How Not To Be Popular (9 page)

“That’s stupid. Why would he like me?” I ask, gesturing at my peanut sauce–stained jumpsuit and decades-old school supplies.

“Why not?” Penny replies with a shrug. I realize she truly doesn’t seem to notice that I’m dressed like Sloppy Fidel Castro. Or she doesn’t care. But then, it’s pretty obvious she has no idea about the rules of popularity.

I make a few swipes at the sauce stain with a couple of napkins. I don’t mind looking like a pig, but this is store merchandise. Unfortunately the napkins just seem to spread it around a little more.

“They have packets of wet wipes up at the condiment counter,” Penny suggests.

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“Thanks.”

As I walk over to the far end of the room, I notice another glob of sauce in my hair. My table manners have taken a serious dive lately.

At the front counter, I grab a handful of wipes packets. Just as I’m wondering whether four will be enough, Caitlyn appears beside me.

“What are you doing up here?” she asks sternly.

I glance about, wondering if it’s a trick question. The popular table is just a few feet away. I can’t see Miles, but Sharla and Shanna are watching us closely.

“Is this one of your pathetic schemes to throw yourself at our guys?” Caitlyn continues.

Huh?
What scheme? The one where I dress to do brake jobs? Or the one where I put peanut chunks in my hair?

Eventually my mouth reconnects with my brain. “What are you talking about?”

“You heard me. I’m on to you, freak. Stop flirting with people who are better than you.” I want to shout that there’s no way someone like Miles is better than me, and besides I’ve been trying to
avoid
him and his pack. But before I can even form the words, Caitlyn goes prancing back to her yes-girls.

Static roars in my ears and I fight the temptation to toss ketchup packets at her rear end.

By the time I return to my seat, my molars are ready to crumble. Penny was right about Caitlyn. Too bad she missed the whole exchange, since she sits facing the other way. I consider telling her about it but decide to attack my stain instead.

What is with the divas at this school? Why is Caitlyn giving me a hard time when it’s obvious I’m no threat? Are they just extra cruel here in Austin, or are they clueless about popularity rules too?

The more I think about it, the madder I get. I’m so busy grumbling inside my head and tearing open wet-wipes packets with my teeth that I don’t hear someone come up behind me.

“Excuse me?”

“What?” I snap, whirling around.

A girl is standing there, slightly off to the side. She’s younger than me, probably a sophomore, and she’s clutching a large notebook in both hands, holding it in front of her like a shield.

“Are you Maggie Dempsey?” she asks in a breathy voice.

I hesitate but, failing to sense anything sly about her, eventually say, “Yeah.”

“I’m with the school newspaper,” she says, venturing a step closer. “We have this column on new
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students called ‘Welcome the New Wagoner,’ and I was wondering if I could interview you for it.”

“I’ve read that column,” Penny says. “Last year they talked to a new boy from Minnesota. He collects trains.”

My shoulders slump. Oh no. Not this stuff. I really hate these getting-to-know-you things. Like when teachers ask us to pair up and write each other’s biographies. My life is so different, I can’t help coming off like some homeless street urchin or a forgotten character in a Lemony Snicket book.

Then again…
Suddenly I reinflate. Sounding like a weirdo can only help my cause.

“Sure,” I say, facing the timid reporter girl. “What exactly would you like to know?” She starts off with the basic stuff: my name, my age, where I’ve just moved from, whether I have brothers and sisters, et cetera. As I talk, she slowly relaxes.

“Some of us on the staff were wondering…” She stops and bites her lip.

“What? What were you wondering?” I prompt.

“About your clothes.” Her limbs pull inward and her volume drops again. “We were wondering why you…”

“Dress like this?” I finish for her. I give a little shrug and decide to play dumb. “Why not?”

“Oh…uh…nothing. Just…” The girl trails off and glances past me at the popular table. I follow her gaze and catch sight of Caitlyn. She’s still watching me, her face all wrinkled up in a menacing glare.

“Just…,” the girl says, restarting, “aren’t you ever afraid you might look…”

“Stupid?” I finish for her again. “No! I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Being the way other people tell you to be. There are—what—over two thousand students in this school? Then there should be over two thousand different styles. Instead you have ten percent of the population telling the other ninety percent how they should dress and act! How stupid is that? It takes zero brains to get someone else’s haircut.

Real style is all about being yourself. It takes guts.”

“Right…yeah…I guess,” the girl says as she scribbles furiously.

“Here’s a scoop. Popular people aren’t any better than regular people; they just act like they are. And the thing is, we totally give them their power. If everyone stopped believing they owned us, they’d be nobodies. They’d have to eat each other.”

The girl scrawls out another few lines and then stops and looks right at me. “Was it like that where you came from? In Portland?”

“Uh…yeah. People weren’t scared to be themselves. To be real.” It’s completely untrue, but I figure there’s no way she’ll ever know.

“Sounds like it was great there.”

“It was….” My voice trails off. Once again I think about Trevor, and my throat gets that just-strangled
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feeling.

“So…is
Star Trek
your favorite show?”

At first I’m taken aback, and then I remember my mission to be strange for the article. “Oh totally,” I lie.

“I really love Mr. Spock and…that other guy.”

The girl smirks ever so slightly as she writes it all down.

At least
she
knows the rules.

“Why did you lie to the school reporter?” Penny asks later as we walk to the Helping Hands Club meeting.

“I didn’t lie,” I protest.

“But you said you were a spy.”

I smile as I remember the newspaper girl’s startled expression. “No, I didn’t. I said I could not confirm rumors that I was planted inside the school by the government to report on illegal activities. That’s absolutely not a lie since I really can’t confirm it.”

“Oh.” Penny frowns and breathes through her mouth for a few steps. “And you really did used to live on an alpaca farm?”

“Yep.”

“And you really do have a Pawnee Indian name?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you love disco music?”

“Okay. That might have been a lie.”

She shoots me a look of shock. “Then why did you say it?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a lazy shrug. “I was just having fun with the girl.” There’s just no way to explain that I consider that interview to be my masterpiece—my best and most efficient strategy yet to prevent people from liking me. Once the article is in print, it will cement my status as the school’s biggest weirdo. Then no one—not Jack, not Miles, maybe not even Penny—will ever want to be seen with me.

As long as they let me stay in this club. I really need it for college.

“Well, here we are,” Penny says in a formal voice, stopping in front an open classroom door. Classical piano music is playing and I hear a loud laugh.

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As we enter, I see a large woman in a bright flowered dress sitting at the front of the room on top of the teacher’s desk. Surrounding her are four students, all of them nerdy bookworm types.

Penny strides up to the group and clears her throat for attention. “Hello, everyone. I brought us a new member.” She gives a little arm flourish and everyone turns to look at me. For some reason, I feel a little nervous, which is weird considering they’re all supreme dorks.

“Good for you, Penny,” the woman says.

The others continue to stare at me, their jaws hanging open. I wonder if everyone in the club is a mouth-breather.

“Mrs. Pratt, this is Maggie,” Penny continues, sounding all ceremonial. I have the feeling she doesn’t get to be the center of attention all that often. “Maggie, this is Mrs. Pratt, our sponsor.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Likewise,” she replies with a broad smile. “What brings you to the Helping Hands Club?”

“Oh, you know,” I mumble. “Just like to help out.” I feel an eensy bit ashamed. It would wipe that jolly smile right off Mrs. Pratt’s face if she knew that I don’t really want to be here, that I’m just hoping to fulfill an entrance requirement for college so I can get away from my parents and maybe get reunited with my ex-boyfriend. I do like to help people, but right now I need to help myself.

“Good. Welcome to my classroom and welcome to our little club,” she says. “I’m glad to see you came dressed for hard work.”

At first I’m confused; then I remember the jumpsuit. “Oh. Right,” I say, laughing politely.

“All righty then.” She raises her voice and glances at her watch. “Everyone find a seat. We’ll get started as soon as our illustrious president arrives.”

I figure Mrs. Pratt must be a history or world studies teacher, judging by the posters of the Sydney Opera House, African tribesmen, Chinese rice farmers, Guatemalan sheepherders, and that sand castle–looking building in Moscow. She also appears to be the type of teacher who believes in small-group work and lets students talk. In here there are no square desks arranged in neat rows. In fact, there are no desks at all. Instead she has five large circular tables, each with six chairs around it and a potted plant in its center.

“She seems fun,” I whisper to Penny as we take two chairs at the table nearest the front. “Is she one of the real popular teachers?”

Penny shakes her head. “No. The Bippies all make fun of her. They call her Fat Pratt the Old Bat or Mrs. Claus. They don’t like her because she doesn’t give them special treatment like the other teachers do.”

I’ve noticed that. At this school the primo popular get away with all sorts of stuff regular students can’t—more so than at other places. They get out of their seats all the time, talk to each other, make wisecracks (or dumbcracks, as the case may be). And it seems all they have to do is mention the words

“football” or “cheer-leading” and they can come and go at will.

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We’re joined at our table by the four other members, three guys and a girl.

“Everyone, this is Maggie.” Penny reintroduces me in that formal voice, complete with upward-palm gesture. I wish she wouldn’t do that.

“Hi,” the others say collectively.

“Maggie, this is Carter.” Penny points to the person on my right, a tall, skinny, major geek of a guy whose thick bangs hang over his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, tilting his head back to look at me.

“And this is Drip.” Penny motions to Carter’s right, where a very petite girl with short hair and dark freckles is sitting, her feet dangling a good two inches off the floor.

“Drip?” I repeat, unsure if I heard right.

“Yeah. My real name’s Joanie Driffenbach, but everyone calls me Drip,” she explains in a surprisingly husky voice.

“And over here are Hank and Frank.” Penny sweeps her hand toward the two guys sitting between her and Drip. They are obviously twins. Both have bushy hair and faces that would be considered really cute—if they were eleven.

As soon as she introduces them, they start giggling and bumping each other’s shoulders.

“You tell her,” one of them says. Hank, I think.

“No! You tell her.”

“You said it!”

“Whatever!”

“Fine!” Hank leans toward me and says, in a voice wavery with suppressed giggles, “Frank thinks you look like Galadriel, only with darker hair.”

“Oh…” I smile vaguely, unable to place the name, although it does sound familiar.

The twins notice my confusion. “You know,” Frank prompts. “
Lady
Galadriel? Ruler of the Elves?”

“She didn’t rule all the elves, dorkwad!” Hank snaps. “Only the ones in Lothlorien!” Frank rolls his eyes. “Uh, doofus. She’s
nobility.
That means wherever she goes, she rules.” I finally remember the Tolkien character and realize they’re paying me a huge compliment. “Thanks,” I call out. Only they’re too busy arguing about the power rankings of Middle-earth dwellers to hear me.

“Either Hank or Frank is going to be our valedictorian,” Penny explains.

“I am,” the twins say simultaneously, cutting off their squabbling.

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“Nuh-uh! You got a ninety-eight on that calculus quiz!” Hank snaps at Frank.

“So? My science scores are way higher. Remember when we did that diagram of the vocal tract and you labeled the uvula as the epiglottis?” Frank throws back his head and laughs.

“Shut up, guys!” Drip hollers.

“Aw, come on. It’s just one of their
average
fights,” Carter says. He lets out a slow, nasal-sounding chuckle. “Get it? ‘Average’? As in grade point average?” Everyone at the table groans.

“Try to be cool, dude. Or you’ll scare off Galadriel,” Drip grumbles.

“Hey. Just trying to entertain,” Carter says, still smiling sneakily. “I’d do my Napoleon Dynamite, but I don’t want to make a bad first impression.”

Again everyone groans. Drip throws an eraser at him.

As excruciating as this is, I can’t help grinning. This club is too perfect.
These
are the kind of losers I need to be with—the type I need to
be
. They’re the ones people never see, even when they’re right alongside them.