Nice and Mean (4 page)

“Yes,” I said impatiently. “I know how it works.” How could I not, with my parents quoting from the
New York City Specialized High School Handbook
every evening? “I just meant—that video was so cool, and I want to make one like it. Not exactly like it, though—more like a sequel. If I wait until next year, people won't even remember the first one.”

“So?” said Priyanka. “What's worse—people not remembering last year's video, or being the only cousin who didn't get into Stuyvesant? I mean, if
I
get in.” Her tone showed that she thought she would.

“I know it doesn't seem like a big deal, but . . .” I didn't think I could tell her the other reason I had to take Video now—that I didn't want to go through Jacobs known just for my grades, or being Nicest Girl. The boys who had made the video last year—everyone was talking about them after the Arts Assembly. I wanted that to happen to me. “I really want to be in Video
now
.”

Then I noticed that there were only two minutes left until homeroom—time to speed things up. “Look,” I said, “if you keep it a secret, I'll let you have the computer first every day for a whole month.”

“You think I'll lie to Ma and Papa just to use the computer?” She started walking toward the stairs, fast. “Ha.”

I wanted to cry, but I had to keep going. “Okay,” I said, struggling to keep up with her, “I wasn't going to say this, but if you tell Ma and Papa about Video, I'll tell them that when you went to the movies this summer, it wasn't just with the cousins.”

She whirled around. “You wouldn't!”

I shrugged, trying to seem cool for once in my life.

“Fine,” Priyanka said. “Take Video, see if I care. If you end up going to a bad high school, don't come crying to me about it.”

I itched to crack my knuckles but restrained myself. “You won't tell them?”

She pursed her lips. “Fine. But you'd
better
use my books. If Ma and Papa find out you ditched Test Prep, I don't want them to blame
me
for letting
you
get a bad score.”

“Fine.”

Priyanka stepped up the stairs two at a time, which I recognized as the sign that we were done. I let her go for two paces, then scrambled on up. I didn't want to be late to homeroom on top of everything else.

But, I reminded myself as the air burned in my lungs, she had said yes. And that meant—
Video.

* Most Likely to Be Booted Out of Video by Marina Glass: Everybody in the Video Lab

Who are you, and what have you done with the hotties?

* Most Likely to Become a Sleeping Pill: Mr. Phillips

Next time I have trouble falling asleep, I'll imagine his voice and . . . zzz.

I pressed so hard against my Little Black Book that I dented my lavender Pilot Precise Rolling Ball's extra-fine tip.

“Crap,” I muttered, but nobody heard. They were all
too busy drooling over Mr. Phillips, leaning forward in their desk chairs like he was giving out swag instead of obvious rules about how to handle equipment. Like, oh, wait,
don't
throw the video camera? Forget about Tall, Dark, and Handsome—Mr. Phillips was Tall, Dark, and Boring. And why was he shuffling through his papers again? He wasn't going to give us another handout, was he?

“So I decided,” Mr. Phillips said, “that to simplify things, I would assign partners.”

My pen tumbled onto the carpet.

As I dove down to pick it up, I thought,
partners
? How could he do that to us? He didn't even know us. And I knew—I just knew—that he would put me with the biggest squeegee in the room.

“Squeegees” were what my friends and I called nerds after the school counselor outlawed words like “geek,” “dork,” and “nerd.” You could outlaw a word, but you couldn't outlaw a nerd, and the circle of kids in the video lab was proof. Exhibit A: a boy who looked like he'd chopped his bangs with safety scissors. Exhibit B: another boy who shot up his hand to answer questions before Mr. Phillips had even finished asking them. And Exhibit C: that Indian girl from homeroom who was actually taking
notes
.

How could there not be even one hot guy? Just one, to
talk about while Rachel mooed over Julian and his arm-flinging technique—was that so much to ask? I'd thought video would be woo. Instead, it was poo.

Mr. Phillips sifted through the papers on his desk. I gripped my pen. Partner time.

“Eli and Trevon,” said Mr. Phillips, reading from a list. “Ethan and Ricky. Makayla and Li-Ling . . .”
Just get to Marina,
I thought. After what seemed like forever, he finally read out: “And Marina and Sachi.”

Sachi. Right. The one with the big smile and wrinkled tank top.

Terrific.

Mr. Phillips must have said something about sitting with your partners, because the next thing I knew, everybody was jumping up and dragging desks across the room. I didn't bother. She'd come over to me sooner or later.

“Uh, Marina?” said Sachi, once she'd plunked her chair next to mine. “I'm Sachi. I think we're partners?”

I slammed my Little Black Book shut. “I know.”

Had Mr. Phillips said, “Now hover over your partner, clutching your giant spiral notebook like it's a squirmy kitty”? Nice to make an effort.

I tried a smile. She smiled back and slid into the seat next to me. Effort? Check.

“Should we do the partner questionnaire?” she asked, trying to smooth her hair. It was nice and thick, I'd give her that. Her big brown eyes were glittery too, if you could get past the hair frizz and the pointy chin.

“We
could
do the questionnaire,” I said, as if I was thinking it over, “but I actually really want to talk to you about my idea.”

She drew back, and I thought,
Yep, this one wants to follow all the rules.
So I was surprised when she said, “Okay. What?”

I leaned in. “Here's what we should do:
Victim/Victorious
.”

I'd thought that Sachi would clap and squeal the way Addie had. Instead she started twisting this big gold ring around her left index finger like it was going to bring her back to Oz.

“
Victim/Victorians
?” she asked. “Is that historical fiction?”

“Victorious,”
I corrected her. “On Channel 32? Thursdays at nine?”

Sachi's fingers traced the edge of the page. “We don't have cable.”

“Oh.” How did she live? “It's ragingly cool,” I assured her. “They show stars on the red carpet at different events from the week, and then in the studio these two hosts, Esmé and Scotty G, rate them ‘Hot, Hot, Hot!' or ‘Not! Hot! At!
All!' ” I scanned her face for a sign, please God, that it rang a bell. But she still looked confused, so I asked, “Haven't you ever heard people say ‘Not! Hot! At! All!'?”

“I think so,” she said. “Maybe.”

Oookay.

“Anyway,” I went on, “I thought we could do a show about the fashion victims and, um, victors”—was that the right word?—“at Jacobs! You know, whose clothes are in and whose are out? Elizabeth Ellis can totally do the accent for Esmé, the host, and I know
tons
of people who'd play stars.”

I sat back and tightened the belt of my new cream-colored wrap sweater. I'd saved it for the first day of this class—not that anybody was there to appreciate it—but at that moment it did sort of make me feel like a movie producer. “Cool, right?”

“That does sound fun,” Sachi said. “And actually, I had an idea too.”

I breathed out through my nose. Here it came—the squeegee pitch. I would listen to be polite, but I couldn't imagine anything better than
Victim/Victorious.

“Okay,” I said. “What's your idea?”

She bit her lip, then began talking quickly. “Doyourememberthatvideofromlastyear—aboutthelunchtables?”

“Ummm.” I talked slowly, hoping it would calm her
down. “Yes.”

It seemed to work a little. “I thought maybe we could do something like that. Something where we interviewed people to see what they thought about different nationalities at Jacobs.”

She didn't have much to say after that, and I could see that she didn't think her idea was so great after all. I didn't want her to feel bad, though, so I said, “Yeah, that video was kind of fun, but it's already been done, you know?”

“Yes,” said Sachi, “but maybe we could pick up where they left off? Maybe we could ask people why there have been no Asian girls on the basketball team for the last three years. At least, they're not in the yearbooks. I don't think it's prejudice, so are Asian girls just not trying out? Something like that.”

Squeegee alert! Mayday, mayday! “I know what you mean,” I said, “but that does sound like the one from last year. You don't want people saying you're trying to
copy
.”

“I wouldn't copy,” Sachi said quickly. “I just thought—”

A deep voice nearby interrupted. “And how is this group doing?”

Sachi and I looked up to see Mr. Phillips standing over us.

“We finished discussing the questionnaire,” I told him (lie), “so we were talking about the topic of our video.” It
was nice to tell a teacher what I'd gotten done, instead of being yelled at for “getting off task.” Teachers have been writing that on my report cards since kindergarten.

“I see.” He plunked down his stool and sat. “And what have you come up with?”

I told him, “We were thinking of doing
Victim/Victorious
.”

“Hmm.” He rested his chin in his hand, his fingers brushing against some little black curls that did not add up to a beard. “Is that a reality show?”

Did these people live under a rock? “Uh, no. More like a fashion show, but kind of like news. See, the stars walk down the red carpet, and the hosts, Scotty G and Esmé, like, rate the outfits, and—”

“I think I get it.” He turned to Sachi. “Do you watch this show?”

Oh, so I didn't even get to finish my sentence?

“I haven't actually seen it,” she admitted.

“But it's going to be really cool,” I said, and told him how I had leftover red carpet at home from when we had our front hall redone.

“Hmm,” he said when I was done. “You should have a look at it, Sachi, before you commit to the topic. It may be hard to do a parody of a show you've never seen.”

A parrot? Who said anything about parrots?

“You don't have to decide on your topic until the next class,” he said, “so why don't you think of a few other ideas you could work on?” He stood up and headed on to the group next to us.

I snapped my pen shut. If
Sachi
had come up with the
Victim/Victorious
idea, he would have been like, “Oh, Sachi, you are a genius, let me have your autograph.” Instead he was trying to make me feel like I had twisted her arm, when in reality her plan would put people to sleep. Did teachers talk about who they were going to like and who to be mean to? I lay my arms across my desk and rested my chin on my hands. I hated school. I just hated it.

Sachi glanced at Mr. Phillips, who was now hovering over another group, then flipped to a new page in her giant spiral. “Should we start making a list?”

A list of what—new ideas?
Victim/Victorious
was the one and only best idea. Plus, how else could I get in my little dig about Rachel's clothes? There was no way I would change my mind, but Mr. Phillips was looking at me from across the room, so I needed to play a little pretend.

“Go ahead,” I told Sachi, but in no way did I mean it.

SACHI'S VIDEO NIGHTMARE #4.0


INTERIOR. JANE JACOBS MIDDLE SCHOOL AUDITORIUM—DAY


CLOSE-UP: movie screen. The words
“VICTIM/VICTORIOUS, BROUGHT TO YOU BY MARINA GLASS”


In very small letters: “and Sachi Parikh.”


Students CLAP listlessly.


CUT TO: the audience.


CLOSE-UP on Sachi, with FLORA and LAINEY on either side.


FLORA


That was . . . weird.


LAINEY


Hunh. I didn't know you liked Victim/Victorious so much, Sachi.


CUT TO: Priyanka, standing at the end of Sachi's aisle.


PRIYANKA


You made me lie to Ma and Papa for that? Who are you?


I flung open the school door with a mighty push, hoping an afternoon breeze would provide some relief after the suffocation of the video lab. But it was one of those steaming fall days that made me feel like I might as well be back in Ahmedabad, and the dense, sticky air did nothing to improve my mood. At least I could jog a little on the way to pick up Pallavi from after-school. I needed to get out my energy.

Why oh why had Mr. Phillips assigned us partners? And why had he assigned me to Marina Glass? Did he think we had anything in common? Did he secretly want me to do a video on clothes? We were going to end up doing
Victim/Victorious
, I knew it. Marina had barely said anything as I brainstormed, and I knew that she wasn't taking any of my ideas seriously at all. Everything I had done to get into Video seemed like a joke. Lying, sneaking—and making a video about clothes until Thanksgiving.

What did I have to say about clothing? My mom took us shopping twice a year in Queens, where the prices were cheaper, and my main fashion thoughts went something like,
This shirt basically looks like everyone else's, right?
The idea of me helping to make a video where people decided what was hot and what was not would have made me laugh, except that it
made me want to cry.

I ground to a halt as something lunged toward me—a taxi, careening into the intersection, its silver bumper giving off heat just inches from my knees. I started to back away, my hands held in the air, but the driver gestured in an irritated manner,
Go, go
. I bent my head and scurried across the street, mumbling, “Sorry,” even though he couldn't hear me.