Mission (Un)Popular (2 page)

“I've signed you up for a session through Community Connections,” my mom said. She saw the devastated look on my face and responded with a warning expression I knew well:
Margot, don't argue with me. This will be good for you.

“What kind of session?” Knowing her, it was bound to be a workshop on finding your inner goddess or jazzing up secondhand clothing with beadwork.

“It's an all-girls workshop,” she started carefully. “The write-up said it would be a safe space to talk about your sense of self. Bryan and I thought—”

I pushed my chair back from the table. My sense of self
so
did not need talking about, and since when did my stepfather get to help decide what would be good for me?

“Margot, don't get upset. You'll be done by noon, in plenty of time to meet up with Erika. And it's already paid for. This isn't up for discussion,” she added, before I could even start to protest.

“Fine,” I mumbled. I could tell from the serious look on my mother's face that I wasn't getting out of this class, but that didn't mean I had to sit there and listen to her go on about how great for me it was going to be. “But you know what? I'm not hungry. At all.” Grandma shot my mother a worried look.

I went down the hall to the bathroom, shutting the door much harder than I needed to. Then I splashed water over my face and started my ten-step hair routine, which takes at least half an hour and is sacred. I'd only made it to the spray-on conditioner (step four) when my mom knocked on the door saying it was almost time to go.

All of which explains how, at 9:15 in the morning on the last real day of summer vacation, with my hair still an incredible frizz ball, I found myself buckled into the front seat of our rusty, million-year-old minivan, staring angrily out the window. As we backed out of the driveway, I bit my lip and tried not to cry.

“So, Margot,” my mom said, once we'd rounded the corner, “just think. In a few days, you'll be starting seventh grade.”

“Yeah,” I answered. “Just think.” I definitely didn't feel like talking to her, and of all the topics I didn't feel like talking to her about, school was number one.

“Are you excited?”

I shrugged. The truth was, it was complicated. The answer was “yes” and “definitely not.” In just three days, Erika and I would be walking through the doors of Manning Middle School for the first time. (If you didn't count the orientation tour we took in June.) We would officially be leaving elementary school behind and starting fresh. Sort of. All the people from our old school—Colonel Darling Elementary—would be starting at Manning too. But still, in a new building, with new teachers, I had some reason to hope things might be better. At least, they could be if I managed to stick to my School Year's resolution for seventh grade:

Be More Normal.

My mother drummed her fingers nervously on the steering wheel, obviously trying to work up the courage to say something more. “You know,” she went on finally, “I remember what seventh grade was like, Margot. I used to get teased. There were girls who gave me the cold shoulder because of the music I listened to.”

“That sucks,” I said. What I was really thinking was that my mom had officially checked out. She had no idea what kids today were capable of. The cold shoulder? Try watching your best friend cry her eyes out because someone wrote “NERD” on her chair in Wite-Out while she was in the bathroom, and she came back and sat in it. And, honestly, as bad as that was, even Erika agreed that I had it worse. And it had started
way
before seventh grade.

Try enduring weird looks and whispering when everyone else makes a macaroni Father's Day card, and yours is for your grandpa. Get called poor because your mom was too busy changing diapers and forgot to read the notice, let alone help you make gourmet triple-chocolate-chunk cookies, and you showed up at the Book-a-thon Bake-off empty-handed. Then get used to being called ape girl because your leg hair is darker than the other girls'. Have the most popular girl in school casually suggest that you might want to “do something” about your clothes. Get picked last for every team in gym class, every time. Have a bunch of popular guys throw pencil shavings into your frizzy hair all through math class. Eat the vegan three-bean chili your mom packed for lunch and listen to those same guys make farting noises behind your back the rest of the day. Understand that you don't really fit in for about ten different reasons, and that the more you try, the worse it gets…and then tell me about the cold shoulder.

I shifted in my seat, annoyed that I was being forced to even think about school on this supposed-to-be-blissful last official day of summer vacation.

“What exactly do I have to do in this class, anyway?” I asked, changing the subject as we got out of the van. The parking lot of the community center was practically deserted.

“Well,” Mom said, “you'll probably talk about your self-image. Maybe do some group exercises. It's really about putting yourself in the best possible frame of mind to start the new school year.”

I sighed. A new frame of mind wasn't going to solve my problems. What I needed was a new life. My mom glanced at her watch. “Oh, we're late,” she said, holding the front door open for me. She hurried down the stairs so quickly I was out of breath by the time we got to the bottom. The sign on the door in front of us read:
POWERFUL GIRLS! SELF-ESTEEM FOR PRETEENS
. It had a bad clip-art drawing of a girl giving a thumbs-up.

My mother kissed me quickly on the cheek. “Margot, please give it a chance. This might be just what you need. You know, to help you deal with the pressures of being a girl in today's world. And to work through what happened
last June
.” She whispered those words like
last June
was something too horrible to even mention, which it sort of was. “I'll pick you up at noon.” She squeezed my arm, then started back up the stairs.

I was just considering making a run for it when the door opened and a woman dressed in a flowing turquoise top poked her head out. “You must be Margot,” she said, in an extremely soft but high-pitched voice. Imagine if a baby goat in a petting zoo could talk. Her wavy gray hair was sort of goatlike too, and she had huge front teeth. “We're just about to start.” She stepped back and motioned for me to come in.

Wonderful, I thought. I was about to spend the entire morning of my last real day of summer vacation learning about self-esteem from a goat. Would I be standing there if I was anywhere close to normal? I honestly doubted it.

T
HE FIRST THING I NOTICED
when I walked into Powerful Girls! Self-Esteem for Preteens was that the preschool room, where it was being held, seemed smaller than it had when I was a kid. Back then, I could ride a trike forever without hitting a wall, and the sand table had been filled with mountains and valleys and castles with moats. Not anymore.

The toys, which had seen better days, were pushed against the walls. The room was dark and dingy, and instead of happy, laughing kids, a group of eleven-and twelve-year-old girls was balanced awkwardly on kindergarten-sized plastic chairs.

I recognized one of them—this short, freckled fifth grader from Colonel Darling Elementary. Our moms used to be friends a long time ago. She came to my house to play Monopoly while they did this single women's group thing in the living room. I could tell she remembered me too, but she looked at the floor quickly while I glanced at a
Stay Alert, Stay Safe
poster on the wall. It was an unspoken pact. We would pretend not to know each other, then never mention this to anyone we knew.

As for the other girls, I'd never met them, but, at a glance, they seemed to belong there. One had braces and tons of acne. Another was so overweight her thighs spilled way over the edges of the chair. A third had greasy hair and was wearing a T-shirt with dolphins on it. Almost all of them had slumped shoulders. Really, I thought to myself, I'm the coolest person in the room. At least I'd taken five minutes to put on a new pair of jeans and the flowered ketchup-stain cami.

“Girls,” said Goat Lady, “I'd like you all to welcome Margot to the group.” Everyone mumbled “Hi” while staring at their feet, except for one girl who had red hair in two thick braids down her back. “Hi, Margot.” She looked at the teacher to make sure she was watching. “On behalf of everyone, welcome to the group.”

“Thanks,” I said. There were only two itty-bitty chairs left—which were side by side. One was right beside braids girl, the other was next to the fifth grader I knew. I chose braids girl.

“My name is Mrs. Carlyle,” said the teacher, “but since we're all friends here, I'd like you to call me Beth. Is that all right?” She glanced around nervously, like she was expecting one of us to jump up and bite her. “Welcome to Powerful Girls! Self-Esteem for Preteens. Today we're going to work with five basic principles as we journey toward self-acceptance.” She walked over to a whiteboard and wrote with a squeaky marker.
Principle 1: Appreciate Yourself
.

I took a deep breath and tried to think of a daydream I could focus on to pass the time. This was something I always did in French class. Nine times out of ten the fantasies were about Gorgeous George, who had been my dream-boyfriend since third grade.

He was tall. He was cute. He was nice. He was good at sports. He was perfect. The only problem was that he was popular, and I, as you might have guessed, was not-so-much. I wasn't the nerdiest of the nerds or anything, but I wasn't part of The Group. They actually called themselves that too—The Group.

You probably know the type. They wear really expensive (really great) clothes and do cool things like pass notes all through class, have pool parties, and shoplift candy. They make fun of anyone who isn't like them, and the rest of us hate them but also secretly dream of being them.

I stared off into a corner over Mrs. Carlyle's head and let myself drift off. In my fantasy, Gorgeous George (whose real name is just plain George, obviously) was walking past my locker with Sarah J. (the most popular of the popular girls).

She was bragging about how awesome her summer vacation to Paris was when she spotted Simon, this kid in our grade who has to go to speech therapy twice a week for lisping. She smiled at George in this way that made it clear she was about to do something
hilarious
and that he should pay attention. “Hi, Th-h-himon,” she said, but saying all those th's accidentally made her spit right in Gorgeous George's eye.

Needless to say, he was grossed out. (Sarah J. might be teen-model perfect, with long blond hair and aqua-blue eyes, but even
her
spit is disgusting.) He also wasn't impressed. Simon's a nice enough guy, after all. It's not like it's his fault the letter
S
is so hard to say.

But here's where it got good: just then, I stepped up and offered George a tissue from one of those cute and organized-looking ten-packs of Kleenex, which I happened to have in my bag. He took it from me gently, wiped the spit from his eye, and really noticed me for the first time.

“Thanks,” he said, and then he took my hand (to further thank me), and he noticed, all of a sudden, that I have really nice brown eyes. And so he said, “Wow. I never noticed how pretty your eyes are, Margot.” And I got kind of shy then, which he thought was cute.

This is just one of the parts where you could tell it was a fantasy. In real life, I would have been so nervous that I would have started babbling uncontrollably about how I got my brown eyes from my world-traveling radish-farming dad, and that, if I'd had the choice, I would have rather had blue eyes like his. And had he ever heard that brown eyes are dominant? So, if one parent has blue eyes and the other has brown, the children are, like, ninety-nine percent more likely to get brown eyes. So really it's amazing anyone in the world has deep blue eyes like his anymore.…

But no. In my fantasy I batted my lashes at him like some kind of delicate princess. And like in
The Little Mermaid
(which the triplets would watch endlessly if my mother let them), using just my pretty brown eyes, I spoke volumes to him about my undying love. He reached out and ran his fingers through my hair (which, in fantasies, is always magically straight and tangle-free). Then he cupped his hand gently around my cheek and leaned in to kiss me while Sarah J. stood watching, her mouth hanging open in outrage.…

“Margot.” The sound of my name snatched me ever-socruelly out of my fantasy. The whole group was looking at me. “Won't you begin?” Oh great, I thought, but I didn't panic. My mind is always wandering, so this kind of thing happens to me a lot. I figured out a long time ago that, instead of guessing what's going on, you're better off acting like you know, then asking a question that makes it sound like you care. For example: “I'd love to, but first, can you give me a better idea of what you're looking for?”

“Certainly, Margot,” the teacher said. “Let me clarify that.” See? Works every time! “What I'd really like to know, when you introduce yourself to the group, is who do you think you
are
?”

Who do I think I am? Easy. “Okay,” I said. “Hi. My name is Margot Button.”

“And?” she said softly, waiting for more.

“And, I'm almost thirteen years old.”

“And?” she said. “Start again, Margot.”

“Hi,” I tried. “My name is Margot Button, and I'm almost thirteen, and I live on Gormon Avenue. I'll be starting seventh grade next week?”

“Who are
you
, Margot?” She leaned forward in her chair.

This was obviously some kind of a trick question.

“I'm a person…named Margot Button. I hate goldfish and processed cheese,” I continued, saying whatever popped into my head, even though I knew it probably wasn't what she was hoping for. “Processed cheese because it barely tastes like cheese.” Nobody said anything, so I just kept talking. “And goldfish because of the way they grow to the size of whatever you put them in. Say, if you put them in a bowl, they stay tiny, and if you put them in a pond, they grow giant and, I'm sorry, that's not normal.”

Mrs. Carlyle just smiled politely. “That's all interesting, Margot, but I wonder if you could tell us anything about who you are
inside
?”

Oh. My. God.

“Inside? Fine.” I smiled back. “My name is Margot Button, and I'm almost thirteen—like I said.
Inside
, I am very
annoyed
to be here talking about
self-esteem
on my last day of summer vacation.”

There was total silence in the room. Mrs. Carlyle bit her lip like she was trying not to cry. I instantly felt really, really bad—even though she'd kind of forced me to lose my patience. Still, I was seriously planning to work on that as part of my School Year's resolution to Be More Normal. Starting with the first day of seventh grade, I solemnly swore I would install some kind of filter between my brain and my mouth.

To her credit, Mrs. Carlyle recovered quickly. She gave an uncomfortable, neighing kind of laugh (do goats neigh?) and seemed to put it behind her.

“That's very honest, Margot. But I wonder if, instead of defining yourself with momentary characteristics or emotions, you could tell us what it is that makes you
you
?”

I took a deep breath. “I'd really like to think about it some more,” I said. “Could you come back to me?”

She smiled and nodded like it was the best idea ever. “Maybe you could write up your answer,” she suggested. “Share it with us after break.” Then she moved on to the next girl, the Goody Two-shoes with red hair. “Gabriella, would you like to introduce yourself to the group?”

“Sure,” Gabriella said, smiling this wholesome smile like a kid on a cereal box. “My name is Gabriella, and I'm a bright, assertive, and capable young woman.”

Mrs. Carlyle practically nodded her head off. She would have probably given Gabriella some kind of self-esteem standing ovation, too, except that just then, we heard loud voices in the hallway.

“I'm not!” It was a girl who sounded about my age. If anyone answered her, I couldn't make out what they were saying. “I don't care! I'm not!” she shouted again.

“Excuse me a moment, girls.” The teacher stood up, smoothing out her skirt.

“I don't have time for this,” answered a woman in an annoyed voice. Then she changed her tone completely, obviously talking on her cell. “Dario? Debbie. I'm so sorry, don't hang up.” Her tone switched again, and she hissed something I couldn't make out.

“You must be Emily,” Mrs. Carlyle said, cautiously sticking her head out the door. “We've been waiting for you. Won't you come join the group?” I craned my neck, trying to get a look at what was going on, but Mrs. Carlyle was blocking my view.

There was a tense silence followed by the sound of high heels clicking up the stairs.

Mrs. Carlyle smiled as she opened the door wider and the girl came inside. She was wearing tight jeans with a long sweater. Her hair was short and bleached blond, but growing in with darker roots. She was definitely at least as old as me, maybe older. And she was at least as miserable to be there as I was, maybe miserabler. She didn't look anyone in the eye.

“I'd like you all to say hello to Emily,” Goat Lady said as she motioned to the empty seat beside me. The girl dropped her canvas backpack on the floor with a thud and nudged it under her chair with one foot. “Emily, before you arrived, we were going around the circle introducing ourselves—sharing who we are. Would you like to go next?”

The girl tipped her head back for a few seconds and stared at the ceiling. “Fine. I guess,” she said. “My name is Em.”

“And? What can you tell us about yourself?”

Em lowered her gaze. “I'll be thirteen on November twenty-fourth.” The teacher nodded for her to go on, but Em gave her a puzzled look. “Which makes me a Sagittarius.”

I could tell Mrs. Carlyle was trying hard not to look heartbroken. I, on the other hand, was feeling much better. At least two of us were so bad at self-esteem that we couldn't even introduce ourselves right.

Mrs. Carlyle went around the rest of the circle, forcing the other girls to stumble through their introductions, mumbling embarrassing stuff they knew she wanted to hear—mostly about how bright and creative and special they thought they were. When she was done, she put on a brave face. “All right, girls, let's move on to some written work. I'd like you all to get out a piece of paper and list three qualities that describe you.”

As everyone dug through their bags for pens and papers, I leaned over. “I'm a Sagittarius too,” I whispered to Em, but she barely smiled.

Three qualities that describe me

(Margot Button, age almost-13):

1. Not photogenic
   
2. Not very popular
   
3. Talkative/Sarcastic
   

The first one is especially true. I've never known anyone who looks worse in pictures than I do. The all-time most terrible one made it into the sixth grade yearbook. It's of me in family studies class, eating bad soup. Andrew put in two and a half cups instead of two and a half tablespoons of salt, so my lips are all puckered and my eyes are all squinty.

Which reminds me that I've forgotten to mention Andrew. He's my friend. He's a boy. But he isn't my boyfriend. He's just a boy friend. We've known each other since first grade, when Erika and I used to chase him around the school yard pretending we were going to give him cooties. And now he hangs out with us at lunch (if he's not playing basketball or Nintendo DS with his friends Mike and Amir). Sometimes all five of us go over to Andrew's house after school to watch movies in his huge rec room. But not often, because guys only ever want to watch movies about outer space, guns, or zombies, and it makes me and Erika practically fall asleep.

Which brings me to the second quality: not very popular. Andrew is my friend, and we hang out with his friends. And, of course, there's Erika-with-a-K, who I do everything with. So it's not like I'm so unpopular that nobody talks to me, but Erika and Andrew aren't exactly Mr. and Mrs. Popularity either. And at my school, you're either popular or you're not. It defines who you are, so that's why I put it on the list.

I think I've already explained the talkative/sarcastic part. Like I said, I'm working on it.