The Queen of Cool (3 page)

We’re all outside, behind the gym. I’m in a fabulous purple gown sucking vodka and grape punch through a straw. Perla is smoking a cigarette, trying to look glamorous in long lavender gloves.

“This shit is awkward,” she says. She peels off the gloves, finger by finger.

Why is it that when you have what seems to be the perfect combination of elements to ensure no-brainer fun — friends, booze, music, and fancy clothes — you still all end up in a yawn fest, standing around behind the gym, complaining?

The vodka isn’t working. It’s not strong enough. Suddenly I know what will give me the buzz I need.

I start peeling off my dress.

“What are you doing?” Perla says. “
Chica,
put your dress back on.”

The boys don’t say anything. They continue to drink the punch and try to look like they are not looking at me, the girl standing in front of them in her bra and underwear.

“I dare you to go inside like that,” Kenji says.

“That’s the plan,” I say.

He puts his hands around my waist and pulls me toward him.

“That’s my girl,” he says, kissing me.

When I break away from him, there is a string of saliva still connecting me to his mouth. It glistens in the light, then breaks and falls onto his chin.

I wipe it off with my thumb.

“Anyone care to join me?” I ask.

Not one of them meets my eyes. They all shake their heads no.

Wimps. All of them.

“What will you do when you get to the other side?” Perla says. “You’ll be, like, naked.”

I grab a plastic bag from the garbage and put my dress and shoes in it.

“Ready,” I say.

“Wait,” Sid says. He goes back to the garbage can and digs through until he finds a paper bag. He rips two eyeholes in it and places it over my head. “You don’t want to get caught.”

They open the door and go into the gym while I hang back.

I count to ten. My heart is pounding.

“GO!” I tell myself.

I push the door open and start to run. I see almost nothing. A flash of fabric. An ogling face. The sound of shrieks. A cackle. An adult screaming to stop me.

But I am still running, past the jocks and the cheerleaders and the math club and the vogue girls and the sun and surfers and the extremers and the young politicos. It is me and my feet on the floor and my goal: the doors at the other side of the gym.

I make it.

I run down the hallway right into the bathroom and dive into a stall. I take the brown bag off my head and let my hair spill out as I lean my head forward. I put my face in my sweaty hands.

Instead of laughing or feeling thrilled, I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from crying.

What is wrong with me?

I feel no difference from that moment of running to this moment of crying, and the next one, the one where I open my garbage bag and calmly put my dress back on.

Shit. I’m missing a shoe.

I wake up on Monday morning, and my bedroom is the same, and the view outside the window is the same, and the smell of breakfast coming up from down the hall is the same. Only
I
feel different.

At lunchtime, in the pavilion, I sit at the usual table, and I am eating the same lunch I have every day (fat-free, sugar-free yogurt and a Diet Coke), while everyone else is talking over one another.

They are all
talking.
And nobody is
listening.

Kenji: “I refuse to go to museums because they’re just trying to dictate what culture
is,
but once it’s in a museum, all they’re doing is displaying what culture
was.
And by that time it’s dead.”

Perla: “Why would I bother with acting school? Such a waste of time. Everybody knows that reality shows are the way to become a megastar.”

Sid: “The best band to ever come out of Seattle is Mudhoney, not Nirvana. It’s such a cop-out to say Nirvana.”

Mike Dutko: “That chick’s boobs look good in that sweater.”

All of a sudden it hits me.

I don’t want to say it out loud because I really can’t believe it, but it’s true.

They’re all
boring.

Everything
is boring.

“What’s wrong with you, Libby?” Perla asks. “You sick?”

“No,” I say.

“You look sick. Like pale white or something.”

“Bad yogurt,” I say. I get up and throw the container into the garbage can.

I’m not hungry.

I’m not anything.

Thankfully, the bell rings and it’s time to go to AP Biology.

I rush to class. I practically run. Not because I’m going to be late, and not because I even care about getting there on time, but just because I want to get away from my friends.

I’m afraid that they’ll all find out what’s really wrong with me.

Outside the classroom, I’m panting with my head down and my hands on my knees. I wonder if I’m having a heart attack. I look up and try to focus on something, on the internship bulletin board with its even blocks of pastel-colored flyers. I read the big black cutout letters on top of the board that say
Are You Ready for an Adventure in SCIENCE?

The word
SCIENCE
is wobbling. It looks as though it’s 3-D. It’s jumping out at me.

I stand in front of the bulletin board for a long time. People jostle me as they pass by to go into the classroom. I steady myself by keeping my eyes on the internship sign-up sheet for the L.A. Zoo.

That’s something I would
never
do.

Scientifically speaking, I’m not a scientist.

But before I know what I am doing, my pen is out of my bag and with my shaking hand I am signing the sheet.

I sign at the top, on the first line. Number one. I almost think that I’m going to be the only one who signs up when I notice that the bottom line is filled out too.

Number 25. Tina Carpentieri.

I laugh. She probably couldn’t reach any higher.

It takes only one day for Ms. Lew to call my name at the end of biology class.

“Libby, can I talk to you a moment?” Ms. Lew asks.

I know why she wants to talk to me. I want to leave so that I can cross my name off the list hanging outside of her classroom door.

“Yeah, I really have to get to class. I don’t want to be late.”

Usually this tactic works. But today Ms. Lew writes out a late pass for me. I put my book bag down on a desk.

“I just wanted to let you know how pleased I am that you’ve signed up for the L.A. Zoo internship,” she says.

“I’m going to quit.”

“But it hasn’t even started,” she says.

“Yeah, I might have been temporarily insane,” I say.

She smiles. She thinks I’m kidding. Making a joke. She doesn’t know I’m actually worried that it might be true. I may be insane. My name on that paper may have been the only thing keeping me from becoming a quivering blob outside her classroom yesterday.

“I wish you wouldn’t quit. You excel in science.”

“No, I don’t excel in anything. I’m a B student.”

“I think we both know that you can get a B with your eyes closed.”

“No, I struggle,” I say. But no matter how serious I try to look, I can’t help smiling.

“It counts as an extra science class,” she adds. “And it will look terrific on your college applications next year.”

I want to say,
BIG WHOOP.
But Ms. Lew is being sincere and passionate again, and I just don’t have the heart to be shitty to her.

“Okay,” I say.

“Libby, this is a good opportunity. It shows initiative. You are a natural leader, and thanks to you, other students have signed up for some science internships too.”

“I didn’t mean to start a trend,” I say.

“Well, you did.”

The late bell rings.

“I gotta go, Ms. Lew.”

“I’m giving you a compliment, Libby. Try to learn to accept compliments.”

She turns back to her desk, and I figure I can finally leave. I get to the door, and I turn back and I say one more thing.

“Thank you, Ms. Lew.”

But I don’t know why I said it. I know I’m not thankful for a single thing.

I cut American History class and go to the bleachers by the track so I can try to finish
The Great Gatsby.
Maybe if I get my reading done, I will actually bother showing up for English.

The field is full of football players running into mats, soccer players bouncing balls on knees, and track people running around the field. Except one girl. She’s in the middle of the field doing yoga. Downward facing dog. Sun salutation. Tree pose. It looks awkward, though. Her body is all wrong. After a minute, I realize it’s not the shapes that she twists in that make her body look all wrong. It’s Tiny. And Tiny’s body is strange. Her hips are a bit too wide. Her legs are just a bit too short. Her arms bend over her trunk a bit too soon.

She’s completely oblivious to all of the grunting and shouting and running around her. She sits down and starts to meditate.

I shade my eyes to watch her. She’s more interesting than the book I’m not reading. She’s almost graceful in a way. Once you get used to watching her movements, they somehow make sense.

Perla, who cuts class as much as I do, approaches. Her long, shiny, black hair is pulled back into a Frida Kahlo braid that swings from side to side as she joins me on the bleachers.

She stands in front of me, blocking my view of Tiny and her interesting stretching, so I put my head down and begin reading again.

“I have to cheat,” Perla says. “Reading all those words makes my brain hurt.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I say. “Sounds like the smart thing to do.”

Of course she totally misses the sarcasm in my voice.

“I know, right? Sid sits next to me, so I just cheat off him. Except I have to reword his weird concepts so it sounds like I wrote it. But at least then I know I’ll get an automatic C.”

“Doesn’t it ever bore you not to think, Perla?” I ask.

Ironically, she has to think about it.

“Aw, man!” Kenji says. “Why’d you sign up for a winter session internship?”

“Because,” I say.

“Not coo’,” Kenji says. “No fun. Total snore pie.”

He tilts his head sideways as though he’s falling asleep and makes snoring sounds.

“I think it’s stupid,” Mike Dutko says.