Mission (Un)Popular (17 page)

She tilted her head to read his name tag. “Hi, Jason,” she said. “It's nice to meet you. And thanks a ton for the chocolate-bar advice. I'm Em. This is Margot.”

I waved weakly.

And then she just started talking to him about things. Like, asking him if he was on the football team (he wasn't), and if he had a girlfriend (he didn't), and saying she bet a lot of girls came in just to talk to him. He didn't say much. Just kind of nodded.

“Anyway,” she finished, “I'll give you my number.” She looked down at her shoes, then glanced up quickly, like she was shy. “We're having this party next Saturday. Maybe you want to come? Bring some of your friends? It's going to be really awesome.”

He pulled a cell out of his back pocket and handed it to her. She added her name and number to his contacts list. “I might be around,” he said. “I'll text you if I'm free.”

“Great.” Em smiled, then she snatched up her Slurpee and started to pull me toward the door. She kept hold of my arm and said in a hushed, measured voice. “Look back and wave, okay?”

When we'd gotten far enough away, I almost screamed. “Okay. What was that? He's in high school! If he texts you, are you actually going to text him back?”

“Of course I'm not going to text him back,” she answered, making a face. “I was getting us free Slurpees, stupid.” She pulled her hand out of her pocket. “And an Oh Henry! bar. They're really fudgy, you know.”

I looked down at the cup in my hand and felt a chill go through me. “I can't believe you made me shoplift!” Visions of glazed hams were dancing in my head.

“That wasn't shoplifting.” She sucked on her straw thoughtfully. “He wanted to give them to us.”

“He did not.” I started walking really quickly. Em didn't try to keep pace. “And anyway,” I said over my shoulder, “what if his boss finds out and makes him pay for the stuff we took? He probably only makes minimum wage.” I plopped onto a park bench with my illegally acquired beverage.

“Relax. Slurpees only cost a dollar thirty-three. If we'd asked, he probably would have bought them for us.” Em sat down on the next bench. “Plus, it's not like we didn't pay a
nything
for them. Jason's going to spend the rest of the month walking around thinking he's some kind of superstar because two girls wanted his number.”

“But you're not actually going to text him, right?”

“I already said I'm not,” she answered. “So?” She motioned toward my Slurpee.

“It's really good,” I admitted. We sat in silence, slurping for a while. “I can't believe it's already Saturday afternoon,” I said finally.

“Are you kidding?” Em answered. “I can't wait for Monday.” She smiled, showing all her teeth. They were covered in brown sludge.

I shivered again. The sun had disappeared behind dark clouds, and I stared down Park Street in the direction of Erika's house, wondering if she was home. Not that I could stop by to hang out even if it did start pouring rain. I was the last person she'd want to see. “Anyway, we should probably go home before we get soaked.” I glanced up at the darkening sky. “Plus, my mom will get all paranoid if I'm not back soon.” Untrue. At that very second she was probably making a toast to the joys of family around the disgusting roast pig and wasn't giving me the slightest thought.

“All right,” Em said. “Get lots of rest. And keep practicing your kissing on that poster boy. I have a feeling it's going to be a big week.”

I smiled as if to say that I doubted it, then waved as we walked off in separate directions. Even though I wasn't halfway finished, I put my shoplifted Slurpee into the first garbage can I passed, pushing it underneath an old newspaper, just to be safe.

It was 10:32 p.m. when I finally heard the garage door open. I sat up in bed and switched on the light, waiting for my mom to come check on me…or to show me her new Finkleman T-shirt and, you know, maybe say good night, but she didn't.

Nobody did.

I could hear Bryan and my mom tiptoeing around and talking in low voices. Then, a few minutes later, their bedroom door closed.

Nice, I thought. For all my mother knew, I could have been out drinking wine with a bunch of railway hoboes; sitting on a street corner sniffing heroin; or balancing along a guardrail, recklessly juggling knives.

She used to read my horoscope to me every morning, and tuck me in with a kiss every night before the triplets and Bald Boring Bryan took over her life. She volunteered in my Brownie unit even though she couldn't use a glue gun to save her life, and she worried obsessively that I didn't eat enough veggies. And now she didn't even have time to say a simple good night.

The next morning, my mom acted like nothing was wrong. “Morning, Margot,” she said cheerfully as I dragged myself into the kitchen for some Organic Oaty-O's.

“Cheerio,” Bryan added, holding up a spoonful of OatyO's and winking, so I'd know he was making the lamest joke on earth. I ignored him. He was only being nice to me to impress my mom anyway. I started rummaging in the sink to find a spoon to wash. “Did you have a good day to yourself yesterday?”

“It was fine,” I muttered, and turned to take my cereal back to my room.

“I'm making buckwheat pancakes for a special weekend treat,” my mom said to my back. “You want some, sweetie?”

“No,” I answered. Because, first of all, “sweetie”? And also, leave it to my mom to put buckwheat in pancakes and then call them a treat.

“Girls, look!” she shouted suddenly, pointing out the window with her spatula. “The bus!” The triplets broke into squeals of toddler ecstasy as Mrs. Troubleman, a Colonel Darling Elementary bus driver, pulled her school bus up in front of our kitchen window and parked it there.

“Da bus! Da bus! Da bus!” the triplets chanted, running circles around the kitchen. I don't know if you've ever seen a two-year-old near a school bus, but it's like an addiction. They can't get enough. Sometimes I think I should warn my sisters that one day that yellow bus—and everything it stands for—will be the cause of all their misery, but I know they wouldn't get it.

“Hurray. The bus!” Bryan rejoiced, picking the girls up one at a time and swinging them around. That made it official. I lived in a house full of crazy people.

“Oh, Margot,” sighed my mom. “You have to stay and join us for breakfast now. How often is the school bus parked right outside our window?” She had a point. Mrs. Troubleman usually parked her bus one block over. How could I think of missing this golden opportunity? Aleene was tugging excitedly at my hand, though, so I gave in, sinking down into a kitchen chair and taking a pancake off the stack.

Big mistake. Once they had me captive, my mom and Bryan spent the whole breakfast telling me about the mini quiche they ate at the Finkleman reunion, going on and on about how flaky the crust was. “And Uncle Eddy did the most amazing magic trick with a quarter and a box, Margot,” Mom added. “I wish you'd seen it.” Honestly, could they have rubbed it in any more?

As soon as she'd finished eating, my mom jumped up and started washing dishes, not even bothering to ask for details about what I'd done or to bug me about finishing my homework. Instead, she and Bryan talked loudly over the triplets' chatter: could they really afford winter tires
and
dental cleanings for themselves this year? Did Aleene's latest bowel movement seem soft? Were the girls getting enough social interaction with peers, and what about the woman down the street with a two-year-old? A possible playdate? Should they confront Grandma Betty about how she secretly fed the girls Fudgee-O's? I picked at my pancake and tried to tune them out.

I was almost relieved when breakfast was over, and my mom, Bryan, and the triplets all went outside to drool over the bus. It meant the house was quiet and I could go back to my room and work on my essay for Mr. Learner.

Not that it was going to win any Nobel prizes, but I was pretty proud of my paper. It at least beat the pork party for an intelligent way to organize a society.

And that was when I had a brilliant idea.

I
RAN MY IDEA BY
E
M THE
next morning in English class. “Okay, so what if we call it the Anti-Pork Party?”

She smiled. “I like it.” I basked in the glow of her approval. “Okay. So we've got the name. And I was thinking, my rec room can probably fit about fifty people, but it would be crowded. So let's make it
really
exclusive.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “Only the people we really like.” We both looked across the room at Sarah J. and shook our heads.

She was too busy examining her reflection in her compact mirror to notice anyway.

“Matt's taking me to see
In the Name of Love
on Saturday,” she was saying to Maggie and Joyce while she smoothed expensive-looking face cream onto her cheeks and forehead.

“Awwwwww,” Maggie and Joyce cooed on cue.

“That movie looks barfarific,” Ken put in, as he came down the aisle and threw his bag on his desk.

“Sorry, Ken, but you don't know the first thing about romance,” Maggie answered, rolling her eyes.

“True,” he answered, popping a gummi candy into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “But being a dude, I
do
know how dudes think. If he's taking you to that movie, Sarah, he's got motives, if you know what I mean.…” He raised his eyebrows in this dirty way. Maggie just smacked him.

“He's right,” Em spoke up. The Group girls turned to stare at her as if they were scandalized by her nerve. She just stared back. “If you don't want people joining your conversations, don't talk so loud.” She paused. “I mean, come on. Did you see the preview? No guy in his right mind would waste his time otherwise. Jake Cassidy usually has great taste in roles. But his wife left him for the guy who played Butch in that biker movie and took all his money. He must
really
need the cash.” She leaned forward on her desk and squinted her eyes with the intensity of it all. “‘If I could be anywhere, baby…'” she quoted the scene in the preview where the girl and the guy meet on a bridge in the rain.

I couldn't let her do it alone. “‘…I'd be right here in your arms,'” I finished, making the same pained, swooning expression as the actor.

Ken started laughing. “What?” he said, turning to Sarah as she shot him a withering look. “They kind of nailed it.”

Amir and Simon walked in then, looking at some kind of weird electronic radio antennae thing. “Okay. Let's ask for a second opinion from a real man,” Ken suggested. “Hey, Amir! Would you go see
In the Name of Love
for the fun of it?”

Amir handed the antennae thing off to Simon, who shoved it into his bag. “No,” he said, shooting me a quick nervous look as he passed by my desk. “I'm not interested in that movie.”

“Okay, what if Margot wanted to go and you knew you'd get some action? You two are into each other, right?”

Amir pulled out his chair, ignoring the question. I stared straight ahead. “Yo, Amir, man. I'm talking to you,” Ken pressed. “You and Margot. Dark theater. Would you do it?”

“Shut up, Ken,” I said, turning to face him. “Amir's not a sleaze like you. And for your information, we're not into each other.” It wasn't the first time someone had made a joke about it, though…just because we ate lunch together…just because we both had the same skin color.

“Ooooh,” Ken said, like I'd just burned him, which I guess I sort of had. “What's the matter, Margot? I guess you're a model now, right? Amir-a-med's not man enough for you anymore?” He walked over and picked up Amir's arm where his bicep would be if he had one, squeezing it. I wanted to kill him. I really did.

Amir just shook him off and started to take out his notebooks. “Do you want to take your seat, please?” he said firmly.

“Take my seat, please? Wow, them's fighting words.…”

Throughout all of this, Em had been watching silently. Then she just turned to face the front. I didn't get it. She always had the perfect comeback. And now, when we needed one more than ever, she had nothing to say? After all, if we owed anybody, it was Amir. He was the only person in our class who'd been on my side since school started…the only one who interfered when Ken teased me. He, Andrew, and Mike were the only ones who'd helped to take down the lesbian posters. I looked across the aisle at Em urgently, but she pretended to be watching the door like she was waiting for someone. Thankfully, George walked in, distracting Ken by holding up the latest issue of SportsCar Weekly, and Mr. Learner followed close behind, putting his paperback down on his desk and clearing his throat for our attention. Before I turned to face the front, I glanced back, hoping to catch Amir's eye, but he was looking down, studying his notebook like his life depended on it.

“Okay,” Em said, as we headed in the direction of her house that day after school. “I've been thinking about this…” I had a rare afternoon off from babysitting because my mom and Bryan had decided the triplets needed to socialize outside the family setting—even if it meant my mom did fewer tarot readings. They were at a playdate down the street with a little boy named Dante, who was always chucking Matchbox cars, screaming, and biting people. Meanwhile, Em and I were using the time to put together the guest list for the Anti-Pork Party. “…and I've decided,” she went on as she balanced along the curb, “Ken's a definite yes.”

“What?” I dropped back and balanced along behind her. I was still seething about the whole thing with Amir that morning, even though when I'd seen him at lunch, he'd acted like it was no big deal. “Haven't you noticed he's the biggest jerk alive?”

“Oh, I noticed,” she answered. “But he happens to be a big
popular
jerk. And anyway, he's kind of funny.” I hoped she wasn't talking about what he'd done to Amir, because, personally, I couldn't think of anything
less
funny. “You know, like the way he made all those stupid pig jokes when Mr. Learner was talking about
Lord of the Flies
.”

Okay, so I wasn't a fan of pig jokes in general (having had enough of them directed at me
last June
to last a lifetime), but it
had
been pretty hilarious when Mr. Learner asked why the characters called Ralph and Piggy joined Jack's feast, and Ken had answered, “to pig out,” and then later he'd made this other comment about Jack being “pigheaded,” and then he'd raised his hand and pretended to have forgotten he was in English class and started his question with the word “
pork-quoi
,” and basically just kept mentioning pigs so much that, eventually, Mr. Learner banned him from participating.

“I don't know…” I said.

“So, Ken. And your floppy hair guy, obviously,” Em went on, ignoring my hesitation. “Michelle, Bethany, and the rest of the volleyball team. That girl in eighth grade who tried on my shoes after Michelle, plus her friends. And Charlie Baker's okay. Also his girlfriend. She seems cool.”

“Andrew, Mike, and Amir,” I added. Em stopped abruptly, and I walked right into her, knocking us both off the curb. She got back on.

“Sorry.” For a second I thought she was apologizing for making us fall, but then she went on. “Don't take this the wrong way, Margot, but I don't think that's such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“How can I put this nicely?” she said, starting to balance again. She turned, looking back over her shoulder. “They're kind of like that belt.”

“Huh?”

“That butterfly belt you're always wearing.” I looked down. The two bottom wings of the clasp were sticking out slightly, and I tugged my shirt down over them. “It's like: even if you do everything else right…right jeans, right attitude, good posture, decent hair…but you add just one wrong accessory—or, say, one wrong friend—everyone can tell you're not the real thing.”

She must have noticed the sadness in my silence. “They're nice guys, Margot. I'm not saying they aren't. You can be friends with them if you want.…It's not like I'd stop you. But they're just not the people
I
want to hang out with. And they don't belong at this kind of party. They'd be out of place. That's all I'm saying.”

I stepped off the curb and dug my hands into my pockets as Em walked on a few steps ahead. She didn't stumble when the sidewalk curved, even though she was wearing heels again. I hated to admit it, but maybe she was right. Andrew, Mike, and Amir didn't like hanging out with tons of people or listening to loud music. They didn't dance at all—unless you counted their funky chicken routine on the basketball court. They'd probably just feel completely awkward at a party like the one Em and I were planning. Maybe it was for the best. I mean, I'd still hang out with them, obviously, just not on that one night.

“Oh, and speaking of belts,” Em said, as we neared her house, “I have some clothes for you if you want. Mostly some old clothes of mine in size four. They're kind of last season in New York—but still better than what you've got here. I think they'll fit.” She unlocked the door and called into the big echoey hallway. “Hi, Debbie. I'm home. I brought Margot. Remember? You met her before.”

“Just a second,” Debbie's voice came back. Em showed me where to hang my coat and leave my shoes, and a minute later her mom's bare feet appeared on the thickly carpeted stairs. She was dressed head to toe in some kind of gold-and-green-spandex yoga wear, her long blond hair tied up in a bouncy ponytail. A few seconds later, a blond man followed behind her, also in bare feet and spandex. He towered over Em's mom, with shoulders at least three times as wide. My mouth dropped open. It was like a Viking had entered the room. A yoga Viking. “Emily, you remember Conrad, my personal trainer. We're just doing some Pilates in the back room.” The man touched her gently on the small of her back and she looked up at him and smiled. “Margaret, hello.” I didn't bother correcting her, and neither did Em. “I guess you have homework to do,” she said, seeming in a hurry to get rid of us. “Conrad and I will leave you to it.” Em pushed past them on the stairs, and I didn't know what else to do, so I followed.

I'd always wondered what the upstairs of the turret house was like, and I was more than a little excited to get the chance to see. Em's room was at the end of the hall, and it wasn't anything like I'd expected. I guess I'd always thought a girl's bedroom in a turret would have a canopy bed and matching pink curtains—like Erika's room did. The curtains were nice, but just plain white. The walls were mossy green. There wasn't a single babyish thing in the room.

“Here,” Em said. She started pulling things out of the closet and throwing them on the bed. My heart leaped up as I saw the labels fly past. Calvin Klein, TNA, Mexx. A lot of them had the sales tags still on. “This will probably fit.” She picked up a shimmery gray top. “Take whatever you want.” I picked up the gray top and walked to the mirror, holding it against my chest. It matched the gray in the hair scarf Em had given me exactly. “Oh, and you need some more of these.” Em pulled a few extra scarves out of the closet and handed them to me. “It's going to take a few more months for your bangs to grow out, and you can't wear the same one every day. This might be good for you, too.” She grabbed a bottle off the dresser and threw it onto the bed. The label on the front said Flounce Frizz Control Serum. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, already dreaming of the magical powers it might hold. “And this.” She took a wide brown braided leather belt out of the closet and passed it to me, then held out her hand like she was waiting for a tip. “The butterfly,” she prompted. I undid the clasp, pulled it out of the belt loops, and handed it over. She dropped it into her trash can.

“Thanks,” I said, gulping a little. Then I sat on the white down comforter to look around the room. “Did you and your mom do this yourselves?” I asked.

“Paint the walls and stuff?” Em asked. “Are you serious? Debbie doesn't do home renovations. She's too busy with other things, like her personal trainer.”

“Is he…?” I paused, not sure how to say it. “I mean…are they? Doesn't your dad mind?”

“What?” Em turned, looking confused. I'd obviously done it again. Me and my giant mouth. “Oh, you mean…” she said, getting it. She put on a shocked and serious expression. “No. Conrad is just her personal trainer. Are you kidding?”

I nodded, even though I was thinking of the way the yoga Viking had touched her back. It was the same way Bryan touched my mom's back absentmindedly while standing behind her, waiting to get a fork from the cutlery drawer, or while she stood in line to step onto the escalator at Walmart.

“Anyway,” Em said, bouncing onto the bed beside me, “are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to find out why our party is going to be the party of the century. It's all confirmed.” I pushed myself closer to the edge of the bed, waiting for it. I don't know what I was expecting—a live DJ her dad had paid for, maybe, or some posters autographed by SubSonic. What she came out with was way, way cooler.

“Our party is going to be the world premier of the newest SubSonic single—‘Velocity.' My dad's getting us an exclusive advance copy.” I must have seemed stunned. “You know. ‘Velocity.' Off the new album—
SubZero
. You know about it, right?”

“Oh, totally,” I said. She could tell I was lying.

“Seriously, Margot.” She stood up and went to her desk, where she flipped open her laptop and pulled up a band blog. “‘The December release of SubSonic's new album,
SubZero
, is being hailed as the music event of the season. Preorders for the CD are already starting to pour in, and DC Records, the band's label, expects unprecedented digital sales,'” she read, then added, “It's a big, big deal that my dad is letting us hear it first.”