Mission (Un)Popular (12 page)

“Okay, enough. Gross,” Em said. Sarah J. was running her hands through Matt's hair now—at the back—not in the wave part, where they'd probably get stuck.

Suddenly Em stood up and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey! Get a room!” she shouted. Without coming up for air, Sarah J. took one hand off Matt's head and gave us the finger. Em turned to me in exaggerated shock.

“Did you see that?” She put her hands on her hips. “That's it. This has to be stopped or else I'm seriously going to barf.”

She seemed to think for a second, then stood up and walked over to the fence. “Excuse me,” she said. “People are trying to eat here.” I couldn't believe what she was doing, and apparently, neither could anyone else. Practically the whole school yard was staring, waiting to see how Sarah J. was going to react.

She pulled away from Matt and turned to glare at Em. “Do you want to stop staring at us, lesbian pervert? You too, Ham-burglar.” She laughed at her own offensive joke, then turned away, putting a hand on Matt's cheek and looking into his eyes.

“Come on, baby,” he said, trying to lead her away to someplace more private.

“No way.” She stood her ground. “We have a right to be here. They're the ones being perverted by watching.” She started kissing him again.

Em just sighed, turned to me, then hopped up on the concrete ledge so she was leaning over the top of the fence barely three feet above Sarah and Matt. “This is your last warning,” she said. When they still didn't come up for air, Em shrugged.

“I know you really like pork and everything, Sarah,” she said. “So have some. It's capicola with veggies.” She lobbed her half of the part-eaten deli sandwich right at Sarah. The bread split open when it hit her perfect blond head, then tumbled down to the ground, leaving a trail of mustard and mayo on her plaid jacket. Sarah gasped and looked up in shock, a purple onion clinging to her hair.

“You
didn't
just do that,” she said.

“You little—” Matt started, heading toward the gate.

“Quick, Margot. Your sandwich,” Em said.

If I'd taken a second then to pause and weigh the questions of right versus wrong, revenge versus forgiveness, and whether or not possibly getting beat up by a ninth grader was worth the five seconds of satisfaction I was about to feel, I might have made a different decision. But, as it was, I was mad.
Really
mad. I was sick of being Ham-burglar and getting called a lesbian when I wasn't one. I was tired of watching the unpopular kids get pushed around while the evildoers got to call the shots and French-kiss their boyfriends wherever they wanted. And I was grateful to Em. First of all, for giving me the coolest jacket ever made…but also for having the guts to do things I never did. And that's why, without thinking, I jumped up onto the ledge beside her, and I threw my half of the sandwich. And, thanks to War of the Druids, which had totally improved my hand-eye coordination, I hit Sarah J. right in the shoulder.…I would have gotten her face too, I swear, if she hadn't blocked it with her arm at the last second.

“Oh, that's it,” Matt said, breaking into a run. Moving fast in the opposite direction seemed like our best—maybe only—plan, but Em held me back.

“Wait,” she whispered furiously. “I'll deal with this.”

I stood there frozen, wondering why she was setting us up to get murdered in broad daylight. I caught Andrew's eye across the yard. He, Amir, and Mike had stopped their game, and Andrew especially was watching with big worried eyes.

“You're dead,” Matt said, coming through the gate.

His feet had barely hit the school yard pavement when Em took a huge breath and shouted so loudly and so suddenly it almost made me lose my balance: “Help!! There's an intruder on school property! Somebody help us! I think he has a weapon!” Matt froze, staring at her in bewilderment. Within seconds, a teacher was there, then two teachers, then three.

As Mr. Munka, the boys' phys ed teacher, grabbed Matt by the arm, and general panic broke out in the school yard, Em hopped off the concrete ledge, smiling calmly at Sarah J.

If it were possible to murder someone through a chain-link fence using only the fury in your eyes, I'm pretty sure Em would be seriously dead right now. But as it was, all Sarah could do was pick the onion out of her hair and mumble a vague threat.

“You're in so much trouble now, New York, you know that? You and your little friend Hamburglar, too.”

D
OES ENDING UP IN THE
office three times in the first two weeks of school officially make you a badass? I don't know. Personally, I think “badass” is a state of mind. It's
not
about getting in trouble. It's about
not
caring
that you're getting in trouble, and I definitely didn't feel relaxed as Sarah, Matt, Em, and I sat in Mrs. Vandanhoover's office explaining ourselves.

“I hope you realize, Matthew, that you're no longer a student here. Manning could choose to press charges against you for trespassing, as well as for threatening two students and bringing a weapon onto the premises. I shouldn't need to tell you how serious this is.” Vandanhoover's face was stony. It was just lucky for Em and me that Matt
had
been carrying a weapon. It was only a Swiss Army knife, but it still counted.

“I wasn't threatening them—” Matt started, but Em interrupted, clearing her throat.

“He said, and I quote: ‘That's it. You're dead.' If that's not a threat, I don't know what is. You can ask anyone standing in the yard. They all heard him.”

Mrs. Vandanhoover looked at Matt.

“It's just an expression,” he said. “All I meant was that I was going to kick their butts.”

Mrs. Vandanhoover frowned, not seeming any happier with that.

“Anyway, they were throwing stuff at us,” Sarah said. “Look at this stain on my jacket.”

“Okay, that,” Em explained. “Margot and I were sitting there eating. And we were just trying to ask them, politely, to stop engaging in disturbing sexual behavior so close to school property. We were forced to throw the sandwiches in self-defense after Sarah made a rude gesture and yet another homophobic comment.” Em gave Vandanhoover a meaningful look to remind her about the posters.

I couldn't tell if she was buying Em's self-defense plea, but it didn't matter. Vandanhoover seemed way more concerned about Matt and his pocket knife than a couple of Dijon mustard stains anyway.

“Matthew, I'm going to let you off with a stern warning this time. You are not to come within fifty feet of the Manning school property. If a similar violation takes place, we won't hesitate to press charges.”

“But—” Sarah started, obviously planning to complain about her lunchtime make-out privileges being taken away. Vandanhoover cut her off.

“I'd suggest you return to Sterling High now.” Matt stood up and left. “Emily, I'd like a word with you. Sarah and Margot, you can return to class.” Sarah J. got up to follow Matt. “
Straight
to class,” Vandanhoover added in a no-nonsense tone.

I glanced at Em, wondering if I should ask to stay. After all, I'd thrown half the sandwich, so this was half my fault—but she was playing with a ring on her pinkie finger like she wasn't worried at all. I stood up and left, pulling the door almost all the way closed behind me.

Despite Vandanhoover's warning, Sarah had run after Matt (I could see them talking in the hallway outside), and the secretary must have been in the bathroom, because the front office was empty. Maybe it was because I felt partly responsible for Em getting in trouble, or maybe it was just because I'm nosy like that, I took two small steps toward the doors, then stopped and stood as silently as possible, listening.

“You realize, Emily, that I'll have to call your social worker and your mother to report your involvement in this incident.”

“But I wasn't even—I was minding my own business, and Sarah was
way
out of line.”

“I'd like to believe you, Emily. I really would. Because I want to see you get off to a fresh start here in Darling. A better start. So does Mrs. Hoolihan at Social Services and Mrs. Martine in Student Support. It may seem harsh to you, but the reason we're keeping such a close eye on you is to help you find your way.”

If Em gave any answer, I couldn't make out what it was.

“You're obviously a bright, creative girl, Emily. If you apply that energy to your studies, you'll be amazed at what you can achieve here. Now, tell me,” Vandanhoover said, taking a softer tone, “how was your first week? Have you made any friends?”

“It was fine, I guess,” Em mumbled. “I met Margot. She's all right.” All right? I leaned in slightly, more than a little bit offended, waiting to see if she'd say anything more about me, but she didn't.

“That's wonderful,” Mrs. Vandanhoover said. “A good peer group is key to a student's success.” She pushed her chair back from her desk, so as much as I wanted to hang around, I didn't wait to hear anything more.

I didn't really get a chance to talk to Em again until after school, but I did spend a lot of time watching her out of the corner of my eye, trying to guess what Vandanhoover could have been talking about. Em had a social worker? She needed a “fresh start”? Clearly, she had a sucky glazed-hamlike episode of her own.

“Everyone's talking about what happened,” Em said, coming up behind me after the bell rang. I saw her reflection in my locker mirror. “That was
such
sweet revenge. She's never going to get that mustard stain out.”

“I know,” I said. “It
was
pretty good, wasn't it?”

“It didn't make her cry.” Em sounded a bit disappointed. “But don't worry. I'm just getting started.”

I gulped. If that was “just getting started,” I couldn't even imagine what else she had in mind. “What did Vandanhoover say to you?” I asked casually.

“Not much,” she answered. “She just wanted to hear my side of the story again. You know, to write it down in case they want to press charges next time.” I closed my locker door. “What's wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I pretended to look for something in my bag. I obviously couldn't tell her I'd been eavesdropping, that I knew she was lying to my face, and that I'd overheard her say she thought I was just “all right.” “I guess I'm worried about what's going to happen now.” That much was true. Not only had we crossed Sarah, we'd also crossed Matt—her ninth-grade, Swiss-Army-knife-carrying boyfriend. And maybe he wasn't allowed within fifty feet of the school, but who said that was going to stop him from finding us?

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Like, what if he's waiting for us outside?”

“He won't be,” she said. “Anyway, did you see how small he is? We could take him if we had to.” But there was the tiniest bit of uncertainty in her voice. “Look, he has better things to do than wait around for us.” I wasn't reassured. “Okay. If you're all uptight about it, I'll walk you home. Where do you live?”

“It's fine,” I said, too quickly. “You're probably right. He's got better things to do. It's out of your way anyway.” Gormon Avenue was about ten blocks from Lakeshore. But that wasn't the only reason I didn't want her to walk me home. First, I was a bit mad about her lying to me, but also, I didn't want her coming to my house, meeting my psychic mother, and seeing how dirty and disorganized everything was. I could feel my cheeks start to burn as I thought about my babyish butterfly quilt and our mismatched furniture.

“Whatever,” she said. “Shut up. I'm walking you home.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Em said. “I don't really feel like going home anyway.” She bit her bottom lip, possibly thinking of the phone call her mom and social worker would be getting from Vandanhoover that afternoon. “Seriously. I'll be your bodyguard. Let's go.”

I glanced nervously around every corner and behind every bush, but we didn't end up seeing Matt—or Sarah. “She probably ran straight to the dry cleaners,” Em said. “I heard her telling Maggie how much that coat cost.” When we got to my place, I was desperately hoping Em might just turn around and go home, but instead she asked to come in to use our phone. “My cell battery's almost dead,” she explained.

“You have a cell phone?” I couldn't hide the look of envy on my face.

“What? You don't?”

“I'm getting one,” I lied. “Probably for my birthday.” I opened the front door. “Hi,” I called. I was expecting to see Grandma Betty. Instead, I heard my mom's voice.

“Oh, Margot. I'm so glad you're home.” She came out of the living room wearing her
I'M 100% ORGANIC
T-shirt. I glanced at Em, who was busy kicking her Diesel shoes off into our giant avalanche of a front-door shoe pile. “Donatello has strep throat,” Mom went on, doing up her watchband. “He needs me to cover for him at the store. I canceled all my tarot clients. Grandma was going to come help babysit, but she's been held up at the doctor's office waiting for her flu shot, and then she's got a visitation that she really can't—Oh. Who's this?” she asked, noticing Em, who was still dealing with the shoe-pile situation.

“This is my friend from school—Em. She just has to use the phone.”

“Oh. Hello, Em.”

Em just smiled slightly and kind of nodded.

“It's fine,” I told my mom. “Go do your shift. I can babysit on my own until Bryan gets home.”

“Well, that's the other problem,” Mom went on. “He has his first test tomorrow, so he has a study group until eight.”

“I can put them to bed,” I said. “I've done it before.”

“Oh, Margot. You're a lifesaver. There are VTV dinners in the freezer. Call me at the store if you need anything. Do you like eggplant bharta, Em? You're welcome to stay and keep Margot company.”

Em pulled her eyes away from our goddess of fertility painting to look at my mom. “Um, sure,” she said.

“That's Venus of Lespugue,” Mom said, smiling at the painting. “Just one interpretation of the divine feminine.”

I winced. The goddess of fertility was fat, naked, and had droopy boobs.

“Mom,” I said urgently, helping her into her coat. “Aren't you going to be late?”

“Right.” She flashed me a quick apologetic smile. “Nice to meet you, Em,” she called as she dashed out the door. I breathed a sigh of relief. But the feeling didn't last long.

“Magoo, look. I did a craft.” Aleene had walked into the front hall and latched herself onto my pant leg. She held up her hand to show me a Popsicle stick she'd painted red. It had two googly eyes glued to it.

“That's nice, Aleene.” Then I noticed that the paint was still wet. And not only was it still wet, it was all over my pants. “Oh, God, Aleene!” I shouted, grabbing the Popsicle stick from her, taking it to the kitchen and throwing it in the sink. I got why my mom was all for encouraging the triplets to express themselves creatively, but couldn't she let them do it with crayons or building blocks? Something that wouldn't get stains all over my stuff?

Aleene immediately went into hyperventilation mode. “Okay, fine,” I said. “Here.” I took off the green jacket Em had given me, then fished the Popsicle stick out of the sink and handed it back to her. I honestly didn't care if she got red paint all over everything in the house (except that jacket), as long as it kept her quiet.

“Magoo?” Alice came into the kitchen then, holding two Popsicle sticks of her own. “Juice?”

“Oh my God!” Em said, “How many of them are there?” Alex came in behind her, without any Popsicle sticks, but with her hands covered, back and front, in red paint.

“Too many,” I answered, grabbing a dishcloth and going to work on Alex's hands. I glanced at Em to see if she was noticing how messy our kitchen was, but she was busy looking at the clock.

“What time do they go to bed?” she asked.

“About seven thirty,” I answered.

She looked deep in thought for a second. “Do they know how to tell time?”

“They're only two.”

“Wait here.” She waved good-bye to the girls, who looked at her with big curious eyes, then she went into the living room, closing the sliding door behind her.

“Juice,” Alice reminded me.

“Right.” I opened the fridge. Apparently, with the exception of a freezer full of VTV frozen entrées, we had approximately nothing to eat. Thankfully, I found one can of concentrated orange juice in the freezer door. By the time I'd finished blorping it into the jug, Em was back.

“Is that orange juice?” she asked. “Oh, goody!” She could have been Cinderella herself the way the triplets were mesmerized by her every move. “I think we should drink our juice in the living room, don't you, Margot?”

“Okay,” I said, still not quite sure what she had in mind. Em closed the kitchen door behind us as we stepped into the nearly pitch-black room. She had already closed all the blinds, and then she started propping throw cushions against the gap under the door. We sat down on the floor and played a halfhearted game with giant Legos for a few minutes, then Em started to yawn.

“It's already dark out. Aren't you sleepy, Margot?” she asked.

That was about the time I caught on. I faked an exaggerated yawn. “Yeah,” I said. “It's late.”

Em leaned toward me. “What are their names?” she asked. I told her. “Forget it,” she said immediately. “I'll never remember.” She patted Alex's head. “I know three little girls who should be in bed soon,” she said, tickling Aleene's tummy. Alice moved closer to her and sat down on her lap. “Ooooh, goodness!” Em said, yawing again. “I am
so
sleepy.” She batted her eyelids.

“I'm sleepy,” Alex mimicked. Aleene yawned. I couldn't believe it was actually working. Half an hour later, at 4:30 in the afternoon, we'd brushed their teeth, read two stories (short ones, plus Em skipped pages), tucked them into bed with their unopened cans of Dora pasta (they'd been toting them around like teddy bears ever since we got back from Costco the day before), and turned out the lights.

“
What?” Em said, after we closed the door softly and I glanced at my watch, amazed. “You didn't think we could outsmart a bunch of babies?”