Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek (4 page)

“No, I’m serious,” she says. “Here, smell my shirt.” She wipes the perspiration off her face using a sleeve, and hands it to me.

“Ew. I’m not going to sniff your shirt. And you just made your face smell like phys. ed.”

“Smell it!”

“Look, Kenzie. As friends, there are things that we share, like lockers and an occasional uncomfortable secret, but I refuse to smell your shirt. That takes things a little too far.”

“Oh.”

Saturday, September 17

Today we’re going to the
pulga
(flea market). We pull into the parking lot, a large expanse of windblown dirt on the side of the freeway. Dad and Brodie love coming to the
pulga
because they’re treasure hunters. I enjoy coming too because I get to be with Dad. He spends so much time on campus these days, I hardly ever see him. I take his hand as we walk to the first row of stands.

Pulga
entrance

Mom describes the
pulga
as the world’s biggest Mexican yard sale. I’d have to agree. Many people in Brownsville who come over the border illegally can’t get jobs, so they sell things at the
pulga
, including stuff they find on the side of the road. We’ve saved ourselves many trips to the dump by simply dragging large, unwanted possessions out to the curb at night. Like magic, they’re gone by sunrise.

At the
pulga
are shoes, used toys, clothes, antiques, electronics, plants, tools, religious statues, candles, and mystical remedies. Once we even saw a piano, just sitting there in the dust. It made Mom cry.

There’s a ton of food, too. A van that only sells mayonnaise and
chile
-coated corn on a stick.
Elote entero
. Oh yeah, it exists. There are potatoes that are spiral sliced, fried, and served on a long wooden stick. I would eat one, but we once saw a vendor fish the rods out of the trash to reuse them. There’s also a soup made out of cow stomach and old men who wander around with carts full of ice cream—
paletas
.

People in the stalls shout, “
Pásale, pásale!
” which means “Pass through here!” There are great jugs of
aguas
(juices) sweating in the heat, and tables overflowing with exotic vegetables and fruits. There are cacti and palm trees, chickens, turtles, parakeets, and doves—all for sale.

As Brodie and I stop at a stand with rats and iguanas in rusty cages, Dad grabs our hands and drags us away.

“What?” Brodie asks, angrily. “Why are we leaving? I’m not done!”

“Shhh.” Dad takes us down another row before he explains.

“Sorry, two guys with shaved heads and tattoos were making plans for a drug deal. I thought it would be best to get out of there.”

I nod. I’m beyond being shocked anymore.

We make our way to the
raspa
stand. A
raspa
is a Mexican snow cone except ten times better than those syrupy messes in flimsy paper cups. There’s a
raspa
stand down the street from my school, but I’m kind of afraid to go there because that’s where all the fights happen.

Dad looks around. “You can buy a casket, hire a lawyer, and select your fresh produce all at the same place,” he says wistfully. “You should remember all this. We’re not going to be here forever, you know.”

I smile as we eat our
raspas
and listen to the ubiquitous
ranchera
music and the bustle of people passing by.

Eating
raspas

Wednesday, September 21

I had a dream last night that a television show host came to our house and poured just-add-water potato flakes into the washing machine. He put it on the spin cycle and whipped up a massive load of mashed potatoes. I woke up just as I was trying to convince him not to put them in the dryer.

I think this diet is messing with my head.

On the bright side, I’ve lost two whole pounds so far!

Monday, September 26

Ugh. I am so sick. I spent all of last night extremely nauseous. I’m still at school, though, trying to keep in mind my fourth popularity tip.

Ms. Corbeil waves from behind the circulation desk where she’s preparing some of the new books she bought to go on the shelves. There are a lot, and all are hardcover, so I know they were expensive. But I don’t say anything. We both know that for a lot of kids this library is the only place they can read new books. Many of them can’t afford the luxury of newly released, much anticipated novels. The hold list for these new titles is already a mile long, so she’s happy to be generous.

I grab a stack of books off the “Check In” cart and begin shelving.

“Oh, hi, Maya,” I hear Leon say as he pushes his glasses up his nose. Leon is a sweet boy who was in my Technology class last year. I was the only one who would talk to him because he’s a little different.

“Hi, Leon.”

“You look beautiful today, Maya, absolutely fabulous!”

“Thank you, Leon.” All the other girls would giggle and run away whenever Leon told them how pretty they were. I don’t mind. In fact, I enjoy it. Hearing someone tell me honestly that I look good makes my day brighter.

Tuesday, September 27

As I am doing my Betty Cornell exercises, I hear Brodie pounding on his drum pad downstairs. Mom, Dad, and Brodie dress up in American uniforms from the U.S.-Mexican War of 1846 and participate in the living history program at the nearby Palo Alto Battlefield. It’s just as nerdy as it sounds. Brodie is the drummer boy and Mom plays the fife. Dad dresses up just so he can shoot the cannon. I stay home and babysit Nat so they can spend all day under the boiling hot sun in their wool uniforms. I am not jealous at all.

If you haven’t guessed yet, my family is made up of ultra- nerds. This is not necessarily a bad thing. We play games like Scrabble and watch documentaries together. I have always known that I am going to college. Yet, there are times when it can get a little embarrassing. As Mom admits, “Re-enacting is the final step before
Star Trek
conventions.” In a couple of years, my family will probably be doing that, too.

Dad and Brodie at Palo Alto Battlefield

Friday, September 30

Today is the last official day of my diet, and I have lost three pounds this past month. It’s not spectacular, but it’s something. Although from now on I have to watch what I eat, I get to relax a little and enjoy myself. I think Betty Cornell would be proud.

I’m walking down the hall with Kenzie.

“Kenzie,” I say, after she finishes venting about her last class. “What makes someone popular?”

She places her hands on my shoulders and stares at me. Her eyes burrow deep into mine, as if she’s preparing to bestow upon me great wisdom.

“How the hell should I know?”

The final bell rings, and I hurry off to the bus in thoughtful silence.

“Hey, you there,” I hear someone shout behind me. At first I think it’s a girl, but a quick scanning of the crowd reveals that it’s actually a really short sixth-grade boy. He smiles at his Munchkin Guild and then walks over to me.

Oh no, he’s going to ask for my number. What should I say?

I can’t say no or else I may break his itty-bitty heart.

But if I say yes, then I will be known as the “stupid moron who was idiotic enough to give an Oompa Loompa her phone number.”

I already have a boy I like. His name is Ethan. He even knows my name.

I guess I’ll just have to politely refuse and run away.

He looks up at me with a big grin and says, “My friend just called you a
Fat Ugly Nerd
.”

Really?

Really.

Do the Popularity gods hate my (obviously overweight) guts? Am I really going to have to spend the rest of the school year being called plump by garden gnomes who think that it’s cool to make milk come out their noses?

But in spite of the ridicule, I have lost weight. My clothes fit me better, and all in all, I feel good about what I’ve accomplished. Still, there’s so much left to do.

I know, Betty, chin up, weight down.

HAIR

Beautiful hair is about the most important thing a girl has. . . . pretty hair can always overcome the handicap of a not-so-pretty face. . . . Your hair can make you or break you.

My straight, dark brown hair is thick and grows very quickly. I’ve never had bangs because of the extremely bad ancestral cowlicks that run so deeply in my DNA. Although I’m not picky about how my locks are styled, I can’t stand it when they’re down and touching my neck or face. That’s a challenge I need to face this month. I usually have long hair that reaches down my back, but over the summer Mom took me to get it cut by someone a friend knew instead of the usual cheap chain salon (Dad noticed they didn’t sterilize their equipment). Anyway, the woman only spoke Spanish and Mom struggled to explain the length I wanted. Needless to say, I came home with much shorter hair than I’d intended. Now it’s about shoulder length and my ponytail is only five inches. I don’t mind it, though. It makes for less effort in the styling department.

My fashion statement for the last two years has been a low, messy ponytail with pencils jabbed through it. Volleyball Girls and members of the Football Faction have been known to steal them without my knowledge.

I know. It’s sad.

Betty Cornell says,
“If you keep your hair healthy, if you change the style often enough, you can count on it that you will be known as a girl with beautiful hair.”

I’m shaking like a leaf, I’m so nervous. I sure hope she’s right.

Saturday, October 1

This is the first meeting of the NJHS (National Junior Honor Society, a service group that I joined because it will look good on my college application), and Mom is driving me.

“You look so cute,” she says.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“No, really, you’re adorable!”

“Shut it,” I beg.

Mom smiles at me and I glare a hole through the dashboard. We’re stuck behind an old woman with Mexico license plates who’s going twenty miles under the speed limit.

“GO!” Mom yells. She has this funny way of shouting at people so that no one outside the car can tell that she’s angry. She grins at them and speaks without moving her mouth. I personally think that she’d make an amazing ventriloquist.

Finally, we pull up to the public library where the meeting is being held. She kisses me on the top of my parted head. “Have fun!” she says, and drives away in her minivan. I walk toward the double doors and see some NJHS members are waiting outside for their friends to arrive.

“Wow, Maya. Pigtails. Wow.” A girl with her hair perfectly rolling down her shoulders stifles a laugh.

Don’t let yourself become a fuddy-duddy about fashion. Don’t stick to a pompadour when it has gone out of style. Don’t keep on wearing your hair the same old way, when the passé styles make you look old hat.

I wince as she starts giggling and pulling on the two stubby growths sticking out the sides of my head.

I immediately make a beeline toward the bathroom, and from there escape to the children’s section of the library where the other students are waiting. We’re helping with Hispanic Heritage Month activities. I recognize Catalina from choir and walk toward her. She’s trying to make an 1840s Mexican soldier hat, but the black construction paper contraption more closely resembles an upside-down ice-cream cone.

“I like your pigtails, Maya.”

“Thanks.”

“Wanna go outside and try to convince people to come in and make hats and crafts and stuff?”

I nod and make my own hat. It’s a lot harder than it looks. I finally get it to hold together but find that it won’t fit over my head because of my pigtails.
Aw man, I guess I’ve got to take one for the team.
I gleefully pull down my carefully planned hairstyle and slide my hat on. Catalina and I walk outside.

“Nice dunce caps,” an old man shouts as he walks through the door.

I won’t even try to contradict this statement. Maybe it’s because my dunce cap has slipped down over my eyes and I am momentarily blinded.

Monday, October 3

“Well, it seems that after years of being Maya, you’ve finally dropped the stupid ponytail.” The girl behind me in algebra sneers. “Just look at you with your hair down.”

I guess this girl proves Betty Cornell’s statement true,
“Hair . . . is what we remember most about a person.”

At my school, most girls wear their hair down; boys use gel and style a small ridge toward the front of their heads (it’s actually quite comical). How your hair looks is generally a good indicator of your place on the popularity scale. Those with the messiest hair are at the bottom. Those who spend hours on the appearance of their “do” are at the top. I think the longest I’ve ever spent on my hair is five minutes, if that tells you anything. When someone puts more effort into their hairstyle, it automatically shows that they are looking to increase their status. This feeble plea for recognition seldom goes unnoticed. In fact, most people overflow with compliments until the new hairstyle gradually becomes part of their identity.

I smile and nod at the girl behind me, whose comment I decide to take as a flattering remark. It’s hard to focus, though, because I’m about ready to explode. I can hardly stand the tickle of hair on the back of my neck. I try to listen to the teacher.

“Now, class, we’re going to be called into an assembly about student conduct.”

The girl behind me continues playing with my hair, patronizingly petting me like some mange-ridden hamster.

“So, will all people with the last names N–Z kindly walk to the auditorium?”

I get up with all the Nuñezes, Sanchezes, and Vasquezes. We shuffle to the cafeteria, which the teachers all call the auditorium because it sounds a lot fancier than “the big, funny-smelling room with ugly green-and-white tile and strange food spots all over.” I look for somewhere to sit and I see Catalina. As I walk over to her, a member of the Football Faction crashes into me, and I lose my balance. I stumble onto the bench next to Catalina only to fall over backward. Fortunately my foot-and-a-half thick backpack breaks my fall. And Mom says that I should stop carrying so much.

“Oh my GOSH! Maya are you okay?”

I smile from my spot on the ground and murmur, “Just fine.” I heave myself up, already knowing I’m going to be bruised.

But by this time, Catalina has moved on and is talking with some of her other friends.

I smooth down my hair. There’s no way I can be popular with hair like a wild woman.
Ooh, that sounds like Betty Cornell. Maybe I’m starting to channel her essence in my day-to-day life.
I run my fingers through it and I notice there’s a dried-up chunk of food nestled there. Ewww.

The assistant principal waves his arms, signaling for us to quiet down so that he can start. He lumbers to the front of the room and begins his slide presentation in a monotone voice. He goes on and on about our uniforms: a yellow polo shirt with a white undershirt (any other color might promote gang violence). Then he changes to a slide titled “Hair.”

HAIR

• There will be no distracting hairstyles because they promote gang violence.
  
• There will be no distracting hair colors because they promote gang violence.
  
• All facial hair must be shaved because it promotes gang violence (a few mustached gangbangers in the back are visibly angry about this).
  
• No bandannas will be allowed because they promote gang violence.
  

He goes on: “No body piercings will be allowed, other than on your ears. Because they promote gang violence.”

“What if they’re on parts of your body that no one sees?” Carlos Sanchez yells out. I hide my face. Really? But he looks like he’s actually serious.

The assistant principal just shakes his head and clicks to the next slide.

HORSEPLAY

• No pushing
  
• No shoving
  
• No hitting
  
• No wrestling
  
• No fights on school property
  
• All of the above promote gang violence.
  

“Sir! Sir! What if it’s not on school property?” Carlos Sanchez yells, jumping up and down.

“Like I said, we can’t really do anything about that.”

Carlos Sanchez stands on the table and pumps his fist in the air, “Woo-hoo!
Raspa s
tand after school!
Raspa
stand after school!”

There is a chorus of boneheads who all shout in agreement. The teachers don’t even try to reign in the chaos, but instead just wait the remaining few minutes until the bell rings and dismiss us to our classes.

Tuesday, October 4

In an attempt to boost school spirit, it’s “Crazy Hair Day” today, but I’ve decided to just wear my hair in low pigtails instead of something outrageous. I wouldn’t want to promote gang violence.

After the bell for third period rings, I escape to the library. Two students are sitting at a table. They look like troll dolls with their blue-and-orange hair standing up in the air. They are talking about someone from our campus who’s recently been “relocated” to the alternative school for “troubled kids.” In my computer class last year I sat next to a new kid who’d transferred from there. He was rough looking with short, uneven hair, like the barber who trimmed it was drunk. His name was Miguel, but I secretly called him “Motormouth” because he never stopped talking. He told me that he’d been arrested three times, that his life was pretty much a boring waste of time, and that the best place to hide marijuana was in the heel of high-top sneakers. He was sent back to the alternative school one week later.

After he left, the police came to school with drug dogs. They had our class (fourth-period Technology) leave our stuff in the room and line up against the wall in the hallway. The dogs were directed to smell each one of us and our bags.

Coincidence? There’s no such thing.

Thursday, October 6

When it comes to shampooing your own hair, plan to save at least one night a week for the job. Most teens prefer Thursday night because it puts their hair in shape for the week-end.

It’s Thursday so I grab shampoo and conditioner out of the bathroom cabinet. They’re called Strawberry-Tangerine Smoothie. I personally don’t want my hair to smell like dessert, but it’s the only thing I can find.

Begin your shampoo by brushing your hair thoroughly. Then tub your head well in water, apply the shampoo, and scrub. Work up a good lather and make sure that it penetrates every square inch. Now rinse out the first lather and start afresh. With the second lathering you should have removed all the dirt. Then rinse your hair three times. With the third rinsing, you should hear the hair squeak as it runs through your fingers.

When I finish, Mom helps me by putting my hair in rag curlers, which Betty recommends for long hair, because they
“will not split the ends, and they are lots more comfortable to sleep on.”

“Wow, your hair isn’t greasy at all,” she says, wrapping my squeaky-clean tresses in the curlers.

“I would hope not,” I say. She smiles.

I lean my head against her knee. She has to sit on a chair to do my hair because I’m as tall as she is now. Growing up is strange. When I was little, I couldn’t wait to get older. Now I’m not so sure. It’s hard realizing that your hand is larger than your mother’s. It makes me sad.

“You look just like those girls on
Little House on the Prairie
with your hair like that. You’re so adorable.”

I groan. Adorable isn’t popular. Adorable is what you call a Chihuahua that gets carried around in a purse.

I tell Mom this. She laughs, gives me a hug, and assures me that I don’t look like a handbag dog. She always knows what to say.