Mission (Un)Popular (15 page)

“Okay,” I said again. “I swear.”

And I really, really meant it. It was just that my big mouth sort of got the better of me. It happened on Wednesday morning in the yard.

I showed up a full fifteen minutes early (a new record for me), wearing the Parasuco jeans again, but this time with the ketchup-stain cami. Still, underneath Em's green jacket, you couldn't even see the stain. I looked good, which was a lucky thing since, little did I know, I was about to have my first actual conversation with the guy I'd been in love with since third grade.

“Hey,” Em said, catching up to me in the yard just as I was about to walk over to see Andrew, Mike, and Amir. “You're early. Come on.”

“Come where?”

“Over there.” She pointed to the far end of the yard, where Ken and Gorgeous George were standing near the bike racks. Ken was balancing on some kid's banana seat while George leaned against the fence.

“No way,” I said. They were popular. It wasn't like we could just walk up to them anytime we wanted to.

“How are you going to kiss him if you can't even talk to him? Seriously, come on.” I didn't budge, even when she grabbed the sleeve of the green jacket and pulled. Or at least I didn't until she started shouting, “Hey, guys!” and they both turned to look at us.

“I'm going to kill you,” I said under my breath, but I followed her over.

“Can we ask you something?” she said as we approached.

Ken narrowed his eyes at us, and George looked surprised, but he nodded once.

“I've seen you reading those magazines about cars,” Em went on. “Margot and I have this question. We were hoping you could help us. What handles better? A Porsche Nine-eleven or a Camaro?” Ken gave us a strange look. You could tell he didn't believe we really cared, which was funny because he was right. I barely knew what a Porsche or a Camaro looked like, and the subject of cars hadn't come up once in the time Em and I had known each other. “My mom's getting her driver's license this year,” Em explained, “and she's looking to buy something. She said we could help choose.”

“Your mom doesn't have a driver's license?” Ken asked.

“We're from New York,” Em explained. “Nobody drives there.” I was learning more facts about New York by the minute.

“She probably wants to start with a Ford Pinto or a secondhand station wagon, then,” Ken suggested, and they both laughed, although I had no idea why that was funny.

“Oh. Ha-ha,” Em mocked them. “You haven't met my mother. She wouldn't be caught dead in a crappy car—even in this town. Anyway”—she grabbed my coat sleeve again—“let's go, Margot. These guys don't know enough to help us.” That seemed to do the trick.

“Hey, hey. Hold up.” Ken raised his hands. “Is that a challenge?”

Em turned. “You want to make it one?”

“The Porsche Nine-eleven comes with a six-speed manual transmission. If she's never driven before, she'll probably want an automatic. The Camaro SS looks like a sweet ride. I'd go with that.”

“Regular V-six powered or SS?” Em asked.

“SS,” Ken replied. “More horsepower.”

“You agree?” she asked, turning toward George.

“Totally,” he said. “My dad test-drove one once. He said it was nice.”

“All right, then.” She nodded. “Thanks.” It looked like we were about to turn and go, which made me panic. This was my big chance to make an impression and I hadn't said a single word to George yet. Because what could I say? I didn't know anything about cars…unless you counted knowing how to jiggle the stuck seat belt buckle in our minivan to get it undone. I was an expert at that.

“Hey,” I said instead, changing the subject as I motioned to the earphones hanging around George's neck. “What are you listening to?” I don't know why I said it. I didn't know the first thing about music, either…unless you counted Eternal Crush, which Em clearly didn't.

“SubSonic,” he said.

Then the words leaped out of my mouth. “Oh my God. I
love
them. Especially their last album,
The S.U.B.
” From my Google search two nights before, I'd learned that the band was made up of two big black guys who wore sunglasses and suit jackets, and a blond girl in a push-up bra who wore a lot of eyeliner and looked mad all the time. They also had a serious thing for too much punctuation. One of the guy's names was K.wack'ed and the girl's was something like Des.ti.nee. Their old English teachers must have wanted to write directly on the screen with a red pen every time they saw them interviewed on TV.

“Yeah. They're awesome, eh?” George said…to me!!

Which is maybe why, in a fit of stupidity fueled by true love, I said this: “Em's dad actually knows them.”

The second the sentence left my mouth, I wanted to pull it back in. Em turned to glare at me. George's mouth fell open in disbelief. Ken smirked. “Yeah, right,” he said.

“Margot!” Em said in a sharp, exasperated tone. “I told you not to tell anyone that.”

“Sorry!” I squeaked. But the truth was, I didn't get why it had to be such a big secret. So what if a few people knew that her dad was their agent? She could still lead a quiet life in Darling. Plus, wasn't the greater good of my love life and our reputation worth something to Em?

“What?” George said, looking between us. “Is it actually true?”

I'd already pretty much spilled it. It didn't seem like it could do any more harm. “Yeah. Em's dad is their—”

She cut me off. “Friend. My dad knows them. My whole family does. We're family friends with K.wack'ed. But we call him Shane.” Family friends? Em had definitely said her dad was their agent, but there must be a reason why she was covering that up, and I knew better than to open my big blabbery mouth again.

“Shane Marlowe,” George said, obviously recognizing the singer's real name. “So you actually know him?”

“Yes,” Em answered.

“You're not for real,” Ken said, like he still wasn't sure he believed it.

“Yeah,” Em said, glaring at me again. “I
am
for real. But I don't like to tell people because they go all insane and bug me for autographs and stuff. Shane hates that. Anyway,” she said, tugging at my jacket again, much harder this time, “if you guys don't mind, don't spread it around. Like I said, people go nuts.” The bell rang, and she dragged me away.

I waved.

“What part of ‘don't tell anybody' did you not understand, Margot?” she hissed as soon as we were out of earshot.

“Sorry! I was just…trying to think of something to say to him.”

“Yeah. Well. Next time, say something else.” She squinted like her head was about to explode.

“Em. Honestly. I didn't think it was such a big secret. So what if your dad's their agent…?”

“Shhh,” she said, glaring at me. “Family friend. From now on, it's family friend.”

I looked at her in confusion.

“It's bad enough that people are going to find out I know K.wack'ed. If they know my dad's their agent, do you know how many people are going to bug me for free SubSonic stuff?”

“Okay,” I promised. “Family friend. But anyway, you told Ken and George not to tell…so I'm sure they won't.”

“Right. Just like you didn't tell.”

I winced. She had a point.

“Sorry,” I said again. “Em, I'm so so sorry.”

“Margot, be quiet,” she said, rubbing at her temples. “Just please stop talking, for once, and let me think of a way to fix this.”

O
VER THE YEARS
, my habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time has had different kinds of consequences…from not-so-serious ones (like when I was in first grade and my grandpa Button laughed the whole way home after I asked this scruffy man wearing a bandana outside the liquor store if he was a pirate) to more serious ones (like being arrested after opening my big stupid mouth and volunteering to shoplift a glazed ham), but it had never before helped to make me more cool.

“Big news,” Em said, coming to join me at lunch the next day. “Can you give us a minute?” She turned to Andrew. He'd been leaning over my shoulder, coaching as I used my teleporter star to zap myself to the enchanted forest of Orr to do combat with a troll. I handed him the Nintendo.

“Sure,” he said, shrugging. “I'll keep it paused, Margot.”

Then he went over to join Amir and Mike, who were playing one-on-one. I'll admit, I breathed a small sigh of relief as Em threw her bag down and sat beside me. She'd barely said a word to me all morning, and after my giant screwup the day before,

I'd been expecting the worst.

“What's up?”

“We're having a party,” she said.

“What?”

“A party. My mom's going to visit a friend out of town next Saturday morning. She won't be back until Sunday—and besides having her new friend Conrad check in on me once in the day, she's letting me stay on my own. Next Saturday night my house will be completely empty. We're having a party.”

I could picture it now: us, sitting all alone at Em's house, drinking pop with the music turned up loud while we waited for nobody to show up. “No offense,” I answered. “I think it sounds fun, but who would come? Besides you and me? And them?” I motioned toward Andrew and Amir, who were doing some sort of chicken dance to psych Mike out and make him miss his shot.

“Lots of people. Anyone we want. We have a rec room with built-in speakers and a pool table. And anyway, this isn't going to be just any party. It's going to be
the
party. Things are going to change around here. We're about to get noticed, Margot. In a big way.”

She was obviously in denial about how popular we
weren't
. I didn't say anything, though. I was happy enough that Em was talking to me again, and I didn't want to make her mad.

“My dad's going to help us out,” she went on, taking her lunch out of her bag.

“What do you mean?”

“I was just talking to him, in the Student Support Office,” she said. “Now that it's out, we can't do anything to stop people from talking about how I know SubSonic, but at least we can use it to our advantage. My dad's going to send some stuff for our party.”

“Like decorations?”

“No,” she said, as if it should be obvious, and I shifted a little on the bench. I wasn't about to admit it, but I didn't have any experience with parties…other than the pin-the-tail-on-thedonkey or pizza-party-sleepover kinds. What kinds of stuff would we need? “Just stuff. I'll tell you when it's all confirmed. Don't take this personally, but I don't need you starting any more rumors.” I bit my bottom lip and looked down at the pavement.

As she'd predicted, Ken and George hadn't kept their mouths shut either. By lunchtime the day before, everyone seemed to know that Em was claiming to know SubSonic, and nobody seemed to believe it.

“Right,” I'd overheard Michelle Cobbs say to her friend Bethany, while I was getting my books from my locker. “My aunt lives in New York, so I'm close personal friends with K.wack'ed, too.” In the reflection of my locker mirror I could see Bethany roll her eyes in agreement. “I don't know if that girl is a lesbian or not, and I don't really care,” Michelle went on, “but one thing is for sure. She's a fake. You can just tell.”

Unfortunately, Em's outfit choice for the day wasn't doing anything to divert attention. She was wearing baggy jeans, a tight vintage T-shirt with a picture of Bambi on it, a huge gold belt, and spike-heeled boots. It looked good, don't get me wrong—like something straight out of
CosmoGirl
—but she definitely stood out in the hallway full of hoodie sweatshirts and Converse sneakers.

“Make sure to ask your mom tonight if you can sleep over, okay?” She took a bite of her trademark Whole Foods sandwich.

“I'll see if I can find you something to wear.” She glanced at my clothes—a pair of jeans, my Converse knockoffs, and a blue V-neck sweater. I knew I didn't exactly look runway-ready, but honestly, it had seemed good enough when I'd picked it out that morning. My pants were even long enough. “Also, you're probably right,” she said, looking out across the yard. “We need to work on making more friends between now and then. What about those volleyball wannabes to start?”

Michelle Cobbs, Bethany, and their two friends Brayden and Cynthia were coming across the yard. “Hi, Michelle,” Em called out as they got closer—as if they were already friends, which couldn't have been further from the truth. If Em hadn't been ignoring me that morning, I could have told her what Michelle had said about her being a fake, but it was too late now.

“Hi,” Michelle said coolly, glancing at Em's boots.

“Oh. Do you like?” With her legs still crossed, Em swung one leg up in the air to show off the spiked heel.

“Um,” Michelle answered, “they're definitely tall.” Her friends snickered.

“Yeah, well, we're not all lucky enough to have your height,” Em said, in an actually sweet way. “Some of us have to fake it.” You could tell Michelle was taken off guard by the way she stopped chewing her gum for a second.

“Hey. What size are you?” Em asked. “Want to try them on?” She was already undoing one zipper.

“Thanks, but I don't think so,” Michelle answered.

“You look like a seven. Try!” Em said, holding them up. “They're Manolo Blahniks.”

Michelle didn't really react, but that definitely caught the attention of an eighth grade girl with dark curly hair who was walking past with her group of friends. “Did you just say you had Manolo Blahniks—like from
Sex and the City
?”

Em nodded.

That made Michelle pause. After all, anybody who knew anything about shoes—and even most people who didn't—knew that those were crazy expensive. “They're not that hard to walk in. I'll teach you.” Em held them out to Michelle again.

“Can I try them on after you?” the eighth grade girl asked.

Em got up in her sock feet and handed the boots to Michelle.

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” Michelle said, but she sat down on the bench and checked the label before pulling them on.

“Where did you get those?” the eighth grader asked.

“They're my mom's,” Em said. “She's a soap opera actress, so she goes to these fancy parties all the time. Plus, she only wears heels. Even to the grocery store.”

Michelle finished doing up the zippers and stood, teetering a little.

“What do you think, Margot?” Em asked.

The truth was, Michelle was usually so sporty that she looked kind of weird in such girly boots—like she was dressing up as a sexy vampire for Halloween but had forgotten the top two-thirds of her costume. Also, she was already so tall that the four-inch heels made her tower above the rest of us—but since Em seemed serious about inviting them to this party, I could tell that wasn't what I was supposed to say.

“They look hot,” I said instead. “Except”—I crouched down and unzipped one boot—“you should tuck your jeans into them.” I'd seen that in CosmoGirl. To my amazement, Michelle bent over, unzipped the second boot, and tried it. And to my even bigger amazement, it looked way better. Even Em seemed impressed.

“Try walking,” Em said, holding out one arm to steady Michelle, while I took the other side.

“Oh my God, how do you do this?” Michelle asked, laughing a little as she toppled into Em.

“Heel first, then toe,” Em instructed. “Small steps. It's practically the first thing you learn in modeling school. And let your hips sway when you walk. That's the whole point.” Michelle tried it and got a high-pitched whistle and catcall from Ken, who was watching with George from across the yard. She ignored it, but Em didn't.

“Sorry, guys, but she's way out of your league,” she shouted back.

Michelle grinned as she sat down on the bench to pull the boots off. “I think I could get used to high heels,” she said, handing them back to Em. “I mean, not every day, but they're kind of cool.” I couldn't tell if she felt bad for what she'd said about Em in the hallway, but at the very least, she was pretending it had never happened, which counted for something.

As the week went on, some of the other people who weren't so sure about Em also seemed to be coming around.

“Okay,” George said, turning in his seat when Em and I sat down on Friday morning in English class, “if you can answer these three questions, I'll believe you: where did Shane Marlowe grow up? What was the name of his first band? And what was the first city on their second North American tour?”

Em tapped one foot in the air. She had on a pair of tan knee-high boots that had square heels.…Still high, but not as treacherous as the stilettos she'd worn the day before.

“George?” She hesitated. “Your name
is
George, right?” He nodded. “Look, I have nothing to prove to you. Anyway, anybody could look up that stuff online. Either believe me or don't. I don't care.”

George seemed to think about that for a second, but didn't give up. “Like, how well would you say you know them?” he pressed.

“Put it this way: they came to our house for Thanksgiving last year. Jump.U.P. ate like, all the cranberries. K.wack'ed used to come to my jazz recitals when I was little. Of course, that was before he was famous. He's got this ring with twelve yellow diamonds in the shape of a pineapple.” George nodded. He obviously knew the one. “Once when he was over, it fell off and we found it between the couch cushions. My dad had to send it back to him in an armored vehicle. To thank us, the next day he sent a plasma TV.” George stared at her in wonder. “Margot met him too,” she said. I looked up. “At a pool party for our modeling class this summer. He stopped by. He's so nice, right?” She turned to me.

I nodded. “Yeah,” I added lamely, wondering why she couldn't at least warn me in advance when she was going to drag me into these things. “And he had a really nice bathing suit.”

“Now, please,” Em said to George, “I didn't finish reading the homework chapter yet.” George turned to face the front, and I looked over at her, a little bit baffled, but mostly impressed. I wished someone would give my family a plasma TV.

Em still hadn't told me exactly what her dad was planning to send us for the party, but if it had anything to do with SubSonic, and if things kept going the way they had been…maybe it was possible.…Next Saturday.
Our
party. I took out my agenda, flipped ahead a week, and wrote it in. Then, while the class settled into their desks and Mr. Learner arranged his things at the front, I came up with a new School Year's resolution. After all, why would anyone settle for being normal when they could Get noticed. In a big way? Things were definitely starting to change.