Revenge of the Girl With the Great Personality (2 page)

I
used to think that I could someday have a shot with Logan. Like if Alyssa got carted off to someplace that didn’t have phone or Internet access … and you couldn’t get there by any known means of transportation. Everybody can have a dream. But then I overheard Logan talking to Grant Christensen in the hallway at school before Homecoming this year. When I heard Logan say my name, I hid behind a pillar to listen in on his conversation. As one does.

“Why don’t you ask Lexi?” Logan said.

“Lexi Anderson?” I couldn’t see what Grant’s face looked like, but from the sound of his voice, he didn’t seem pleased by Logan’s suggestion.

“Yeah, she’s the best.” My heart flew up into my throat. “She’s super funny and has such a great personality.”

And there it was.

GREAT PERSONALITY.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard this phrase. It wasn’t even the worst circumstance in which it had been used. But that didn’t make it sting any less.

Oh, I’m aware it’s a compliment. Really. Much better than having a bad personality or, in the case of some girls at my school, no personality at all. But still. When a guy uses
great personality
to describe a girl, it’s the polite way of saying
fat and ugly
.

Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh, but Logan was basically saying,
“Lexi is great to hang out with, someone who can keep a conversation going, but she isn’t someone you’d want to date. She’s not one of
those
girls.”

In other words, I’m the girl that all the guys go to because, well, I’m the cool chick who they can talk to about the girl they
really
like. Especially when their perfect girlfriend is busy changing into another pageant outfit.

I guess I’m not fat. I don’t need a forklift to leave the house (although Mom isn’t far behind from that milestone; she now needs two seats to fly). One of the benefits of having a morbidly obese mother is that it has made me overly paranoid about my weight. I stick to mostly non-processed foods, which is basically the opposite of what Mom eats.

So I’m not fat and I’m not the most disgusting girl in my class, but I’m nowhere near the prettiest. I’m average.

I have brown hair and brown eyes. I’m not tall, I’m not short. I’m average.

And being average is fine and all, especially when you have such a
great personality
, but it means that I have zero success as far as boys go.

Are you ready for the most pathetic, woe-is-me story you’ve ever heard? I’m sixteen and I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never had a real kiss. (Getting chased around a table in kindergarten and kissed by Neil Blount doesn’t count.) I try not to think about it, because it isn’t that big of a deal. But sometimes I can’t help but fear that my life will one day become legend at LBJ High.
“Did you hear about that junior who never had a boy ask her to do anything? She died alone, surrounded by her forty-two cats. Her ghost haunts the AV closet in hopes that a nerd will accidentally brush against her while getting a projector.”

I know I shouldn’t care and that boys are stupid, girl power, etc. But I want, just once, for a guy to like me. Or to at least notice me. I spend so much time at these silly beauty pageants, it’s hard for me to look in the mirror and not feel inadequate. Sure the pageants
allegedly
build self-esteem for the contestants, but they make me feel like a freak because
I’m
the different one there.

And believe me, I don’t want to be anything like those pageant girls. But it would be nice to be asked out. Or to have someone have a crush on me for a change.

What’s worse is that I hate that this makes me turn into a self-loathing, needy girl because I don’t have the attention of one guy. Or, if I’m being honest, any of them.

I know that once I leave high school and go to college, it’ll be different. There’s got to be someone out there who’s willing to give a girl with a great personality a shot.

But for now, I have to bide my time and wait for the moment when the Great Girls inherit the earth.

M
ackenzie is crowned a Princess in her age division. She receives a small crown and a white sash with
Princess
printed in pale pink cursive. Mac’s beaming like she’s won the whole pageant, but pretty much every girl who doesn’t win a category like talent or beauty, or get an overall title (where you receive money), gets the Princess title. There are four other Princesses in her age group, but neither Mom nor Mac seems to notice or care. We’ve got yet another crown to add to her overflowing mantel.

Even though she didn’t place or earn any of our entry money back, a crown’s enough for her and Mom. Her name got called and she got to go on stage and get her picture taken with Alyssa, the Ultimate Grand
Supreme winner. This small victory will give Mac and Mom the motivation to get ready for the next pageant. And from our little Dallas suburb, there’s one that’s within driving distance practically every weekend.

The whole pageant thing started innocently enough. I guess most addictions do. Shortly after Dad left, we were at the mall and there was a modeling contest for ages sixteen and younger. I refused to take part, since I was in my rebellious-child-of-divorce stage at the time, which isn’t something I’ve entirely grown out of. So Mom decided to sign Mac up, and she won her age group. Never mind that she was the only kid under the age of two to enter. Mom loved the attention, the validation she got that her child was the best at something. Another one of the mothers suggested pageants to her, and Team Mackenzie has been doing them ever since.

At first I happily went along, to cheer on my baby sis. But soon I started to feel like the third wheel. The older I got, the more I realized how much these pageants objectify young girls, and how much the price of the pageant was more than we could handle financially
and
emotionally. But there was no way to protest. Nothing else made my mother happy. We’re a pageant family.

Sometimes I do get sad, though. Not because Mac doesn’t win, but that we spend all this time and money (that we do not have) to come home with nothing more than a cheap plastic crown. The one she got today is already broken.

“Mama!” Mac screams from the backseat of the car. “Fix it!”

“Honey, I can’t, I’m driving.” Mom glances in the rearview mirror and starts to sweat. I’m sure she’s not happy that their prized possession hasn’t even survived the car ride home.

“PULL OVER!” Mac screams.

I look at my watch and it seems that Mac’s normal post-pageant breakdown is right on time. I can’t really blame her for being crabby; we’ve been up since five this morning getting ready. She’s had people poking at her all day with makeup wands and curling irons, plus Mom feels the need to remind her umpteen times to smile on stage. Sometimes
I
want to throw a fit, but alas, someone needs to be the calm one in the family.

“Sweetie, I can’t pull over,” Mom calls out to an increasingly agitated Mackenzie. “We’re on a tight schedule. Lexi has to get to work. Give your crown to her and she can fix it.”

Mac reluctantly hands me her crown.

“Lexi, fix it,” Mom orders, fatigue from the day showing in her face. “Just do this one thing for your sister.”

This one thing?
I resist the urge to remind Mom that I gave up my entire weekend to drive with them to Livingston. That I spend hours each week sewing Mac a new costume or driving her to dance lessons. That I have to do insane, completely abnormal things like apply
butt glue
to my sister.

But it’s been a long day for us all, so I keep quiet and examine the crown. The tiny side comb used to hold the crown to the head has snapped off. “Can you please hand me my sewing kit?” I ask Mac.

She fishes for my kit in the back of the car, which is jammed with crates and hanging bags filled with all her pageant gear. She gives a little
humph
when she finally hands it over to me. I take fabric glue and apply it to the crown, willing it to hold so we don’t have to listen to a tantrum for the remaining three hours.

While Mac’s being grouchy now, she usually thanks me the next day when she’s been able to get her beauty sleep. I know she’s appreciative to have me there as a sane person to go to when Mom goes into one of her Pageant Panics. (One time, Mom suggested that Mac have mascara tattooed on her to save time each pageant — I wish I were joking.)

I turn my attention toward the broken tiara. As I hold the comb in place, I notice that the sequins are starting to fall off. “This thing is beyond cheap,” I say. Then I can’t help asking, “How much money did we spend this weekend?”

“None of your business,” Mom says coldly.

It kind of
is
my business. I don’t have a job for pocket change. I have a job so I can eat. Dad’s child support goes mostly to the rent while every, and I mean
every
, cent Mom makes at the SuperStore goes to the pageants. So if I want to go out with friends or eat organic fruits and veggies instead of fast-food crap for every meal, I need to pay for it. Not to mention the fact that I want to spend the summer in New York City to attend the Fashion Institute of Technology’s summer program. All of that, everything, needs to come from my money. The only time the pageant money was used for me was when I wanted to take sewing
lessons. And I was only given that so I could become Mackenzie’s Official Seamstress.

“Give it back!” Mac starts kicking my seat. “I want my crown.”

“I need the glue to dry.”

Mac screams, “I want it back NOW!”

I turn around. “Just give me a few more minutes,
please
. Believe me, I do not want your crown.”

“Lexi!” Mom raises her voice at me. “Give your sister back her crown.”

Seriously?
Why am I the bad guy in this situation? I gently hand Mac her crown back. “Be careful, the glue hasn’t dried yet.”

I hear Mac whisper something that sounds like “thank you.”

“Honestly, Lexi …” Mom doesn’t finish the sentence. It just hangs in the air. And then she has to go and finish it. “You shouldn’t be jealous of your sister.”

Knots begin forming in my back from tensing up. “Why would I be jealous of her?”

Mom sighs. “You know …”

“No. I don’t.” Even though I do. But I’m really in no mood for it right now. I still have to work the closing shift. While they get to spend the evening at home watching TV, I have to be on my feet until almost midnight.

“Oh, Lexi, I know it’s hard for you to have your baby sister get all the attention.”

I’m not envious of Mackenzie because of the pageants. I
pity
her. That’s why I don’t usually get annoyed when she has one of her temper tantrums. She really doesn’t know better.

I try to keep my voice level as I say, “No, it’s not.”

Mac’s voice comes from the backseat. “You’re just jealous because you’re ugly.”

And like that, the camel’s back has been broken. I turn around and see panic flicker in her eyes. She knows she’s gone too far. But instead of forgiving her, I say, “Yeah, well, I’d rather be ugly on the outside than on the inside. I can be painted up to look like one of your precious beauty queens, but you’re always going to be an ungrateful brat.”

I instantly regret it.

“LEXI!” Mom nearly runs off the side of the road as she smacks me on the leg.

I know I went too far. I know what I said was rude. I know I should apologize.

But calling me ugly is not okay.

I do my best to zone out Mom as she starts lecturing me about being a good sister and not egging Mac on. There’s no point in arguing. Mom will never take my side on anything.

It’s Mackenzie’s World. I just live in it.

I
really wish someone had given me a heads-up that it was Popular People Night at the mall.

“Um, I don’t know.” Brooke holds up a size-two denim miniskirt to show Hannah. “Look how huge this is. It’ll
never
fit me.” The skirt is the size of a washcloth. However, Brooke’s right, it probably would fall off her bony frame. “Can you see if you have a size zero?” she says loudly, ensuring everybody in the store can hear her.

I smile politely and head back to our storage room. I don’t usually feel this uncomfortable when I have to wait on people from school, but Brooke likes to bark orders at me. I try not to take it personally; she’s always ordering someone around, and at least
I’m
getting paid. I find her
non-size size and take a deep cleansing breath before going back out onto the Brooke battlefield.

“Oh, you found it,” she says dismissively as she grabs the skirt out of my hand.

Oh no, it’s not customary to thank a person for doing something for you. It is
I
who should be thanking you, dear Brooke, for
allowing
me to wait on you.

Of course I keep my mouth shut. There are certain scenarios (pageants) and people (the Popular Posse) that require me to keep my thoughts in my head. I didn’t say anything when Brooke started a “Katie Francis is a Skank” page after Katie beat Brooke for cheer captain. Or when Brooke started the rumor that Cam cheated on her physics final since Cam wasn’t just one of the few who passed, but she aced the test.

The last thing I want is to become another victim of Brooke’s wrath.

To be fair, not all of the Popular Posse are as obnoxious as Brooke. Hannah’s pretty nice. And as much as that pains me since she’s with Logan, so is Alyssa. Meanwhile, the guys are just guys. Unless you’re a football or a walking version of a Victoria’s Secret catalog, they don’t really seem to care.

Brooke comes out of the dressing room wearing the skirt and a tight tank top, leaving little to the imagination. She flips her shiny black hair (she’s always flipping it, or putting it up in a ponytail, or doing something to draw attention to the fact she has hair that defies the Texas heat) and studies herself in the mirror. “I think this is perfect for Josh’s party,” she says.

I turn my attention to a row of T-shirts that need to be refolded, but all I can hear is Brooke’s loud voice echoing in our now nearly empty store.

“Josh has the best parties.
Everybody
is going to be there.”

I hear Hannah murmur in a low voice, probably trying to attempt some sort of friendly wisdom on Brooke.

“Hey, Lexi!” Brooke calls sweetly to me. “I think I’m all set. Do you mind ringing us up?”

I give her a smile as I take her handkerchief — I mean
skirt
— to the register. I remind myself about what Cam once told me about Brooke. They used to be friends eons ago (grade school) and Cam said that Brooke is one of the most insecure people she’s ever known, which is why she overcompensates by being loud. So maybe she isn’t as bad as she sometimes puts on.

“Oh my God, look at this!” Brooke picks up a pair of pants from the plus-size display. “Oink! Oink!” She steals a look at me. “No offense.”

Or not.

I don’t want to be shallow, although that’s laughable when in the presence of Brooke. But I think I have a way better body than her. I know that sounds conceited, but at least I have some muscle and fat. I have something that could be considered a figure, while Brooke is a walking skeleton with a ginormous push-up bra. I can’t understand why guys fall for it.

But they do.

I meet Benny and Cam for my half-hour break at the food court (a.k.a. The Court).

“You’ll split fries with me, won’t you?” Cam greets me as I sit down at their table.

Benny gives me a smile, then motions at Cam. “The girl’s craving fries and I’ve given up carbs.”

I bite my tongue so I won’t say “again.” Benny’s always on some sort of diet. It never lasts long. He’s just a big teddy bear, and I honestly couldn’t imagine him any other way. But of course I don’t say any of this because Benny abhors his nickname since middle school, Benny the Bear. As much as we try to tell him it’s because his last name is Bayer, we all know the truth.

I shake my head. “I can’t. I already had some today.”

Cam’s mouth is agape. “You ate fries without me? This friendship is so over.” She gets up and heads over to the burger place.

I pull out my protein bar and start to nibble on it.

Benny picks at his salad. “So how did our precious baby girl do today?”

“I handled myself well, thank you very much.”

He chuckles. “Good to know, since I was obviously talking about you.”

“I can’t imagine you’d be referring to anybody else.”

Cam puts her tray of greasy yet delicious-smelling fries down. Both Benny and I eye it with envy. “Today must’ve been bad if
you
ate fries,” Cam observes.

“We were running late and Mackenzie got to pick the drive-thru for dinner, so …”

Benny leans in. “And which fine establishment did our young princess pick?”

“McDonald’s.”

He nods approvingly. “Ah yes, nice crisp french fry, perfect salt-to-potato ratio. Well played, Mackenzie. Well played.”

I can’t help but notice that Benny’s eyes have been darting at something behind me ever since I sat down.

“What are you looking at?” I begin to turn around, but Benny grabs my hand.

“Don’t!” he hisses.

“Um, okay.” I give him a weird look while Cam blatantly turns her head to stare.

“Are you looking at —”

Cam’s interrupted as a nearly empty bottle of soda flies from the opposite direction, smacking Benny in the head.

“Ouch!” His hand flies up to the place on his head where the bottle made contact.

Cam and I look behind Benny to see these kids (make that jerks) who are probably twelve or so laughing a few tables away. I’m not sure, but I think I hear one of them say “freak.”

Cam gets up and strides over to the table. “Listen here, you losers, you better go over there and apologize to my friend.” Cam’s petite, but not someone you want to mess with.

The three boys continue to laugh. One of them, in a baseball hat and baggy jeans that fall below his butt (it’s like he picked out his outfit
in the Future Thugs “R” Us catalog), stands up and faces Cam. My pulse begins to quicken. “Yeah, who’s gonna make me? Your little
girlfriend
?”

Cam grabs the boy by his collar and brings him so they’re face-to-face across the table. I feel Benny’s hand wrap tightly around my arm.

“How about your mother, Thomas. How does
that
sound?”

The kid looks like he’s seen a ghost. Cam lets go of him and reaches in her pocket for her cell phone. She begins to dial, but the kids start to disperse.

“Sorry! Sorry!” they mumble as they run past us.

Both Benny and I are speechless as Cam returns to our table. She sits down and starts eating her fries like nothing happened.

I finally find my voice. “That … was …
awesome
.”

Cam smiles at me. “I used to babysit that kid — he was always trouble. Twenty bucks he’s in juvie by his freshman year.”

I turn my focus to Benny, who’s staring down at the table. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“Whatever,” he says softly. His face is the deepest shade of red and he refuses to look up.

I study Benny’s face. He’s trying to brush it off, but deep down I know it hurts him. Benny’s been teased the entire time I’ve know him. He was taunted for being big when we were in grade school, but we were always close friends. He’s sincerely one of the nicest people I know. But he can stand out in a crowd. Not just because of his size, but he’s always worn really colorful clothing, which I like since it’s better than the black and gray athletic T-shirts that fill the hallway at school. But it sort of
forces you to take notice of him. I’ve always admired his confidence to wear what he wants. Today it’s an orange
Fraggle Rock
T-shirt with matching orange All Stars.

Benny’s always been Benny to me. I never thought he was different than the other guys in my class. I didn’t think anything of it when he liked the same boy bands as me; I just thought he had
excellent
taste in music. By the time we were freshmen, he came out to me.

He’s not “officially” out since his parents go to an extremely conservative (bordering on evangelical) church, the kind with the big-screen TVs and minister who has his own television show on, like, GOD-TV. But when Benny’s with us, he can be himself. He doesn’t have to worry about hiding his true colors.

It seems like we all need our safe havens to be ourselves.

“At least there wasn’t much of an audience.” I try to comfort Benny as I gesture at the virtually empty food court. “I think everybody’s at Josh’s party.”

Cam raises her eyebrow at me. “How did you find out about Josh’s party?”

Of course Cam knew about Josh’s party. She could so run in that circle if she wanted, but she has no interest in putting up with any of their drama, and from the hallway gossip there’s always something brewing with Population Popular. Plus, Cam’s the smartest person in our class (if not the entire school). She’s already taking AP-level classes; she might even graduate early. I sometimes feel like Benny and I bring her down, but it’s her choice to be with us common folk.

We’re like the Three Musketeers — all for one and all that loyalty stuff. Although we more resemble Russian nesting dolls in person — you know, the kind of dolls that stack inside of each other. On one end you have Benny the Bear, tall, big, with dark black hair that’s in a shag that he sometimes tucks behind his ear when he’s nervous. Then on the other end you have petite, blond Cam. Of course, I’m in the middle. Average.

Three people who look so different when they’re lined up, but who just fit together. One inseparable group … whose separate pieces don’t quite fit anywhere else.

I reach out for Benny’s hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He pulls away from me. “It’s fine.”

My cheeks become flush thinking about what Benny has to put up with for just being himself. What gives anybody the right to treat someone like that?

“No. It’s
not
fine, Benny. It’s not.” I get even more upset when I see him shrug his shoulders, like he’s given up.

Benny sighs. “Lexi, let’s face facts: I’m fat and gay and live in the heart of football-loving Texas. Me finding love or respect ain’t gonna happen in this high school life. There really isn’t anything I can do about it now, so I do my best to ignore it.” His eyes once again dart quickly behind me before looking away.

I cautiously turn around and see two guys from our school chatting a few tables away.

“Benny, don’t worry about those guys. I’m sure they didn’t see anything,” I lie. I’m pretty sure everybody saw what happened. If they didn’t see the bottle hit Benny, they sure heard Cam.

“Benny?” Cam says softly. “Do you know those guys?”

He shakes his head softly. “Not really …”

I go to turn back around to get a better look, but Benny kicks me under the table. “Stop it! He’ll see.”

“Who’ll see?”

Then something hits me:
Oh my God, does Benny have a crush?
I can’t even hide my excitement. Benny’s never had a crush on a real boy, just celebrities. So if he does, this is
huge
.

“Chris.” He says it so quietly I’m not even sure that’s what he’s said.

I lean in so we’re only inches apart. “Which one is Chris?”

“The one with the hat.”

Both Cam and I try our best to nonchalantly look over at the table. Cam has it easier since she only has to look to the side. I have to basically turn all the way around. I decide to first rub my chin on my shoulder, then steal a quick glance. The guy with the hat, Chris, looks familiar. He’s got a wool hat on, but has dark straight bangs swept over to the side, peeking out. He’s got on a black hooded sweatshirt and black skinny jeans, with a chain that hooks his wallet to his belt buckle.

“He goes to LBJ?” Cam asks.

Benny nods. “He’s in my study hall. A sophomore.”

“He’s cute,” I offer, to see how Benny will react.

“Yeah, but he saw
everything
.”

“Go talk to him!” I urge.

“Yeah!” Cam agrees. “Seize the day!”

Benny leans back in his seat. “I’ve been humiliated enough for one day, thank you very much.”

“Benny …” I say softly.

“Can we please talk about something else? I can’t deal with this right now. I’m sure there’s some horrific story from today’s pageant, right?” He looks at me expectantly.

“Well …” I don’t want Benny to give up so easily, but I know when to not push him any further. “I think I should prepare my speech for the Worst Sister of the Year Award.”

Benny’s eyes get wide. “What happened?”

“Mac called me ugly.”

“She did WHAT?” Cam’s voice raises, and a couple near us pick up their trays and leave, probably concerned about what that girl who just scared off three boys will do next.