How Not To Be Popular

Acknowledgments

A big thanks to the following people for all of their advice, inspiration, and assistance: Stephanie Lane, Christy Cerreto, the Bevill family (Jimmy, Will, Lynn, and Midgi), Julie Carolan, Lisa Holden, Jessica Arellano, Gina McFarlen, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Owen Ziegler, Donovan Gullion, and Allan Amaya.

And thanks forever to my family.

Also by Jennifer Ziegler

Alpha Dog

About the Author

Jennifer Ziegler had no problems being unpopular in school. Her only major move was from the extreme chill of Anchorage, Alaska, to the muggy heat of central Texas when she was eight years old. She currently lives in Austin with her extremely patient husband, two hilarious children, and a new puppy.

Jennifer is also the author of
Alpha Dog.
Visit her online atwww.jenniferziegler.net .

Epilogue: Starting Again

T
IP: Be your flawed self and see what happens….

“Ladies and gentlemen
…this year’s Lakewood High homecoming queen is…”
Come on, come on!
I urge silently.

I’m standing on a football field with the other nominees, but I’m the only one being escorted by both my parents, instead of just my dad, and the only one in glittery space boots and a silver chiffon cocktail dress.

“Shanna Applewhite!” Dr. Wohman finally announces.

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“Thank god,” I mumble. Not that I was rooting for anyone in particular; I’m just glad it’s over.

Shanna lets out a huge squeal and hugs her dad for a long time. I’m happy for her. I think this might be good for her confidence.

“I’m sorry, butterfly,” Rosie says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

“I’m not,” I mutter.

“You know”—Les looks down at me, and I see that his eyes are all misty—“you don’t need a ribbon and crown to be beautiful.”

“Thanks, Les.”

The three of us walk off the field arm in arm, my boots leaving little pockmarks on the turf. We head for the section of bleachers where the Helping Hands are sitting together. The twins are holding up a homemade sign that reads Maggie for President, while Carter has one that says Come Home, Maggie!

They clap as we approach.

“Aw, man! I know you don’t care but I still wish you would have won,” Drip grumbles. “These things are so rigged.”

“I like how your dress sparkles,” Penny says.

“Thanks.” I glance around, hoping to spot Jack, but of course, he’s not there. Even since the rest of the Helping Hands forgave me, Jack has kept up his big silent treatment. It still really hurts, but I don’t want to ask too much of the Universe.

“Miss Dempsey!”

I spin around and see Mrs. Pratt standing behind me, wearing a crafty smile.

“Hi,” I say. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“How could I not come root for you?” she says. “Besides, I remembered you saying your application deadlines were coming up and I wanted to give you this.” She hands me an envelope. “Go ahead. Read it.”

I open it and slide out the paper.

To Whom It May Concern,
I read silently.
It is my great pleasure to recommend Sugar Magnolia
Dempsey for your college. In my twenty-one years of teaching, I’ve never before seen so much
growth in a young person. Miss Dempsey is the rare type of individual who’s open to learning not
just from books, but from life as well….

“Wow,” I breathe. I’ve never felt so humbled and honored. This means more than any rhinestone tiara ever could. “Thanks. Thanks so much!” I throw my arms around her and give her a hug.

“You’re welcome,” she says with a chuckle. “Oh, are these your parents?”

“Hi, I’m Rosie.”

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“I’m Les.”

“Gretchen,” says Mrs. Pratt. “So nice to meet you.”

As they start talking, I take a couple of steps back and read the rest of the letter. I feel proud and grateful and twirly with excitement. It’s like the letter is a sort of magic ticket—an express pass to my future. Even though I’m not sure where I want to go to college anymore—the idea of going wherever Trevor goes is kind of silly now—it feels great to think my opportunities are open.

I’m so caught up in Mrs. Pratt’s nice words that I don’t hear my name being called. Suddenly I become vaguely aware of a figure on the ground next to the bleachers.

“Maggie!” the figure shouts again.

I look over the railing and see flowers—white petals with red and gold centers—and Jack’s head looming above them. My heart starts beating so fast I wouldn’t be surprised if it burst out of me and started
boing
ing all over the football field.

“Hi,” I call out. I quickly tromp down the steps toward him, scared he might disappear like a mirage.

I reach the mud-splattered concrete and stand in front of him. He seems real. My dream version of Jack probably wouldn’t have his hair slicked back so neatly or a shaving nick on his jawline.

He notices me staring at the three-quart pot in his hands. “It’s a magnolia,” he says, bobbing his chin toward the blossoms.

“I know,” I remark. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s for you. I figured you’d rather have something alive and with roots than something that will slowly die in a few days.”

I smile. “You really aren’t a Republican, are you?”

“Nope.” He grins back at me. “And I’m not a Democrat either.”

“So what are you then?”

“I’m me.”

“I’m me too,” I say.
“Finally.”

Jack’s face goes all serious. “Listen, uh…I’ve been doing some thinking and…I really want us to be friends.”

“Oh.” A little bit of the giddiness goes squelching out of me. “Friends, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, blowing out his breath. Maybe it’s just that he’s lugging around a tree, but he seems sort of weary. “I’m sorry. I’m just not ready for anything else,” he goes on. “But I’d like for us to hang out. And maybe something can, you know, grow out of that. If not, at least we’re friends.”
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I stare into one of the sapling’s large blooms, thinking about what he’s saying. He’s right. Whatever happens, it should come naturally. Besides, there’s plenty of time now that I’m staying here in Austin.

“Okay,” I say, meeting his eye. “Friends.”

He smiles and ducks his head, as if shy or relieved. Catching sight of his beeline part, I reach out and gingerly mess up his hair.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” I confess, lowering my hand once I’ve achieved the perfect disheveled look.

“Funny,” he remarks. “I’ve always wanted to do this.” Carefully holding the plant in his left arm, he reaches toward me and gently pushes all the stray hairs off my face, then finishes by smoothing each side with long, sweeping strokes. “There,” he says.

We grin at each other for a moment, and I feel a little doddery in my boots. If this is friendship, it’s a really special kind.

“Yoo-hoo! Doodle!” Rosie is waving down at me. “Are you ready to go? Oh! Hi, Jack!”

“Hi, Mrs. Dempsey.”

“We’re not staying for the game,” I explain. “I invited the Helping Hands back to the apartment. We’re going to dance on the roof and eat dead heads. Want to join us? It’s what friends do.”

“Um…that sort of depends. What are dead heads?”

“It’s a snack this buddy of ours is bringing,” I tell him. “Come on. I don’t think I can carry that plant in these shoes, anyway.”

“Sure,” he says. “Hope I get to see more baby pictures.” By now Rosie and Les and the Helping Hands have descended the bleachers. Everyone grins at us knowingly.

“You coming with us, Sugar?” Les asks, shaking the keys to the Bumblebee.

“That’s okay. I’ll ride with Jack,” I reply. “I know the way home.” Home. I love saying that. It makes me feel cozy and safe and part of something real.

Home sweet home.

T
IP: Popular girls never go anywhere by themselves.

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Thus, it must also stand to reason that the unpopular are always alone.

First days of school
always make me feel extra alive. My senses just seem magically improved. It’s like I can fully live in the moment and simultaneously float along beside myself, carefully recording everything for later viewing. And this, I know, will become a treasured memory. The kind that replays in full color and digital surround sound, with credits rolling at the end. This will be the day I finally figure out my life.

The day I overcome the burden of being a Traveling Dempsey. Today I begin Operation Avoid Friends (OAF?).

Knowing I have nothing to lose this time around makes me feel better about the whole situation. To tell the truth, I’m even a little excited about it.

Of course, this is the first day of school only for me. Everyone else has been here for over two weeks.

That’s another thing about my parents: they can’t be on time for anything. First they took their own sweet hippie time making it to Austin; then yesterday they had the entire day to officially enroll me at Lakewood High, but when did we walk in the door? At a quarter to five. The registrar was just about to shut down her computers—something she reminded us of several times as she raced through the enrollment process.

Of course Les and Rosie didn’t seem to notice. As Les slowly filled out forms in his ornate handwriting, the lady kept tapping her car keys against her desk. But Rosie just hummed along with the rhythm.

So here I am, getting my first glimpse of Lakewood’s teen population. The students don’t look all that different from Portland kids. Or Seattle or Berkeley or Boulder or Madison or Santa Fe kids, for that matter. All the typical groupings are here. This is my tenth high school, so as you can imagine, I’ve gotten really good at figuring out the cliques and the power rankings, just by noticing the way kids dress and act.

Hanging at the edge of the parking lot, under a cloud of cigarette smoke, are the Thugs, aka Burnouts, Stoners, or Fry-Boys. Rockers and Skaters are subsets of this group, and they overlap like Venn diagrams for partying purposes. Trevor was a part of this group in Portland; shaggy-haired Skaters were the dominant breed there, but it’s obviously different in Austin. Here they seem to be of skinnier, squirrelier stock and they aren’t surrounded by a gaggle of admiring girls.

Sitting at a couple of picnic tables on the front lawn are the Brains. Or Nerds, Honor Roll Dweebs, Debate Club Dorks, or Goobers. Judging by all the big black instrument cases, I’d say most of them take band, which is typical. At other schools I’ve learned that almost all superbrain students take band or orchestra, but not all band or orchestra students are superbrains. Band as phylum, Brains as genus.

Swarming around a stone wall that separates the parking lot from the school is what I guess to be the art and/or theater crowd. A guy in camo pants and a T-shirt with something ironic on it (I’m too far away to read it) is reenacting some outrageous sketch with a bad British accent. Meanwhile his peers cheer him on. A Goth couple in the front is really cracking up, which makes me smile. It’s always funny to see Goths laugh.

And finally, scattered about the covered walkway leading to the school’s front doors are the heads of the high school ecosystem. This category differs slightly from school to school, but usually it includes perfect poser types with an overabundance of money and power. In this case, preppy jocks appear to be the ruling class—mainly guys with football-player builds, spiky flattop hairdos, and urban designer clothes.

There are a few pretty girls sprinkled in with them, but mainly as accessories. I haven’t yet spotted the school’s ruling females, the crowd I typically try to integrate with.

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Being part of the power clique means you’re automatically protected to a degree. You get access to the best clubs and parties and sometimes have more privileges at school. Everything is just easier. I’ve never made top tier, but I’ve almost always been part of that scene—until this time, that is. Under the rules of my antipopularity plan, I can’t associate with any friendworthy people. Instead I’m going to be one of those weird outsider types—the ones who are always by themselves and give off lots of keep-away vibes. The kind of person no one notices after a while.

“Hey! New girl!” One of the alpha guys calls out to me. He’s cute. Real cute, in fact. Dark blond hair, strong jaw, dimples. I know I’m trying to avoid people, but this guy is so gorgeous it’s hard to look away. “Where’re you from?” he drawls, adding extra emphasis to “you.” I hear my response in my head.
All over the place.
It’s a struggle, but I don’t let it out. Instead I tear my gaze off him and fiddle with my messenger bag, hoping he’ll lose interest. Just being near a guy reminds me of Trevor.

“Hey, you! I’m talking to you!” He raises his voice, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice that his pals all turn their heads simultaneously. Even a couple of passersby slow down to watch.

I wish he’d just declare me a weirdo and move on, but instead he hops down off his perch and walks up next to me. His cohorts pivot around, their faces gleaming expectantly.

“Didn’t you hear me?” the guy asks. He leans forward, hovering his face over mine as if to give the best possible view of his perfect cheekbones and navel-sized dimples.

A warm sensation trickles through me—probably hormones. This is the type of guy girls embarrass themselves for, a guy who could possibly help me get over Trevor…but even on the bizarro chance we hooked up (which isn’t likely), who would help me get over
him
when we move in four months?

As I stand there, sifting through my jumbled thoughts, the guy’s face slowly flattens. “Man, what’s wrong with you?” he asks. “Just trying to be friendly here.”

“Blow her off, Miles,” calls out one of his guy pals. “She’s probably got someone else giving it to her.” Denied any entertainment, the crowd turns back toward the other approaching students.

The guy gives me a final once-over, shakes his head as if confused, and lopes back to his crowd. I feel simultaneously let down and relieved—mainly relieved. I could have messed up my antipopularity strategy five minutes after arriving at school, but I didn’t. And if a TV star–handsome guy doesn’t throw me off, nothing will.

I push through the double glass doors, and the mystery of the missing queen bees is solved. As I cross the foyer and enter the wide-open student-center area, I find a swarm of cheerleader and dance-squad types. All of them are thin and pretty and wearing the trendiest fashions—no doubt copied from whatever bad-girl starlet has made the tabloid covers lately. No one takes any notice of me. They’re all too busy practicing routines or painting spirit posters or gossiping.

In the past I would have tried to join this crowd as a hanger-on—you know, those celebrity-assistant types who get to share in the spoils. But I won’t do that here. Instead I make myself look away, and wander off to find my locker assignment.

So far I’ve seen nothing that makes this school seem any better or worse than the others I’ve been to—which is fine. Since I’ll know exactly what to expect, it should be no problem to stay out of
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everyone’s way for four months.

Then, when I leave, it will be like I was never here at all.

After wandering in a complete circle, I finally find my homeroom. Room 117 is an offshoot of the middle hallway, coming right after a succession of supply closets, restrooms, and stairwells.

I’m already late by a minute or two, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Most of the students are out of their seats and talking loudly. A couple of girls in the corner are singing a hip-hop song.

I walk up to the obvious teacher—a small skinny woman with a 1950s-style hairdo—who my schedule identifies as Mrs. Minnow. She’s standing near the blackboard, facing the room and muttering something.

It’s not until I’m right beside her that I realize she’s addressing the class.

“Everyone quiet. Please take your seats. Sit down, please,” she rasps.

She doesn’t notice me until I wave the office forms in front of her.

“Oh! Hello, dear. I didn’t see you there. New student? How nice.” She takes one of the forms and returns the rest to me.

“You may sit wherever you wish. Although…” She pushes her glasses up on her nose and peers out at the assembled mob. The hip-hop girls are teaching each other dance moves now. And a couple of doofus-looking guys are playing some game in which they slap each other on the back of the head. “I’m not sure what seats are available.”

She shuffles forward a few steps. “Class? Sit down now…. Class?” No response. The glasses of one of the slap-happy guys go whizzing past us.

“All right now.” She tentatively waves her arms as if trying to stop an approaching truck. “Be quiet now.

Take your seats.”

“Hey!”
A booming voice cuts through the noise, making everyone freeze. Mrs. Minnow drops the paper she took from me and I quickly retrieve it.

“Y’all sit down and be quiet!”

A tall guy is standing in the middle of the desks with his hands cupped around his mouth for better amplification. He seems like a total Young Republican, with his pressed navy slacks and powder blue button-down. His hair is neatly parted and combed, probably with some sort of mousse or gell in it. He reminds me of the Mormon missionary kids Rosie and Les are always inviting inside for tea and a talk on the Bhagavad Gita.

The students grumble and roll their eyes as they gradually take their chairs.

“Better do what Super Boy Scout says before he calls the police,” mutters one girl. She’s pretty in a waxy way. An orangey salon tan clashes with her red cami…too much eye makeup…hair the color of
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candlelight. A textbook example of high school female perfection, right down to the constant look of disgust. This is the type of girl I’d normally kiss up to—but not today.

The princess and her two friends are the last to sink down into the crowd, except for the loud do-gooder. As soon as the room is quiet, he lowers himself into his seat and smiles back up at us. At first I assume he’s waiting for Mrs. Minnow to pat him on the head, but then I realize he’s looking at me. I stare right back. He has a long face that matches his tall, lanky body, and his features sit lazily on it. His dark eyes are perpetually sleepy-looking, his lips are a little too thick, and his prominent nose bends down at the tip. Still, he’s cute in a door-to-door salesman sort of way.

“Thank you, Jack,” says Mrs. Minnow in her crackly voice. I realize I can still barely hear her, even with the room quiet. “Boys and girls…I’d like to introduce a brand-new student, Miss…uh…” She frowns down at the paper. “Miss…Sugar—”

“Maggie,” I interrupt hurriedly. “I go by Maggie.” I try not to smile or make eye contact with anyone, but my first-day superpowers still pick up everyone’s stares—especially the one of the khaki-wearing teacher’s pet.

“Please welcome Maggie Dempsey and help her feel at home,” Mrs. Minnow continues. She leans toward me, lowering her weak voice to an almost nonexistent level. “Go ahead and find a seat wherever you like.”

Without taking too much time to consider, I walk to the first vacant desk I see and plunk into the blue plastic chair.

“Oh my god. I hate you.” A voice comes from behind me.

I’m so shocked that my head automatically whips around. I’ve sat down in front of the blond Bratz doll.

“I hate you,” she says again, this time to my face.

At first I’m stunned, then hurt, then panicked. I’ve run afoul of a school’s ruling class before, but never this badly or quickly. Then I remember…I don’t want to be liked here. This shouldn’t matter.

“Your hair is so pretty. I just hate you,” she continues.

I start breathing again. “Oh,” I respond, unsure of what else to say.

“Do you get it permed?” she asks between chews of pink gum.

“Uh…no.”

Her perfectly plucked eyebrows rise to reveal her first expression beyond deadpan boredom: disbelief.

“Really?” She’s the kind of girl who pronounces the word “rully” and probably says it a lot. “But you do color it, right?” she asks suspiciously.

I shake my head. “Nope.” I consider mentioning that highlights can come from spending time in the sun, but I decide not to.

“I hate you,” she says for the fourth time.

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My right hand reflexively grips a lock of my hair. I wave the end at her and say, “No, really. It’s a bitch to deal with.”

“Rully?” The girl still looks doubtful.

“Who cares?” says one of the blond girl’s friends from the next row over. She has short brown hair and sharp, scrunched-together features that make her look mean. “Most girls would kill to have hair like that.

Am I right?” She turns toward the girl on the other side of the blonde.

Friend number two just nods. She has immaculately styled brown hair, bright pink lipstick, and a wide-eyed, dumb expression.

“I’m Caitlyn,” the blonde says.

“I’m Maggie.”

“Uh, yeah. We know. Duh,” says the mean-faced one. “I’m Sharla.” She motions to the dumb-looking one. “That’s Shanna.”

Shanna and Sharla?

“So where are you from?” asks Sharla.

“Oh, uh…” I’m always slow to answer this. Sometimes because I truly can’t remember. But mainly because it implies that wherever you lived before, you were established there, with friends, neighbors, and a favorite hangout or two. The places I name are more like pit stops on a never-ending road trip.

“Oregon,” I say finally. “But we weren’t there very long. Before that we were in California.”