Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek (14 page)

A pair of black flats.

A big black coat that belongs to Mom.

The funeral home isn’t far away. Mom parks the car and we walk through the rain and into a little chapel full of hushed talk. On a large screen over a closed casket covered with an American flag, they play a slide show of pictures from Mr. Lawrence’s life: him with his grandchildren, his wife, his students.

I sit and listen as Mr. Lawrence’s sons tell stories about him and remind us of the things that he stood for. He always saw the best in people. He had so much courage. He was kind and loved his students so very much.

Tears stream down my face as we sing “Amazing Grace” and everyone gets up to pay their respects to the family. When I approach and tell them my name, they all smile. His wife hugs me, and all his sons shake my hand.

“I want to thank you for writing that letter,” the eldest says. “It meant the world to him.”

“He was always so proud of you. So proud.”

“So, you’re Maya. He adored you. I have a framed copy of the poem you wrote for him on my wall.”

“Thank you
so
much. You made such a difference for him.”

I’m so overcome I can hardly speak.

Mom and I walk to the graveside where veterans perform a military salute. In the silence that follows the firing of guns, the funeral director thanks us for coming.

Before Mom and I leave, I make my way to his casket. I almost can’t help but laugh at how small it is. How do you fit so much life into a seven-foot-long wooden box?

I rest my hand on the polished surface.

“
How do I say good-bye to you?”
I whisper, leaning in close. “You always told me I had a gift for words, and now here I am, unable to find any phrase that can tell you how much you mean to me. What made you believe in me?”

Tears stream down my cheeks as I remember the last words I heard him say: “She’s going to be a famous author someday.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Lawrence. Good-bye.”

Mr. Lawrence, this book is for you. This book that you will never read.

I promise, I won’t ever forget.

Sunday, March 11

During church, Natalia lines up all her Beanie Babies on the pew in front of us. One falls back, leaving a gap like a missing tooth. The man in the bench in front of us leans over to retrieve it. Nat rips the toy out of his hands.

“Say thank you,” encourages Brodie.

Natalia looks the man straight in the eyes and does as she’s told. Except, Natalia can’t pronounce her
n
s, and the
Th
sound comes out like an
f
.

Betty Cornell doesn’t give much advice about how to smooth over the situations created by an autistic little sister.

Tuesday, March 13

Mom and Dad go to a friend’s house tonight and leave me to babysit for a couple hours. They even pay me ten bucks, getting me closer to my fifty-dollar goal. As a paid professional, I decide to spend some one-on-one time with Natalia instead of letting her watch
Wonder Pets
for far too long.

In order to amuse the children during the time that you are responsible for them, you could take them to the park, to the playground, or to the beach . . . On rainy days you could use your own home . . . and read them books and supply them with crayons and paints.

Due to my lack of transportation options, I opt for the reading and art supplies. I watch as Natalia points to and identifies the illustrations in a book.

“Cat.
Meow!
Sheep.
Baa!
Cow (it’s actually a horse).
Moooooo!
”

She gets almost all of them except for ladybug, but really, what kind of madman puts an insect in a book about farm animals anyway?

After that, I tell her it’s time for bed. I try to tuck her under her blankets, but she refuses to go to sleep. “NO!” she screams until I’m forced to tickle her. She laughs and wants to return the favor. Natalia’s tickles involve a lot of painful jabbing in the breast area so I’m not overjoyed to endure it, but she just giggles and keeps going. “Tickow?” she begs over and over. She really is adorable. But next time I’ll wear one of those atrocious cone bras from the 1950s. Then she won’t poke my boobs, for fear of being impaled.

Sunday, March 18

Two moms approach me during church and say they want to have me babysit soon. One actually gave me a DATE! I will watch two of her three kids on the thirtieth of this month. A little late, Betty, I know, but still better than nothing. I figure if I make a good amount I can reach my goal.

Wednesday, March 21

Some of the noteworthy things that happened today:

1st Period

“What’s Caucasian?” one Basketball Girl asks. (Basketball Girls are about an 8
³
/
₄
on My School’s Popularity Scale, just below the Football Faction.)

“Oh, that’s easy,” answers a Volleyball Girl, “it means white and American. You know, a hillbilly.”

3rd Period

Carlos Sanchez scrapes his desk on the floor, making farting noises.

4th Period

HEALTH EXAM! Ms. Welch, who’s been talking loudly to a Volleyball Girl about boyfriend problems, suddenly tells us to clear our desks. “It’s time for our testicle. Ooh, I mean test.”

7th Period Lunch

Kenzie pulls out a fifty-dollar bill (one of three, she tells me) from her wallet, and goes to buy some “real food” at the snack bar. She gets a generous allowance. Kenzie buys two chocolate chip cookies and a bag of ranch-flavored Doritos. I have been careful not to spend my money on such frivolous things.

A way of saving that will repay you in other ways than cash in the bank is the curtailment of eating snacks between meals. With this method, five cents saved on a candy bar will also be 100 calories saved from settling on your hipline.

Thursday, March 22

Francisco gets made fun of during lunch today. It’s been happening more and more often since he came out last summer. I had no idea until Kenzie told me about it when we came back to school in September. I think it was so brave of him. Two Football Faction members sit on either side of his hunched shoulders. He’s trying to make himself as small a target as possible.

“Hey, girlfriend! You have on some nice makeup today. It makes your eyes just sparkle,” one says bumping into Francisco’s shoulder.

“Yeah, where’s your
boyfriend
? I’m sure he thinks so too,” the other replies, laughing.

Francisco looks down. I want to yell at them, tell them to go away. They have no idea what they’re saying. Still, I bite my tongue. Speaking will only make Francisco’s position worse. Defended by a GIRL is the ultimate of lows. Boys have gotten beat up for that. So I stay quiet, trying to send him support through my facial expressions, but he doesn’t look up. He just sits, staring at his hands while they torment him. They eventually run off, but it’s so not right.

I hate the Football Faction.

Friday, March 23

Mom pays me five bucks to write a short poem to put in the party favors for a baby shower she’s hosting tonight. It’s not very good, but I get fifty cents a line. Not too bad. Adding the payment I got for doing odd jobs around the house, this brings my grand total this month to thirty dollars.

All I need is twenty more!

Friday, March 30

I fidget with the sleeve of my nice, clean sweater as Mrs. Blanco pulls up her fancy car to our house around six o’clock to pick me up.

“Be neatly and conservatively dressed for business,”
Betty advises.
“Good manners are one of the things employers notice right from the very start.”

I do my best to make polite conversation; after all, I want her to trust me.

I’m going to be babysitting her two children until nine thirty. Her daughter, Mary, is in first grade and her son, John, is in preschool. Because of the rate I included on my flyer, I already know that I’m going to make eighteen dollars tonight, almost enough to bring me to my goal.

When I get there, the kids rush toward me.

“Can we play board games? Chutes and Ladders? PLEASE?!” Mary hasn’t even learned my name yet and she’s already pulling me by the sleeve. In my (limited) previous babysitting experiences, you couldn’t
pay
the kids to play a board game. This is too good to be true.

Mrs. Blanco laughs. “Okay, so they haven’t had dinner, but just feed them whatever. Cereal is great. Oh, and they can watch TV, or do what they want. Bedtime is around nine-ish. Whenever works. They’re already in their pajamas.”

Does she realize how easy she’s made my job? Mr. and Mrs. Blanco leave. The kids decide they want to do a dance competition for me, but I have to scoop them off the kitchen counters so they don’t hurt themselves while they groove. Mary finds a bottle of lotion, and she empties it into her hands. After I take that, she locates a can of Febreze and impersonates a fountain. I deal with the mess and make them ham sandwiches (“without the crust!”) and some Goldfish crackers.

Then they ask me to read them a book.

“Why don’t we make up our own?” I say. “I know a fun game that we can play. We each tell part of a story, and the other person finishes it. It’s cool.”

“What’s that on your teeth?” John asks, pointing to my braces.

Mary rolls her eyes and says, “She ate too much junk food. Right?”

“Um, well actually, never mind. Anyway, let me just start a story.”

So this is the yarn we spin.

MAYA:
Once upon a time there was a little boy and a little girl (I look meaningfully at them and they giggle) and they went on a picnic in the park. (“We’ve never been on a picnic,” Mary says.”)
Shh
, listen . . . And then it began to rain and rain and rain. They hopped on a little boat and sailed down the river. Okay, Mary, your turn. . . .

MARY:
Well, they floated to their house, but a robber was there. And he pulled out his machine gun and shot and shot at them. They ran inside and hid in a closet, but he was still after them. He shot holes in the front door, so they put all the heavy furniture behind the door. Then he blew it all up, so they swam away. John . . .

JOHN:
So they swam and swam until they died.

The End.

I let them watch
Dora
. Good ole fashioned mind-numbing TV ought to keep them from thinking about all that darkness and death. Nine o’clock approaches, and I read them some stories, not even considering having them make one up again. I take Mary into her room, tuck her in, and tell her it’s time to go to sleep.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m scared,” she mumbles, her voice reaching three octaves higher than its usual state.

“Of what?” I ask.

“I’m scared of Scooby-Doo. I saw a mummy, and he came to life and chased after them.”

“Oh.” I nod. “But it was just a guy in a mask, right? It’s never a real monster. Mummies don’t come back to life.”

“Okay . . .” she consents, laying her head down on the pillow. She sits straight back up. “What about zombies?”

“Zombies aren’t real, either. Dead people don’t wake up.”

“Jesus did.”

Good grief.

“That was different . . .” I begin, but then pause. I have to plan my next words carefully so she doesn’t have nightmares about Zombie Jesus. “Um, he was . . . nice?”

“I’m still scared.” She grabs my hand and gives me big, brown, puppy-dog eyes.

I tell her a happy story about rainbows and stuffed animals and she finally nods off.

Finally they’re both in their own rooms, and I pull out a book. Seconds later the door opens and Mr. and Mrs. Blanco step inside.

“Wow! They’re in bed? That’s amazing!” Mrs. Blanco smiles at me, while I’m silently praying that those kids will go on pretending to be asleep. “So how much do I owe you?”

“Eighteen dollars,” I say.

“Oh, well, let me just give you twenty!” Mrs. Blanco says.

That two-dollar tip pulled me up to my goal! Fifty dollars—I did it! I am self-reliant! I can do anything!

When I get home at nine thirty I skip around the house.

Sincerity, genuine interest in people, a natural ease in conversation, honesty, all do much to make a young person a truly delightful individual—on and off the job.

With Betty’s help, I’ve been transforming. Maybe I’m not that far off from being
“a truly delightful individual.”
With a jingle in my pockets and a smile on my face, I stride confidently into my next chapter.

POPULAR ATTITUDE:
LOOK PRETTY—BE PRETTY
ARE YOU SHY?
& PERSONALITY

If you want to be a human being, and a popular human being, then you have to stop being an oyster and come out of your shell.

I know I say this every month, but I really don’t think I can do this. All the girdles and skirts are child’s play in comparison to this month’s goal: tearing out my antisocial tendencies by their roots.

When I was four years old, my grandma took me to a park near her house. Now, my dear grandmother is a social butterfly. She makes best friends with the person in front of her in the grocery store line, or with customer service representatives in India. So she couldn’t figure out why her granddaughter had such a hard time meeting new people.

“Maya, go play with those kids over there. They look nice.”

“No,” I’d protest.

“Well, why not?”

“Because, I don’t
like
the other children.”

That statement has shaped my entire life.

Now Brodie, on the other hand, is his grandmother’s grandson. He has tons of friends. How does he do it? Is it the hazel eyes that match his sandy blond hair? The dimples? Betty Cornell says not.

Being pretty and attractive does help you to be popular, but being pretty and attractive does not and never can guarantee that you will be popular. There is another factor, a very important factor, and that is personality. Personality is that indescribable something that sets you off as a person. It is hard to explain but easy to recognize.

So how do you get that indescribable something? Betty has three chapters about it that I’m going to be following this month. They deal with manners, shyness, and personality.

You see, good looks are not enough. In order to be a success in the world, you have to
be
pretty as well as
look
pretty. How do you get to be pretty? By having a pleasant personality. Sounds simple, but it isn’t. For a pleasant personality means that you must be affable, considerate, generous, open hearted and polite, adjectives that add up to good manners.

That’s a lot to accomplish. And there’s more.

The most basic of all the basic fundamentals is getting along with people. You can’t have fun all by yourself. You need to share the pleasure in order to really savor the sensation. That means having friends.

Okay. I’ll try. But there is only one place to meet people. Only one place you can watch the popularity scale in all of its horrific glory. And it’s the most unforgiving, foul smelling, heart-wrenching place on campus.

The cafeteria.

Now I will have to leave the security of my little clan of Social Outcasts and venture out on my own. I have to go out and meet
new
people.

I’m going to do this by sitting with other groups at different tables every day. I’ll start with people I know, move on to strangers, then finally face . . . the
Popular
crowd.

I think the most important thing about getting over shyness is to do it by degrees. Start small and work up.

All right, Betty.

Here goes everything.

Monday, April 2

I say “hi” to three people on the bus this morning, but they either ignore me or can’t hear over the sound of their headphones. It’s impossible to compete with Angry Birds.

I’m wearing regular clothes today. It seems more appropriate for the battle ahead.

By the way you look, talk and think you are identified as a modern American teen-ager . . . Just think how many changes have taken place in America since 1900 and how many will take place before 2000. . . . The trick is knowing how to adapt to changes and still maintain your own standards and your own individuality.

I’m still putting on my pearls and makeup each morning, but I’m wearing pants again. Adaptation is good. Survival of the fittest, right?

I meet two seventh graders in the library before school. Morgan and Noah are nice, and I wave to them in the hall on my way to lunch. I guess that’s part of it. To be popular I have to make an effort to maintain a friendship with the people I meet.

For this first day, I sit with my own regular, Social Outcast group during lunch. I listen politely to yet another story about how Kenzie’s mother is stressing her out.

“Look, Kenzie, you know how I’m moving next year?” I say, when she pauses for breath.

“Mhm.”

“Well, I want to meet lots of new people before I go. I’m going to sit at different tables, and say ‘hi’ to everyone. You know, make friends.”

She chokes on her cookie.

“What the hell? You’re going to break the status quo! Ruin the social ladder! Destroy all the things that hold this world together!”

“And?” I protest, pretending to be more confident than I really am.

“
And
, it’s impossible! . . . Stop it! . . . Shut up!” She turns away from me.

“Kenzie, what have I got to lose?”

She pauses and looks right at me. “Damn girl! You’ve got
guts
!”

I nod and laugh to myself. “And I want you to come with me.”

“
HELL
NO!”

I sigh. The hero must face the dragon on her own.

Tuesday, April 3

Today I decide to join another Social Outcast table close to ours. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. I can feel my heartbeat in my neck, and I gulp. This is it. Everything I’ve been working for this year. I can do this. I put my backpack down next to a group of people I sort of know. Adam, Emma, and her boyfriend, Bernardo, tell me they don’t mind me being there, even though they seem a little confused as to why I left my table.

Kenzie informed my own little group of Social Outcasts about my plan to meet new people, and they were about as encouraging as she was.

“What the hell, Maya? Get your sorry ass back here!”

“Maya, don’t do it! You’re not strong enough! Come home!”

“Who the hell are you and what the hell did you do with the real Maya?”

“Please, you’re not well! Come back!”

“Are you insane?!”

It’s good to know that I have such a strong support system.

It turns out that Bernardo knew my name from when we were in the same sixth-grade English class. I have to admit, I didn’t know his. Why didn’t I ever take the time to learn Bernardo’s name?

Wednesday, April 4

After a very convincing pep talk in the mirror, I sit with the Spanish Club at lunch (somewhere between a four and a five on the Popularity Scale). I know one person in the group, and we talk for a while.

Surprisingly, I find out that the other girls know my name, too. We chat for a long time about Georgia and new movies. Soon the language switches to Spanish, so I just smile and nod.

Thursday, April 5

During science I find myself daydreaming. Today, I sat with the eighth-grade Choir Geeks during lunch. I had a great time talking about the San Antonio trip. I’d always thought they were mean and judgmental, but I guess I was the one judging before I really got to know them. I liked hanging out with them, and I think they liked me too. I even gave one of them my e-mail address. Maybe I won’t be the last one picked anymore.

Saturday, April 7

I sit down and finally take the time to sort through my very neglected e-mail account. I see that the choir girl who I sat with has sent me a goofy message. Hurray! Popularity in the making!

Then, buried at the bottom of the list under Facebook updates and advertisements, I see an unopened e-mail. I click on it.

Dear Maya,

Outstanding work! I feel very positive about your stories and poetry. It’s obvious that you really put your heart into them, and that is what really matters.

Call me any time and we will talk about your quote, and don’t forget, today is going to be a wonderful day!

Very Sincerely,

Mr. Lawrence

I stare at the screen for a long time before looking at the date. January 30.

I print the e-mail, and curl up with the paper and cry.

Sunday, April 8

It’s Easter morning, and there’s a basket of goodies in my room when I wake up. Even though I know a fluffy, white rabbit didn’t deliver it, chocolate is magical nonetheless.

We have church at nine o’clock, so we all scramble about and get ready. I wear a new floral-print, thrift store dress, my straw boater hat with the white bow around it, my gloves, white clutch purse, and pearls. Betty Cornell would definitely approve.

During Sunday School I sit next to a boy I’ve never talked to before. He’s always been very quiet, but I know his name is Hector.

In the spirit of this month, I decide to break the ice. “So, Hector,” I say, “you don’t talk much.”

“Not to you,” he mumbles, shrinking away.

“Are you scared of me?” I look up at him, pretending to feel confident. Mom told me that’s what you have to do—behave as if you’re self-assured, beautiful, capable, and those feelings just might follow. I also read an article in
Oprah
magazine about how sitting like a confident person can actually make you feel stronger.

This whole “fake-it-till-you-make-it” mindset is nice and all, but it sure is hard. Especially when you’re the only one willing to make conversation.

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you?” I say, inching my chair closer to him.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t see why,” I say, pretending to be an actress, playing a part in a movie. I smile at the idea of my costume: braces, glasses, pearls, gloves, hat. I have to be the least menacing person on the planet.

“If you got to know me, I’m sure you wouldn’t be so scared. Let’s start with school. My favorite subject is English, what’s yours?”

“History.”

“That’s cool. Do you have a good teacher?”

“Yeah.”

I’m sweating like crazy, but I keep my face animated. “Sometimes you get history teachers that make you read out of the textbook all day. But that’s not too bad. Once, I had an English teacher who didn’t know who Tolkien was.”

“Oh, yeah? My English teacher doesn’t know who Edgar Allan Poe is.”

“No way.”

“It’s true!” He starts to laugh, and suddenly, I’m not so anxious. We talk for a little longer, and then he leaves. I think I can count him as a new friend I met this month.

I’ve talked to lots of people, and I find out that most are actually shyer than I am. Some of them hardly speak back to me. I’d always thought I was alone in my suffering, but tons of other people are shy too.

Shyness is an experience that most of us have had at one time or another. Some of us get over it quickly, like the measles, but others find that it drags on and on like a bad cold.

 . . . . . . .

It’s only after I get home that I realize that Ethan wasn’t at church today. It used to be that every time that he was there, I could acutely feel his presence every moment. Now, I’m so busy pretending to be confident that I don’t have time to be distracted by him.

I guess he’s different than he was.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s changed.

Monday, April 9

I stare at the two girls who I’ve carefully observed and decided will be a safe bet for my next lunch adventure.

“Hey, can I sit with you guys today?”

“Um, I guess.”

I plop my backpack down on the bench and pull out my paper bag lunch.

“I’m Maya, by the way. What are your names?”

“I’m Dulce,” says the brunette. She’s about the same height as a sixth grader and smiles continually. “And she,” she points to her slender companion, “is Eleanor.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you. Tell me about yourselves.”

They look at each other and start to giggle. I’m still awfully nervous, even though I’ve been doing this for nine days already. Dulce is sweet and laughs a lot, but Eleanor is guarded and leaves for the band room at the first opportunity she gets.

I realize then that Dulce gets left alone during lunch every day.

Kenzie comes to the table and asks me if I want to go to the library with her.

“Um, well,” I look at Dulce, sitting alone. “I think I’m going to stick around here for a while longer.”

Kenzie is flabbergasted. She knocks on my forehead. “Hello, there. Do you happen to know where my friend Maya went?”

“Oh stop it.” I grin, waving her hand away. “You can join us if you’d like to.”

She slowly narrows her eyes and sinks down on the seat. “You are . . . insane.”

Kenzie ends up staying, and we all talk for the entire lunch period.

I walk Dulce to her class and she smiles at me.

Is it working? Am I actually making friends?

Wednesday, April 11

Yesterday I went to the cafeteria early and sat at an empty table. Even though it’s usually crowded, no one sat down next to me. After a little while two Choir Geeks came over.

“Look, Maya, do you want to come sit at our table? It’s kind of crowded but we don’t want you to sit alone.”

I was touched by their kind gesture. And, having predecided to accept any invitations to other tables, I went willingly. But as nice as it was, I knew everyone there and didn’t get to meet anyone new.