How Not To Be Popular (17 page)

“Just answer.”

“Fine…. Well, I don’t ever plan on having one myself. I don’t think it’s wonderful, but I think making it illegal isn’t the best way to stop them.” Spoken like a true debate captain.

“What about religion?”

“Okay. Uh…I go to church, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t know if I accept everything they preach, not literally anyway, but I like the whole do-unto-others part. That makes sense.”

“Drugs?”

“I’m a squarehead. I don’t even know where to find them.”

“Sex?”

He goes silent. Fortunately, he can’t see my face, which, judging by the stinging sensation that seeped up from my neck, is now the color of watermelon flesh. I’d been so caught up in rattling off a laundry list of controversial topics that I didn’t stop to think about what I was saying.

“Sex is…nice…I mean, probably. I mean…What do you mean?” Jack’s tone is all over the place, as if he’s going through a sudden second puberty. It was a total accident, but at least I finally got him flustered.

“Sex is a wonderful, natural thing,” I reply, repeating what Rosie likes to say about it.

“Oh.”

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It hits me that he probably takes my answer as an indication that I’ve already had sex, maybe lots of it.

For some reason, that bothers me. I don’t want him to think that.

“I mean…I’m sure it must be,” I add.

For a moment, we just lie there quietly. The merry-go-round has slowed, but my body still feels all whirly. I try to concentrate on the little patch of stars above me, but my vision keeps sliding sideways, as if the whole world is tilting to the right.

“So, did I pass?” he asks.

I don’t answer. I’m still trying to focus my eyes and thoughts.

“I passed, didn’t I? Admit it. I’m not such a bad guy. I’m not your polar opposite after all.” He’s stretched out his leg and keeps nudging me with his foot. That movement, plus the fact that he didn’t do too badly on my test, really gets on my nerves. “Trevor!” I snap.

There’s a pause. “Who’s Trevor?”

Oops. Where’d
that
come from? “He’s…uh…” At first I’m not sure what to say. I’m still loopy from spinning and mad at myself for letting my mind jump to Trevor. And then it hits me: what’s the number one taboo subject when out on a date?
Exes
! “He’s a guy I used to date in Portland.”

“Huh.” Jack sounds weird. Is he worried? Threatened? I can’t tell. “So…I remind you of him?”

“No way!” I cry. “You guys aren’t alike at all. Trevor was really outdoorsy and liberal. He was also vegetarian.”

“Why’d you guys break up?”

I guess it’s a fair question, especially since I quizzed him about abortion and stuff, but I’m totally unprepared for it.

“Because I moved,” I reply. It’s the truth. I’m positive it’s the only reason we aren’t together anymore—the only reason he ended up with Candace. But it still comes out sounding kind of lame.

“You guys didn’t want to try keeping it going?”

I don’t answer. My torso is shuddering. I want this conversation to stop now, thank you very much.

“It’s just…” Jack sits up and starts pushing his foot into the dirt, making the merry-go-round swivel back and forth. “If it was me, I’d be running up the phone bill and trying to buy frequent-flyer miles on Craigslist.”

I lift my head and gape at him, bolstered by the fact that his back is to me. I can’t believe Jack said that.

That’s exactly what I’d been hoping Trevor would do. “Yeah, well…we didn’t want to go to all that trouble,” I say, blinking fast so that the wetness in my eyes doesn’t glob into tears.

“You seem worth the trouble.”

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I let out a little sarcastic hoot.

“No, I mean it.” Jack turns and stares right at me. “I think you’re…special.” His comment is so real and naked that I have to look away. No need to spin the merry-go-round. I’m wobbly just lying here. I can’t even put a tag on what I’m feeling. I’m mad-sad. Up-down. Hot with anger that my date isn’t a fiasco (at least for him) and cold with terror that I kind of liked hearing him say those things.

I miss feeling special. Trevor used to make me feel that way. But I don’t want to feel special here.

Jack is waiting for a reaction. But how can I respond with the same amount of honesty? What I truly want to do is run away. Just turn and start racing into the night. I’ve already got the practical shoe wear.

I slide off the metal platform and start straightening my outfit. For some reason, I feel extra itchy and swampy. Why didn’t I choose something ugly yet practical, like those muumuu dresses Mrs. Pratt likes to wear?

In a daze, I start unbuttoning my suit jacket.

“Uhhh…are you okay?” Jack asks. It’s understandable he’s a little thrown, since he can’t tell I have on a shirt underneath to protect me from the itchy stuff—and also since I have a history of losing clothes in front of him.

“It’s all ooky out here,” I explain. “I just want to cool off.”

“I know what you mean,” he agrees, noticeably more at ease now that he can see my brown racer-back tank. “I’ve been thinking about wading in that pond.”

Zing!
New flash of brilliance.

“Hey, yeah!” I sit down on the steps of the slide and start taking off my shoes.

“Actually, I was just kidding,” he adds.

Of course I knew he wasn’t serious. That’s why it’s so perfect. I can change the subject, get refreshed, and shake him up all at the same time.

“You know…we
do
have poisonous water snakes in Texas,” he calls out as I skip toward the water’s edge.

I ignore him. I don’t care if they have anacondas; I just want to get away from all talk of Trevor and

“special” me.

“It might not be all that great.” He keeps yammering. “Probably warm from being in the heat all day, and we haven’t had rain in a while. Could be kind of stagnant.” I hike up my skirt to midthigh and slowly step into the pond.

“Watch out. It might be slipper—”

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Splash!

My feet just hit some moss-covered rocks, and they went sliding forward at highway speeds, making me fall backward into the murky and, yes, stagnant water. He’s right about the temperature too. It’s as warm as a bath. “Uck!” I shout, blinking froth out of my eyes.

“Hang on! I’ll get you!” I can make out Jack’s silhouette yanking off his loafers.

I thrash about in a sitting position, with stinky, sudsy water up to my ears. “I’m fine!” I cry, insulted that he thinks I need rescuing from a two-foot-deep pond. “I can take care of myself!” I try to get up, hit yet another slippery spot, and go tumbling back again.

Okay. So maybe I could use a little help.

Jack steps into the water, just to the edges of his rolled-up khakis. “Give me your hand,” he instructs.

I reach forward, but I’m too far out to grab it.

Jack wades in deeper, drenching the ends of his pants. “Just a little more,” he says, egging me on as I crawl along the slimy bottom toward him.

Finally I’m able to grab hold. “Ready?” he asks. “One…two…three!” Instead of lifting me toward the pebbly shore, Jack loses his grip on my hand. For a couple of seconds, his arms wave wildly around, pushing against thin air, and then his whole body goes whooshing backward into the water.

Splash!

He comes up sputtering beside me.

“Gee, thanks,” I mutter. I’m beyond frustrated. I’m chilly and gross-smelling and I’ve lost my granny glasses.

“Hey! It was your idea to do this!” he retorts.

“I wanted to get cooled off!”

“Well, are you?”

“Yes!”

We glare at each other for about four seconds and then bust out laughing.

“My hero!” I tease, splashing him in the face.

He splashes me right back and we spend the next several minutes attacking each other with mucky water. By the time we finish, there isn’t a dry spot on us.

We manage a slippy-slidey crawl onto the rocky bank and stand there, panting and dripping.

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“Now what?” he asks.

This time I can give him a completely honest reply. “I have no idea.” Since we’re completely soaked and pond scummy, I ask Jack to go ahead and drive me home.

“Sorry about the smell,” I say as we bump along in his Ford pickup.

“No big deal,” he says. “It’ll go away eventually. I’m just glad I have leather seats instead of cloth.”

“Not me. I’m vegetarian.”

“Yeah, yeah. At least I didn’t eat whatever they made my seats out of.” I smile in the semidarkness, then immediately stop. This is bad. And I don’t mean the fact that I probably have a whole population of mosquito larvae in my hair. The way Jack and I talk and tease each other, it’s so…comfortable. And being comfortable makes me nervous.

At least the night is over.

Jack pulls his F-150 into the alley behind our shop and parks beside the Dumpster.

“You don’t have to get out,” I tell him when I see him unbuckle his seat belt.

“It’s okay. I should probably help explain to your parents.”

“They’re already asleep,” I lie.

“Yeah, but I could still help you if you slip and fall.” He flashes me a mocking grin and hops out of the car.

My skirt makes squishy noises as I cross the pavement to the back stoop. I’ll probably have to throw it away, since I’m pretty sure it’s dry-clean only. I sure ruin a lot of clothes when I hang out with this guy.

We reach the back steps and Jack turns toward me. “So…,” he begins. “I had an
interesting
time.”

“It was terrible,” I remark as I squeeze another cupful of water out of my hair.

Jack laughs. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Oh yeah? I just found a dead tadpole in my
mmmmph.
” The last sound is the result of Jack’s lips suddenly being clamped onto mine. I didn’t even see him coming. One second I’m picking gross stuff out of my crevices, and the next thing I know, his face is mashed up against mine.

At first it’s awkward and, truth be told, a little yucky. His nose is squashing my nostrils, and his mouth is covering mine so completely I can’t breathe. Plus I’m so startled I go all lock-jointed. If he didn’t have such a good hold on me, I would reel backward.

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And then everything just…softens. His head finds that perfect tilt and his lips push gently against mine.

Even my swirly brain seems tranquilized. All I can think is how good it feels to be held again. My hands, which were stiff at my sides, soar up and under his arms, seeking out fingerholds along his wet back. It’s so warm and cushiony I feel like I’m dissolving.

And then…everything deepens. Our mouths open. Hands slide everywhere, frictionless on our drenched clothes. I can’t stop myself. I don’t want it to stop.

And then…
he
stops it.

Jack suddenly lets go and takes a giant step back, shaking his head and making a sound like
eeyah.
I stagger about, disoriented. If it weren’t for my shock-absorbing shoes, I probably would drop to the ground.

“I…should go home,” Jack says, smiling crookedly.

“Yep” is all I can say. I cover my mouth, partly from shock, partly to prevent any more stupid replies from flying out, and partly because my lips are still throbbing from so much intense activity.

Jack strolls backward toward his truck, so slowly it looks like he’s drifting. Eventually he hits the bumper and stops. I study him in the shadowy light. His clothes are soaked and rumpled, and the breeze has half dried his hair into a crinkly Beatles-esque do. I’ve never seen him look so disheveled—or so cute.

I feel a sudden chill and wrap my arms about me, the way he was just doing, and the movement seems to jolt us both awake. He shuffles his feet on the pockmarked asphalt and rubs his hands along the front of his pants. A little weirdness has returned.

“So…bye,” he says with an awkward wave.

“Yep,” I say again.

As Jack climbs into the cab and starts the motor, I head through the shop’s back door. I stand shivering in the foyer, listening as his pickup rumbles away.

Crap! Double crap! Crap covered in crap sauce!

I’ve gone and done the exact thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do: I’ve found something to like about Austin.

T
IP: Revel in grossness. Leave food in your teeth.

Proudly display feminine hygiene products.

Ihaven’t been
to school in three days. I told Les and Rosie I didn’t feel well, and they took my word
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for it. But really, I didn’t want to see Jack.

If you didn’t already think my parents were unusual, get this: the other night when I walked up the stairs half-delirious, completely wet, and smelling like dead fish, the only thing they did was ask if I had a good time. Of course, to be fair, midnight swims are a standard date for those two—only they like to skinny-dip.

I mumbled that it was okay, then went off to take an hour-long shower. While I was washing green gunk out of my hair, I thought about the evening’s events. By anyone’s standards, that date should go down as one of the worst in history. And yet…it really wasn’t that bad. I kept reliving little moments in my head and smiling. Then I’d realize what I was doing and have a mini nervous breakdown. That was when I got the idea of playing sick. So for seventy-two hours I stayed home, wore pajamas, drank the different tea concoctions Rosie made for me…and mentally replayed my kiss with Jack every minute on the minute.

That kiss…that wonderful-horrible kiss. Weird how something can be simultaneously wowee-nice and scary-bad. Even my body has gone split personality. Whenever I rerun the moment, my heart dances about joyfully, but I also get a crumpling sensation in my midsection, as if my stomach is being wrung out.

I haven’t felt this way since Trevor and I first got together—which freaks me out in such a major way. I can’t like Jack! And if I do…does that mean I’m getting over Trevor? And if I am…does that mean I’m freeing myself up emotionally for Jack? And if so…does that mean it’s going to kill me all over again when we move in three months?

Oh god! I hate my parents!

After three straight days of losing my mind, I finally came up with a theory: the kiss was great—but only because it was nice to be kissed again, not because it was with Jack. Right? Because Jack is so wrong for me…. Right?

No, I’m still hung up on Trevor. My mind is just playing tricks on me. I was so lonely and wigged out over Lorraine’s e-mail I was looking for a stand-in. And Jack simply happened to be there at the right time. Or maybe the
wrong
time.

Even if I do like Jack a little, I can easily make myself
not
like him. How? I have no idea. I was hoping that by the end of my sick leave I’d have a plan of action, but my brain was too busy TiVo-ing the kiss to do me any good. So today I’ll go to school and hope for the best. I’d stay home again, but on the fourth day of illness, Rosie gets out the home-enema kits.

I woke up early so I could find myself an outfit in the shop. After digging through some new inventory, I decide on a white padded silk jacket and matching pants, plus another pair of galoshes, this time with a ladybug design. When I get back upstairs, Les and Rosie are up. Les is making breakfast and Rosie is running around the kitchen with a handheld fan, shouting, “This way! Over here, you!” Lately our apartment has been overrun by flying, bitey things. Austin is buggier than most places, but I wonder if I might have carried home insect spawn after my dip in the pond.

Usually Rosie and Les don’t mind sharing their living space with critters. But they believe in using humane, catch-and-release methods if they can’t. So Rosie’s latest idea is to blow the bugs out the window and then shut it, thereby safely relocating them.

“Shoo! Shoo!” she’s saying, jabbing her fan at a small swarm near the fruit bowl.

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“You know, I think more bugs are coming through the window than going out of it,” I observe.

As I enter the kitchen, one of the red gnat-thingies flies toward me. Since I don’t follow a no-kill philosophy on anything that multiplies by the thousands, I try to clap it between my hands. No luck squashing it, though. So I try again and again. Each time, I perfectly line up the target, but when I study my palms, there’s nothing there.

“What the heck?” I grumble. “Do they teleport?”

“They escape on the air currents your hands make while clapping,” Les points out as he slices melon.

“You’re actually pushing them away instead of trapping them.”

“Great,” I mutter. Yet another way my actions end up having an equal and opposite reaction.

I’m beginning to think Austin has its own laws of physics.

I notice that something is different the minute Lakewood’s brown brick exterior looms into view. Usually mornings follow a lazy, dreary pace as students reluctantly prepare for another day at school. But today there’s an energetic hum.

At first I figure they’re psyched after a big football win; around here, lots of people’s moods depend on the final score of some game. It’s only when I’m halfway across the lawn that I realize everyone is looking at me.

That limited omniscience returns, as if it’s the first day of school all over again. My range of vision seems to widen several degrees and my hearing adjusts to include whisper frequency. The students stop whatever they’re doing to watch me pass by. Many of them are smiling. Some giggle to each other. A couple of them even nod hello.

What’s going on? Did they forget how weird I am in just three days?

Suddenly, with my second-first-day bionic vision, I spy something across the yard. It’s Goth girl again.

She’s wearing gray galoshes with her black dress, and hanging from her wrist is a colorful cartoon-themed lunch box with “Yu-Gi-Oh!” written across the side.

Now that I’m closer, I notice that one of the drama kids has on industrial coveralls. And I see two more lunch boxes—one with Strawberry Shortcake and one with someone called Lizzie McGuire.

Holy crapoly.
Was Dr. Wohman right? Am I really being
copied
?

The stares follow me as I head up the walkway toward the Kingdom of Miles. I haven’t seen him since our showdown at Zilker Park. I didn’t want to come to school, and I’m really freaked out by everything I see, so when Miles steps out from behind a brick pillar and says, “Hey!” I completely lose it.

“What?”
I growl, whirling about with an angry stomp.

For a second, gravity takes over his face. His features go slack with surprise and his mouth hangs open a half inch. “You know,” he starts, slowly going back to his rooster pose, “you were a real bitch the other
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day.”

“Deal with it!” I shout.

“Yeah!” A cry comes from somewhere to my left.

I turn and scan the vicinity. Several students have crept closer to tune in to our conversation. A whole variety pack of them—from thugs to theater kids to extrabold band nerds. I can see the top of Drip’s head in the center. I’m pretty sure she was the one who hollered.

I feel like I’m on display. All this attention goes beyond simply checking out my latest crazy outfit. It’s as if they’re all…waiting for something. But what? What do these people want from me?

Suddenly I really do feel sick. Without another word, without even a final glare at Miles, I wheel around and stomp through the front doors.

Once inside I race to the nearest girls’ bathroom and shut myself in a stall. My breath is all weak and gaspy and I have the heart rate of a scared squirrel. I don’t understand. What happened? I’m the one wearing Michael Jackson’s reject clothes, but everyone else has gone crazy.

I’m not sure I can go through with this day.

Noise suddenly fills the room. Through the small crack in the door frame, I see that a whole group of girls has come in. One of them is sobbing while the others coo and shush at her.

“It’s not fair!” says the crying one. “It’s just so…wrong! She probably doesn’t even care about it!”

“It should have been you, Sharla.”

Sharla? What’s she blubbering about? I recognize Caitlyn as one of the cooers.

“Whatever! I don’t care!” Judging by Sharla’s big sniffles and quivery voice, I think she
does
care. “At least you and Shanna got in.”

“When are they announcing it?”

“After the bell rings.”

Sharla lets out a wail and cries for the next full minute while the others make hushing sounds

“Let’s not go to class, okay?” Sharla says once she’s regained control of her breath. “I swear I’ll totally lose it when they call her name. That bitch!”

“Don’t worry. Coach Eden will get us out of it.”

“She wants us to finish painting the run-through, anyway.” They push open the door and head into the hallway, leaving behind the smell of hair spray and a high-pitched ringing in the tiles.

At least I’m not the only one having a bad day. Sounds like all is not well in the Barbieverse either. I
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start wondering which class they’re going to skip out of. Then I realize I don’t care. Tears or no tears, they’re the ones who have it easy—which is why I usually try to join their ranks.

And of course, I didn’t this time, which might be why things are extra screwed-up for me now.

When I walk into Mrs. Minnow’s class, Jack is already there. He leaps to his feet as soon as he spots me, as if my passing through the doorway triggered an eject button on his seat.

“You’re here,” he says, striding up to me.

“I’m here” is my stupid reply. I’m upset that I’m glad to see him. My cheeks go all flushed and I feel a ghost pain where his arms clutched me the other night. Is it possible he has gotten cuter in the past few days?

“Where have you been?”

“Sick.”

“Sorry.” His face twists into that ultraconcerned look. “Think it was the gross water?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ve got to give me your phone number. I’ve been trying to call you since Sunday. Here.” He hands me a piece of paper and pencil. “Write it down for me.” I hesitate. Phone number equals time with Jack—which is the way-wrong answer to my problem.

“I don’t have a phone at home.” This is not a lie. Even though we are completely set up for phone and Internet service, my parents still haven’t bought a phone. I could give him the number to the shop, but I don’t want to.

Jack looks confused. “Do you have a cell?”

I shake my head. This is also not entirely a lie. In a couple of weeks, my cell account will be null and void.

Just then the late bell rings and it seems to me a beautiful, celestial noise. As Jack cups his hands and hollers at the others to be quiet, I quickly scurry off to my seat. In another small gesture of pity, the Universe arranged for Caitlyn, Sharla, and Shanna not to come to class this morning. No doubt off on their urgent cheerleader mission.

“Psst!”
A girl a couple of rows over is waving her arms and trying to get my attention while another girl giggles and whispers in her ear.

I raise my eyebrows in a what’s-up stare.

“We’re having a party this weekend,” she says. “You want to come?” I’m too stunned to reply. I don’t even know these girls’ names.

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“Is that one of your disco outfits?” asks the giggly one.

“Huh?”

“Hey, man! Hey! Hey, you!”

I turn around in my chair. A guy diagonally behind me is gesturing with a tabloid-sized newspaper.

“You’re that girl!” he says.

“What girl?”

“The one in the article!”

Suddenly I remember. The school paper. Has my interview been printed already? And if so, where’s all the ridicule? I’d expected new, improved taunting and maybe a nickname or two. Instead everything seems…better. Better than better.

“Can I see that, please?” I ask the guy.

He folds the paper in half and wings it toward me.

“Yeah, you’re cool, man!” he continues. “Way to stick it to the Bippies.” I quickly skim the article, which carries the headlineNEW STUDENT BRINGS WEST COAST

WAYS TO LAKEWOOD . It’s a much bigger feature than I thought it would be. The thing takes up half the page. Did that reporter girl print every single word I said to her? They even have a picture of me trudging down the hall in my coveralls and galoshes.

“When did this come out?” I ask the guy.

“Monday. People can’t stop talking about it.”

“Really?” Is that why everyone rubbernecked during my arrival this morning?

“Yeah,” says the girl who invited me to her party. She and her friend are leaning across their aisle, listening in. “They love how real you are. It’s true what you said about the Bippies. How they tell people how to act and how they’re so fake all the time. Everyone agrees.”

“Everyone who’s
not
a Bippy,” adds her friend. “That’s probably why Caitlyn didn’t come to homeroom today. She knows we’re all tired of her crap.”

“But…” I can only sit there, gulping air. This makes no sense. How could people have taken that article the wrong way? Sure, I went off on the popular kids, but I also gave crazy-person answers! I raved about cheesy seventies dance music and said stewed beets were my favorite snack, which they
are
—I’m weird that way—but
still
!

“Oh, you saw it.” Jack nods at the paper as he sits down in Shanna’s usual seat. “It’s good, huh?”
No.
“How did they even take this picture?” I mumble.

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He shrugs. “A couple of our school photographers can be like paparazzi. Some guy was probably waiting behind lockers for you to walk by.”

I finish glancing over the article. Obviously that writer girl didn’t get me at all. The way she wrote it, I don’t really come off as some creepy nutjob. Instead she made me sound like an artsy trendsetter. She even has the nerve to call me fun and authentic and totally natural. I wanted her to make me look like a lunatic!