Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek (18 page)

“Eva, if I audition will you be happy?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, grabbing the microphone and pressing it into my shaking hands.

I sing the verse, and Ms. Charles shrugs. “I’ll give it to you because it was good and it’s your last year here.”

“CONGRATULATIONS!” Eva yells. I blush.

The clock strikes four, and Ms. Charles tells us all to go home and rest our voices. The concert is on Tuesday and she wants us all to be healthy.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder. It really is a very sad sight. We are required to use mesh backpacks to discourage us from carrying weapons and drugs. The mesh is always tearing, leaving gaping holes in the bottom. This is my third backpack this year. My sewing kit is already stowed away in the moving boxes so I shoved quilting material in the bottom to keep my books from falling out. People snicker as I walk by, but I don’t really care. I guess Betty helped me learn how to laugh at myself.

Sunday, May 13

Natalia wanders in at seven this morning and yells,
“Beep, beep, beep!”

My sister—the human alarm clock. I sit up and glare at her. She grins widely at me and says, “Good-bye, Natalia!” She skips out and closes the door.

At least she’s more courteous than she used to be.

This morning I make two invitations for the party I have planned (with Betty’s prodding) for this weekend. Betty says,
“Whether you mail or telephone them, invitations should be sent out to every person you wish to include.”

I’d like to have Ethan and Hector there, which means I have to give them their invitations at church today. This is what the cards say:

BON VOYAGE!

I’m moving this summer!
You’re invited to my farewell party!
Saturday, May 19
6:00 p.m.–9:00 p.m.
My house
Pizza & drinks will be served
RSVP

At church I hand one to Hector, and he looks at it for a while.

“I’m hosting a party on Saturday,” I say. “You and Ethan would be the only guys from church, but it would be great if you could come.”

“I can’t,” he says. “I have a choir trip.”

“Oh,” I say. I feel Ethan’s invitation burning in my pocket, but I know that I won’t give it to him. Ethan wouldn’t come if he was the only one not from my school. What’s the use?

Hector apologizes and walks away.

Monday, May 14

I’m trapped in health class, once again listening to a middle-age woman describe sex—it’s something I wish I could delete from my memory. I close my eyes and try to keep the walls from closing in. Suddenly, someone knocks at the door, and I’m confident that it’s an angel who has come to take me away from this horror.

“Morning, ma’am. I’ve come to check the students for drug possession.”

“Fine by me,” Ms. Welch says, smiling sweetly at the police officer.

“Empty all your pockets and leave sweaters and purses on the desks where they can be seen and easily accessed,” he orders.

The officer/God-sent-creature-of-mercy leads us out of the classroom and into the hallway where a huge drug dog is waiting. He nonchalantly walks the canine down the row of students eyeing each of us carefully, then takes the dog into the room.

We’re told later that two students in my grade got arrested today. Hope it’s not anyone I know.

 . . . . . . .

I stay up until 11:00 making the rest of the invitations for my party. I have to admit, it isn’t actually putting together the invites that takes me so long, it’s coming up with the guest list. After everything that’s happened, it feels strange not to include everyone. For hours I sat mulling over who I considered “most important,” and it hurt. Betty says the following about those you invite:

A point to remember here is to be generous. Don’t boycott friends you happen to be peeved with. Don’t keep your list down to just the same old circle. Vary your guests.

The list is about 70 percent choir girls, but there are the Goth Art Chicks, Nicolas (my new algebra crush, whom I plan to ask to prom), Carlos Sanchez, Kenzie, all the Social Outcasts, Dante, etc. Every time I think I’m done, I realize I’ve forgotten someone. I’ve prepared twenty-seven invitations, but I could add ten more guests in a heartbeat.

How do people host parties? It’s so gut-wrenching to decide who comes and who doesn’t that I feel physically ill. In light of everything I’ve learned so far, this kind of exclusivity just feels . . . wrong. But alas, it’s something else that I must push through.

Tuesday, May 15

Twenty-seven invitations are hidden in my backpack. I’m no longer feeling down. Instead, I’ve decided to just enjoy everything. Kenzie doesn’t ride the bus this morning, but that’s okay. I’m on top of the world! I’m also looking forward to getting my braces off during my orthodontist appointment today. Everything’s finally happening! I’m feeling invincible!

I see Catalina from choir leaning against a wall in the hallway before school starts.

“Hey there, Catalina,” I say. “How are you doing?”

“Good, I guess.”

“Awesome. So, I’m hosting a party this weekend and would love for you to be there.” I give her an invitation.

She opens the envelope and reads.

“It sounds like a lot of fun,” she says. “I’d love to come to your farewell party, Maya, but I can’t.”

“Why?” I ask. This definitely catches me off guard.

“Allison, you know the one in our choir? She’s having her birthday party that same night.” She places it back into my hands. “I can’t come to yours. Sorry.”

My heart begins to sink, as I force the next question. “Who else is going?”

“Everybody
,”
she says. Quickly she realizes her oversight. The fact that I wasn’t invited. “I mean, everybody except . . . some people.”

“It’s okay, Catalina,”
I whisper. She makes an excuse and runs off. I shuffle through the stack of invitations in my hand, the majority of which are choir girls, all of whom will go to Allison’s party. On the top envelope, written in big hopeful letters, is
Allison.

I look away, trying not to cry.

I trudge through the hallway, struggling to stay optimistic. I’m not even sure if the party is going to happen, so I think about the prom. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nicolas. My heart leaps into my throat. He’s talking with a pretty Band Geek. He’s laughing as he drapes his sweatshirt around her tiny shoulders. She smiles and bats her eyelashes. They hug and walk off to class together. Their hands hang at their sides, almost touching.

I shove the envelopes angrily in my mesh backpack, the quilting spilling out the sides, like the guts from a wounded animal.

My heart aches. I thought things were going to be different. I guess I’ve been fooling myself all along.

 . . . . . . .

After poking various instruments in my mouth, my orthodontist determines that I will be keeping my braces on for another five weeks. I won’t get them off before school ends.

 . . . . . . .

The choir concert is tonight.

I hug my knees and imagine that I’m somewhere else, someone else. I now wish I’d never auditioned for the stupid solo. Who am I kidding? With my luck I’ll probably fall off the stage.

Song after song is performed until it’s our turn to sing our finale, “It’s a Beautiful Day.” If this isn’t irony, what is? I remember most of my choreography, but when it’s my turn to sing, my feet are like lead. Somehow I manage to walk to the microphone. I hear the CD play my introduction. I start to sing.

I try to appear happy and interested in what I’m saying, but my tongue is dry leather.

I look out into the audience. There’s Dad filming the concert, Natalia with her ears covered, Brodie with a vacant expression on his face, and Mom looking hopeful.

I close my eyes and try to focus on the lyrics, but I stumble and miss a phrase. It feels as if a brick has hit my chest and it’s impossible to breathe. I manage to recover enough to finish, but for me, the damage is done.

Choking on my solo

When the concert is over one of my choir friends tugs my arm. “You did super good.” She snorts. “Well, at least until you messed up. The look on your face was so dumb. You messed up, like, a lot!”

“Thanks, Claire . . .” I say, looking down. A few seats away I can hear girls mocking me, singing my solo, and pretending to choke.

All of their names are written on the envelopes in my backpack.

I hold myself together until we get into the car.

“Oh, honey,” Mom says. “It wasn’t that bad!”

I cradle my head in my hands as hot tears run down my face.

It’s not just Claire’s comment that hurts. When I was in fourth grade I was an iris in the school play,
Alice in Wonderland
. I had a handful of lines. I pretended it was real, and I got into the character. People would laugh when they saw me, but I assumed it was because I was good.

On the day before the performance, I came in late to rehearsal. All the other flowers were sitting in a circle talking about something.

“And then she says her lines so stupidly! If only Maya realized that she looks like an idiot every time she opens her mouth,” said the Daisy. “She’s so bad at acting. . . .” Then she looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. She sneered and said my lines, exactly like I’d say them. All the other flowers laughed.

I hid in the bathroom, crying all over my sweatpants.

And now, when I look at my life, all I can see is the joke it has become. The Daisy’s laughter still echoes through my head.

Is this all that my experiment has amounted to—people pretending to be my friends then being cruel when I need them most? Why did I believe I was anything but an inside joke? Carlos Sanchez was right. Kenzie was right. I’m not special, I’m just a crazy girl in Grandma shoes. I don’t have balls at all.

I’m sorry, Betty Cornell. I tried.

Popularity isn’t real.

I’m done.

Friday, May 18

Tuesday night as I lay in bed, I swore to myself that I’d given up on this whole popularity thing. When I dragged myself back to school the last few days, the choir girls whispered. In algebra, Nicolas asked to sit somewhere else. At lunch I didn’t get invites to other tables. I just sat with my own Social Outcast group (who have now become distant). My hair was disheveled, my clothing was rumpled, and my pearls seemed out of place. Everything just hurt.

I promised I’d never write another entry.

And then it came.

Another envelope arrived in the mail this afternoon. It was from Mrs. Cornell’s daughter, Betsy. In it were family photographs.

Seeing Betty as a grandmother is remarkable. Believe it or not, she looks a lot like she did in the 1940s. Her smile and bright eyes are exactly the same. In the photos, Betty is with her husband, her three children, their spouses, and nine beautiful grandkids. They look so happy.

Seeing the pictures and the neatly written letter makes me realize that I’m not alone. I’ve got Betty Cornell and her daughter on my side. That has to count for something.

Can I just give this all up? I’ve come too far, worked too hard. I guess by having everything fall apart, I forgot about all the good things that happened too.

But I don’t know where to go from here.

All my confidence and inner strength—how do I find it again?

Saturday, May 19

I wake up to see the sun streaming through the window, as if it’s trying to convince the occupants of our house that things will get better. It’s not doing a very good job.

I finally drag my body out of bed and sit at the kitchen table trying to figure out what to do next. Since I’m not hosting my party tonight, I suppose I should deal with getting a date.

I yank a sheet of paper from the desk and absently write in big letters:

W
HO TO ASK TO THE PROM

DANTE

Dante is a close guy friend. Like an older brother, he teases me and looks out for me, but he’s got someone else he adores. That leads me to the next guy.

FRANCISCO

Francisco would be fun too. But he hates school functions with a passion. I wince as I write the next name.

ADRIANO

Ugh. I scratch his name off the list.

LEON

He probably would be too shy to go. I’m afraid everyone would stand around and make fun of him for being on a date. Who am I to ask him to do that?

NICOLAS

My hand pauses as I write his name.

He’s the most mature boy I know.

And sweet.

But he has a girlfriend.

I tear up the list, and lay my head on the table. My party and the prom were supposed to be the culmination of everything I’ve learned this year. Why is it all falling apart?

Suddenly I get that “there’s-something-very-wrong-here” vibe.

Images of the last nine months play like a story through my head.

When was I closest to popularity? It wasn’t when I lost weight. It wasn’t when I changed my hairstyle daily. It wasn’t when I stood up straight or tried new makeup or wore a skirt. It wasn’t when looking at the imprints of the girdle on my thighs or when I earned money.

It was when I was talking to people. It was when I opened up my introverted circle and allowed everyone I met in. It was when I included everyone. And that’s exactly what a party and a prom date do not do.