Promiscuous (16 page)

It’s not until I’ve been sitting in front of Margot’s trailer for a good five minutes that I remember she’s not coming out. Not for a long time. Maybe not even before school is over.

It hits me then that Margot and I might never drive to school together again. But no, it’s worse than that, isn’t it? Forget about high school. What about college? What about her scholarship? Will she lose it, if she doesn’t graduate? Of course she will.

Unless they let her do all of her homework from the psych ward—which I seriously doubt, given Principal Shoemaker’s penchant for screwing over trailer park kids like us—she’s toast, from an academic standpoint. And therefore, from a financial one.

Let’s not even talk about what this is going to do for her socially. When it comes to acting, dating, making new friends? Will she ever be able to stop seeing herself the way she looked in that picture? I know I won’t.

The rage this thought causes me is enough to energize me in a way no amount of coffee ever could.

I drive to school, gritting my teeth the entire way. I shuffle into the locker room, slowly, like I’m afraid I might break. I am a ticking time bomb, a catastrophic event waiting to happen. I get dressed, like everything is normal. But inside, I’m a seething mass of hatred.

All through aerobics class, I watch Becca from afar, watching her roll her eyes and laugh with her friends. She has no idea of the damage she’s caused. Or maybe she does, and that’s what she’s so goddamn happy about.

I try to imagine how someone like her, someone with so much going for her, could become so evil, so cruel. But I can’t.

The first time Becca Foster openly targeted Margot, we were in fifth grade. Margot was so confident back then. She tried out for the elementary school production of ‘The Three Little Pigs,’ which was considered
avant-garde
at the time, because the whole thing was in Spanish—
Los Tres Cochinitos
, or something.

Becca tried out, too. But she ended up being the first pig. The stupid one, who built the house out of straw. She only had three lines. Two of which were something lame, like,
‘No!’
and ‘
Ayudeme
!’

Margot got the part of the third pig, the smart one who built her house out of bricks. I can still remember how hard everyone in the audience was laughing as Margot stood on top of that fake brick house, taunting the wolf in Spanish in that squeaky little voice of hers. Hell, she even adlibbed some stuff. Margot was such a ham—pun intended—that night, she almost
literally
brought down the house she was standing on—because in reality, it was made out of cardboard and red paint.

Margot would never believe me, though, when I told her that Becca was jealous of her, because she was so good. Because the day after the play, Becca had all the kids calling her ‘Little Piggy,’ asking her if she was headed to the market, if she was going to ‘wee herself’ on the way home.

Third graders are fucking
brilliant
when it comes to turning nursery rhymes into insults, as it turns out. And for some ridiculous reason, the name ‘Piggy’ stuck. Over time, it evolved from ‘Piggy,’ to ‘Pig’...to ‘Fatty’...and then the latest derivation, ‘Large Marge.’

I stare at Becca from across the upper tier of the gym where we have aerobics, hating her with every fiber of my being.

What is she, really, but a bunch of favorable titles she's created for herself?
Popular. Hot.
In body, at least, if not in face.
Desirable
. She talks about how many guys want to date her, and people believe it.

Even if the only guy who's ever publicly admitted to getting in her pants is her ex-boyfriend, Rick, who graduated last year. And yeah, so Rick used to be popular, too. And a lot of guys liked him. And he was marginally good looking. And of course, Becca and all her stupid friends have money, which means they can afford the latest brand name clothes. Unlike Margot and I—we were raised to stretch what we’ve got for as long as we can.

But other than that, what does Becca Foster have?

People know who she is. People talk about her. People are afraid of her.

I could do that.

Except there's one thing I definitely don't have, and that's a rich dad who can afford to buy her a nice car and give out fucking two-thousand dollar scholarships for Prom Court. Like Brittany said, as things stand, it'll be no contest. So he probably thinks it's a good investment. Pay for your daughter's education, which you were going to do anyway, and get a huge tax write-off in the process.

I watch Becca doing her stupid high kicks, trying to get ‘prom ready.’ I want to smash her ugly face in, and break both of her stupid legs. See if she wins Prom Queen then.

But I can't do that, because I promised Margot.

I glare at Becca for a few more seconds, before I finally have to turn away. My unfulfilled desire for revenge is making me sick. I pretend I’m going to the water fountain and sneak around to the other side of the bleachers, to the balcony, where I can look down at the boys’ first period basketball class.

Technically it's co-ed basketball, but only Leslie Glough was man enough to sign up for it. Two guesses what nickname Becca gave her. (Here’s a hint: it rhymes with Bes-bo.) God, she’s such an evil cunt. I wish I had a tractor, like one of those 4H kids, so I could run over Becca Foster with it.

As I stand there seething, my eyes fall across Grant. He smiles up at me, and then he actually
waves
. I fight the urge to turn around and see if there's someone else he could be waving at. There’s no one else up here but me. Then I realize: his dad must have told him about what happened with Margot, at the hospital.

So much for doctor-patient confidentiality
.

My heart sinks as I remember my epiphany from the other night: Grant is a second-generation bleeding heart savior type. That's all this will ever be, him feeling sorry for me. The rich doctor's son getting his philanthropy hours in by helping the poor, trailer trash girl. I smirk, as he turns away to run down the court after the ball, with his popular dude friends. I wonder if he'll feel sorry enough to just give me the answers to the test, instead of making me work for them.

There’s a shuffling sound below me, and my eyes are drawn to a cluster of other guys, standing on the sideline. They're looking at Grant, as he's looking at me. They're talking, whispering. I can almost hear them speculating, as they look up at me in that horribly un-subtle way high school guys have. Still, these aren’t the kind of stares I’m used to getting.

They're wondering what he sees in me. If Grant Blue can wave at me in public, maybe I’m somebody.

Suddenly, it hits me, like a bolt of lightning:

A way to take Becca Foster down
royally
, without getting expelled. A way to show those uppity bastards once and for all that they haven't beaten me. That I can fuck up their world as much as they've fucked with mine.

I'm going to run against Becca for Prom Queen. And no matter what it takes, even if it kills me, I'm going to fucking beat her. And I'm going to use Grant Blue’s savior complex to do it.

Part III: “Slutty”

Shakespeare once wrote, ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’  But what about those words which
aren’t
so sweet? What makes one word seem so much nastier, and cut so much deeper, than another? For instance, what's the difference between a ‘skank’ and a ‘slut?’

Apparently, quite a lot.

According to UrbanDictionary.com (which is basically the Webster’s of my generation,) a ‘skank’ is defined as the following:

‘Derogatory term for a (usually younger) female, implying trashiness or tackiness, lower-class status, poor hygiene, flakiness, and a scrawny, pockmarked sort of ugliness. May also imply promiscuity, but not necessarily. Can apply to any race, but most commonly used to describe white trash.’

Well, shit. That’s a pretty spot-on description of me, up to this point. Wouldn’t you say?

 On the other hand, ‘slut’ is defined by UrbanDictionary.com as: ‘A woman with the morals of a man.’

You thought it was going to be worse, didn’t you? I know I did. Seriously, the word ‘slut’ just
sounds
so much worse. It sounds like there should be a minimum number in there, right? Almost like a legal definition; ‘You can only be counted as a ‘slut’ if you have sucked off
at least
half a dozen dudes, per fiscal year, and/or had  ten or more hookups with nameless strangers behind various fast food establishments.’ But no, as it turns out, a slut by any other name…is just a dude, apparently.

So, there you have it, I guess.

Proof that nobody gives a damn what a word really means, or whether or not it's true. People
love
labels, and as we mentioned before, they hate the complex messiness of the truth. That's why they'll continue to throw those words around, regardless of how much damage they cause, and believe whatever the hell they want.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Two weeks until prom….

On Saturday, I start making an official list of Becca Foster’s weaknesses.

Obviously, her face is one. She’s hideous on the inside too, not to mention stupid, so you’d think a lot of people would hate her. But then again, most people at Guthrie High think I’m the Whore of Babylon, so we’re pretty much even there. Plus, Becca hasn’t physically assaulted any wrestlers in the last few weeks—at least not that I know of.

So, okay. Likeability. That’s an issue. I can maybe work on that. I’ll have to try and watch my temper, which won’t be easy.
Though, admittedly, I’ve never really tried all that hard to do so before now.

Next, I start to go through Becca’s assets. What does she have that I don't?

Plenty.

She's got a really nice car, while I just have...a car. She's got a squadron of like-minded bitches. I don't even have Margot anymore. She's got a history of popular boyfriends, and is even now hunting for her next popular man-popsicle. I've got a super senior who's out to nail my ass. Sure, Trent is popular-ish, but I’d rather chew off both of my arms and roll around in Tabasco sauce than go anywhere
near
that road.

 Aside from a stalker and the world’s hottest math tutor, what else do I have that she doesn't?

I'm taller. My boobs are bigger. My hair is probably a little better, except for now I've got these damn streaks. I'm going to have to step it up a notch in the personal grooming department, I realize.

Also, there's the clothes thing. Guthrie might not be the center of fashion, but this is America—and in America, high school kids respect capitalism. That is going to be a serious problem. But hell, this is for Margot. Even if I decide to blow every cent of my savings on a makeover that will help me take down Becca—avenging Margot is worth everything I have, and more.

But then, thinking of Margot, I realize: maybe I don't have to spend that much money on my clothes.

They just have to
look
expensive.

Margot has this trendy little thrift store she likes in the next town over, so I figure I'll start there. I drive over in the afternoon. After looting my mattress of almost every penny I’ve saved.

“Hey there, you.” Keely, the girl who owns the place, looks at me in confusion. She’s always dressed weird, at least to my eyes, but today she’s especially out there, rocking an eighties-style blazer belted over a big tutu skirt and red tights. Margot said once that Keely reminded her of Annie Potts from
Pretty in Pink
, and now that I think about it, I have to admit she was pretty spot-on. No wonder Margot loves coming here.

"Where's your friend?"

“Uh…” I understand why she finds it hard to believe I'd come by myself, since I'm usually there under protest, sulking in a corner with a book while Margot spends hours happily digging through piles of clothes that smell like old people and cat piss.

“She's...” I can't think of anything to say that won't come off as either too blunt or insensitive, so I change the subject. I try to be nice.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with something. I'm doing this project for school where I have to study...um, fashion. And I was wondering if you could tell me... what makes certain clothes seem... cooler than others?”

Keely laughs. “You mean, how do trends get started?”

“Yeah, basically.” I shrug, feeling out of my element. “I guess.”

The eccentric thrift store owner laughs, and then launches into a description of the history of fashion that blows my mind. It’s like art history, kind of. Only in fashion, the Dark Ages were during the 1970s, during the reign of polyester.

Unlike Margot, I've never really cared about this stuff before. Other than knowing what I can pull off without looking like a freakish giant, what Margot likes to call my ‘angsty camouflage’—dark colors and materials that blend my boobs so they don't stand out as much. Denim skirts with polka dot or skull pattern leggings underneath, because they make me look younger—otherwise, the 40-something creepers tend to come out of the woodwork.

But I can’t afford to worry about camouflaging myself anymore. If I’m going to do this, I have to let myself get noticed for the
right
reasons. Talked about in a
good
way, or at least a less hateful way. For Margot. Because becoming hotter and more popular than Becca Foster is how I will begin to destroy her.

After about an hour, I think I've finally got a handle on the basic concept. In order to be a trend starter, you have to wear something different. Something that makes you look good, but in an unexpected way. It can't seem like you're trying. It has to look effortless. Provocative, but not slutty. Sexy, but only by accident. Keely and I settle on what she calls a ‘style concept.’ I'm going to bring back the Marilyn Monroe look, she says, but in a more badass, punk rock way.