Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek (12 page)

“Yes, I’ve heard,” I say, biting my lip. “Can I visit you? I’d like to show you some of my writing.”

Mom smiles at me when I get off the phone.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“I’m telling him about Betty Cornell. Tomorrow.”

She shakes her head. “No, Maya, you can’t. If word gets out that you’re doing an experiment, everything you’ve done this year would be for nothing.”

“This may be my only chance. He won’t tell anyone.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “It’s
your
secret.”

Sunday, January 22

Mr. Lawrence lives in a beige house with a ceramic gnome on the front porch. “Ready?” Mom asks.

I nod, my fingers clasped tightly around the vase with the yellow rose and the envelope full of my recent short stories and poems. At the very back is the letter I wrote for him. Under that is hidden
Betty Cornell’s Teen-Age Popularity Guide.

I’m wearing a knee-length skirt with a blue blouse and my old lady shoes. No pearls or nylons. Or makeup. I want him to recognize me.

When I knock on the door, his wife answers. She brings us upstairs to Mr. Lawrence. He looks exhausted and has lost a lot of weight. He talks a little bit about his family and grandson, although he has trouble remembering what grade he’s in. He tells me he misses teaching, except he can’t recall who’s covering his class now.

Finally he asks about writing. That’s when I tell him about Dad finding Betty’s book and about Mom’s idea. I tell him about Kenzie and Carlos Sanchez. I tell him about my chapters.

I ask him to give me a quote about popularity so that I can use it in my book. He smiles and says he will.

When I leave, I say good-bye and promise to e-mail. I’m unsure if I will ever see him again.

The last words I hear him say are to his wife. His proudest voice echoes down the stairs and into my heart, “She’s going to be a famous author someday.”

Monday, January 23

Today during choir, Nadia (Volleyball Girl turned Goth Art Chick) walks in with a new piercing at the top of her ear. She collects quite an audience of seventh graders as she shows it off. “When they pierced my ear my hearing changed,” she says seriously. “Now I can talk to God . . . and Gandhi.”

Her listeners nod gravely. It’s no surprise that last year they were gullible sixth graders.

She walks up to me and stares at my outfit. I observe hers: black shoes, black earrings, black hair, black jeans, and a yellow polo.

“Wow,” she says. “You look . . . pretty. Wait . . . No. Not pretty . . . Conservative. That’s the word. You look
conservative.”

I stare down at my outfit. Yellow old lady cardigan and Pilgrim shoes.

She’s right.

“Does it make you smarter?” she asks.

I tell her I need to think about that. Later, even Carlos Sanchez compliments me.

“Hey, Maya. I am
enjoying
your sweater.”

Ew. I have no idea what he means by that, but the way he says it makes me feel the need to scrub my brain out with bleach.

“I like your necklace,” he continues.

I touch the strand of pearls at my collarbone. “Er, okay.”

“It’s kind of funny,” he sneers. “My
grandma
has one just like it.”

The class erupts into laughter.

Friday, January 27

After finishing our Emotions collage Kenzie and I pass notes in health class discussing tuberculosis. Suddenly she drops her pen on the desk and smiles deviously. “I’m going to ask Ms. Welch about sexual things. Later loser.”
I watch as she casually strolls across the room to where the teacher is grading papers. She says something I can’t hear and Ms. Welch’s jaw drops. The woman mutters something unintelligible. Kenzie sits back down, content.

“You have no limits, Kenzie,” I say. “There is never a dull moment with you.”

“I know.”

 . . . . . . .

Ms. Corbeil calls me over to her library desk, her cell phone in hand.

“Mr. Lawrence called and wanted me to ask you about a quote?” she says, confused.

I freeze.

“He couldn’t remember which class you needed it for. What should I tell him?”

He’s losing his memory. He’s slipping away. My heart breaks. At the same time, I’m terrified. What if someone finds out about this project that I’ve been living for five months? It could all be over in an instant.

“It’s okay, I can e-mail him,” I say, pausing. “Um . . . It’s for church, so there really isn’t a time limit.” My voice shakes, but I push through the lie.

Ms. Corbeil stares at me for a long moment before she turns her back. I can tell she’s suspicious.

Tuesday, January 31

It’s the last day of the month. I wear my long pioneer skirt that hits my ankles and my turtleneck sweater. Nobody whispers. Nobody looks at me funny.

“Do they like my outfits now?” I ask Kenzie as we leave health and walk through the schoolyard to get to our next class.

“No, you’re still a loser,” she states, pushing me in front of her to serve as an I-am-texting-and-don’t-want-teachers-to-find-out barrier.

I sigh and realize she’s right. I’m not popular. I am a loser. I make my way to choir and that’s when I see it.

Across from me, standing there as cool as can be is a semi-popular Choir Geek. And on her neck is a strand of pearls.

A glimmer of hope in a dark and unpopular world.

At a choir concert wearing pearls

GOOD GROOMING & AWAY FROM HOME

In fairy tales, Prince Charming may have discerned Cinderella’s beauty under the soot and ashes, but the chances are against a modern young man poking through layers of dirt to find his own true love.

The first time I ever witnessed popularity was when I was eight years old. There was a girl named Vanessa. She had to have spent hours on her clean, organized appearance every morning. And, of course, the guy I had a crush on at the time, Jason, was in love with her.

I’d stand in front of the mirror and look at myself judgmentally for hours trying to figure out the differences between her and me. She was thin; I was chubby. She had smooth skin; I had a unibrow. She had new, pressed, clean clothes; I wore stretch pants and hand-me-downs. She had guys follow her home; I had the neighbor boy who would throw naked Barbies into our lilac bush. Vanessa was perfect. How could I measure up?

She was just so . . . put together.

This month I will strive to be more like Vanessa. I will iron my clothes. Bathe or shower daily. Keep my nails trimmed and my legs shaved. Take care of my unibrow. I will follow all of Betty’s advice on how to be neat, tidy, and completely changed from my slobbish self. If the saying “The devil is in the details” holds true, then this is where the real transformation begins.

Thursday, February 2

Nobody wants to book a girl with dirty fingernails or a torn blouse. And certainly nobody wants to work with a model who stints on bathing and doesn’t use a deodorant.

Kenzie and I stand outside waiting for school to start. My wardrobe has changed again for this month’s theme. I’ve moved from rumpled skirts to ironed pants and spotless sweaters. My hair is slicked back in a neat ponytail. My Pilgrim shoes are shined.

All leather goods need to be polished—a little elbow grease and some wax will work wonders and make the leather last longer too.

When I point this fact out to Kenzie, she snorts. “What kind of a loser polishes her shoes?”

 . . . . . . .

I wear the same outfit to the church youth activity tonight. Liliana gives me a strange look but says nothing. I try to ease the mood with light conversation about the book I’m reading, which happens to be
The Hobbit.

Ethan walks in and asks what we’re talking about.

Uh-oh. . . . Here comes the verbal retching.

“Some girls at school and I do competitions on who can sound the nerdiest,” I spew forth. “You see, one girl is a big follower of
Star Wars
, and another does
Star Trek
and now I’m reading
Lord of the Rings
.” It’s all true. Two Choir Geeks and I started the battle a couple days ago. There is no definite winner yet.

Then like a God-sent messenger, the rational voice comes back to my head.

SHUT UP, MAYA! SAVE YOUR DIGNITY BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE, YOU IDIOT!

“What do you mean ‘sound nerdiest’?” he asks, his beautiful forehead wrinkling.

I heave again. “Well, we nerd-talk. You know, try to describe major plot points in the geekiest way possible.”

“I still don’t get it.”

I try to swallow. I try to stop myself. But I’ve gone too far. “Let me demonstrate,” I say with a stereotypical nerd voice. “There once was a Hobbit named Bilbo Baggins who lived in a Hobbit-hole in the magical land of Shire. He was very content smoking his long wooden pipe and eating several meals a day, but one day Gandalf, he’s a wizard, came and invited Bilbo to join him on an adventure. Before he knew what was happening dwarves called Dwalin, and Balin, and Borin and Thorin (may his beard grow ever longer), and all these others took him on a big quest to go retrieve the stolen treasure from the dragon Smaug. On the way they stop at the house of Elrond and meet the Elvish folk . . .” I go on for about another Hobbit lifetime (well beyond a hundred years) until finally I’m left dry heaving and exhausted.

He walks away quickly.

I think I am going to die. Hobbits! I talked about HOBBITS!

Oh well. At least my shoes are polished.

Friday, February 3

I can not overemphasize how necessary it is to be neat about what you wear.

I iron my capri pants, make sure my makeup is neat, and slick back my hair, long before the sun rises, leaving me plenty of time to ponder on my idiocy. Ethan will never like me. Maybe it’s not so bad, dying alone. I could nerd-talk all I want and no one will hear me.

I pull on my pressed pants—or attempt to pull them on. I realize they are, in fact, my brother’s trousers.

Obviously no amount of deodorant will ever mask the eternal stink coming from my clueless glands.

Sunday, February 5

“No. I will not be a part of this.”

“Mom, tonight is our only chance.”

“No, we are not buying you a girdle.” She folds her arms and sits down on the couch. Her lips are pressed together in a tight line.

“Let her do it,” Dad says. He seems to be making more of an effort to be patient with me these days. Yesterday I curled up next to him on the couch and we talked for an hour about school. He actually listened instead of lecturing.

“See, Dad supports me!” I argue.

“Your father’s not himself. He’s trying to
relate
to you.” She glares.

“It’s true. You might as well call me Michael,” Dad murmurs from where he sits reading.

“Okay then. Michael supports me!”

We stare each other down until Natalia wanders in using her toy, Turtle, as a telephone for an imaginary conversation.

Finally, Mom gives in. We get into the car and rush to the mall in an attempt to reach it before closing time.

I am firmly of the opinion that almost every teen needs a girdle—not a whaleboned ironclad trap, but some sort of lightweight affair to control the curves. . . . Don’t turn up your nose at the idea of wearing these modern aids to figure beauty. Today’s girdle is a far cry from the cantankerous corset Grandmother wore. Nowadays a girdle is so light you scarcely know you have it on . . .

My panty girdle

Ha! The girdle I’m trying on at the moment is so tight that it makes my brain swell, not to mention my thighs. I try on four or five before finding the least repulsive one: a beige panty girdle with embroidered flowers. It’s rather snug, but gives me more of an hourglass shape than I ever thought possible. Hmmm.

After we leave the dressing room and it’s clear I won’t be talked out of my mission, Mom finally changes her attitude. We have fun and joke around as we smell the perfumes.

In addition to deodorants, you should get in the habit of using a light scent—any flower cologne will do, provided that it is fresh and fragrant.

With Mom’s help, I pay for the girdle along with a bottle of Lilac Blossom Body Spray, the best “scent” I could find.

It’s nice having Mom back and not the angry monster that momentarily possessed her. I’m guessing that her blood sugar was low. We probably should’ve bought some marked down doughnuts instead.

Tuesday, February 7

We’ve been working nonstop for the choir performance this week. We will be taking a bus almost three hundred miles north to San Antonio for a music convention.

Ms. Charles, the choir director, has been busy managing all the details.

“All right, girls,” she says, taking out a clipboard, “who are you sharing a bed with at the hotel?”

Everybody giggles and starts making that very distinct middle-school-girl sound—somewhere between a cheer and a shriek.

Ms. Charles goes down the list.

“Marina?” she asks.

“Victoria!” Marina squeals and the two start laughing.

“Nadia?”

“Selena.”

I don’t know what I will say. Beads of sweat start dripping down my face. It must be unusually hot in here.

If you perspire from nervousness, as many do, don’t be alarmed, it is just a normal bodily reaction. . . . If you feel the necessity sew protective shields in your blouses and dresses. . . . An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. A date once made uncomfortable or a friend offended by your carelessness will take a long time to forget.

Thanks for the cleanliness insight, Betty, now get out of my head!

I bury my face in my pressed skirt. The names continue on and on until . . .

“Maya?”

“I-I-I don’t really have anybody . . .”

“Well there are only four girls left. Leslie, who do you want to be with?”

Leslie glances at me. “Tina!”

Last person picked . . . last person picked. . . . That isn’t popular. That’s just sad.

I have to share a bed with someone I’ve never talked to before. I can’t imagine how she feels about it.

Thursday, February 9

It is 5:00 in the morning and bitter cold as we wait outside in front of the school for the fancy transportation to arrive. Because our district doesn’t have to pay for it, we get to stay in swanky hotels and ride buses that look more like airplanes. It’s very, very cool.

Of course, first we have to line up all our bags end-to-end in the parking lot. I know that it’s only procedure, but I can’t help wondering if we’re the only middle school that has to have our luggage sniffed by drug dogs before going on a field trip.

The police officers take the hyper beagle up and down the lines of backpacks and suitcases, while we’re made to stand fifty feet away. I don’t like drug dogs. Sadly, though, when you live in “Borderlandia,” you get real familiar with seeing them.

Since no one signed up to be my “buddy” on the trip, I’m forced on Eva, a seventh grader, whose best friend got the stomach flu and couldn’t come. We sit next to each other in silence at first, but we break the ice and talk for a while. I can still tell she’s sad that her friend isn’t there instead. At least I know I don’t stink.

Friday, February 10

The alarm on the side of the bed blares, and I smack the button. Slowly I creep into the bathroom and look at my reflection. Nope. No permanent-marker mustache. I smile. Maybe this trip won’t be so bad after all.

I shower quickly and put on my girdle before anyone can see. I gargle with mouthwash as Betty requires, then rush to wake up the other girls.

When we’re all dressed and ready, we get on the bus and drive to our concert. My heart beats loudly as we walk to the convention center. We do one final run-through and then are led silently to the risers at the front of a massive room filled with hundreds of people.

There is something really special about performing. From the moment Ms. Charles raises her hands, there is an anxious silence as the crowd waits. As we sing our first note, we notice the intake of breath in the audience. It’s magic. I sing like I never have before. I’m so happy to be alive, to be here, in spite of all the awkwardness. I smile as Ms. Charles’s hands dip and twirl. The music soars perfectly. I keep waiting for her to stop us because we forgot a staccato or to tell us that we’re off pitch, but she leads us on. The bright lights keep us from seeing the audience so it feels as if they don’t even exist. It’s just the choir, the conductor, and the music.