Mission (Un)Popular (21 page)

I
F MY MOM ENDED UP CALLING
Sarah J.'s mother, I didn't give her a chance to tell me about it. I stayed in my room all night and most of the next day. She even tried to bring me lunch in bed, but as soon as she left, I pushed it out into the hallway with my crutch. The chunky, mud-colored VTV mushroom soup spilled all over the tray, but I didn't even care. I left it there and closed the door.

In fact, I barely came out again until Saturday afternoon, when I heard Grandma Betty's voice and the garage door opening as my mom and Bryan headed out to Costco to stock up on diapers. (This time they wisely left the triplets behind.) By then it was almost 4:00, and I'd promised Em I'd help her set up at 6:00. That meant I only had two hours left to figure out how I was going to get there, and I only had one option.

“Grandma?” I said, hopping into the living room on my crutches, which were really, really starting to hurt my armpits, by the way. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” she said. She was managing to knit a perfect sweater while making sure the triplets didn't hit each other, stick their fingers in the electrical sockets, or cut their own hair with their safety scissors.

I balanced myself on the arm of the sofa. “Can I borrow twenty dollars? Or maybe thirty?” She looked up, and I went on quickly. “I need it to buy flowers for Mom. You know we kind of had a fight on Thursday night, right?”

“She mentioned,” Grandma said, setting her knitting down.

“I just thought I should apologize, with flowers. I'll pay you back as soon as I can save up enough allowance.”

Her face softened and she reached for my hand, covering it with hers while her eyes glossed over with tears. “Of course, Margot. Your mother is lucky to have a daughter like you.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek with her papery lips. “No need to pay me back. I'm happy to give you the money. I'll get my purse.”

I waited until she was in the kitchen, then bit my lip and looked at the floor. I hated lying to my grandma, but it wasn't like I had a choice. Everything depended on the party. I had to be there.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in my room, watching the minutes go by and the raindrops trickle down the window, worrying obsessively about how frizzy my hair was going to be. My grandma snuck in at about 5:00 with a plate of contraband nonorganic macaroni and cheese.

She said my mom and Bryan were in the living room with the girls and asked if I needed anything else before she left. “I'm okay,” I told her, lying on my bed with my comforter pulled up over my clothes. “I'm just going to stay here and rest.” She nodded, taking her plastic rain bonnet out of her bag and tying it over her head.

“That's a good girl,” she said.

I called the taxi at exactly 5:30. They said it would be fifteen minutes, so I sat on the edge of my bed for exactly seven and a half before getting up and peeking into the hallway. Luckily, my mom was still in the living room with the triplets, playing a noisy game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. That made it simple to sneak by and open the front door without being heard. I was almost disappointed by how easy it was.

The only part that didn't go so smoothly was waiting, in the pouring rain, for the seven and a half (or so) minutes it took for the taxi to get here. I completely forgot to bring an umbrella or a raincoat, and I couldn't risk going back in. Finally, a car with black-and-yellow diamonds painted on the sides pulled up. It looked so sleek and sophisticated, for a second I couldn't believe the driver was actually going to let me into it.

“It sure is coming down,” the driver shouted as he got out of the car, pulling his jacket over his head. He ran around to the passenger side to open the door for me, then put my crutches in.

“Yeah. Really coming down,” I answered, trying to seem older than I was.

The black wraparound Calvin Klein top Em had given me and my baggiest jeans (the only ones that would fit over the cast) were soaked. I was shivering, even though the driver had the heat on.

“How are you doing tonight?” he asked, once we'd started moving.

“Oh, fine,” I said. “Just going out. You know, for the evening.” And then, because that seemed good enough, we drove the rest of the way to Lakeshore in silence. I used the time to try to flatten down my hair, even though I could tell from my reflection in the window that it was hopeless.

“Enjoy your evening,” the driver said as he helped me out of the taxi in front of the turret house.

“You too,” I answered. “Even though it's a wet one.” He laughed like I'd said something actually interesting.

Em's doorbell sang its entire little doorbell song before she answered.

“Thank God,” she said. “I thought you were never coming.” She noticed my soaked shirt and disastrous hair. “You look bad.”

“Thanks,” I said. She stepped aside and let me in. My crutches made a squeaking noise against the marble floor. “I had to wait outside for the taxi. Can I borrow some clothes?”

“Go upstairs. Take whatever. I'll be there in a sec. I'm just putting some breakable stuff away.” She went down the basement stairs, leaving me on my own to get up to her room. It took a lot of work, but I eventually managed it by sitting on the bottom step of the curved staircase, then pushing myself up on my butt, one step at a time, pulling my crutches along.

Inside Em's room I found a sweater with a wide neck, a T-shirt to go underneath, and a pair of dark-wash jeans that looked like they'd fit even with the cast. I wriggled out of my wet clothes and put them on, then sat down on Em's desk chair and flipped my head upside down to start blow-drying. And that was when I noticed the photo on the side of the dresser, facing away from the door.

It was of a white guy in a suit. He was standing in front of some kind of theater, shaking hands with a big black man with dreads who was wearing a leather jacket, a long wool scarf, huge sunglasses, and a sun visor—even though it was nighttime. I recognized him from my Google search. It was K.wack'ed. Whoever took the photo was obviously standing in the crowd, because somebody's head was blocking one corner of the shot. It would have been a pretty unspectacular photo, actually, except for one big thing: it wasn't in a frame. And it wasn't taped up, or even thumbtacked. Instead, someone had taken a steak knife and stabbed it through the suit-wearing-man's chest, straight into the dresser.

I got chills, and not just because my hair was still partly wet. Was the white guy Em's dad? Who else would it be? I squinted at the star. It was definitely K.wack'ed. You could almost make out his pineapple ring. And the man in the suit looked exactly like Em had described her father: busy, powerful, and important.

I stared at the picture in confusion. Unlike my own radish-farming father who barely seemed to have the time to scribble a few lines on a card for me a couple of times a year, Em's dad actually called her—every day—even when he was busy because of SubSonic's new album. He'd sent her an unreleased single just so she could impress her friends. But all the same, if she'd stabbed him through the chest, he must have done something really bad.…Maybe even worse than calling your daughter's archenemy and inviting her and her mother over for herbal tea.

“You're wearing that?” Em said. I switched off the blow-dryer and quickly flipped my head up. I hadn't even heard her coming in.

“Well, you're wearing that, right?” She had on jeans and a plain black T-shirt that fit her just right. She looked great.

“No,” she said, like I was nuts. “I'm not dressed yet.” Em went to the closet and started pulling things out. A short strappy dress. A ribbed, off-the-shoulder sweater with see-through parts. A super-short flared white denim skirt. She scrunched up her face, thinking hard. “Oh, I know.” She dug around in the back of the closet and pulled out something tight and black that ended up being a skirt with a matching top that had a small row of sequins across the front. “Except, you can't wear tights with that cast.” Em frowned, then her face lit up and she opened a drawer. “Try these.” She threw a pair of leg warmers at me. “They'll fit over your cast.” She grabbed a small black bag with beading on it from a hook behind the door.

Then she found some clothes for herself and left to get dressed in her mom's bathroom. I seriously had my doubts about the coolness of the leg warmers, but when I'd finished struggling into the outfit and stood up to look in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. The clothes Em had given me a few days before had been a huge improvement on my regular wardrobe, but this was a whole different level. Instead of looking skinny, I looked willowy. Instead of seeming boobless, I seemed cute and spritelike. The magical outfit even made my hair look better. It wasn't frizzy, it was voluminous. And the little beaded bag, in which I stashed my pain meds and some lip gloss, added a touch of glamour. Em paused in the doorway on her way back in. “Much better,” she said, before tossing a makeup bag on the bed. “Just one more thing.” She sat me down on a chair and put eyeliner on for me.

Just as she finished smudging the lines, the doorbell rang. We both glanced at the clock: 6:44. At least we didn't have to sit around agonizing over whether or not anyone was actually going to show up. “Better get that,” she said with an excited smile. “Oh, and bring those down when you come.” She pointed to the desk where a stack of big, glossy SubSonic posters lay waiting.

“Sure,” I said.

I hopped over. The picture was of the band standing in a desolate Arctic landscape. Sparkly snowflakes were blowing around them while gleaming, futuristic metal icebergs rose up from the ground. K.wack'ed, in the middle, was wearing a leather jacket and standing with his legs spread wide. The grumpy girl singer—in nothing but tight pants and a gold pushup bra, despite the bad weather—had one hand on her hip, while the other was raised in this tough pose, like she was personally commanding the snow. The last band member was dressed in baggy striped pants that were too short for him (for some reason, it was cool when
he
did it). I picked one up and examined the autograph on it. Even if K.wack'ed used way too much punctuation, at least his penmanship was good.

I straightened the pile, set it down, and was just about to reach for some blush on Em's bed when I noticed the black ink on my fingertips. At first I thought I must have accidentally rubbed my eye makeup off, but when I gently touched the
K
, a faint impression of it came off on my finger. I flipped through the rest. My breath caught in my throat. The ink was still wet on the top five posters.

The doorbell rang again.

“Hey, what's up?” I heard Ken's voice in the hallway downstairs. “Bring on the ‘Velocity,'” George cheered. My heart started to beat faster. What about the SubSonic song everyone was coming to hear? Was that a fake too?

The doorbell rang yet again. I didn't have time to wonder. Glancing back to make sure the door was closed, I opened the desk drawer and found a black marker. I fixed the smudged
K
, grabbed the blow-dryer, set the temperature to low, and pointed it at the “autograph,” praying that the ink would dry quickly and that there was some kind of logical explanation for all of this. But the whole time, Sarah J.'s words were ringing in my head: “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but she's a liar and a big fake.”

H
EY
,” I
HEARD SOMEONE
say as I came out of Em's bedroom. “Down here.” It was Ken, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey,” I said back unenthusiastically, hoping he'd go away. After all, I was going to have to slide down the stairs on my butt—wearing a miniskirt and leg warmers.

“How's it going with the leg thing?” he asked.

“Awesome,” I said, but he didn't seem to get that I was being sarcastic. I waved good-bye so he'd maybe take the hint and join Em in the basement. He didn't.

“Do you need help or something?”

“No,” I said. “I'm good.” I approached the stairs carefully on my crutches while trying to hold the stack of posters under my arm. I didn't even make it down one step before I started wobbling and had to grab for the railing. The posters fell, sliding over one another down the stairs. My left crutch thudded after them. “Dammit,” I muttered.

“Yeah,” Ken said. “I can see that you're totally good.” He came up the stairs, picking up posters and kicking my crutch out of his way. “Dude, you're crippled. You should let people help you.”

“I'm not crippled!” I said.

“Fine. Disabled. Call it what you want.” He took my other crutch from me and threw it down the stairs, then picked up my arm and put it around his shoulder. “Ready?” I hopped down a few steps, leaning on him for support. It was weird beyond belief. This was the same guy who'd oinked at me and stuffed ham sandwiches in my bag, and who—just a week ago—would tease me any chance he got. I kept expecting him to drop me, but he didn't. “So, have you heard the single yet?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. “Em wants it to be like a big reveal.” Now that I said it out loud, it sounded like a lame excuse. I was the cohost. Why
hadn't
Em played me the song?

He nodded like that made perfect sense. “This is gonna be awesome,” he said as we reached the bottom of the stairs. “My brother heard them live in Seattle once. He said they blew his mind.”

The doorbell rang just as Ken was handing me my crutches, and I walked over to let in Zoe Daniels—one of the eighth grade girls who'd tried on Em's shoes—along with her friend Kiki Yamanashi and three guys they'd brought. “Hey,” Zoe said, closing a polka-dot umbrella. “I hope we're not late. Kiki had to tell her parents she was sleeping over at my place, so her dad dropped her off there first, then we took the bus. This is Steve, Anderson, and Kosta.” She pointed to the guys, who were still standing outside the door, two of them with their jackets pulled up over their heads.

“Whoa, nice place,” Zoe said, kicking off her shoes into the pile by the door, which was starting to look like the shoe pile at my place—only wetter. Kiki and the boys followed her in.

“Everyone's downstairs,” I said, pointing the way. Based on the shoe count, there must have been ten people already, and more were coming up the walkway.

Charlie Baker, from our class, and his girlfriend Amber were getting out of a red car that had pulled up to the curb. “Just pick us up on your way home,” Charlie shouted to the driver—probably his older brother—over the thumping bass of some really loud techno song.

I was just about to close the door when I heard somebody call my name. Cynthia and Brayden from the girls' volleyball team were running up the street, pointlessly holding a flattened and soaked cardboard box over their heads. “Margot! Wait!” Brayden shouted. “Oh my God! Even my underwear is wet. And we only came from Cynthia's place.” Drenched as they were, they still looked great. All three of them had dressed up in short skirts. I was extra glad that Em had made me change.

“Cute outfit,” Brayden said to me as she stepped into the front hall. Water was dripping off the end of her ponytail like a leaky faucet. She turned to wave to Claire, another volleyball girl, who'd just gotten out of a black car and was clicking up the path in high-heeled boots, wobbling a little as she tried to avoid puddles. “Woo, work it, girl!” Brayden called.

“Hey guys. Basement's down the hall,” I said, sounding casual even though inside I was a nervous wreck.

“Come on, Button,” Ken said, closing the door and leading the way. “It's party time.”

When we reached the rec room, George, Charlie Baker, and Amber were already settled in on the big L-shaped couch. The guys were talking about hockey, while Amber sat silently. The eighth graders were on bar stools, set up next to the actual bar with a real working sink. When Em had brought me down there on the day of the invite list it had been fully stocked with different bottles of booze, but thankfully, she'd hidden them. The room also had a dartboard, a pool table the size of my entire bedroom, and the huge plasma TV. Definitely perfect for a party. While Em was busy offering dry clothes to some of the girls, I looked around for somewhere to sit.

“Oh my God,” I heard someone say. “Margot, how
are
you?” The room was dark, so it took me a minute to figure out that it was Michelle. She was perched on an extra bar stool by the wall. Her friend Bethany was beside her.

“We heard your leg is broken. We were so worried,” she added. “Here, sit.” She hopped off her stool. It was such a change from the way they'd both smirked at me over the Ferris wheel picture the first day of school, but I wasn't about to complain.

“Margot,” Em interrupted, “did you bring the autographed posters?”

I handed her the stack that Ken had carried down for me. “Hi girls,” she said to Michelle and Bethany. “I watched
Reach for the Stars
last night, Bethany.
So
funny. And Michelle, you're so right. I loved Tanya Angel's outfits.” Clearly they'd been hanging out while I was away from school. Michelle and Bethany grinned like Em had just crowned them both Miss America or something.

Em smiled back, then went to put the “autographed” posters down on the bar. People immediately started wandering up to get copies…everyone but Gorgeous George, who wasn't budging from the big couch where he'd staked out a spot close to one of the surround-sound speakers.

“Em,” I said, sliding off my bar stool, “can I talk to you?” She nodded. “In the bathroom?” She gave me a confused look but led me down the hall, pushing open the door to a bathroom that had a huge Jacuzzi tub in it. “Look,” I said, closing the door behind us. “I'm not going to tell anyone, but I know about the posters.”

“What about the posters?”

“That the autographs aren't real.”

“What do you mean?” she said, her face blank.

“I touched the ink upstairs, and it was still wet. So I know your dad didn't send them from New York. I know you signed them yourself.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” She glared at me.

“No,” I said, even though I maybe kind of was.

“Okay, look, Margot.” She pulled open the medicine cabinet and took out a compact of powder, then started patting her face angrily with the puff. “I like you. But if you can't trust me, you can call a taxi and go home. I'm sick of people calling me a liar. I'd expect it from Sarah J., but not from you.”

“But, Em, the ink was
wet
.”

“Well, yeah,” she said, like it was obvious. She snapped the compact shut. “Do you know anything about celebrities, Margot?” I knew that they had a lot of money. I knew they were better looking than regular people. “They're busy. Okay? Especially when he's about to release a new album and go on tour, K.wack'ed has tons to do. Do you think he actually has time to sign autographs?” She didn't wait for me to answer. “He doesn't. So my dad sent me the posters, which, by the way, haven't even been released in stores yet, and I took care of the rest. So what? Most celebrity autographs are forged anyway. Get over it. Now, if you don't mind. I need to make sure nobody spills stuff on the sofa.” She pushed past me and opened the door.

“Em. Wait,” I said. She turned. “Sorry. I—I didn't know that. I don't think you're a liar.”

“Whatever.” She was already walking back to the rec room. I felt like an idiot. What had I been thinking? That the members of SubSonic were just sitting at home, dying to sign autographs for a bunch of seventh graders? It made sense that the signatures were fake. Still, it made me nervous. If the kids outside found out, they wouldn't be as understanding. And I couldn't shake a feeling of dread about the SubSonic song, even though I wanted so badly to believe in Em.

For the first part of the party she sat with the guys, barely looking in my direction. Meanwhile, I listened to the volleyball team gossip about the Cownie Hill Hyenas. How bad their serving technique was and how ugly their uniforms were. (“I don't even know what you'd call that color. Greige?”)

I nodded and smiled and made agreeing noises in all the right places, but honestly, I was bored. I was still used to sleepover parties with Erika, where we watched a movie, played a board game, or put on face masks. This party was more like the standing-around-chatting potluck parties my mom used to drag me to—only without the adults or the hummus platter…and with way louder music. Now that Em had turned up the volume on the stereo, it was almost impossible to talk.

“Hey, Margot?” Michelle was shouting, but I could barely hear her. “Do you want to go milk a cow?” Or at least I thought that was what she said.

“Huh?” I turned, and as I did, a bolt of pain shot through my leg, making me wince.

“Oh my God. Are you okay?” Michelle shouted, much louder this time. “Do you want me to get you something?” I looked at the clock. It
had
been four hours since I'd taken my last painkiller. And I was supposed to take them every two.

“Actually,” I yelled back, “if you could get my bag.” She returned about twenty seconds later with the little beaded purse Em had given me. I took out the prescription bottle, opened a can of ginger ale, and popped two pills into my mouth.

“I love your top,” Zoe screamed into my ear, as she joined our group.

“Yeah, great skirt too, Margot,” Kiki shouted in my other ear. I couldn't believe she actually knew my name. I was about to tell her that I liked her skirt too, but just then, Em turned the music down.

“Okay, guys. The moment has arrived.” She held up the burned CD and a hush spread through the room. “As you know, this is an unreleased single off the new album
SubZero
. K.wack'ed is risking a lot by letting us have this, so don't tell anyone you heard it here, and don't ask me to burn you a copy because it's not happening. Enjoy.” Em slid it into the player and turned the volume up as high as it would go. I kept my eyes on George, who was already leaning forward on the sofa to prepare himself for the optimum listening experience.

He was their biggest fan, after all. If the single was a fake, he was going to know it from the first note. The party, and any popularity we'd gained, would be over before we could blink. Em hit play.

The song started with crackling noises, like someone was tuning an old-fashioned radio, then it moved into a warbly electric guitar solo. I held my breath, only letting it out when a man's voice started repeating in a robot-like refrain. “Vel-o-ci-ty. Vel-o-ci-ty. Ter-mi-nal vel-o-ci-ty. You will get a load of me when I reach my vel-o-ci-ty.” The drums and bass kicked in, heavy and loud. George had his eyes closed. His head was bobbing to the deafening beat. Relief flooded through me.

Next, cranky bra-woman started singing/rapping, all ultra-tough: “They tried to bring me down. But just look at me now. I got the heat, I'm gaining speed, I'm a gonna rule this town.”

The eighth grade girls got up to dance, doing these crazy rubber band body waves and lightning-fast hip shakes—and I closed my eyes, feeling the beat pulse through me and believing, just for a few seconds, that I was invincible too. When it ended, Em switched off the CD player and there was silence in the room before everyone broke into cheers.

“That's what I'm talking about!” George shouted, pumping his fist in the air.

“That was so good. Soooooo good,” Zoe kept saying.

I found Em near the bar a few minutes later. She was perched on a stool while Charlie Baker, his girlfriend, and the eighth grade girls crowded around her, telling her how awesome the song was and asking questions about how many times she'd seen them live (she'd lost count), and if she was invited to the CD launch party (her dad was trying to get her on the guest list). When the crowd finally cleared and I could get her alone for a minute, I walked up.

“Hey, Em,” I said, wobbling on my crutches. The painkillers were definitely starting to kick in.

“Hey.” Her tone was pretty cold.

“Listen, I'm
really
sorry I doubted you. The song was amazing.”

“I know,” she said, still not seeming to forgive me. In fact, she was barely even making eye contact with me. Instead, she was looking over my shoulder toward the stairs.

“So? Do you forgive me? Please?”

“Shut up, Margot,” she said quietly, still not looking at me. My heart sank.

“Isn't there
anything
I can do?”

“You can stop talking,” she said again, then motioned with her head. “We have a problem.” I turned, and there, at the bottom of the stairs, was Sarah J.'s ninth grade boyfriend, Matt, dressed in a black leather coat that was glistening with rain. His hair looked even taller than before. And if I thought he seemed threatening, he was nothing compared to what stood behind him—one big East Asian guy in a wet red sweatshirt and an even bigger white guy with a shaved head.

“Hey. We heard there was a party,” Matt said, all casual-like. Everyone was looking at them. Someone turned the music down.

Em stood up. “By invite only.” She put her hands on her hips. “Who let you in?”