How Not To Be Popular (20 page)

“The cool one?” I finish.

“Yeah.” Shanna’s smile fades and she looks down at her slightly less chipped pedicure. “Can you help me?”

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I suddenly feel like Rosie—wanting to personally push and shove all the stress out of Shanna. Guess even princesses can have it bad.

“I think so,” I say, smiling. “So, when’s your birthday?”

T
IP: Look like a dweeb on local TV.

For two whole weeks
now, this has been the daily routine of Maggie-the-So-Called-Brave: Wake up.

Dress as freakishly as possible. Eat. Walk to school. Ignore Miles by playing loud mental rock music (note to self: buy MP3 player as soon as possible). Hide in bathroom until bell rings. Go to homeroom and pretend to stress over homework. Avoid all eye contact with Jack. If Caitlyn and Co. are there for a change, ignore with more loud mental music. Try to be out the door before Jack. Go to classes. Eat lunch with Penny. Listen to fascinating details about skin diseases or digestive-tract problems while consuming as much food as the Stabbies will allow. Go to more classes. Hide in restroom for twenty minutes. Go home. Act like everything is peaceful-cool.

Same show the next day. And the next. And the next…

Strangely enough, my only high points have been at the pool with Penny. I’ve finally got the swim-cap thing down, and it’s been really great getting to know the other ladies. Barb told us stories about her days as a roller girl; Doris made us her famous sticky-chocolate cookies (which, Barb pointed out, totally negated the effects of our workout); and Mabel has been babbling about her new grandbaby. Helen, meanwhile, has been cheering us on from the sidelines. She also seems to have picked up on Penny’s discomfort with praise. Now she quietly takes her aside to thank her for her casseroles and grocery runs.

But through all of these days, the most nerve-racking thing has been the looming Helping Hands dance.

Every time I spot one of those pumpkin-colored flyers with “DJ Master-Man” x-ed out in black marker, it’s like my belly turns into one of those claw machines.

In spite of my little pep rally, and no matter how much the Hands talk it up to their friends, it’s obvious this is going to be a complete fiasco. The kind you see on the news, with its own title and some nifty graphics. “Halloween Dance Horror” or “World’s Worst Charity.” And tonight is the night.

At seven this morning I awoke with my chest all tight and thumpy. I had dreamed I was caught in this fierce windstorm and was getting blown all over the place, bouncing off cars and getting caught in branches before wheeling through the air some more. There was no way I could relax and get back to sleep again, so I slid out of bed and looked out the window at the dim, quiet street. After a few meditative moments, I felt sort of hungry and padded out into the kitchen.

This is the only time I feel like the old, typical me: early in the morning when I’m still in the cotton short sets I wear to bed and the world hasn’t started making demands of me yet. And since today is a Saturday, my near normalness can last a bit longer than on school days. I can have at least a few hours of
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peace before the dance insanity starts up.

I put on the teakettle and dig through the fridge for some soy milk.

“Morning, butterfly!” Rosie is coming down the stairs in her robe.

“Were you on the roof?” I ask.

“Yes indeedy,” she replies. “I was doing my sun salutations directly to the rising sun.” I want to ask if she was doing them naked, but I don’t. I’m a little scared she might say “good idea!” even if the answer is no.

“I have some good news for you,” she sings. She takes off her robe to reveal sensible stretch pants and her favorite yellow T-shirt with the Mayan calendar on it—my last birthday gift to her.

“Oh?”

“Actually, I heard about it last night at my class. I wanted to tell you when I got home but you’d already gone to bed. I even thought about waking you up, but you looked like you were in REM state and they say that—”

“What is it?” I interrupt, still too dozy for Rosie’s chipper voice.

“I think I know how I can help you guys out with your dance!” She grins and wiggles excitedly.

Ho boy. No telling what sort of idea Rosie would come up with. Group meditation? Harmonic convergence? For some reason she believes all you need for a positive outcome is a channeling of positive energy. As if you can just
make
good things happen.

I used to believe that myself. But it’s been a long time since a really good thing has happened to me.

Especially lately, with all the bad-is-good and good-is-bad craziness.

“How?” I ask.

“There’s this rock band called the Gum Daddies or Golly Dads or…” I suddenly remember the day Miles had me cornered. “The Golly Bums?”

“Yes! That’s it!” She claps her hands together and starts bouncing up and down. “Apparently they had a gig fall through for tonight and they said they’d be happy to play your dance!”

“You…? How…?
Huh?
”

Somehow Rosie understands me. “One of the boys in the band, Chip Walker, has a girlfriend who is studying massage with me. We were talking and I mentioned your dance for the Arts Outreach Program, and how worried you were that it might be a bust. Well, she told Chip. Apparently when he was studying music in high school, Arts Outreach loaned him the instruments for free since his family couldn’t afford them. So he offered to play and help out!”

Her voice has steadily lifted into the range of a flipped-out squirrel, so it takes me a few seconds to
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process her last two sentences. Once I do, I start hopping on my toes too.

“Really?”
Bounce, bounce, bounce.

“Yes!”
Bounce, bounce, bounce.

“Thank you!” I throw my arms around her and we sway back and forth in a tight circle. I can’t remember the last time I experienced joy like this. I feel all airy and sparkly and ready for takeoff.

Rosie pulls out of my embrace and trots over to her bag. “Here,” she says, pulling out a business card and handing it to me. “You’re supposed to call him on his cell.”

“Okay.” I start running for the stairs to use the shop’s telephone.

“Wait!” Rosie calls out. “It’s too early. He’s a musician.”

“Right.” I spin around and head back into the kitchen for tea, my mind already laying out plans for the day.

“And, sweet pea?”

“Yes?”

I glance up at Rosie. She’s stopped her hopping and is just standing there, smiling at me. Her eyes are all shimmery and the morning sunlight has put a shine on the tip-tops of her cheeks. It’s what Les calls the Rosie Glow.

“It’s so good to see you happy.”

I bike down Shoal Creek Avenue to a medley of honks, shouts, and hysterical laughter. This is easily the most ego-shrinking thing I’ve ever done in my life—or any past lives, for that matter. But this will all be worth it soon. At least, it’d better be.

Luckily I found the perfect outfit for tonight. For half an hour, I poked around the shop, looking for something loser-dweeby. You’d think that since every day is Halloween for me, this would be easy, right? Well, it was kind of not. Eventually Les brought out this big red thing I had thought was drapes, but was in fact a costume for someone called Queen Amidala. At first I refused, since it was one of the more expensive items. Then Les said that he didn’t think it was going to sell anyway, and that every time he pulled it out for some girl, she would laugh and say “no way.” That was when I knew I had the winning losing look.

So here I am, wearing a heavy scarlet robe with black trim and a thick scrolly section down the front.

On my head is a giant PVC piece that resembles the lid of an ornate teapot, with a knob, two antenna-like spires, and a big fake red jewel hanging down my forehead. And as if my poor noggin weren’t weighed down enough, attached to the headpiece is a stretchy brown wig-thing that bags up my hair and makes it seem like an enormous dark caterpillar has wrapped itself, leechlike, around the back of my skull.

Les even insisted on doing my makeup to match the photo on the tag. Now my face is ghostly white,
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except for dark lines along my eyebrows and tiny splotches of red on my cheeks and lips. Having never seen the
Star Wars
movie that the tag tells me she comes from, I don’t know who this Amidala is. I assume she’s some sort of space geisha who shoots lasers and transmits inter-galactic messages with her helmet. One thing’s for sure: I bet she didn’t have to ride a bicycle in this getup.

I’ve pushed the front dangly thing over my shoulder, and the robe is all twisted about my middle so as not to get caught in the spokes. Of course, it’s hotter than a convection oven outside, and the combined weight of clothes, hair, and
Star Trek
backpack has kicked my sweat glands into high gear. My sneakers definitely don’t go with the outfit, but they’re the only comfortable things I have on; and besides, no one can see my feet when I stand up.

“What’s the matter? Forget your spaceship?” calls out some guy in a convertible.

Fortunately, I soon hit a nice downhill slant and manage to coast awhile, letting the resulting breeze cool my overworked pores. A moment later I turn a corner and the Happy Trails Bingo Hall appears on the right.

Jack’s truck is in the parking lot. Instantly, I feel a tightness across my middle—which stays even after I’ve parked the Raleigh and unwound my regal robes. Avoiding him at school is one thing, but I’m not sure I can do it all night.

I approach the glass doors and catch sight of my reflection. There’s some dampness on my forehead, but otherwise Les’s makeup job seems to have held up. Guess those years of summer stock taught him something other than twitty monologues. I head into the main hall and find the Helping Hands scattered about the room. Penny, dressed as a cat, and Drip, in a pirate outfit, are setting up the drinks table. Hank and Frank are balanced on stepladders to hang orange and black streamers. For some reason, they are both wearing black fake-leather trench coats and sunglasses. In a back corner, Jack, who isn’t in costume, is helping set up the sound system with Carter, who’s dressed up as Spider-Man.

The twins are the first to spot me.

“Whoa,” says Frank, dropping his end of the twisted crepe paper. It flutters to the ground by my feet.

Hank lets out an annoyed grunt, then sees me and does the same thing. “Maggie?”

“Yeah?”

“You look so…awesome.”

I try not to laugh. Their slack-jawed stares totally don’t work with their pseudocool outfits.

“Maggie!” Jack is crossing the room toward me. There is so much speed and purpose to his stride that I’m taken aback. Plus he looks extra-good with his sleeves rolled up and two buttons undone on his shirt. “I need to talk to you.” He places his hand on my shoulder and nods in the direction of the foyer.

Uh-oh.
I quickly try to spin up some way to prevent this alone time, but I’m too tired from my bicycle ride.

“Everyone wants to quit,” he says once we’re out of earshot. “We’ve hardly sold any tickets and all we’ve been hearing about is how fun the other thing will be. It’s going to be sad.”
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“Do you want to quit too?”

He pauses for a second, before nodding. “We all do. Well…not Penny, but everyone else does. The only thing keeping them going is you.”

“Me?”
That’s dumb. How can I possibly have that much power when I’m the newest member?

“Actually…” I break into a grin. “I think we should definitely
not
call the dance off. In fact, I can make you guys feel completely better about this.”

Jack gives me his most skeptical are-you-on-meds expression. “How?” I smile secretively and walk to the middle of the hall. I’ve been eager to do this all day. It was what kept me pumping that bicycle up and down hills in my dork wear.

“Hey, guys,” I call out. “Come here for a sec. I’ve got the best news ever.” The others exchange looks of doubt as they trudge over.

“What?”

“What’s up?”

“Are you and Jack getting married?”

I completely ignore the last comment. “This is how we’re going to get people here tonight,” I say.

Unzipping my backpack, I turn it upside down and dramatically dump out a new stack of flyers. Luckily the print shop still had our original, so I talked the guy into lopping off the reference to Master-Man and adding “Music by the Golly Bums!” in capital letters across the top.

“What the…?” Drip picks up one of the new flyers. “We can’t lie. That won’t work.”

“It’s not a lie,” I say, restarting a calmer, headpiece-friendly version of Rosie’s bouncy dance.

I explain about Rosie’s connection to Chip Walker, and Chip’s connection to Arts Outreach, and how the band’s previous gig fell through. As I go on, the Helping Hands seem to rise slowly off the floor. By the time I wrap up with Chip’s offer to play our dance, they are pumped up past their full heights. Even Drip looks tall.

“Ohmigosh!” Drip exclaims. “The Bums are the coolest band in town right now!”

“You are the awesomest girl ever,” Hank says.

“Yeah,” adds Carter. “She’s saving us from the Dark Side.”

“Wow. Thanks,” Jack says, stepping up beside me. He’s gazing at me intensely, as if trying to map every single freckle. My gut cramps up tighter.

“So what do we do now?” Penny asks.

“We get the word out. Forget streamers. Forget the tablecloths. We need to pass out flyers and tell as many people as we can before the dance starts.”

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“I’ll send out an e-mail alert,” Frank says.

“I’ll put it on the band discussion board,” adds Hank.

“And I, of course, will post it on the
Web,
” Carter says, doing a bumbling Spider-Man crawl.

“Dude!” Drip gets right in his face and jabs him in the chest with her plastic sword. “Stop making us look uncool!”

“Fine,” Carter mumbles. “I’ll hang up flyers in the coffee shops and stuff.”

“Great, guys. I’ll see you in a little while.” I gather up a few flyers and start putting on my backpack.