really expected much. She’s a stubborn woman, your mother. Bit like you, in that way.”

“Me?” I couldn’t believe it. “I’m not stubborn.”

Grandpa whistled, low and long.

“I’m
not
,” I insisted.

Which was when the bell over the front door of the store tinkled, and Darren, my coworker for the evening,
came back with Tasti D-Lites from Penguin for the two of us.

“Is it hot enough out there?” Darren wanted to know, handing over my fat-free, calorie-free, pretty much taste-free ice cream. “Can you say Indian summer or what?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I just gotta finish up this phone call.”

Darren waggled his fingers at me to show me he understood, and went over to the jewelry rack to organize the earrings, his favorite job-related activity.

“Um, Gramps,” I said. “Oh, hey, listen…I might need to borrow a bit more money. As part of the plan. But it’s to help the store this time. Not my social life.” Well, not
totally
, anyway.

“I see,” Grandpa said. “Well, I’ll have to take a look at the interest rates….”

“Understood,” I said. I’m not insulted that my own grandfather charges me interest on loans. I would do the same thing if someone borrowed money from me. People on TV, like Judge Judy and my idol, Suze Orman, always say family should never lend other family members money. But it can actually work, if you’re businesslike about it.

“Grandpa,” I said. “Remember how you told me that you always liked Kitty, even back when you guys were in high school? But she always liked someone else?”

“Ronald Hollenbach,” Grandpa said as if the name left a sour taste in his mouth.

“Right. Jason’s grandpa. Well, I was just wondering…how did you finally get her away from him? Mr. Hollenbach, I mean?”

“That’s easy,” Grandpa said. “He croaked.”

“Oh.” This wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped it would be. I was looking for some advice on how to steal Mark Finley away from Lauren. Which I didn’t actually consider an underhanded thing to do. Because Lauren is just plain mean, and Mark is the nicest guy in town. He deserves someone better than Lauren. Even if, you know, he may not know it.

“Getting all that dough from the good people at Super Sav-Mart didn’t hurt much, either,” Grandpa went on. “Kitty appreciates a nice steak dinner at the country club every now and then.”

“Right,” I said. Steak. Check. “But, like, I’m sure you had to charm her, right? How did you do that?”

“I can’t tell you,” Grandpa said. “Your mother’d kill me.”

“Grandpa,” I said. “She already wants to kill you. How much more trouble can you get in with her?”

“True,” Grandpa said. “Well, the fact is, Steph, we Kazoulises, well, we’re a passionate bunch, and we know how to please a woman.”

I choked on a mouthful of Tasti D-Lite.

“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said as soon as I could get the words out. “I think I get it.”

“Kitty’s a woman with needs, you know, Stephanie, and—”

“Oh, I know that, all right,” I said quickly. I mean, I’d pretty much figured that out by how easily Kitty’s copy of
Wicked Loving Lies
fell open to the Turkish-style scene.
She’d obviously read that part a
lot.
“Thanks, Grandpa. That’s very helpful advice.”

“I know you’re half Landry,” Grandpa said. “But you’re a good fifty percent Kazoulis. So you shouldn’t have any problems in the—”

“Whoa, look at that, a customer just walked in,” I lied. “Gotta go, Gramps. Talk to you later. Buh-bye.”

I stared at the phone after I’d put it down. It was clear that, while Grandpa was a pro at giving financial advice, when it came to matters of the heart…well, I was on my own. I was going to have to figure out how to win Mark away from Lauren without his help.

“Oh my God,” Darren said, hurrying up to the counter with his ice cream. “D’you know what Shelley at the Penguin told me? The high school’s holding a slave auction tomorrow night.”

“It’s not a slave auction,” I said, showing him the ad in the paper. “It’s a talent auction. People are volunteering their talents for the community to bid on. Not their—whatever you’re thinking.”

“Oh,” Darren said, looking a little disappointed. “How do you know so much about it?”

“Because,” I said. I tried not to sound proud, since pride is akin to arrogance, according to The Book, and arrogance is not a desirable trait in a popular girl. “I’m the one who came up with the idea. And I’m running it.”

Darren looked shocked. “You? But you’re—”

He stopped himself, though.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You can say it.”

“Oh, thank God,” Darren said. “It’s just that—honey, you’re such a Steph Landry!”

“But I won’t be for much longer,” I was able to inform him with total confidence.

DAY FOUR OF POPULARITY
THURSDAY
,
AUGUST
31, 6
P
.
M
.

I was crazed all day getting ready for the auction: signing up last-minute people, then getting their names/talents to Mr. Schneck so that he could practice saying them…getting the guys from the audio-visual club to set up the sound system in the gym, so everyone could hear the auctioneer…getting the bidding paddles (hand-fans I got Day Mortuary to donate. But I’m sure people won’t mind. I mean, about being reminded of dead people during the auction).

Things were so nuts, I didn’t get lunch OR dinner. I never even got to go home after school! Thank God Becca stuck around to help…and, surprisingly, Darlene. It turns out Darlene is a natural at getting people to do stuff. If I hadn’t had her around all afternoon, I don’t know what I would have done. She just has to
lower her eyelashes and go, “You guys, will you move the podium over
there
?” and people—well, okay, guys—practically fall over themselves to do it for her.

And she really isn’t as dumb as she looks. When the local cable television station showed up, because they want to record the auction and show it on public access this weekend, and they didn’t have the right wires, Darlene turned to Todd and went, “Todd, run to the office and ask Swampy if you can borrow the coaxial cable from the teacher’s lounge.”

And the AV guys, their eyes all wide with worship, were like, “How did
you
know it’s called a coaxial cable?”

And Darlene realized she’d accidentally let her smarts show, and was like, “Oh, did I say that? I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

But later, when the guys weren’t around, and I asked her, “How
did
you know what kind of cable they needed?” Darlene was like, “Well, duh. Everyone knows that.”

Which caused Becca to ask her, “Did you REALLY not know honey comes from bees that time in the eighth grade?”

And Darlene laughed and said, “Well, no. But that class was so boring. I just wanted to liven things up a little.”

“But doesn’t acting dumb make people look down on you?” Becca wanted to know.

“Oh no,” Darlene said. “Because it gets people to do stuff for me, and then I have more time to watch TV.”

Which actually makes sense. Sort of.

Darlene and Becca weren’t the only ones helping out. Mark and a bunch of his team members came in after practice to help hang the
FIRST ANNUAL BLOOMVILLE HIGH TALENT AUCTION
banner that I spent my whole lunch period painting, with the help of some cool senior girls and—though she offered it begrudgingly, at best—Lauren.

Lauren came by after school, too, with Bebe Johnson. Her usual shadow, Alyssa Krueger, has been notably absent from Lauren’s side since the
TO STEFF
incident. I caught a brief glimpse of her scuttling through the cafeteria when I stopped by to grab a soda before heading off to paint my banner, apparently hoping no one would see her buying a tuna sandwich and sneaking out to the flagpole to eat it by herself, since she’s no longer welcome at Mark’s table.

I probably should have felt triumphant, seeing one of Bloomville High’s leading It Girls doing the Walk of Shame through the caf.

But the fact is, the sight just saddened me a little. I don’t have anything against Alyssa Krueger. Much. I mean, she’s a heinous troll, and all of that.

But it’s Lauren I want to see go down.

And WILL see go down. Tonight. If there’s any justice in the world.

While we were painting the banner, one of the senior girls accidentally dribbled paint on the free throw line of the gym floor, and Lauren started laughing.

“God, Cheryl,” she said. “Way to pull a St—”

We all knew what she was going to say. But she stopped herself at the last minute.

I looked over at her and raised one eyebrow (a trick I’d spent hours in front of the mirror—much to the amusement of Jason—teaching myself in the fourth grade, after I became addicted to Nancy Drew, who was always going around, raising one eyebrow at people).

Cheryl, who didn’t notice my eyebrow, went, “I know, I know. Way to pull a Steph Landry. Anybody got a paper towel?”

When nobody said anything, Cheryl looked up and saw everybody—including me—looking at her.

“What?” she said, genuinely not knowing.

“
I’m
Steph Landry,” I said, trying not to let my anger show. Because anger isn’t a desirable emotion to show if you want to be popular.

Cheryl, a pretty red-headed member of the school dance team, the Fishnets (after the Fighting Fish), went, “Right. Funny. Seriously, who has the roll of paper towels?”

“I
am
serious,” I said.

Cheryl, realizing I was telling the truth, started to turn as red as the paint she’d spilled.

“But you’re—I mean, you’re—and Steph is…she’s—” she sputtered. “I know
your
name is Steph, but I didn’t think you were THAT Steph. I mean, that Steph…didn’t she, like, shoot someone?”

“No,” I said.

“No, but seriously. She put a car in Greene Lake or something. I
know
it.”

“No,” I said. “And I should know. Because I’m Steph Landry. And I didn’t do any of those things. All I did was spill a Big Red Super Big Gulp on someone once.”

And I shot Lauren what I hoped was a meaningful look.

“Is that all?” Cheryl wrinkled her little Fishnet nose. “God. I love Big Red Super Big Gulps. That’s, like, the best flavor.”

“Right,” another senior girl said. “But it stains like crazy. I spilled one on my mom’s white carpet, and I still hear about it sometimes when she’s mad at me for something else.”

“Totally,” Cheryl said. “Come on, though, seriously, you guys. I have to clean this paint up before it dries. Does anyone have a tissue or anything?”

And that was it. Lauren, red-faced, went back to painting. And no one said another thing about it.

And after tonight? No one ever would again.