How Not To Be Popular (21 page)

“Where are you going?” Jack asks.

“I’ve got to bike over to some TV station. The Golly Bums are going on at five to plug their new CD

and Chip said he’d mention our dance on the air.”

“TV?” Drip echoes. “That’s so cool!”

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

Jack takes out his car keys. “Then let me give you a ride.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got my bike.”

“Leave it. You’re cutting it close and I can get you there faster.” He’s using that presidential voice of his—the one that implies that I should let him take over since I’m way too flaky to handle things myself.

Only…he’s right about there not being much time, and I’m really not looking forward to riding around in this outfit again. As much as I don’t want to, I should just give in.

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

At the TV station we’re made to stay in the lobby while a couple of people run back and forth to Chip Walker and the station manager, confirming that it’s okay to let us in. The Miss America reject at the front desk keeps giving me up-and-down looks. I have a feeling she was a Caitlyn in high school.

Finally a woman with short red hair and blue square-rimmed glasses comes out and shakes both of our hands.

“I’m Elsa,” she says. “Please come this way.”

Jack keeps clearing his throat and dusting invisible specks off his slacks. “This is a great station,” he says in his best kiss-up voice.

“Thanks.” Elsa just keeps marching through the corridor at a brisk pace.

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“So…,” he continues, falling slightly behind us as he gawks at framed promotional posters of the anchors. “Are you the director?”

“I’m the head camera op,” she replies without glancing back. “The director is busy with the show right now.”

She leads us into a smallish office with a nice view of downtown. Sprawled in a chair is a cute twenty-something guy in black jeans and a black vintage shirt. He stands up when we walk in and holds out his hand.

“Hi, I’m Chip,” he says. “Are you Maggie?”

“That’s me.” I push up my floppy red sleeve and shake his hand.

“Great outfit.”

“Thanks. This is Jack.” I gesture behind me, and my sleeve accidentally whacks Jack in the face.

“He’s…also in the club.”

“Hey.” Chip extends his hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Mr. Walker, you only have seven and a half minutes until your segment airs,” Elsa says. “I’ll be coming to get you soon.”

“That’s cool. I’m ready whenever.”

Elsa shuts the door and the three of us smile and nod at each other.

“Where’s the rest of your band?” Jack asks.

“Not here. It’s a lot easier to set up when it’s just me and my guitar. Especially since we only get to play one song. But don’t worry. You’ll get the whole gang tonight.”

“We really appreciate you doing this,” I say. “You’re saving us.”

“Really,” Jack adds. “You have no idea.”

Chip laughs. “Yeah, I might have some idea. It wasn’t
that
long ago that I was in high school. Although I try not to remember it if I can help it.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I had kind of a rough time—being a real geek and all.”

“You were?” Jack looks stunned.

“Uh-uh!” I exclaim.

“Oh yeah. Ask anyone who was there. I was a royal nerd. Even other weirdos picked on me.”
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“How’d you survive it?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I had my friends. I really liked band. And I guess I just knew it wasn’t going to last forever. I kept my focus on what would happen
after
graduation.” Jack nods briskly. “Yeah. Yeah.”

“I can’t wait for high school to be over either,” I mumble, thinking about the freedom of college. “It’s so much crap.”

“Aw, don’t be that way,” Chip says. “I’m probably being too harsh. In a way, I should be grateful for all the bullshit I went through back then.”

I wrinkle up my nose. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Sometimes people who have it easy in high school think they’re going to automatically have it easy out in the world. And when they don’t, they freak. But those of us who go through stuff…we have experience handling crap. We can deal with it.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” I never really thought of it that way.

“Did it help you work hard at your music?” Jack asks. “Did it help you achieve all this?”

“It helped me with everything, man.” He gives each of us a smile.

There’s something very Jack-like about Chip. On the surface, he seems like the anti-Jack: sloppy, stubbly, slouchy, and with a lazy drawl of a voice. But they both have the same friendly-faced cuteness.

And they both hold their gazes a little longer and deeper than most people.

I try to picture Chip as a ganglier, less fashionable teenager. Somehow I can.

Elsa pokes her head through the door. “We’re ready for you, Mr. Walker.”

“Cool. Can I bring my new friends?”

She hesitates for a second, giving us a good glance-over. “I think we can make that work.” We follow her down the corridor into the main studio. On one end is your stereotypical bean-shaped anchor desk, where a fluffy brunette sits reading notes. At the opposite end they’ve set up a makeshift stage with a microphone and two amps. An electric guitar sits on a nearby stand.

While Chip goes over to do a quick sound check on the equipment, Elsa positions me and Jack along the wall behind the cameras.

“Stand right here and don’t make any noise at all,” she says. “Absolutely none. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.

A moment later the director does a countdown and the lady behind the anchor desk goes all perky. “We have a special highlight for you in our studios today,” she says through her smile. “Chip Walker of the
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band the Golly Bums is here to sing us a song off their new CD,
Freezer Burn.
Hi, Chip. What are you going to play for us today?”

Elsa gives Chip a little hand wave and he breaks out in a grin.

“Hey, Tanya,” he says to the camera. “This is a song called ‘Stomped.’” Chip starts up a melody on his guitar and begins singing in a surprisingly soulful voice. It’s an upbeat, frisky song, and yet I wonder if it has something to do with his high school years. I don’t catch all the words, but it talks about getting kicked and stampeded. He also mentions army boots a lot.

Jack and I bob our heads along with the rhythm. Even a couple of camera operators are tapping their feet slightly. Meanwhile the anchor lady just keeps reading her notes. I notice she’s now been joined by a mannequin-looking guy anchor.

When Chip finishes, everyone in the studio claps.

“Thanks,” says Chip. “That’s the first cut off our CD. Y’all should go out to Waterloo Records and buy it.”

He fiddles with his guitar and even plucks a couple of strings. I wonder if he’s nervous.

“Tonight the Golly Bums have a special gig,” he continues. “I want to introduce you to a friend of mine who can tell you all about it. Maggie, will you come up here?” He holds his hand out toward me.

What? No way.

“Go on,” Jack whispers. Elsa looks at me, and her stare is the equivalent of a shouted command.

All righty then.
My limbs feel strange, as if someone else is controlling them, but I manage to make the required number of steps over to his side.

“Tonight Maggie and her friends are holding a dance to benefit a great group of people called the Arts Outreach,” he says to the camera. “Tell them where and when, Your Highness.” He takes the mic off the stand and holds it in front of my mouth.

“At the Happy Trails Bingo Hall at Congress and Winona,” I hear myself say. “Doors open at seven.

Admission is five bucks a person.”

“And you’re going to be there?” he asks.

“I’m going to be there.”

“And you’re going to dance?”

“Yup. Gonna dance.”

“So, how
do
they dance on the planet Naboo?”

Naboo? I have no idea what he’s talking about. “They…naboogie?”
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Chip cracks up. Even Elsa’s shoulders are jiggling in silent laughter.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha. Very good,” cuts in the anchorman, with his sugarcoated voice.

“Yes. Ha, ha, ha,” the female anchor chimes in.

“Chip Walker of the Golly Bums, thank you for being here and telling us about your new CD,” says the guy anchor. “And thanks to your friend Maggie, too.”

Elsa gives a little signal and the red light on top of our camera goes out.

“Sounds like a fun dance, doesn’t it?” says lady anchor in a fake chatty voice.

“It sure does,” replies dude anchor. “I just might naboogie on down there myself.”

“Ah, ha, ha, ha!” Lady anchor just about pops a facial muscle on that one. “We thank you for joining us this evening. We hope you’ll tune back in later tonight.”

“And…we’re out,” shouts the director.

I blow out my breath.

“You did awesome,” Chip says, playfully shoving my padded shoulder.

“Really? I thought I sounded stupid.”

“Naw, you seemed fun.”

I smile gratefully.

Jack strides up to us. “You were really great. Both of you.”

“Thanks,” we say in unison.

“Uh…Mr. Walker?” Jack says, still nervously dusting his pants. “Is there anything we can do to help you for the gig tonight?”

“Yeah. You can stop calling me Mr. Walker.”

“He can’t help it,” I say. “He’s time-traveled here from the fifties.”

“Hey,
you’re
the one in the alien costume,” Jack retorts.

Chip laughs and shakes his head. “You guys are classic. Really. Y’all make a great couple.”

“I hope a lot of people see it. Except…I hope they aren’t too turned off by my lame ‘naboogie’ joke.

Don’t know what happened there. It’s like I channeled Carter or something. If I’d known he was going to put me on camera, I would have prepared something to say.”
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I can’t stop babbling as Jack and I cross the parking lot toward his truck. I’m still hyped-up from the broadcast, plus I’m hoping that constant noise might prevent any analysis of Chip’s “great couple” remark.

When I finally pause for a breath, I sneak a glance at Jack. He’s staring straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought, his right hand nervously tugging his left sleeve cuff.

A question pops out, something I’ve been wondering for a while. “Aren’t you going to wear a costume?”

“No. I don’t do costumes,” he replies. He’s still using that high-polished voice he used in the TV station.

I wonder if he’ll ever loosen up to Chip Walker levels.

Suddenly he stops walking and turns to face me. “Hey, um…can I talk to you for a sec? I need to tell you something.”

Damn! I should never have quit jabbering. “Now?” I ask, glancing around.

Jack nods and swallows. Then he swallows again. “Look, I keep thinking about when we went out that night,” he says, staring down at the pavement. “And I want to apologize for…coming on so strong.” I don’t know what to say. So I say nothing.

His expression wavers and I realize he takes my silence as a request for more information.

“I think I was trying to be more like you.”

Huh?
Now I really do want an explanation. “What are you talking about?” Jack bunches up his face, as if trying to squeeze out the right words. “You’re so free. You’re not afraid to be just you. But I’m more…uptight, I guess. More worried about rules and things. That’s why it’s so great being with you.”

Maybe my plastic headdress is cutting off circulation to my brain, but nothing he’s saying makes sense to me. “I still don’t get it,” I say.

He blows out his breath and looks past me at the highway. “See…I always try to do the right thing. I know it’s boring, but it’s me. I spend a lot of time worrying before I actually do anything. But you don’t.

You just dive right in and do what you feel. Like turning cartwheels or wading in duck ponds.

It’s…different. It’s…great.” His eyes slowly find mine. “So I guess that night, when I kissed you, I was just doing what I felt like doing…without worrying about it.” Oh, this is bad. That swoopy, swirly feeling is back. I try to break my eyes off his, but I can’t. They’re the only things holding me upright.

All I want him to do is grab me and kiss me again.

Only…I
don’t
want that.

But I do.

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But I don’t. Because of…some really good reason I can’t think of right now.

“Anyway…I’m sorry. I can tell I sort of freaked you out. I just want you to know that I’ll give you all the space you need.” He looks away and it’s as if two megawatt heat lamps have stopped blazing down on me.

I blink and glance about, remembering where I am and what I’m doing. It occurs to me that I should be thrilled. He’s doing exactly what I wanted, sort of. He’s laying off me.

Yay?

“Thanks,” I mumble, only because I feel like I should say something.

“No problem.” He grins stiffly. I can tell it’s a cover—a Band-Aid on his wounded pride. “Can I ask just one favor, though?”

“Sure. What?”

“Will you save me at least one dance tonight?”

Just one dance? I stop to consider, feeling relieved-confused, grateful-disappointed. But it all brings me to the same answer.

“Sure.”

T
IP: Be a horrible, treacherous, conniving person.

Iwish I could see
Caitlyn’s face right now. I would laugh for the rest of my life.

Our media blitz worked. Seems all we had to do was mention the Golly Bums and suddenly we were the ones with the coolest party. And the most amazing thing is it really
is
a cool party. There are hundreds of people here. Most are from Lakewood, but some are just regular folks who heard about our fund-raiser. Hardly anyone is in costume, but who cares? The dance floor is so packed I’m a little scared it might buckle.

The Golly Bums have already played one set, taken a breather, and gotten back onstage for a second.

Strangely enough, even when the twins played their mix CDs during the break, people kept on dancing.

And when Mrs. Pratt got up to talk about Arts Outreach, everyone clapped and cheered.

The Helping Hands are all wearing the same astonished look on their faces. I wonder if they’ve ever been a part of anything so wildly popular. I’m not sure I have—even at schools where I’ve been inside the superelite cliques.

We’ve all been so busy we haven’t had much of a chance to dance or socialize. But that’s okay. It’s
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been fun just watching the crowd swell and listening to them have a great time. As we scurried back and forth fetching Cokes for the band or worked our respective shifts at the door and the drink tables, we’d pass along exciting bits of news.

“Mrs. Pratt has to go buy more sodas again!”

“The whole drama club is here!”

“We’ve already made over three thousand bucks!”

Finally Mrs. Pratt offered to let a few Lakewood kids in free as long as they worked a shift, and she told us we needed to enjoy the fruits of our labor.

So here we are, staring out at the crowded dance floor, toasting each other with Dixie cups full of soda.

“To Maggie! The awesomest girl ever!” Hank shouts.

“Who-ooo!” cry the others.

I’m so blissed-out happy my whole body feels fizzy. It’s kind of like my windstorm dream. Only this time I can fly.

Jack raises his cup and gives me another semisad smile. He’s been slightly out of it tonight.

But who cares? Not me. I’m Queen Abi-something. Ruler of high school dances. Able to conquer conniving cheerleaders and rival parties. Not only is our fund-raiser a major success, but Jack has agreed to give me space. I can leave here in a couple of months without any regrets.

I down my Coke in three big gulps and slam the cup against the table, squashing it a bit. “Come on, guys! Let’s dance,” I say as the Golly Bums start up a new, funky number. I twirl onto the dance floor and the Helping Hands follow.

“Go, Maggie. Go, Maggie. Go, Maggie. Go, Maggie,” they chant, forming a circle around me.

I hike up my robe, sashay into the middle of the ring, and do an interpretive dance number that would have made Rosie proud.

“Go, Carter. Go, Carter….”

Carter takes the middle and stalks about in the classic Spider-Man crouch, except with an added butt-wiggle. We all start laughing.

“Go, Dri-ip. Go, Dri-ip…”

Drip swaggers out to the center of the circle and starts expertly popping up her shoulders and stomping her feet into a blur. I’m so stunned by how good she is I almost forget to sway and clap along. She looks like some sort of hip-hop, swashbuckling windup toy. Other people have stopped dancing to watch.

“Go, Hank…and Frank. Go, Hank…and Frank….”

“Do your
Matrix
moves!” Carter shouts through his cupped hands.

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The twins do their best supercool strut into the middle and face each other. In time to the beat, Hank slides his feet and bends himself backward until I’m scared he’s going to fall on his butt. At the same time, Frank sweeps his right hand toward his brother, missing his nose by mere millimeters. Then they reverse the move, with Frank arcing backward and Hank’s arm serving as the limbo pole. It’s really kind of awesome, and I notice even more people are watching us now.

“Go, Penny. Go, Penny….”

At first Penny resists, but we keep chanting her name over and over, never letting up. Finally she steps cautiously into the circle and glances around, huffing through her mouth. Just when I think she’s not going to do anything but breathe, she raises her arms over her head and starts curving them from side to side.

Then she lifts her left leg and swings it back and forth to the rhythm. Suddenly I recognize the movements: it’s our water-aerobics routine. And the strange thing is it totally works as a dance. By the time she does the figure eights with her arms, all the Helping Hands are joining in. All except Jack, who just stands there and claps to the beat.

Now just about everyone around us is watching. I notice a couple of half sneers, but mostly they appear to be enjoying our little dance-off.

“Go, Jack…. Go, Jack….” The guys start chantingas Penny moves back into her spot.

He holds up his hands and shakes his head.

“Go, Jack…. Go, Jack…,” we urge.

Just then, the song ends and the whole place goes seismic with applause. Jack looks totally relieved.

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Chip’s voice echoes throughout the hall. “Now we’re going to slow it down for you a bit. This song is called ‘Definite Maybe.’” The bass player plucks out a few mournful notes and Chip’s guitar lets out a weepy-sounding wail. All over the dance floor, couples clutch each other and start swaying.

“This is more my speed,” Jack says, walking up to me. “How about that dance now?” I pretend to catch my breath as I think it over. It’s just one dance. Now that he’s agreed to back off, I probably don’t have to worry so much. Besides, I did promise.

“Okay,” I say, stepping into his arms.

We nestle together perfectly. The spot beneath his right collarbone is the ideal place for my head. If it weren’t for my headdress bumping against his face, everything would fit just right. I clutch Jack tightly, still whirly from our group routine, and inhale his clean, starchy scent.

“This is the best dance I’ve ever been to,” I say. It’s the truth. I’ve never experienced such all-out, fluttery fun. I’ll bet there are sparkles in my aura.

“Me too,” he whispers back.

“We did it,” I say. “We actually pulled it off.”

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“
You
did it,” he murmurs into my ear. “You’re amazing. The awesomest ever.” I look at him, and suddenly the temperature in the air between us spikes. There might even be steam. I don’t know. Everything else seems clouded from view. I can see only Jack’s trancelike eyes and those tidy grooves combed into his slightly slick hair. I want so badly to muss up that hair and unbutton those top two buttons of his shirt again. I want to run my finger over the smooth hollow below his cheekbone and trace the slope of his large nose.

My brain is no help. I’ve downshifted out of all rational thought. Right now I’m just a series of impulses.

Me…Want…Touch…Warm…Kiss…

The next thing I know, I’m falling forward, closing the small gap between us. My right hand reaches up and my mouth finds the perfect flight path toward his.

No. Wait. Stop!
A little dart of reason shoots through me, but it’s enough. I freeze in place, lips slightly parted, hand hovering near his cheek. I quickly go into a full reverse, but not before he notices.

Jack stops swaying and I can almost see the question marks in his eyes.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I don’t know why…I was only…I guess I’m just having too much fun.”

“It’s okay. I understand,” he says with yet another glum smile. “I know you need to get over that guy Trevor.”

Trevor. Right. He’s the one I really want…. Isn’t he?

Wait a sec…

Now that I think about it…it’s been days since I’ve had one of my regularly scheduled mopefests over Trevor. I quickly scan my feelings, desperately searching for that heartache, the oh-so-familiar agony of having to leave him behind. But it’s just not there anymore. I can
remember
it, but the pain itself is gone.

All that’s left is a cold spot, a deadened scab of a memory.

Oh my god…I’m over Trevor? How can that even be possible? He meant so much to me! For months he was in almost every single one of my thoughts. I planned everything around him. The hurt of our breakup was the whole reason I started Operation Avoid Friends!

But it’s true. I’m through missing Trevor. Instead, for some weird reason, I miss the misery. That constant ache meant that Trevor and I had had something real and special. It was like this little string that kept me connected to him.

Now our relationship is no big deal—just something that happened during one of our many stops.

How can something that felt so important turn out to mean nothing?

I close my eyes and picture Trevor’s face, but his features twist into Jack’s. Then I open my eyes and look at the real Jack and again feel that strong pulling sensation, that urge to snuggle in close.

An awful thought occurs to me, bringing on a severe case of the Stabbies:
I failed.
I had this wonderful plan to hate this place and to be hated too. Only now look at me. I’m dancing with Mr. Wrong, who

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feels like Mr. Right, partying with a group of kids I shouldn’t like but do. I’m having the best time ever.

And the worst part is it doesn’t mean anything! Apparently love and friendship can be cleansed from your system the way toxins are flushed out of your liver by Rosie’s herbs.

Nothing matters.

I break away from Jack and take a few irregular, almost seizure-like steps backward.

“Maggie?” Jack looks truly worried. He cares. That really sucks.

I whirl around and go crashing through the crowd, whipping people with my robe and knocking heads with my big teapot crown-thing. Everywhere I look are smiling, dancing partygoers. The whole place reeks of happiness, but I want no part of it. It’s all a bunch of crap, anyway.

I’ve got to get away from all this meaningless fun before I go crazy.

Maybe it’s too late.

I’m hiding in a corner of the bingo hall, next to a big blue drapery panel. It’s dark and deserted and it offers me a great view of the crowd. I’ve watched Jack make a couple of loops around the dance floor, searching for me, but fortunately he couldn’t see my white face peeking around the curtain folds.

I still feel all jerky, but at least some normal brain activity has returned. Between reminders that I am so monumentally screwed, my mind did manage to come up with a plan of action: I have to get out of here.

Fast.

All I have to do is make sure Jack isn’t watching. Then I can sneak out the door and bike home before any key people notice.

I peer around the drapes, trying to make out Jack’s tall, well-groomed shape among the bodies on the dance floor. I don’t see him. At least, not nearby. I could leave now…but what if he comes this way before I make it to the door?

I’m staring straight ahead so intently that I don’t see a small group approaching from the left. Eventually I hear them talking.

“Is that her?”

“Yeah. I remember that costume from TV.”

“Maggie?”

They step toward me, further into the light, and I make out Shanna in the pretty peach-colored dress she picked out at Dudz. With her are two girls I recognize from school and the run-in at Zilker Park. They’re second-string Bippies—more of Caitlyn’s followers. But I don’t see Caitlyn anywhere. Or Sharla, for that matter.

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“This is such a cool party!” Shanna exclaims.

“I saw you on the news,” says a blond girl. “It’s so cool you know the Golly Bums!”

“Yeah,” says the other girl, a really tall brunette.

I frown at Shanna. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the other party?”

“Oh, that was lame,” she replies.

The other girls nod and roll their eyes.

“Everyone is so tired of Caitlyn and all her crap.”

“She told everybody not to come here, so we did.”

“She’s probably the only one left,” Shanna says with a smirk. “Except maybe Sharla.”

“And that sorry DJ who kept trying to get us to line dance.” I slowly inch sideways, hiding behind them in case anyone looks this way from the dance floor.

“This is Simone,” Shanna says, gesturing at the blond girl. “And this is Bree.” She points to the tall one.

“Hi,” I mumble, all stupefied. Why are these Bippies talking to me? I’m glad for the extra cover, but I wish they’d just go away.

“Chip Walker is sooooo cute!” exclaims Simone.

“Let’s go to one of his club gigs sometime,” Shanna suggests. “You could get us in, right?”

“Uhhh…I don’t know,” I say, ducking behind Bree a bit. I just thought I saw Jack, but it was some other guy.