Mission (Un)Popular (13 page)

“They're going to wake up at, like, two in the morning.”

“Do you have to get up with them?” she asked.

“No,” I answered.

“So?” she countered. And then she seemed to forget all about the girls. “I'm starving. What do you have to eat?”

This might sound weird, but I loved the fact that Em didn't seem to love, or actually even like, my sisters. Every time Erika-with-a-K came over, she wanted to play dollhouse or cuddle with them, and she always repeated whatever latest cute thing one of them had said. It had started to get a little annoying a few weeks ago, when she wouldn't stop calling french fries “bench guys” because Aleene was saying it that way. It was refreshing to have some mature conversation.

I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, even though I knew the situation was beyond dismal. “We've got mustard and chutney,” I said. “And this box of baking soda. Sorry. We're doing this frozen meals thing, but they're really gross.”

“God. I know all about it. My mom's on this macrobiotic brown rice and seaweed diet. Wait!” Em shouted suddenly. “I know a game.” She grabbed two dish towels and tied them together. “Put this on like a blindfold,” she said. “Sit.” She pulled out a chair.

I could hear her opening and closing drawers as I adjusted the tea towels over my eyes. “You're not going to throw knives at me, right?” I asked, only half joking.

She laughed. “Margot, when are you going to learn to trust me? Are you ready?”

“That depends. Ready for what?”

“Mystery on a spoon!” she announced. “The greatest game ever invented. I mix together mysterious things on a spoon, feed them to you, and you try to guess what they are.”

“Couldn't you just throw knives at me instead?” I said, shuddering. I knew what was in our kitchen.

“Don't worry,” she said. “There are rules. Rule number one is that you can mix no more than three things, so that limits how disgusting it can get.” I heard her close the fridge. “Rule number two: only edible things can go on the spoon. Rule number three: you have to swallow it, no matter how gross it is. But don't worry. I have to go next, so if I feed you something really bad, you can make me pay.”

I heard a few cupboard doors open and shut. “God, you weren't kidding,” Em remarked. “You have no food.” I heard a shaking noise like a box of cereal, except I knew I'd eaten the last of it that morning. “Oh, disgusting,” Em said. A drawer opened and closed. “Okay. Open wide.”

I took a deep breath and was just about to open my mouth when the doorbell rang. “Gotta get that.” I jumped up, reaching for my blindfold.

“No!” yelled Em, grabbing my hand away. “You'll see what's on the spoon. Just answer it like that.” Em put two hands on my back and pushed me so hard in the direction of the front hall that I practically had to run to avoid tipping forward. I reached up with one hand and pulled off the blindfold before opening the door.

It was Erika. I suddenly remembered. It was Monday. “Oh my God,” I said. “I forgot.”

“I waited at the cemetery for an hour,” she said. “Again.” I racked my brain trying to think of some believable excuse or, at the very least, something to say. She beat me to it, though. “I thought maybe you were sick, or got abducted by a stranger, or that something was really wrong, like maybe one of your family members was in a car accident.”

“No,” I said, stuffing a corner of the tea-towel blindfold into my back pocket. “I'm so sorry. My mom had to cover a shift for her boss at All Organics, and I'm babysitting alone because my grandma's getting the flu shot. I just…forgot.” I'll admit I didn't say it in a very apologetic way. It came out sounding more amazed than anything because, honestly, I was so surprised myself.

Tears started to spill silently out of Erika's eyes. I stepped toward her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I just
completely
forgot,” I said in a pleading tone. “Look, I'm doing something right now.” I glanced back toward the kitchen nervously. “But what if we meet up tomorrow? Three thirty, by the cemetery gates. I
swear
, honestly, I'll remember this time.…”

“Who's there?” Em yelled from the kitchen. Erika's eyes widened.

“That's just,” I explained, “this girl from school. We're…doing a food sampling project together. For health class.”

Em came into the hallway. “Are you coming?” she asked. “It doesn't matter how long you avoid it, that spoon isn't getting any less nasty.” When she saw Erika, she sighed heavily, pushed past me, then smiled sweetly. “Thanks,” she said to my best friend, who was tugging at the sleeves of her white school-uniform shirt, “but we don't want any Girl Scout cookies.” Then she slammed the door shut in her face.

“Em!” I shouted, the second the latch clicked.

“Oh, wait! Do you know her?” Em asked.

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing frantically at the doorknob.

I stepped onto the front walk, but it was too late. Erika was running toward the street, and I knew that even if I called after her, she'd keep going.

“Oh, sorry,” Em said in an offhanded way. “I didn't know she was your friend. Anyway, come on. You can call her later or something. Blindfold back on.”

I stood there another second, watching Erika go, her backpack bouncing up and down heavily, the edges of her kilt flapping. I felt numb, and sick, and empty—like everything my best friend and I had had for so many years had suddenly fallen into a bottomless pit and there was no way to get it back.

“Come on,” Em urged again. I blinked back tears and shut the door, then tied the tea towels over my eyes. There was nothing else I could do at that moment. Erika was furious with me. I'd just have to let her cool down, then apologize later, and somehow make it right. She
had
to forgive me.…She was the person who could still remember the names of every doll I'd ever had, every favorite song I'd ever danced to; the one who was there when my grandpa died, when my mom got married, when my sisters were born.…

“Okay, brace yourself,” Em said, sitting me back in the chair. “This is going to be pretty bad.” I felt the tip of the spoon against my lips. “Smell it first,” she suggested, but I didn't want to. I opened my mouth and swallowed as quickly as I could.

In case you're wondering what was on the mystery spoon, it was peanut butter, honey, and pepper—which was disgusting, but not nearly as gross as the mayonnaise, vinegar, and Tabasco sauce I got her back with—or the counterattack of vegetable oil, horseradish, and hot mustard. By round four, Em and I were both laughing our heads off. She even called me “the Master of Mystery on a Spoon.” But the whole time I was secretly watching the clock, thinking about Erika crying her eyes out in her bedroom, and waiting for Em to leave so I could write her a long e-mail, explaining and apologizing.

Unfortunately, though, Em didn't seem in any hurry to get home.

“Show me your room,” she said, when neither of us could handle one more spoonful of disgustingness.

I hesitated. I
really
needed to write that e-mail. Plus, there was so much babyish stuff in there. “It's pretty messy,” I said, hoping she'd take the hint. She didn't.

“Here it is.” She showed herself down the hall and pushed my door open. It wasn't hard to find. I have this embarrassing Winnie-the-Pooh nameplate my grandma bought for me at the dollar store off one of those racks of personalized key chains and things. It was the only time I'd ever seen one that actually had my name on it—spelled right, too.

Em stepped into the room, kicking aside some piles of junk to make a path to the bed. She flopped down on my butterfly quilt and looked up. “You're kidding, right?” she said. “Eternal Crush? In New York, fourth graders listen to that.” On the wall over my bed was a magazine photo of Ian Donahue, the lead singer of our favorite band, Eternal Crush. Erika and I had plasticized his lips with Scotch tape so we wouldn't wear them out from kissing him.
Our
favorite band. It made me nervous just thinking that. What if I was too late? And Erika didn't forgive me? What if there wasn't any
us
anymore?

But before I could dwell on it, I was distracted by Em, who rolled over and looked up at me disapprovingly. “Oh, that. I barely listen to Eternal Crush anymore,” I said. “Only when I'm in the mood for something corny.” I silently prayed Em wouldn't notice the huge pile of Eternal Crush CDs on my dresser, or the full-sized crushing on you tour poster that was, thankfully, hanging on the back of the open door, facing the wall.

“Who do you listen to?” I asked.

“Ummm,” she said, letting her head hang over the edge of the mattress while she pretended to think. “Punk, hip-hop, like SubSonic.…
Not
Eternal Crush.”

“Oh,” I said, sitting down on the bed beside her. “I like that stuff too. Especially SubSonic.” The truth was I'd never heard of them before.

Em sat up and glanced around at the rest of my room. “You don't look like your family.” Her eyes had landed on this framed photo on the dresser. It was of me, my mom, Bryan, and the triplets. We got it taken last year for Christmas cards. The photo-studio lady nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to get all three triplets to sit still. “Are you adopted or something?” she asked.

It wasn't the first time in my life I'd been asked that question, but it still caught me off guard. “No.” I stood up and looked in my full-length mirror while I tucked some stray hairs back under the hair band/scarf. “My dad's Indian. But he's in California right now, working.” I don't know why I said that, but I liked the way it sounded. Like he was some kind of important businessman who had a perfectly good reason for not being around—instead of the not-at-all-reliable, more-than-a-little-selfish person my mom says he actually is.

In case you're curious, the way the story goes is that my mom met my dad at this interfaith retreat center in Massachusetts when she was thirty-one. She was there to meditate. He was there to find God and kick his habit of smoking marijuana. None of that quite worked out for him, but he met my mom in the communal kitchen one night while they were washing dishes, and one thing led to another, I guess.

When my mom found out she was pregnant, she says she was scared but really happy. She settled down in Darling to be close to Grandma and Grandpa Button. She also contacted my dad to let him know. He said that new life was beautiful, and that he'd send money for me whenever he could—but that was about it.

My mom says he's just that kind of person. He lives life in the moment without thinking too much about other people. She says she feels sad for him that he hasn't bothered to get to know me, and that it's his loss because I'm beautiful and interesting and very, very special, etc. Twice he's written to say he was passing through our part of Ontario and would definitely visit, but he never showed up. It made my mom furious, but it wasn't the end of the world. To tell you the truth, I'm so scared of meeting him that I've never even tried writing back to the addresses on the envelopes of his cards. What if the shape of my nose reminds him of some relative he hates? What if we just have nothing to say? What if, after he
does
get to know me, he decides I'm still not worth sticking around for?

All the same, sometimes at night, if I'm feeling depressed, I'll get the ball-and-maze game he sent me down from the shelf, and do it over and over, wondering if he tried playing it before putting it in the envelope, and if he made it to the end. If he ever does end up coming, I'll show him. I've practiced so many times I can do it with my eyes closed.

“Is this your stepfather?” By now, Em had walked across the room and picked up the photo. Her hand was dangerously close to the stack of Eternal Crush CDs, but she still hadn't noticed them.

“Unfortunately,” I said, tucking the last strand of hair back under my headband. “What about you? Do you have brothers or sisters? Or stepparents?”

“No,” she answered simply, and set down the photo.

“Why did your parents pick Darling when you decided to move?”

She sproinged the bobble-head turtle on top of my computer screen while she answered. “My mom picked it off the map. She liked it because it was in the middle of nowhere and she figured nothing would happen here. The total opposite of New York.” I tried not to take offense at her description of my hometown. It was kind of true, after all. “Like I said, we wanted a break. I was worn out from modeling. And my mom was burned out from so much acting.” That made sense, even if it didn't explain the social worker. I knew Bryan was always exhausted after a day on set, and that was just for a thirty-second commercial. Since Em's mom was on soap operas, she probably used to film every single day.

“But we'll only be here a year, I think,” she went on. “Then we'll go back to New York.”

I gulped. Of course she wasn't staying. She was nice to me, and cool. Plus, she was a model with a famous mother. It was all too good to be true. I shouldn't have been so surprised there was a huge catch. Em noticed the look on my face.

“I said I'm going to be here a whole year,” she said. “Stop looking so depressed. We have tons of time to have fun.”

She went up to my mirror and started smudging her eyeliner a little with her pinkie finger, then she looked up, noticing a necklace that was hanging over the corner. It was one of those heart pendants broken in two that says “Best Friend” on it. Only, the words are stacked one on top of the other, so instead of one half saying “best” and the other saying “friend” it has half of both words.…Mine says
^BE
_FRI
and Erika's says
^ST
_END
. Her mom bought it for us two Christmases ago, but we'd both decided it was too dorky to wear in seventh grade.