Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek (11 page)

“What?” Ms. Corbeil says as she walks out into the hall. She looks at me and stops dead in her tracks. It takes me a second to figure out why her mouth is agape. It’s my outfit, not the painting. I sure outdid myself today. I’ve got panty hose, a mid-calf length khaki skirt, pearls, Pilgrim shoes, and, best of all, a pasty yellow cardigan sweater.

Kenzie jumps in because my tongue is tied and my face is red. “She looks like a substitute teacher, huh?”

“I know! She looks more professional than I do.”

Oh, this is bad. I’ve actually taken a big step down my school’s Popularity Scale. Substitutes are at the very bottom.

Sunday, January 8

I wake up early to get all my stuff together for church. Betty Cornell says that we should learn how to take care of our clothes, which is why I did my own laundry yesterday. Mom seems excited. The only problem is that I shrunk a truly awesome purple wool sweater down to Natalia’s size. Live and learn, I guess.

For my church debut today, I decide on a navy blue dress, hat, gloves, pearls, and clutch purse.

City officials have been driven to despair by the sight of young ladies traipsing up and down their town in short shorts and bedraggled dungarees (I looked the word up. I think it means jeans, but I’m not sure). Whether you realize it or not, some so-called “informal” dress is enough to make adult blood pressure rise to the boiling point. For Heaven’s sake, have a little pity on others and a lot of pride in yourself; put on a skirt when you’re shopping.

“Let me guess. You’re in a play or something,” says Ethan’s little brother when we get to church.

“Nope, just wearing this for fun.” For fun. That response has become my explanation, my motto, my catch phrase. I’m beginning to adore these words.

“Oh,” he says.

Ethan looks at me for a long moment, but not in the way that I would hope. I get a lot of that nowadays.

I ask him if he knows the time.

“I don’t know . . . but I really like your hat.” He smiles genuinely at me.

“Thank you,” I say, blushing, not worrying about it showing through my powder.

Now I’m actually glad that I wore this straw contraption on my head.

My hat

Tuesday, January 10

The bus was running very late, so when I get to school I have to go to the attendance office to clear my tardy. My algebra teacher comes in with a female PE coach. They’re discussing something about tests, when all of a sudden Ms. Physical Education looks at me funny, like she’s just watched one of those extremely depressing animal shelter commercials.

I try to grin, but she looks away. Strange.

When I try to leave the office, she blocks the door. She’s about a foot taller than I am with red braided hair.

She whispers down to me, “I hope this question won’t make you feel weird, but what size shoe do you wear?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I noticed that your shoes are too big. I have some extras the girls have left behind in the locker room.”

I look down at my Pilgrim shoes. The buckle stares up at me. I don’t understand what she means. “No, I’m fine, it’s okay.”

My Pilgrim shoes and panty hose

“Sweetie, it’s all right. You can keep them. What size?”

Holy cow! She thinks I’m homeless!

I feel my face go hot, and my hands begin to sweat. I wipe them on my skirt.

She bites her lower lip. I’m too horrified to find any words.

Finally, she sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t want you to feel bad about my asking, okay? Anything you need, dear.”

Close your mouth, Maya, try not to look so shocked.

But as embarrassed as I am, I’m deeply touched by her compassion and generosity. If ever someone were to need a pair of shoes, I hope that they meet a person as kind as her.

But then I realize my algebra teacher and several others heard our conversation. So, I’m back to feeling mortified.

Wednesday, January 11

Kenzie and I aren’t even quite sure if this insanity is real. How can it be?

We have just witnessed the depopularization of Nadia, a Volleyball Girl.

This much we can confirm (assuming Volleyball Girl gossip is a reliable source):

“Nadia was like, so like, being a bitch.”

“So everyone else, was like, ‘whatever,’ and got all pissed and stuff.”

“She stopped hanging out with us, and suddenly everything was different.”

Kenzie and I have also pieced together the following time line:

It started with the angry, screaming music blasting on her iPod. Then she began hanging out with Josefina and Flor, the leaders of the Goth Art Chicks. Out went the sparkly headbands and in came dyed black hair. From there, she burned all bridges with the Volleyball Girls. It was official. She wasn’t going back.

The strangest thing yet is the fact that Nadia is actually talking to me and Kenzie. She smiles at us. Ten days ago she didn’t acknowledge our existence. Now she remembers our names.

So what is going on? Does being popular mean that you have to be a “bitch” to everyone except for your “friends?” In which case, do I really want to be like that? Maybe there is another definition of popularity. There has to be.

Thursday, January 12

I can’t take it anymore. I have to know what’s going on with Mr. Lawrence. Is he really sick? So I ask the one person I can trust to not “childproof” the answer for me. My librarian.

“Ms. Corbeil, do you know what’s happened to Mr. Lawrence?”

She doesn’t meet my eyes at first, but finally she speaks. “He’s in the hospital again. Stage four cancer.”

My heart stops and suddenly it’s like the earth has lost all sound. My thoughts are painful and sharp like daggers. I’ve watched enough trashy doctor shows with Mom to know what happens during stage four of any cancer. I get on the computer and sure enough, my conclusions are confirmed.

Mr. Lawrence is dying.

The rest of my classes are a daze. I’m not quite sure how I make it through the day. Kenzie looks at me funny and asks what’s wrong. I give her a quick explanation, and she apologizes sweetly and gives me my space.

When Mom picks me up and I tell her what’s happened, I can’t hold back the tears any longer.

“He’s dying,” I sob. “He’s dying, and nobody told me.”

She pats my back and lets me grieve.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispers, “So sorry.” We’re quiet for a while before she speaks again. “Honey, you should write him a letter. You need to make sure he knows what an impact he’s had on your life.”

When we get home I curl up at my desk and write for hours. It’s more painful than anything else I’ve ever had to write. Two measly pages to sum up two years’ worth of mentoring, teaching, and helping me discover my passion. Two pages to tell him how he helped me to discover myself.

Mom describes how I feel: “wrung out.”

I curl up on the couch, not thinking.

Sometimes it hurts too bad to think.

Sunday, January 15

Today is Kenzie’s fourteenth birthday party at the local bowling alley. I’m even wearing pants, just so I don’t embarrass her. I got the invitation last Friday, but Natalia promptly ate it, so I’m not sure exactly where we’re meeting inside. I open the front door and look for Kenzie. The music is deafening and it smells like fried food and shoe spray. I don’t see her. My heart speeds up a little. Where is she? I pull out Mom’s phone that she lent me before I left. I open it and see the date. My heart sinks.

“Kenzie’s birthday party was yesterday,” I groan out loud.

I sink against the dirty wall of the bowling alley. I feel so bad that I can hardly move. That is, until I notice the creepy guy with the Virgin Mary tattoo and sweaty wife-beater staring at me from over his plate of greasy nachos. I hide in the girl’s bathroom and try to pull myself together.

You are the worst person in the world. You deserve to die a slow and painful death. In India, those who were sentenced to die would have an elephant step on their heads. You should move to India! How could you do this to your best friend?

When I finally get home I stare at the phone and try to find my courage. I dial Kenzie’s number with shaking fingers.

“Hello,” I hear Kenzie’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Oh, I am so sorry! I went to your party, but a day late. I’m such a terrible friend!”

“Uh, who is this?”

“Oh right, it’s Maya. I went to the bowling alley tonight, and the Virgin Mary and an elephant! I’m so stupid! I understand if you never want to speak to me again.”

I finish my blabbering and hear suppressed emotion on the other end of the line.
Oh my gosh, she’s crying. I’m never going to forgive myself. Really and truly.

Then I realize what I’m really hearing. She’s laughing at me.

“I’m sorry,” she says between gasps. “It’s just too funny.”

“What?”

“Just imagining you there with all those people, all loner and stuff. Oh, it’s awesome!”

After I give her all the details of my terrible evening, we hang up. Not before she asks me if I saw the hot guy at the desk. Which I didn’t.

Kenzie is a really fantastic friend.

Tuesday, January 17

“Welcome to your first day of health class,” Ms. Welch says from her seat behind the desk. Ms. Welch is a tall, boisterous woman with long black hair.

Kenzie and I glance at each other. This is the moment we’ve been dreading since starting eighth grade. The last weeks of this semester will be entirely comprised of sex education.

We turn our textbooks to page four as instructed, and Ms. Welch begins discussing the many factors of health: physical, emotional, and social. “Another factor in your emotional health is how you deal with the many magical physical changes that you go through during your teenage years,” Ms. Welch says.

A collective groan rises up. There’s nothing worse in the world than an adult talking about “magical physical changes.”

“I’m serious,” Ms. Welch says, raising her eyebrows and throwing her hands up in the air. “When you girls are on your periods, it really does affect your emotional health.”

The guys snort. I feel my face go red. Ms. Welch barrels onward. “Oh come on, if you boys were feeling bipolar and had to change a bloody pad five times a day, I don’t think that you’d make fun.”

Their eyes go wide. I am so glad Carlos Sanchez isn’t in this class.

“Anyway, it doesn’t end there. Later in the year, we’re going to watch a video on STDs, and we will actually observe different diseases on the penis and the vagina. I swear, boys, your penis can look like a piece of cauliflower.”

By the end of class every girl has her legs crossed so tightly it would almost be funny if it weren’t so disturbing.

Ms. Welch is the most effective teacher I’ve ever had.

I will
never
have sex.
Ever.

Friday, January 20

Since I’m halfway through the school year, I will now take stock of how I am perceived:

TEACHERS:
“Well behaved and dedicated.”

GOTH ART CHICKS:
“She’s . . . weird.”

FOOTBALL FACTION
(mainly Carlos Sanchez): “Nerd.”

LEON
: “Beautiful.”

LIBRARY NERDS:
“She’s nice, I guess.”

CHOIR GEEKS:
“Nerd.”

BAND GEEKS:
“Nerd.”

KENZIE:
“Epic Loser. Epically.”

SUBSTITUTES
: “I must find a coupon for where she

shops. Where
did
she get that cardigan?”

Saturday, January 21

“You have to call Mr. Lawrence,” Mom says, handing me the phone number. I sink into the kitchen chair. I hate making phone calls. It doesn’t make things easier that now I have to call my favorite teacher in the world who is dying of cancer. Life isn’t fair sometimes.

I exhale slowly. “Okay.”

The phone rings five times and I prepare to leave a message.

Then he answers. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Maya,” I try hard to sound cheerful.

“Oh hi, Maya.” His voice is happy. “How are you doing?”

“Good, and you?”

“Not fantastic, but I’ll be okay. As you probably heard, I’ve been recuperating from cancer.”