How Not To Be Popular (5 page)

But they don’t care about things like social rankings and respectability.

I suppose under my new antipopularity plan, it doesn’t really matter if I seem like a freak. But I’d still rather not
feel
like one.

“Oh!” Rosie cries out suddenly, leaping to her feet. The vinyl seat sticks to her bare butt for a second before dropping back to the floor. I make a mental note not to use that chair for a while. “I almost forgot.

You got a package today!”

“A package?” I repeat stupidly. Now it’s my turn to do a little song-and-dance number. I bounce on my feet, going, “From who? Who? Who?”

Meanwhile the answer keeps echoing through my brain:
Trevor!
He’s the only person who knows our new address! Did he change his mind about the breakup? Is he mailing me candy or jewelry or a manuscript-sized apology in the hopes that I’ll forgive him?

As Rosie heads for a set of shelves, I rise on my toes and pitch toward her as far as possible without falling on my face. My hands are pressed against my chest, my right palm squeezing my left fist so hard
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my turquoise ring is digging into flesh.

“I know you’ve been expecting this,” Rosie croons happily as she walks back toward me, holding out a giant padded envelope.

I eagerly snatch it up and catch sight of the return address label—Westbank High School in Portland, Oregon.

Joy whooshes out of me, making me feel woozy.
Oh yeah.
I forgot that Ms. Ritenour, my old guidance counselor, promised to forward me some college materials.

“It’s that stuff you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?” she asks, a big oblivious grin pushing her cheeks into perfect balls.

“Uh-huh.”

“My baby’s getting all grown up and ready for college,” she croons, her eyes crinkled in a sappy look.

“My future anthropologist. My little Margaret Mead.”

The squeak in her voice suggests she’s about to cry, which I really don’t want—because I might cry too.

That sudden high of hopefulness about Trevor followed by a bitter crash-and-burn disappointment has left me shaky and jet-lagged. I just don’t have any energy to play it cool anymore, and sobs are right beneath the surface. But I can’t have Rosie fussing over me in all her maternal glory.

“I think…I’ll go up to the roof and open this,” I mumble, trying to figure out a way to get some alone time.

“You should!” Rosie exclaims. “The sun’s starting to go down. It’s pretty.” I tuck the packet under my left arm and make my way up the steps.

And she’s right. It is pretty. The sky is full of pinks and lavenders, with puffy grayish purple clouds. The orange sun is straining through the oak trees behind our building, making a mottled camouflage pattern on the roof. I walk to the midpoint and sit cross-legged on the rough gravel-like surface.

Clothing flaps in the breeze on the line Rosie has stretched from the stairwell to the metal shack-thing that houses the attic fan unit. For several minutes I just sit there, dazed, turning the package over and over in my hands. The sobs that have been trapped inside my chest gradually make their way up, until I slump forward, crying. I think about Trevor and how his whole face snapped to attention when he saw me. How his smile would practically ding. And the way his eyes looked when he said he loved me. It was the first time I really felt like I was superimportant to someone other than my parents. It sounds corny, I know, but I thought maybe we were fated to meet.

What happened to that? Why did he give up hope that we would be together again someday? And what if no one ever looks at me that way again in my life? Trevor could have been my only chance to find my major “other” and I blew it.

I hear a whapping noise and lift my head. The breeze has picked up and the clothes are thrashing about on the make-do line. A whole row of my parents’ shirts are facing me, their arms stretched out as if waiting for a hug. I abruptly turn away.

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I love Rosie and Les, but I also can’t help hating them a little. Really it’s all their fault I was torn away from Trevor. Their fault I don’t dare make friends this time around. Before we left Portland I really tried to explain to Rosie how much it hurt me to leave Trevor. I told her I thought I loved him. She hugged me and said that was wonderful; then she said that if it was real love, distance shouldn’t matter, and that there was a whole world full of people to love just waiting for me to meet them. Then she handed me some condoms.

Trevor and I had discussed having sex, but in the end we never did. Now I wonder if it was the right decision. If we had gone all the way, I could be hurting much, much more. But maybe it would have made Trevor more committed.

A strong gust of wind sweeps over the rooftop, lifting my hair and whipping our clothes into a frenzy.

One pair of Rosie’s all-cotton undies is now hanging by a single clip. Fearing it might wrench itself free, flutter down onto some innocent motorist’s windshield, and cause an accident, I set down the package, struggle to my feet, and go reattach it—adding a third clip for extra security.

Next to her panties is one of my tops—my favorite one, in fact. It’s nothing special. Just a classic scoop-necked tee in a soft blue, made even lighter from several washings and air-dryings. But it’s one of those shirts that seems to have been made just for me. You know? The kind that fits perfectly, seams hitting in all the proper places. And the color warms my skin and brightens my eyes. Or so I’m told.

People always compliment me more when I wear it.

My lucky tee. The shirt I was wearing when Trevor first asked me out.

But I won’t wear it here. I want the
opposite
of luck in this place. When the time comes to leave, I don’t want to shed a single tear.

I unclip my T-shirt and shove it inside the elastic of my stretch pants. Then I grab the envelope and yank the exposed tab on the back. The red string-thing pulls open a wide slit and I peek inside to find a few university pamphlets, some color-coded forms, and other assorted papers all held together by a rubber band. A brief letter has been clipped to the front.

Miss Dempsey,
the note begins.
Here is the information you requested, along with another copy of
your transcript and a letter of recommendation from Mr. Whitmire.
I look over the glossy brochures for various universities and liberal arts colleges. Then I glance at the letter from my former English teacher—a brief, general, “Miss Dempsey is a hardworking student” sort of recommendation.

I still wish the package had been a tearstained note and a box of salt water taffy from Trevor, but it does lift my mood slightly. A year from now I’ll be out on my own, studying anthropology or something, and making real, lasting friendships. No more moving around. And if Trevor and I end up at the same university, it’s still possible we could finish what we started.

If only I could fast-forward the next several months.

I notice that many of the colleges you are interested in emphasize extracurricular involvement,
the letter continues.
Although your grades are excellent, and I’m sure you will have no problem drafting
a quality essay, you have very few school organizations listed on your record. Be sure to sign up
for as many activities as your schedule allows at your new school. Also, you still need at least one
more recommendation, perhaps from a club sponsor. Remember, the deadline for many of these
applications is December 15. Best of luck, Diane Ritenour.

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What?
My eyes back up to reread the last three sentences of her note:
…sign up for as many
activities…

Don’t tell me…. Now I have to join a stupid club?

T
IP: Only popular people join popular clubs.

And…it always helps to be seen lugging around foliage.

After a long night of worrying
about clubs and having a few sporadic, disturbing dreams about Trevor, I wake up with a major headache.

I shuffle into the kitchen, wearing the big poufy genie-type pants and high-collared silk shirt I picked out in the store yesterday evening. I originally planned to wear a ponytail (I seem to remember, among my few scattered memories of TV watching, a girl genie with a ponytail), but it hurts to pull my hair back.

“Good morning, Margaret.”

I stop and stare at Les. I’m so zombified and my skull is throbbing so relentlessly that for a second I truly wonder if I could have been lobotomized during the night.

“Did you just call me Margaret?” I croak.

“Yes, I did,” he replies, sharing a shifty grin with Rosie.

I blink at him, trying to pop-start my sore brain. After all these years, has my father decided to give me a normal name?

Les leans back and lets out his blaring Santa Claus laugh. I clutch my head to keep it from detonating.

“Rosie told me about your package, Ms. Margaret Mead,” he says teasingly. “Almost time to pursue your big dream. You must be one thrilled monkey.”

“Oh. Yeah, I am.” I pull out one of the chairs I’m pretty sure was spared my mother’s nakedness and drop gracelessly into it.

Rosie frowns at me. “You don’t look like a thrilled monkey.”

“I just have a headache,” I explain, leaning forward to rest my forehead on my arms.

“Poor butterfly!” Rosie starts clucking over me with all her motherly superpowers. She rubs my shoulders and the back of my neck while humming a lullaby-sounding tune.

“I know what you need, Sugar,” Les says. I hear him rummaging through the cabinets and opening and closing the fridge.

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I sit motionless for a while, letting Rosie spoil me with her soft voice and strong, professionally trained hands. “You’re going to put me back to sleep,” I mutter into the table.

Right then the blender starts whirring. Seconds later the noise stops, and I raise my head just as a glass of frothy pink liquid appears in front of me. One of Les’s famous smoothies.

Normally I’d dive right in, but as soon as the smoothie’s fruity scent hits my nostrils, my stomach runs whimpering behind my appendix.

“Sorry, guys,” I rasp, rising carefully to my feet.

“Don’t think I can eat right now. I’ll just grab a couple of aspirin and head out.”

“I’m sorry, sweetness. We don’t have aspirin,” Rosie tells me. “But here. Use this.” She grabs a rosemary plant off the windowsill and hands it to me. “Take deep whiffs until your head clears up,” she instructs. “And you can crush up the needles, too.”

“I can’t carry around a potted plant all day,” I protest, staring numbly at the small bush.

“Why not?” Rosie asks.

“Because I’ll—” I break off. I’m about to say “I’ll look stupid,” when I suddenly remember…

Don’t I want to?

My head still aches when I get to school, so I’m only vaguely aware of the pointing and giggling as I cross the lawn.

I see Miles at his usual post near the entrance. He’s talking so animatedly to his assembled group that I wonder if he charged admission. In fact, he’s so busy holding court he doesn’t even notice me until his audience starts snickering and looking in my direction.

He turns around, gives me a big once-over, and begins laughing so hard it throws him off balance. While he staggers around like a drunken idiot, I stroll past him as casually as possible. Just when I think I’ll make it inside without incident, he runs in front of me.

“Nice pants,” he says, his voice all vibrato from laughing. “What’s in them? Can I see?” He glances back at his assembled pals, and like good trained doggies, they all crack up.

I want to say “How sweet. Do they fetch and roll in their own crap, too?” Instead I step around him and quicken my stride toward the doors.

I hear the pounding of feet and once again Miles is standing in my way.

“What’s the Christmas tree for?” he asks. Now that we’re out of earshot, he doesn’t bother with his backup chorus.

When I don’t reply, he takes a step forward, smiles crookedly, and says, “You want to sit on my lap
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and tell me what you want for Christmas?”

I stare right into his smirking face. Even now, annoyed as I am, I can’t help going a little tingly. He’s so crazy handsome.

Miles seems to pick up on this and amps up his power even more. He tilts forward, lips right next to my ear, his breath breezing across my neck. “Go ahead, tell me what you
really
want,” he murmurs. He’s so close, the sound vibrates through my body. “It’s me, isn’t it? Come on. Be honest.” Suddenly the heat I’m feeling turns into anger. I’m mad because he’s all smug and blocking my way—but also because he’s a little bit right. I
am
attracted to him. Or at least I would be if I could let myself. I know that this guy could single-handedly destroy my avoid-attachments plan, and I’m wearing myself out trying to avoid him. And yet he won’t get a clue and give me a break!

I turn to face him. His smile is so sexy it’s almost inhuman.

Right then, my fuse burns up and it’s like there’s a direct line from my mouth to the primitive part of my brain. “Fine! You want to know what I really want?” I hear myself say, my voice hissy and sizzly. “A microscope.
And
surgical tools. So I can find and remove your teeny tiny manhood!” Miles seems to freeze in place. His eyes widen and his smile falters, but otherwise there’s no movement.

I push past him and head into the building.

I’m not sure if it’s the rosemary or what, but suddenly my head feels a lot clearer.

By lunchtime I’m completely starving. Luckily Les has packed one of my favorite sandwiches: a whole wheat pita filled with mushrooms, olives, leaf spinach, grilled peppers, and feta cheese. I’ve already scarfed half of it by the time Penny sits down with her tray.

“I like your plant,” she says matter-of-factly, as if she were remarking on a new hairstyle.

“Thanks.” Surprisingly, none of my teachers have objected to it. I suppose they assumed it was a gift or part of a science project or something. Only one teacher, a squat, pudgy guy with a bad comb-over, gave me a big bug-eyed stare in the hallway. But that was it.

On the other hand, the students have definitely reacted to my pants. Caitlyn and her pals had a massive whisper session in homeroom, and Jack gave me a horrified stare. Later, as I walked from class to class, several kids called me genie, and one of Miles’s jock friends asked me to take him on a magic carpet ride.

Overall my plan is going extremely well. All the people who were nice to me on the first day now snicker along with the others or scurry away as if radioactive waste were oozing from my pores. Only Penny doesn’t mind being seen with me.

Of course, being successfully unpopular is going to make it hard to join an extracurricular activity. In the past I would have signed up for show choir or drama club, and I would have eagerly accepted Caitlyn’s offer to be a Belle. Now I’m totally stuck. I can’t end up in a group of people I’ll like. That will only make Operation Avoid Friends even tougher. In fact, that was how Trevor and I met. We were in an outdoor club called the Rangers. Every other weekend we went out camping or canoeing or walking
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through Forest Park.

I’ll never forget that time we ducked off the trail and Trevor carved our names into a Douglas fir.
Trevor

+ Sugar-Mag.
He loved my real name. In fact, he was the first guy who didn’t think my home life was weird—maybe because his parents were also ultraliberal. I thought that was a good sign, like we were custom-made for each other.

As I attempt to push a bite of pita past the clod of self-pity in my throat, Penny leans forward and studies my rosemary plant.

“Why did you bring this?” she asks, gently tapping the needles.

“I had a big headache this morning and its fragrance relieves that kind of stuff.”

“Really?” she says, sounding interested rather than skeptical. “I get sinus headaches all the time. I was born with very narrow nasal passages, so the mucus gets trapped inside my forehead and becomes infected.”

I’m starting to fully understand why no one else wants to eat with this girl.

And all of a sudden…I get it. The answer to my problem is right in front of me.

“Penny?” I say, leaning forward. “Do you belong to any clubs?” At first she seems a bit startled. I realize I’ve never asked her a direct question before. Maybe no one has.

“Yeah,” she replies, setting down her fork and sitting up straight. “I’m in the Helping Hands. We do fund-raisers and community-service projects. Last year we did this ten-mile hike for cancer research, only I got a bladder infection on the day of the walk and—”

“How do you join?” I interrupt. This sounds perfect. A whole group of Pennys and do-gooder types.

It’ll look great on my application but won’t be so much fun that it’ll mess up my big dislike-Austin plan.

“You just show up at the meetings,” she explains. “Our first one is next Monday after school. You want to come?”

“Sure. That’d be great.”

Penny’s eyes spark up and a peach-colored tinge creeps across the tops of her cheeks. For a while she just sits there, gleaming like a freckled jack-o’-lantern. Then, suddenly, she leans toward me.

“Can I ask a favor?” she says in a timid-sounding voice.

“Sure.”

“Can I sniff your plant?”

I’m sitting on the roof again, staring out at the surrounding buildings. The sky has that heavy metallic cast
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of late afternoon, and a male grackle is doing his hacking cough of a song in a nearby oak tree. Even though it’s really muggy, I’ve found a shady patch near the downstairs door that makes it bearable.

We’re all killing time before dinner. Les is working his last hour in the shop, and Rosie is standing a few yards in front of me, dripping with sweat as she fills a wood-and-steel planter with topsoil.

“What are you guys going to put in there?” I ask, faking an interest to be polite and feeling a little guilty that I won’t budge from my cool spot to help out.

“Oh, I think Les wants to grow some herbs. Basil, coriander. I hear some mints do well here. I never could get that Corsican mint to grow in Oregon.”

A thoughtful, faraway look comes over my mother’s face, and I feel an opportunity presenting itself.

“Rosie? Don’t you ever miss our old home in Portland?”

“Miss? No.”

“Why not? Didn’t you like it?”

“Of course I did, butterfly! Just because I don’t miss it doesn’t mean I don’t love it. I do! And who knows? Maybe my path will bring me back someday. But ‘miss’ implies ownership—that someone or some place has control over you, as if you’re tied to it. And that’s not real love. Real love is all positive and free.”

“I don’t think being tied to something is always a bad thing.” Rosie laughs and shakes her head. “You’re so young. Young people think everything belongs to them.” Her laughter pisses me off. Every time I bring up the topic of feeling homesick, she acts like I’m a silly child.

“I don’t get it,” I grumble. “You’re always saying stuff like ‘We belong to the world but the world doesn’t belong to us.’ So…what’s the point? I mean, why even bother planting herbs right now—especially if we’re leaving in a few months?”

“We’re not just doing it for us,” she replies, still using that gentle, correcting tone. “Satya could use it when he comes back. Besides, this rooftop deserves a little patch of beauty. We like to leave a happy mark wherever we go.”

I think about her answer as I fan myself with a paperback copy of
Gulliver’s Travels
my new English teacher is making us read.
Leave a happy mark…

Rosie’s phrase makes my mind flip backward. I remember walking in the woods with Trevor, when he carved our names into the Douglas fir. At first I didn’t want him to do it; I thought it would hurt the tree.

But he assured me that Douglas firs were tough and could take it. Now I’m glad we did it. I guess we left our mark too. The trees were witness.

If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can remember the earthy, foresty smell and the feel of Trevor’s long hair brushing against my cheeks as we kissed. Sometimes, in the privacy of my new room, I act out moments as if I’m still there. I pretend that I never left, and that I never got that awful message from him.

And I tell him things I always wanted to say but couldn’t because I ran out of time—or was too scared.

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Suddenly I’m on my feet, brushing pebbly fragments off the backs of my legs. I have to call Trevor.

After he sent me that stupid text and I wrote him back, calling him all those names, I told myself that I would never contact him again—that he would have to make the next move. But I have to hear his voice again. Otherwise this whole breakup thing doesn’t seem real. Besides, maybe he’s had a chance to rethink things. Maybe he wants to talk but he’s afraid I’ll jump all over him. If I were to call him, it would give him a chance to apologize.

“It’s hot. I’m going back in,” I say as casually as possible. Then I pick up my paperback and race downstairs to my room.

My cell phone is exactly where I left it the day we arrived—atop the old, sticker-covered dresser. I haven’t used it since I sent that scathing text to Trevor. I’d meant to call Lorraine and tell her we’d made it to Austin, but considering she hadn’t responded to my previous two messages, I decided to wait.

Besides, I just didn’t want to go near the phone again.