How to Be Popular (2 page)

“Hey, guys,” I said to the little Huffs, who were ramming the train’s caboose up an Arwen action figure’s dress. “We have to close now. Sorry.”

The kids groaned. Their dad clearly doesn’t have as many cool toys at his house to play with as we did at the store.

Mr. Huff looked up, surprised. “Is it really closing time?” he asked, and looked at his watch. “Oh, wow, look at that.”

“Way to pull a Steph Landry, Dad,” eight-year-old Kevin Huff said with a laugh.

I just stood there, staring at the kid as he grinned toothily back at me. It was clear he had no idea what he’d just said. Or who he’d said it in front of.

The thing is, though, it’s okay. Because I’ve got The Book now.

And The Book is going to save me.

STILL T
-
MINUS TWO DAYS AND COUNTING
SATURDAY
,
AUGUST
26, 10:20
P
.
M
.

I don’t know why I haven’t told Jason and Becca. About The Book, I mean. I’m not embarrassed about it—well, not much, anyway.

And it’s not like I stole it, or anything. I fully asked Jason’s grandmother if I could have it the day I found it in that old box in the Hollenbachs’ attic, which we were cleaning out so Jason could turn it into his Ryan Atwood pool house/Greg Brady bachelor pad (which, considering he is an only child, makes no sense. Except for the fact that it was easier to turn the attic into his new bedroom than strip the race car wallpaper off the walls of his old room).

And okay, I didn’t pull out The Book itself and ask Kitty—Mrs. Hollenbach, Jason’s grandmother, who asked us to call her by her first name, so as not to con
fuse her with the other Mrs. Hollenbach, her daughter-in-law Judy, Jason’s mother—if I could specifically have IT. I just asked if I could have the BOX, which contained The Book as well as some old clothes and a couple of very steamy romance novels from the eighties—which, I must say, have caused me to look at Kitty in a new light, considering the heroine in one of them turned out to like having sex “Turkish-style,” which in the book did NOT mean “while wearing a fez.”

But Kitty just glanced into the box and went, “Oh, of course, dear. Though I can’t imagine what you’d want with those old things.”

If only she knew.

Anyway, so I haven’t told them. I don’t think I’m going to, either. Because, truth?

They’ll just laugh.

And I don’t think I could handle that. Thanks to Lauren Moffat, I’ve had five years of people laughing at—not with—me. I don’t think I can take any more.

Anyway, it turns out driving up and down Main Street? It’s not as fun as sitting around,
watching
people drive up and down Main Street.

And making fun of them behind their backs while they do so.

I can’t believe that all summer, I’ve been longing to be
inside
a car instead of
outside
of one, watching the action on Main Street. When it turns out it’s so much better back on The Wall. I mean, from The Wall you can see Darlene Staggs open the passenger door of that night’s
boyfriend’s pickup, and barf up all the Mike’s Hard Lemonade she ingested while sunning herself over at the lake that afternoon.

From The Wall you can hear Bebe Johnson’s little chipmunk voice as she sings along with Ashlee Simpson on the radio.

From The Wall you can see Mark Finley adjust his rearview mirror so that he can see his own reflection and gently fluff up his bangs.

You can’t do any of that stuff from the backseat of Jason’s new car.

And I had to be in the backseat, because Becca gets carsick when she sits in the back. So she was in the front seat, next to Jason. Which meant I couldn’t actually see anything much, except their heads. So when Jason went, “Whoa, did you see that? Alyssa Krueger just took a spill in the middle of the street trying to race in platform espadrilles from Shane Mullen’s SUV to Craig Wright’s Jeep,” I missed the whole thing.

“Did she rip her pants?” I asked eagerly.

But neither Jason nor Becca were able to confirm pant-rippage had occurred.

If we’d been sitting on The Wall, I’d have seen the whole thing.

Plus, while I understand that Jason is excited about his new car and all, I think he’s kind of gone overboard with the whole thing. Now when he sees another BMW, he practices this thing he calls BMW Courtesy, which means he lets other BMWs cut in front of him—espe
cially if they are a Series 7, the king BMW of them all, or the convertible 645Ci. Which I find personally egregious, because that’s what Lauren Moffat drives, on account of her father owning the local BMW dealership.

“Oh no, you did not just do that,” I said when I saw Jason let a blonde in a red convertible cut in front of us up by the Hoosier Sweet Shoppe on the Square. “Tell me you did
not
just let Lauren Moffat in.”

“BMW Courtesy, Crazytop,” Jason said. “What can I say? She drives a superior model. I
have
to let her in. It’s a moral obligation.”

Sometimes I think Jason must be the biggest freak in Greene County. Bigger than me, even. Or Becca. And that’s saying something, considering Becca spent most of her life on a farm with virtually no contact with children her own age, except at school where no one but me would speak to her on account of the fact that she wore overalls and fell asleep every day in fifth grade social studies. People would always try to wake her up, but I was like, “Leave her alone! She obviously needs a little nap.”

I always thought Becca must have a very unsatisfactory home life, until I found out it was just because she had to get up at four every morning in order to catch the bus to school, since she lived so far out in the country.

It took careful negotiation to get her to ditch the OshKosh B’Goshes. The sleeping-through-class thing didn’t get solved until last year, when the government bought out her parents’ farm to put I-69 through it, and
the Taylors bought the Snyders’ old house down the street from ours with the money.

Now that Becca can sleep in until seven, she’s wide awake in class. Even Health, which you don’t necessarily have to stay awake for.

It figures these two people would be my best friends. I mean, not that I don’t feel lucky to have them in my life (well, okay, maybe not Jason, the way he’s been acting lately). Because we’ve had some major laughs together. And those nights we’ve spent, stretched out on our backs on The Hill, watching the sky above turn pink, then purple, then finally the darkest blue as the stars came out one by one, while we talked about what we’d do if a giant meteor—like those in the Leonid shower—came hurtling at us at a million miles an hour (Becca: Ask the Lord to forgive her sins. Jason: Kiss his ass good-bye. Me: Roll the heck out of the way).

But still. Becca and Jason are not what you’d call normal.

Take what we were listening to as we drove around in Jason’s car: a compilation Jason made of what he considered the greatest music of the 1970s. Since his car was from that era, he thought it only fitting that we should listen to the songs that were hits in that decade. Tonight we were listening to his favorite year…1977—the Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen” and the
Star Wars: A New Hope
soundtrack, complete with Cantina scene.

Seriously. There’s nothing like cruising up and down Main Street to the sound of an alien space band.

It was while we were stopped at the light in front of the art supply store that I saw Mark Finley pull up to the corner of Main Street and Elm in his purple-and-white four-by-four and honk.

And my heart, as it always does whenever I see Mark Finley, did a somersault in my chest.

Lauren, who was in her convertible in front of us, got all excited and honked and waved back. Not at us. At Mark.

It was hard to see what Mark did next, because Jason was making obscene gestures at him…from below the dashboard, so Mark would be sure not to see him, since you don’t really go around making obscene gestures at the school quarterback if you want to live to see the first day of eleventh grade.

“Look, Steph,” Jason said. “It’s your boyfriend.”

This caused Becca to laugh uproariously. Only she was trying to hide it, so as not to hurt my feelings. So all that came out was a snorting noise.

“Has he seen your new crazy hairdo?” Jason wanted to know. “I bet when he does, he’ll forget all about Little Miss Moffat and make a beeline for your tuffet, instead.”

I didn’t say anything. Because the truth is, even though Jason doesn’t know what he’s talking about, that’s EXACTLY what’s going to happen. Mark Finley is totally going to realize that he and I belong together. He
has
to.

Anyway, driving up and down Main Street turned out to be a bust. Not just to me, either. After about the third turn, Jason went, “I feel like ass. Who wants coffee?”

I didn’t, but I knew what he meant about feeling like ass. I mean, driving up and down a street—even a street on which every single person you know, practically, is also driving up and down—is boring.

And the good thing about the Coffee Pot is that if you get a seat on the upstairs balcony, you can still see what’s happening on Main Street, because that’s where the Pot is located. It’s across the street from The Wall, behind which the Goths and Burners gather to kick their little leather beanbag hacky sacks in the red glow of their clove cigarettes.

No sooner had we snagged our balcony table than Jason elbowed me and pointed over the railing.

“Ken and Barbie alert, at two o’clock,” he said.

I looked down and saw Lauren Moffat and life mate, Mark Finley, heading toward the outdoor ATM directly beneath us. It’s really incredible to me that someone as nice as Mark could be with someone as evil as Lauren. I mean, Mark is almost universally liked (except by Jason, who harbors an irrational disdain for just about everyone except for his best guy friend, Stuckey, who might possibly be one of the most boring human beings on the face of the earth; Becca; and me—when we’re not fighting, anyway). Mark’s been voted president of his class every year since, um, forever, because of his niceness. Whereas Lauren—

Well, let’s put it this way: Mark can only like Lauren because of her looks. Two such beautiful people—because of course Mark isn’t just nice; he’s Brad Pitt
handsome, too—sort of
have
to be together, I guess. Even if one of them is a spawn of Satan.

And Mark and Lauren—they’re
definitely
together. Mark’s arm was around Lauren’s shoulders, and her fingers were slipped through his. The two of them were totally canoodling, oblivious to the fact that there might be people sitting above them who didn’t necessarily want to witness them kissing. Although obviously I was the only one to whom the sight of Mark kissing Lauren was like a red-hot poker through the heart. Becca and Jason just don’t like seeing people putting their tongues in other people’s mouths, on account of the grossness factor.

“Ugh,” Becca said, averting her gaze.

“I’m blind now,” Jason declared. “They’ve blinded me with their disgusting PDA.”

I craned my neck to see over the side of the railing. But the two of them had ducked beneath us so Mark could use the cash machine. All I could see was some of Lauren’s hair.

“Why do they have to do that?” Jason wanted to know. “Make out in public like that? Are they trying to rub it in that they have a special someone, and the rest of us don’t? Is that what they’re trying to do?”

“I don’t think they do it on purpose,” Becca said. “I mean, it’s still gross. But I think it’s just that they can’t resist each other.”

“See, I don’t believe that,” Jason said. “I think they do it on purpose to make the rest of us feel bad for not
having found our soul mate yet. Like high school is really the place where you’d want to find your soul mate.”

“What’s wrong with finding your soul mate in high school?” Becca wanted to know. “I mean, maybe that’s the only chance you’ll ever have to meet your soul mate. If you blow it off, just because you don’t want to meet your soul mate in high school, you may never meet your soul mate at all, and wander lonely as a cloud for the rest of your life.”

“I don’t believe we HAVE only one soul mate,” Jason said. “I think we’re given multiple chances to meet multiple soul mates. Sure, you could meet a soul mate in high school. But that doesn’t mean if you don’t act on it, you’ll never meet anyone else. You will, just at a time that’s more convenient for you.”

“What’s so inconvenient about meeting your soul mate in high school?” Becca asked.

“Let me see,” Jason said, rubbing his chin like he had to think about it. “How about…you still live with your parents? Where are you and your soul mate supposed to go, you know, to get it on?”

Becca thought about it and said, “Your car.”

“See, that’s B.S.,” Jason said. Only he didn’t just say the initials. “What’s romantic about that? Forget about it.”

“So you’re saying nobody should date in high school?” Becca asked. “Because it’s not romantic to make out in a car?”

“Sure, you can date,” Jason said. “Go to the movies
and hang out and stuff. But don’t, you know. Fall in love.”

“What?” Becca looked appalled.
“Ever?”

“Not with somebody you go to school with,” Jason said. “I mean, come on. You don’t want to spit where you eat, do you?”

Only he didn’t say spit.

“Ew,” Becca said.

“I’m serious,” Jason said. “You date someone in school, what happens if you break up? You have to see them every day anyway. How’s that going to be? Super tense. Who needs it? School sucks enough without throwing THAT into the mix.”

“So you’re saying”—Becca needed some clarification—“that you’ve never thought about dating—never had a crush on—anybody in school? Not anybody?”

“Exactly,” Jason said. “And I never will.”

Becca looked like she didn’t believe him, but I knew he was telling the truth—knew it from firsthand experience, when, back in the fifth grade, a new teacher who didn’t know any better let us sit next to each other in class, and Jason proceeded to pinch, poke, and tease me until I couldn’t bear it anymore. When I consulted with my grandfather concerning how I ought to handle the situation—whether I ought to pinch Jason back, or tell on him—Grandpa said, “Stephanie, when boys tease girls, it’s always because they’re a little bit in love with them.”

But when I had—unwisely, I now realized—repeated
this to Jason (the very next time he pretended to wipe a booger on my chair just before I sat down on it), he became so angry that he didn’t speak to me for the rest of the year. No more G.I. Joe meets Spelunker Barbie. No more games of Stratego. No more bike races or leg-wrestling. Instead, he hung out with his stupid friend Stuckey, leaving me to have to befriend Sleeping Beauty (aka Becca).

He didn’t warm up to me again until the sixth grade, right after the Super Big Gulp incident, when Lauren’s campaign of terror against me reached its peak, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for me, sitting alone in the cafeteria, and he finally started having lunch with me again.