How Not To Be Popular (22 page)

“Hey, what are you doing after the dance?” Shanna asks, grabbing my arm. “You should totally hang out with us afterward. We’re going to Simone’s lake house.” I have no idea why these Bippies have rebelled against Queen Caitlyn, but it’s amazing how different Shanna is. She seems so much more relaxed and happy.

“Could you invite Chip to come?” Bree asks. “Tell him there’s a hot tub.”

“And lots of booze,” adds Simone.

I can’t believe how friendly these girls are to me. All because of a dance? Just hours ago they would never have let me or the other Helping Hands into their precious soiree, and now here they are crashing ours. What two-faced snobs.

My god. That’s
it.
That’s where I went wrong!

When I started this school, I avoided these girls and their scene because I didn’t want to make any
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friends. So I joined the Helping Hands—the “loser” club. But
these
people are the real losers!
These
are the ones I won’t be sad to leave behind. If only I’d chosen them!

Maybe it’s not too late…. A new plan starts to formulate itself in my mind. A new game of switcheroo…

“Oh my god. Look at that.” Simone points toward the dance floor, where Carter is doing more Spidey moves for the crowd. “You should go dance with him, Bree.”

“Not me. I’m allergic to dorks.”

I open my mouth to tell them to shut the hell up, and then stop myself. I have to quit caring. No sense fighting over something I’m giving up anyway.

“Oh god. Oh, look!” Simone breaks into a fresh fit of giggles. “Look at those two!” She gestures toward the twins, who are trying to do hip-hop moves in their trench coats.

“Oooh. Twice the fun,” Bree says sarcastically. “What do you think, Maggie?”

“I think…leather has never looked so uncool,” I reply. It feels awful to say it, but the girls give a good roar.

Shanna peers at me quizzically. “Wait a minute. Aren’t they your friends?” she asks. “The ones from that club?”

“Hey, I’m only in it because my parents are making me,” I lie. “They think it’ll look good on my college application.”

“Parents can be such a pain,” Bree says sympathetically. “Mine want me to get all active in church. Nine o’clock Sunday morning? Hello-o? I’m not even awake yet.”

“Or back at home,” adds Simone. The three of them hoot hysterically.

Suddenly Bree doubles over, her squeals of laughter getting higher and stronger.

“What?” we demand.

At first she can’t even talk; she just keeps waving toward the Helping Hands on the dance floor.

“Look,” she gasps. “Check out that girl!”

Penny has now become visible. Her eyes are closed and she’s doing the water-aerobics moves again.

Sure, she looks a little funny. But she also looks sort of…happy.

“Oh, that is so wrong,” snarls Simone.

“I think I have to go to church now,” Bree adds.

I realize it’s my cue. “She looks like…she’s trying to tread water. Like she’s drowning or something.” The girls genuinely laugh at that. My stomach feels like it’s turning inside out.

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“Hey, Maggie!”

I glance up. Carter has just spotted me. He gestures in my direction and then he, the twins, Penny, and Drip (who I couldn’t see in back of the others) come rushing over, all smiley and dancey.

“Come ‘naboogie’ with us,” Carter urges.

“Yeah,” says Drip. “We want to do another dance-off.”

“Mrs. Pratt might even join in,” Penny adds. “And Jack’s been looking for you.” My heart is pounding more loudly than the band’s rhythm section. Being mean to these guys behind their backs is one thing, but to their faces?

But I’ve got to do it.

“No,” I say slowly. “I don’t think so.”

“Aw, come on!”

“Why not?”

I stare into their shiny, joyful faces. They think I’m the awesomest girl ever. They’ve made me feel welcome and happy and included. But I can’t let them do that to me anymore.

I try to think back to when we first met and the way I automatically looked down on them.

“Please!” I exclaim, switching to my popular-girl voice—the one I thought I’d never use here in Austin.

“Do I really have to be seen with you all the time? I mean, I know this is a charity event, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

Wham, wham, wham, wham, wham.
Five expressions fall automatically. And just like that my awesome status is gone.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Drip asks.

“Look, I did my part,” I reply. “I got the band and helped the dance and earned my brownie points.

Now I’m done. Now I can be with my own kind.”

They keep standing there, pummeling me with those pathetic, hurt-shocked faces. Penny’s confused look is especially painful.
Why won’t they just leave?

“So…that’s it. Goodbye,” I say impatiently. “Seriously, guys, get a clue. Don’t you have somewhere to go?”

“Yeah, run along and play,” says Simone.

Gradually they start to amble backward, still staring at me, all bewildered.

“Come on, guys,” Drip says, narrowing her eyes at me. “Let’s get away from these snobs.”
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One by one they turn and follow Drip back toward the crowd. Penny is the last to go. She lingers behind for a few seconds, practically wheezing in confusion. By the time she walks off, I feel rotten inside. The Stabbies are painfully bad, like I’m getting shot in the gut with a nail gun.

“God, I thought they’d never leave,” snarls Bree.

“Me either,” I mumble.

“They are so weird! How can you stand to be in a club with them?” Shanna asks.

“I can’t,” I reply, watching my former friends disappear into the shadows. “Not anymore.” Amazing how fast things can change. Just twenty-five minutes ago, I was so happy I was literally dancing.

Now suddenly the music seems too loud and harsh, the air seems claustrophobic, and the crowd seems way too lively.

“And she says in this whiny voice, ‘That’s not very nice,’” Shanna describes, mimicking Penny’s overenun-ciated way of talking. The other girls laugh. I force a chuckle out of me. “Caitlyn ate it right in front of her face.”

I’m standing with my new “pals,” listening to the story about the stolen Ho Ho. According to Shanna, someone dared Caitlyn to take it and she did. Shanna seems determined to make Caitlyn look as awful as possible and has been telling us all kinds of tales about her. Apparently Caitlyn rose to fame by doing just about any wild thing that would earn attention.

“Caitlyn can be so mean,” Bree remarks.

Just then, a familiar guy shape comes toward us through the shadows. It’s Miles. His gorgeous face is raised at a high angle, as if in victory—or to make sure as much light as possible hits it.

I’m pissed to see him here. He doesn’t belong; none of them do. But I really can’t do anything about it.

I’m one of them now.

“You made it,” Shanna calls out. “Hey, y’all,” he says, stepping into our foursome.

“Hey,” he says just to me.

“So, what’s happening over there?” Shanna asks. “Is Caitlyn crying because we all left?”

“Like I care,” Miles replies. “She’s the stupid hag who wanted to move the date up, even though it meant we couldn’t get the lights. And that DJ she wanted so bad turned out to be lame.”

“Tell me about it,” Simone agrees.

“You know…” Miles sidles up beside me. “You look kind of hot in that costume.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. I’d forgotten that making this my new crowd would mean I’d have to hang out with him.

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Miles’s grin curls sideways. “Hey, Shanna,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on me, “I’ll pay you back if you buy me a Coke.”

Shanna snaps to attention. “Uh…okay. Come on, girls.”

Crap tart!
What just happened? I watch helplessly as my new so-called friends head off toward the drink table, leaving me alone with His Hotness.

I press myself against the curtained wall, hoping to melt through it by sheer force of will.

“So, where are your nerd friends?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I reply truthfully.

“You here alone?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“So you finally decided to drop the act, huh?” he goes on in his real voice—the one I heard the other day in the coffee shop. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stand it forever.” I don’t say anything. Being so close to him makes me feel evil.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” He looms forward, contouring himself around me as if shielding me from gunfire.

I lean sideways, trying to find light and air and to see if those stupid girls are coming back yet. Shanna, Bree, and Simone are nowhere in sight. But I do see something else. Something that makes my throat jam up with trapped screams.

Jack is charging out of the crowd, right toward me. His jaw is set and his face is all fired up. I’ve never seen him look so pissed.

“I need to talk to you,” he says to me.

“Whoa.” Miles turns around and glares at Jack. “I don’t like the way you’re speaking to her.”

“Butt out,” Jack snaps. “This has nothing to do with you.” Miles takes a step toward him. “I think it does.”

“I need to talk to Maggie,” Jack says through his teeth. “Move out of the way. Now.”

“I don’t think so.” Miles grins menacingly. “’Cause you see, I don’t think she wants to talk to you. So get your dork ass out of here before I rip you a new one.”

“Stop!”
I shout. I can’t stand to see fighting. And this night is bad enough as it is. “You!” I point to Miles. “Stay! And you!” I point to Jack. “I’ll give you two minutes. That’s all!” I stomp away from the wall to a somewhat empty area of the room and cross my arms, waiting. After a brief stare-down with Miles, Jack follows.

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“What?” I say shakily. It’s hard to look at him. I feel like I’m going to burst apart, spewing flesh and bone and tatters of red cloth all over the bingo parlor. I’m way beyond Rosie’s help.

“What’s going on with you?” he demands.

“What do you mean?”

He huffs impatiently. “Drip told me what you did.”

I stare past him. Over his right shoulder I see that Shanna and the others have rejoined Miles and are watching us intently. Over his left I see the Helping Hands standing with Mrs. Pratt. They’re also peering at us curiously.

“So?” I say, sounding like a six-year-old.

“So
why
? Why are you being such a bitch to your friends?” I meet his angry gaze and it literally hurts me inside.

Don’t back down,
I tell myself.
If you do, it’ll hurt even worse when you leave.

“Whatever,” I say, reverting to my popular-girl voice. “I have new friends now.”

“Who?
Them?
” He nods at Miles and company. “They aren’t your friends and you know it.”

“They are if I say so.” Once again I feel like I’m a first grader having a shouting match with the teacher’s pet.

All of a sudden the anger leaves his face. “This is about your boyfriend, isn’t it?”

“Leave me alone!” Now I’m the angry one. I keep wanting to get away but people just won’t stop talking to me and telling me all about myself.

“Is it something
I
did?” he asks.

“Just go away!” I try to walk past him but he grabs my arm.

“No,” he says. “I’m not buying it.”

Oh yeah?
thinks my suddenly six-year-old self.
I’ll prove it!

I break away from Jack and go stomping over to Miles. He has a split second to look shocked before I wrap my arms around him and kiss him right on the mouth. Just when I’m about to pull back, he seems to snap out of his surprised state. He yanks me closer, clamping his lips even harder against mine and shoving his tongue all around. I feel my helmet fall off, and my hair goes tumbling down my back. My lungs are squashed and his expensive-smelling cologne is making me dizzy. I feel like I’m suffocating.

Finally I heave myself backward and terminate the kiss. Miles’s cheeks and mouth are smeared with white makeup and he seems a little dazed too.

I glance around for reactions. Shanna and the girls are frozen in shock. The Helping Hands look
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thoroughly disgusted. Mrs. Pratt is shaking her head.

And Jack is gone.

T
IP: Screw up all your chances at friendship.

Be a sorry-assed bitch.

My ears are still ringing
at about a B-flat from the Golly Bums show. There’s a leftover band of pressure around my scalp where the Queen Amidala helmet gripped my head. And the whole right side of my body is throbbing. After pretending I needed to go to the bathroom, I snuck out of the dance last night and started pedaling home as fast as I could. I was crying by then and wasn’t paying very close attention. That was when my robe got caught in the spokes, and I flew onto the pavement. I went home with a bent bike, a ripped costume, two bleeding scrapes, and a case of the Stabbies so intense it hurt to breathe.

I’m never getting out of bed again. The only thing I want to do right now is hibernate until moving day.

I thought it would be so simple: I’d just act horrible to the people I cared about and be nice to the ones I disliked. I figured it would put things in reverse and undo all the mistakes I’ve made. Jack would forget about me, the Helping Hands would go back to their normal uncool status, I wouldn’t have any friends, and order would be restored to the Universe.

Only…it didn’t exactly work that way. Sure, I managed to make my friends hate me, and Jack wants nothing to do with me, but I overlooked one major detail: my feelings. They aren’t exactly cooperating. I keep telling myself that it’s all bullcrap—that I can get over this the way I got over Trevor. But my emotions just aren’t buying it. The real truth is I’ve started to like it here. And no matter what happens, it’s still going to hurt when we leave. Bad.

I first realized this about midnight and I haven’t stopped crying since. I’m not even sure if I slept. The whole night passed as a parade of horrible memories of people waving goodbye to me—Trevor and various old friends, some of their faces faded and half filled-in. Or maybe it was just a series of bad dreams. Sad that I can’t tell the difference between my life and a nightmare.

I might be over Trevor, but I’m not over having to live life as one big sightseeing expedition.

I’m so tired of change. I want everything just to be still—at least long enough for me to figure some things out. But since the planet won’t stop that stupid rotation business, I’m doing all I can to put myself in suspended animation. I’m lying in the fetal position, cocooned inside my waffle-weave blanket, staring at the orange-peel texture of the wall.

“Butterfly? You up?” Rosie knocks on the door. The joyful bell sound of her voice makes my stomach squirm even more.

I close my eyes and try to close my ears as well. Maybe if I don’t respond, she’ll go away.

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“Wake up, ladybug. Les made berry parfaits.”

La, la, la!
Since I can’t shut myself down, I try my mental iPod trick. But she just keeps on pounding.

Eventually I hear the door open and her soft footsteps on the creaky floorboards.

“Doodle?” She sits on my bed and starts stroking my back. “It’s after nine, sweetie. Time to face the sunshine.”

Again her peppiness makes me nauseous. Normally I love that about my mother. Her zing and sparkle are what make her, well,
Rosie
. But not today. Today she’s about as charming as an ax murderer.

“Leave me alone,” I croak.

“Is she up?” I hear Les’s voice and footsteps.

“Nope. She’s being lazy.”

“Did you tell her about the parfaits?”

“Yes, but then she got all grumpy.”

“She probably ate lots of junk food last night with her friends.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m right here!” I shout, sitting up like a shrouded, reanimated corpse. “You’re standing in my room talking about me and I’m right here!”

“Good. You’re up!” Rosie exclaims. “We have a big morning today.”

“No!” I groan, clutching my skull. “I don’t want to do roof yoga or eat berries. I just want to sleep.

Alone. In the
quiet.
”

Suddenly they’re both helicoptering over me, their faces scrunched in worry.

“What’s wrong, Sugar?” Les asks.

“Your aura is all muddy,” Rosie remarks. “Maybe you should have a colonic.”

“No!” I can’t stop myself. I’m just too weak from stress and lack of sleep. A loud sob breaks out of me and I lurch forward, crying hard.

“Honey bee? What is it?” Rosie coos, smoothing my hair and wiping tears off my cheeks.

For some reason, all her attention just makes me mad. Something weird is happening. My limbs are shaking and an intense pain is shooting through my middle. It’s the Stabbies. It feels like they’re mulching my organs. I hug my knees to my chest and rock back and forth, trying to make them go away, but nothing helps.

“Les?” Rosie is freaking. “Les, do something!”

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Les puts his hands on my shoulders and tries to steady me. “What is it, Shug?” he asks, sounding equally worried. “Are you sick?”

I take a breath and open my mouth, and suddenly all my pent-up poison comes steaming out.
“Yes!”
I shout. “I’m sick of everything! I’m sick of my life!” Somehow this makes me feel a little better. So I keep on, picking up volume and speed. “I’m sick of moving all over the stupid planet and never staying put!

I’m sick of missing people! I’m sick of feeling homesick…and I’ve never even had a real home!” Rosie and Les exchange one of their mind reading glances.

“I don’t understand,” Rosie says. “What brought this on all of a sudden?”

“It’s
not
all of a sudden!” I wail, my voice all choked and shuddery. “I’ve felt like this for a long time.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Les cuts in.

“I tried! But you guys wouldn’t listen!”

They stare back at me, looking utterly lost.

“I used to think I didn’t have a choice, that I
had
to live this way,” I go on, unable to stop. “But lately I can’t stop thinking about how unfair it is. I mean, you guys have each other, but who do I have?”

“You have us!” Rosie exclaims.

“That’s not the same. I love you guys, but I never chose you like you chose each other. I never chose this life!”

“But…we thought you loved your life,” Les mumbles, sounding really hurt. “You always seemed so happy.”

“Until recently,” Rosie adds.

“I did! I was! You guys showed me the world. But now…now I want to figure out
me.
Only I can’t do that if I’m always getting used to some new place.”

They sit silently for a moment, both of them staring down at my square-patterned blanket. The agony in my gut has dwindled and I feel a little lightheaded. Now the guilt is starting to set in.

“I’m sorry you’ve been unhappy, Sugar,” Les says.

“But you know, in a way, you’ve made us feel better about something that’s happened. We weren’t going to tell you just yet, because we thought it would be hard for you, but…” He stops and looks at Rosie.

“We’ve decided to stay in Austin,” Rosie finishes. “For good. Or at least for a few years.”

“You…
what
?”

Rosie interprets my shock as rapturous joy and her face breaks into a huge smile. “It’s true!” she says
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excitedly. “Les has done such a good job with the shop that Satya wants him to take it over.”

“And Rosie has been offered a position at that day spa,” Les adds. “They love her and want her to start as soon as she’s done with her certification.”

They beam at each other and Rosie bounces happily on my mattress.

“Wait a minute!” Shock waves of panic shoot through me. “
Now
you guys want to settle down?
Here?
In the one city where I’ve made such a mess of things I can’t even leave my bed?” Rosie and Les glance quizzically at each other, totally thrown by my sudden burst of anger. Les is probably thinking I need berries and yogurt and Rosie probably wants to irrigate my large intestine. They just don’t get me. They haven’t in a long time.

I can’t take this. They’re the two things that never change around me and I can’t stand looking at them.

So I do what we Dempseys are good at doing: I leave.

I bounce out of bed and head through the door, running barefoot for the stairs. Forget hibernating in this cave. I need to be alone.

Because that’s how I feel.

It’s hard to do an angry, stompy walk when you’re wearing flip-flops.

After leaving my parents staring at each other, I didn’t want to go back and change out of my sleepwear.

So I raced down to the shop and grabbed a trench coat and the first shoes I could find—a pair of sparkly red flip-flops.

So here I am, wandering down Rio Grande, looking like a flasher with bed-head and trying to figure out a destination. Preferably someplace where I can think and cry and not be carted off to the state hospital.

I suddenly smell bergamot, and it’s like when wisps of smoke form beckoning hands in those cartoons. I follow the scent to that coffee shop where the beautiful people hang out—the one where Miles cornered me. There’s hardly anyone inside. Too early for partying high schoolers. I tramp up to the counter with visions of hot tea and red currant scones dancing in my head.

“Can I help you?” asks a hipster dude as he dries a large soda-style glass with a white cup towel.

“Yeah, I…oh.” All of a sudden I realize I don’t have any money. I know it’s only tea, but I’m so disappointed I feel like crying again. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I forgot my purse.”

“Hey, aren’t you the girl who works at Dudz?” He leans across the counter, peering at me closely.

“Yeah,” I reply tentatively. “How’d you know?”

“I was in there the other day. You helped me.”

I cock my head and study him. He does look familiar. Then I remember. “You and your friend bought those shirts for your gigs.”

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“Right. Hey, whatever you want, it’s on me. You guys gave me a deal, so it’s the least I can do.”

“Thanks.” I start to tear up a little—this time out of gratitude. I’m really frazzled. “Earl Grey tea and one of your red currant scones, please.”

“You got it.” He flips the cup towel over his shoulder and picks up a pair of plastic tongs. I’m trying to telepathically guide him toward the big oblong one with the most currants when another aproned worker appears beside him. A tattooed girl with dyed black dreads.

“Isn’t that her?” she asks the hipster guy.

“That’s her,” he replies, grinning at me.

She turns and drapes herself across the counter toward me. “Weren’t you on TV yesterday with Chip Walker?”

“Yeah,” I say. “How’d you even recognize me?”

“Ian knew it was you,” she answers, nodding toward my hipster savior dude. “And you still have some white on your neck.”

I reflexively put my hand to my throat, wishing for a mirror.

“You’re, like, famous around here,” the girl continues.

“I’m
what
?” I make a face.

“Maggie from Lakewood, right?”

“Uh…yeah.” I stare at her in a daze, half mesmerized by the metal studs glistening in her nose. I’ve never met this person but she knows my name.

“We hear all about you,” she continues. “We went to your shop the other day and bought a couple of jumpsuits. My friend’s going to paint hers.” As she stares at me, I notice a sort of manic glimmer in her eyes—the kind people have when they meet famous idols.

And yet she’s looking at me.
Me!
Some whacked-out teenager with too much hair, too little sense, and zero friends.

“Here you go.” The guy leans in front of the girl to plunk down my tea and a plate with two scones.

“Thanks,” I mumble. Still half-stunned, I grab the plate and the saucer and shuffle over to a table—in the same corner where Miles basically told me I was full of it.

I eat and sip my drink, but it’s all mechanical. I can’t taste anything. The Stabbies are back. I thought I’d purged them during my shouting session with Les and Rosie, but apparently that was just a temporary lull.

Here they are again, needling me from all directions, as if I swallowed a baby porcupine. It doesn’t help that the girl and the guy behind the counter keep watching me, grinning as if they really know me. Which they don’t. Which no one does.

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Including me.

I find it grotesquely ironic that what I really need right now, more than tea or scones or the fantasy of brand-new, boring parents, is a friend. Someone who’ll let me confess everything and then convince me it will all be okay. But since the reason I’m hurting is that I purposefully drove off everyone who genuinely liked me, I can’t have that.

After forcing down some breakfast, I continue walking around the city, sobbing off and on and wondering if there’s anyone I can talk to. Not Lorraine, who hasn’t sent one of her updates since she got a new boyfriend. Not my parents, who are basically the candy center of the whole mess. Not the coffee shop workers, who think I’m some sort of seventeen-year-old trailblazer. And definitely not my new Bippy “friends” or any of my Lakewood admirers. They don’t care about me. They just want me to dress weirdly and make appearances at their parties. It’s almost funny, in a way. They say I’m real, and yet they don’t see me as a real person.

I could barely stomach everything when I thought my time here was almost up. But now that we aren’t moving…I just don’t see how I can survive.

As I shamble along the sidewalk, crying and sniffling and lost in thought, it occurs to me that I’m heading toward the bingo parlor. Is it coincidence? Is it my guilt directing me back to the scene of the crime?

Maybe it’s the Rosie in me, but I see it as a sign. The Helping Hands are supposed to be there cleaning up right now. I should probably go and clean up my mess too.

I turn onto wider, busier streets and cross a few major intersections. Several people gawk and a couple of drivers honk. I’m hoping that they’re just wondering about the wild-haired girl dressed as an old-timey private eye and that they don’t recognize me.