Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek (3 page)

I’m feeling rather conflicted about starting my diet tomorrow. While I’m excited about the prospect of losing weight, I’m sad to say good-bye to carefree eating. Let’s hope everything goes well!

Tuesday, September 6

It’s funny how we live on the southernmost border of the United States, the epicenter of fantastic Mexican cuisine, and yet the school serves frightfully below-average cafeteria meals. Our town is a land of contradictions.

Ironically, like me, Brownsville, Texas, is a place that doesn’t quite fit into any category. It’s not quite the United States, and it’s not quite Mexico. My father got a job here at the university the summer before my sixth-grade year. So we moved from the West to this place Brodie fondly describes as “The gum stuck to the bottom of the shoe of the U.S.” Our school is across the street from the poorest community of its size in the nation. Down the road is a
raspa
(snow cone) stand, a
panadería
(bakery), a very shady-looking doctor’s office, a taco place, and a used tire shop.

But the food makes up for everything. Even as a vegetarian in the land of fajitas, I never run out of vibrant flavors and colors to experience. Granted not everything’s enticing. In the meat section of the grocery store, you can buy pig heads and chicken feet. Dad says there’s even a way to make intestines taste good (in tacos, in case you’re wondering). If such a deed can be accomplished, then there should be a way to make the school lunches look and smell less like melted plastic.

These are the days I’m grateful to bring my own lunch. While I nibble on some carrot sticks, curvy and voluptuous Kenzie eats two jumbo chocolate chip cookies, the same as every day. Oh, how I envy her. I try to keep in mind what Betty says.

If the prospect of lunch without a sweet dessert is too gruesome for you to imagine, there’s no hope for you. You have allowed your sweet tooth to overrule your wisdom tooth. . . . As for taunts from your friends—and they will taunt you—keep your chin up and your weight down.

Wednesday, September 7

Kenzie and I walk to the library—“the Fishbowl” as we call it—in the morning. The library gets its nickname from its three glass walls. We volunteer there in the mornings and during lunch as an escape from the cruelty of the outside world. Our librarian, Ms. Corbeil, is one of a kind. She welcomes all Social Outcasts and talks to us like we’re adults and worthy of her attention, something many of us don’t get very often. She’s funny, smart, and rides a motorcycle. Teachers come to her to talk about anything from faulty technology equipment to a midlife crisis. And she buys new books with her own money because the school cut almost all of her budget. So it’s no wonder that the Fishbowl is an oasis, a home away from home.

On our way, we pass Mr. Lawrence as he limps down the hall. He catches my eye and smiles.

“Hi, Maya, how’s everything going? I sure do miss having you in my class this year.”

I stop. “I miss having you as a teacher!”

I met Mr. Lawrence in sixth grade when he was in charge of the school’s literary club. When I showed up at his room for the first meeting, he asked me if I liked to write. I told him, “More than anything.”

Mr. Lawrence and me in sixth grade

He submitted my stories and poems to competitions and the local newspaper. He pushed me to enter every contest that came up, and would e-mail the people in charge for weeks to find out if I placed. Although I didn’t always win, he was proud of me. He read my work to all his classes, to the other teachers, to anyone who’d listen. He’s the best teacher I’ve ever had. But he’s getting older, and I can tell by his tired eyes and the way that he walks (now with a cane) that he’s going to have to retire soon. The thought makes me want to cry.

Friday, September 9

If you are one of those Lazy Lils who just can’t get up in time to eat breakfast, then you are starting the day off on the wrong foot. . . . Eating a good breakfast may not come easily at first. But after a little practice you’ll enjoy it. . . . And you’ll feel much better for doing so.

Government statistics show that 96 percent of the students in my district are “economically disadvantaged.” Therefore, everyone is provided breakfast and lunch for free, whether you ask for it or not. In the past we’ve eaten both meals in the cafeteria, but this year the district has decided to serve breakfast in our classrooms. They say that it’s to ensure that we get a healthy start to our day, but it’s hard to believe that when you see what they bring in.

The breakfasts are packages of sugar-sweetened cereal, chocolate milk, and some sort of fried meat-filled thing—Betty Cornell definitely would not approve. I eat some whole-wheat toast and fruit as my classmates gorge on Lucky Charms. I stopped eating those things years ago when they turned Brodie’s poop neon green, scaring the living daylights out of my parents.

After breakfast, our reading class goes to the Fishbowl. I lend a hand by helping my classmates check out books. I almost feel popular.

And then, of course, Carlos Sanchez, leader of the Football Faction swaggers up with a devious grin on his face. He’s a tall, scrappy-looking jock. His short, dark brown hair is slicked forward in an attempt to make him look cool.

He hands me a skinny picture book about race cars and a novel called
Gay-Neck
, a Newbery Award Winner with a bird on the cover.

“I like cars,” he says, as if that explains everything. “And this is a book about gay pigeons.”

“Hmmm.” I bite back what I really want to say which is, “Gee, Carlos Sanchez, I didn’t know you had such an interest in homosexual wildlife.” Instead I hand him the books and mutter that they’re due on the twenty-third.

He goes off to the corner with his football cronies who laugh at his every pitiful joke. “Hey, guys, it’s about a gay pigeon.”

Our reading teacher gives him the death stare over her glasses. She’s got it down to a science.

“I mean gay as happy, you know, like emotions and stuff,” he adds quickly, sheepishly looking down at his fancy sneakers.

Remind me again how he got to be popular.

 . . . . . . .

In addition to sharing Betty Cornell’s wisdom on how to not just survive, but thrive, at school, I’ve decided to pass along my own insights that I pick up along the way.

We’re on our way to the beach this evening. I’m wedged in the backseat between Brodie, who sits drawing monsters and weapons of mass destruction in a notebook, and Natalia, who is clicking her tongue and reciting songs from
Blue’s Clues
.

When we get to the beach, we all take long deep breaths of the salty South Padre Island air. We’ve been here five minutes, and I’m already feeling bad about my body and how I look in a bathing suit.
“Now overweight is nothing to be alarmed about. It is easy enough to do something about it and do something about it sensibly,”
Betty says.

I know, I know. So far I’ve been slowly cutting back on my eating, but I haven’t lost any weight.

I look down at my one-piece. It’s the first one I’ve ever owned with actual breast padding. It’s nice because it makes my 34A boobs look just a little bit perkier.

Natalia is giving me a goofy grin while Mom tries to get her into a bathing suit. “Smile!” she says. I lean down so she can rub her face in my ponytail.

Uh-oh. Natalia has taken off running down the beach.

Did I say running?

I mean sprinting.

Did I mention that she’s completely naked?

Sunday, September 11

Church today. I have to listen to Mrs. Garcia talk again about how marriage to a man of our faith is the one thing that girls our age need to be planning for. We can always “learn more things as a mom than from going to college.”

I try not to listen too closely.

I see Ethan, my darling crush, sitting on the other side of the chapel. I sigh and for the first time, I really wish that this diet was working.

He really has the most gorgeous eyes.

And hair.

And smile.

I wonder if the boys Betty Cornell crushed on all liked her back.

He catches me staring at him.

He raises his beautiful eyebrows at me and mouths the words,
What are you looking at?

I hide my burning face and say a silent prayer of gratitude that he didn’t catch me drooling this time.

I only ate a light breakfast before leaving, and now my stomach is bellowing like a horny walrus. It’s bad.

In her book, Betty Cornell gives some instructions on how to do certain exercises that help maintain a well-balanced figure.

Now to flatten the tummy, resorting . . . to the boys’ football practice. Lie on the floor and raise the feet to a 45-degree angle; now lower them, keeping the knees straight, ever so slowly to the count of ten. Feel it pull? Although I know this exercise hurts, it also helps.

Once you get the hang of her exercises they’re easy as pie. Sort of.

Yum.

Pie.

Trying but not quite succeeding at Betty’s exercises

Tuesday, September 13

I’ve lost a whole six-tenths of a pound!

The diet is working.

Will anyone notice? More specifically, will Ethan notice?

Other good news. My bra is officially too tight! I never thought it would happen because I come from a long line of small-breasted women. But every time I put it on it cuts off my circulation.

I’m so full of happiness and hormonal-ness that I can hardly stand it. So just for fun I tried on Mom’s bra, which is the next size up.

I don’t even begin to fill it.

I am greatly humbled.

I’m still doing the Betty Cornell exercises, but I haven’t yet made the promised transformation from
“tubby teen”
to
“the girl with the well-proportioned figure.”
I’ll keep it up, though, because it’s not over until the fat lady sings. Ha-ha-ha.

Thursday, September 15

In PE, Kenzie and I are sweaty, exhausted, and our arms are bruised from spiking rock-hard volleyballs. Ever since I started “Figure Problems,” I’ve made an effort to become better at one sport. I’ve never been remotely coordinated, and I have the knees of a seventy-year-old woman. It’s quite embarrassing to give PE my all and still be so terrible at everything I try. It’s intimidating to know that the top of the social hierarchy is based on athletic ability. It feels so ancient, so raw. The strong survive. The weak get eaten. Betty doesn’t have any quick fixes to suddenly gain years of athletic experience, skill, and strength in a month. I looked.

Kenzie and I crowd around the locker we share. It’s like having a roommate whose only possessions are deodorant and sweaty gym shorts.

“Wow, I stink,” Kenzie blurts.

I laugh.