Mission (Un)Popular (26 page)

“Sure.” I sat up.

“How was your day?” she asked, poking her head in. I was on the verge of saying “horrible” and launching into a big description of everything that had happened with George, and Andrew, and now Em…but I noticed the worried look on her face just in time. “All right,” I lied.

“Good.” She flashed me a quick smile, then went right back to her worried face. She stepped inside the room and closed my door partway. “Margot, I'm concerned about your mother. The girls are a handful. And then two jobs plus the housework. She's just plain exhausted.”

I could see the Friend Request IM icon flashing on my computer screen and tried not to look at it too obviously while my grandma was talking.

“I was wondering if you'd had a chance to pick up those flowers yet. I think they'd give her a real boost.” Grandma looked at me gently while my mind raced. Those flowers? What flowers?

Oh, right. The thirty dollars for the flowers. I glanced at my dresser, where I still had seventeen dollars of the money I'd borrowed.

“Oh no,” I said with what I hoped sounded like real regret. “I forgot. I'll get them tomorrow. I promise.”

“Good. I think your mom would like that.” Grandma opened the door to let herself out. I
would
buy the flowers, of course, but mostly for her. “I'll let you get to your homework,” she said, then left. I practically dove for my computer. The suspense was killing me.

Friend Request: SarahSXY (Sarah J.)

I stared in surprise. It was weird beyond belief to see the words
Sarah J.
and
Friend
in the same sentence. I hit
Accept
.

First of all, nice user name. She probably got more than her share of messages from random Internet perverts with that one. Second, she forgot the “t” in my name, and third, give me a break. Everyone knew she'd pushed me.

I knew I should log off and forget what I'd just read, but I couldn't help myself. I opened the next message.

I felt sick to my stomach. Em wouldn't really do that to me, would she?

Except that she wasn't sorry. I wanted to reach right through the computer screen and strangle her, and her stupid frowny-face emoticon too.

Just then, Bryan knocked at my door. “Margot. Mrs. Carrington is here to consult the deck with your mother. And I have to leave for class. I've got study group until eight.”

I sighed, logged off, and went into the living room, where the triplets were listening to Raffi. I usually loved that CD, but that night I couldn't get into it. Instead, I just stared at my reflection in the darkened window while they squealed and hopped around on the sofa cushions to the sandwich song.

After I put my sisters to bed I turned my IM back on, but the only person online was Erika, whose name disappeared instantly. I was just about to shut the computer down when there was a tiny knock at my door. “Magoo?” It was Alex. She was dragging her yellow blanket behind her. Tears were running down her face.

“What is it?” I said, bending down and hugging her.

Finally she managed between sobs, “I don't like da bees.”

“The bees? Which bees?”

“Da bees in da story.”

“Oh, those bees.” One of the stories I'd read them before bed was
Mrs. Bunny's Bee Farm
. There's this one page where “the bees hear the banjo and they all go berserk.” “Did you have a dream about the bees?” I asked. She nodded, still sniffling. “Do you want me to build you a bee-proof cave?” She nodded again.

She slipped her tiny hand into mine and we walked back to her bedroom. Very quietly, so I wouldn't wake the other two, I took a queen-size bedsheet from the hall closet and hung it over the headboard and footboard of her toddler bed, then weighed it down to the floor with heavy books on either end. When I was done I peered inside. “No bees can get in now,” I whispered. “I promise. Go to sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered back.

My mom was working late. I heard her last tarot client leave at 7:45, and Bryan come in at 8:30, but I didn't leave my room again. Instead, I went to bed early and watched the headlights of passing cars streak across my cottage cheese ceiling and melt down my wall while thoughts went berserk like banjo bees in my head. What else was Em hiding from me, and why was she lying? Would I ever get used to how lonely my life felt without Erika? What about Andrew? Would he ever really forgive me for not inviting him to Em's party?

I missed my mom having time for me. I missed my grandpa being alive. I would have given anything right then just to have someone to talk to. Someone I could trust. Someone to build me a bee-proof cave where I could hide away until I figured it all out.

W
HEN
I
WOKE UP
the next morning I knew I had to find out one way or the other. With a heavy feeling of dread, I turned my computer on and opened a browser window. I didn't know why I'd waited so long to do it, actually—maybe because I didn't
want
to know the truth. I searched the words
SubSonic
and
Agent
. A page on the band's site came up, telling how to book them for gigs. The contact listed didn't sound like Em's dad. His name was Collin Clarke, from L-Group Entertainment. But then again, lots of kids have their mother's last names, so it didn't necessarily mean Em was lying…even though it was looking more and more likely by the second.

“Margot! It's eight forty-five,” my mom called. I ran out the door, still feeling confused by the things I'd learned about Em…but nevertheless appreciating her fashion sense. The night before, I'd opened up the bag she'd given me with my wet clothes in it. Inside were three really cute camisoles, one of which I had on. It was dark green, with tiny beaded flowers at the top, crossed straps, and three layers of gauzy fabric at the bottom.

In English class, I did my best to smile and act normal while Em admired it. “You see?” she said. “I know what looks good on you. You should always trust me.” It was a weird thing to say under the circumstances. “Doesn't Margot's shirt look great, George?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing back. “It's kind of fluffy at the bottom.”

“See?” she said again, smiling at me.

“You're the best,” I said, hoping it would come out sounding sincere. After all, I hadn't forgotten Em's reaction when I'd questioned her about the autographs. And I definitely hadn't forgotten what had happened to Sarah J.'s eyebrows after she'd called Em a liar. Plus, despite my own doubts and what Sarah had said on IM, I still wanted to believe there was a logical explanation for everything. I just had to figure out what it was.

That day we ate lunch with Maggie and Joyce on the ledge. I watched Em carefully, measuring everything she said against what I now suspected.

“So,” Joyce asked Em, “how many times have you seen SubSonic live?”

Em counted off on her fingers. “Well, once in London, and pretty much every time they play New York.”

“That's so cool,” Joyce sighed.

“I heard their new tour is going to be huge,” Maggie said.

“Yeah,” I added, “I bet K.wack'ed's going to be really busy. Your family probably won't get to see him much.”

“Probably not,” she answered. “He'll be traveling nonstop all year. But then, we're living here, so it's not like we'd see him anyway.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “He probably wouldn't ever come to Darling. But your dad could still see him, right? Em's dad still lives in New York,” I explained to Maggie and Joyce.

“Oh yeah? What does he do?” Maggie asked offhandedly.

“He's…a stockbroker,” Em said, shooting me a warning look.

“Does he ever come visit you here?” I asked. “I mean, he must miss you and your mom.”

I couldn't help noticing how she averted her eyes. “Work's been crazy, so he hasn't had time to yet. But at Christmas he might.”

Maggie grabbed a lock of Joyce's blond hair and started braiding it, obviously bored by the stockbroker talk. “Hey, did you see how Des.ti.nee had her hair in the video for ‘Bring It'? In, like, a thousand little braids? Joyce, your hair would look so good like that.”

“Totally,” I agreed. Then I looked to Em again. “Have you ever met her, Em?”

“Des.ti.nee? She actually gave me this shirt,” Em answered. It was tight black lace with ruffled sleeves…a little see-through at the front, but she had a camisole underneath.

“Oh my God!” Maggie said, dropping Joyce's braid and grabbing the front of Em's shirt. “I thought this looked familiar. Didn't she wear this at the VMAs?” I was surprised. I'd never seen Des.ti.nee wear a shirt at all.

“Yeah,” Em said.

They both screamed. “I can't believe she gave it to you. This must be worth like, millions. This is so amazing!” Maggie shrieked.

It
was
amazing. Kind of unbelievable, really.

* * *

And the clues, odd as they were, kept piling up. When I got to gym class that afternoon, Mrs. Rivera was sitting in her swivel chair, directing, while a few girls struggled to put up the volleyball nets. It was a good thing she was busy, too, because the second I walked into her office, I swore out loud, and I didn't say “fish sticks” either. The boxes of invoices had multiplied overnight. Not only were they on every surface, but now there was a huge pile stacked across the middle of the room. On the upside, though, the wall of boxes divided the office so it was almost like having my own mini-cubicle.

I opened a box marked 2000–2001, and a few minutes later I heard the sounds of the game starting up in the gym and Mrs. Rivera crunching her first cookie of the period.

Except for one paper cut and Mrs. Rivera forgetting I was there and turning up the radio to sing along to “Wind Beneath My Wings,” most of the period passed uneventfully. But with ten minutes to go, I heard a knock on the office door.

“Oh, hello,” Mrs. Rivera said. “What brings you to my gym?”

“Vanessa, hi.” It was a voice I didn't recognize. “I was hoping to speak to Emily Warner for just a second. She's required to report to my office at lunch hour for counseling. It's twice now she hasn't shown. Yesterday, I gave her the benefit of the doubt, but today…”

“Right, Emily Warner.” Mrs. Rivera said. “The dog girl. You know, I was expecting the worst, but she really hasn't given me any problems.”

“Well, that much is good to hear. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. Take her for as long as you need.”

As soon as the guidance counselor left the room, I cleared my throat. Loudly. There was a second of silence while Mrs. Rivera remembered I'd been there the whole time. “Hello, Margot,” she said, from the other side of the boxes, trying to sound casual. “How's the leg today?”

“Better, thanks,” I said, picking up another stack of invoices. I heard her open the oatmeal-cookie drawer again.

The dog girl?
I considered this weird bit of information while filing the last of the 2000–2001 invoices. I remembered what Em had told me that day in the hallway after I'd confessed about the glazed ham—that she ate dog food once to see how it tasted. Was that what the teachers were talking about? It was definitely odd, but then, when I was little I used to roll up those tubes of cherry ChapStick and bite the tops off (they smelled so good!), and nobody was making me go to counseling.

After French that day, Maggie, Joyce, Em, and I all walked out to the yard together like it was becoming a regular thing. The wind was strong, and the leaves were really starting to fall now. I shivered a little in Em's thin green jacket as we approached Ken and George, who were waiting for us by the ledge, trying to throw Swedish Berries into each other's mouths and mostly missing.

“Button,” Ken called. “Catch!” He threw a berry at me, and it bounced off my shoulder. I was just about to tell him to grow up when I heard someone saying my name. “Oh, man,” Ken said. “It's my competition.”

I turned to see Amir standing about ten feet away, over toward the basketball courts. Mike was behind him, but Andrew was nowhere in sight. “Margot,” he called again.

“What does he want?” Em said.

“Just gimme a sec,” I said to The Group. I walked slowly toward Amir, who was standing with his feet firmly planted, both hands deep in the pockets of his khaki pants.

“Don't leave me, Margot!” Ken called out behind me, but I just ignored him.

“Hey, what's up?” I said as I came to a stop and balanced on my crutches. I nodded to Mike.

“What's
up
?” Amir repeated angrily. “You mess with our man Andrew, you mess with us.”

“Excuse me?” I answered.

“You destroyed him. You know that? He couldn't sink a single shot at practice today.”

I knew Andrew was upset that I'd lied to him about the party, but saying I'd
destroyed
him seemed to be taking things a little far.

“You and George Wainscott. In the bathroom, at Emily Warner's party. Okay?” Amir added, reading my confusion. “We know. Andrew knows, and we know.”

“What?”

“We know that you were”—Amir looked uncomfortable and also disgusted—“with him. Whatever. All the girls on the volleyball team were talking about it in the gym yesterday morning.”

Yesterday morning? So when Andrew confronted me in the hallway about not being invited to the party, he was really upset about this? My entire face flushed.

“It wasn't like that,” I tried to explain. “Brayden walked in on us, and she must have totally misunderstood. George was just in the hot tub and we talked about mittens.” It sounded so stupid.

“Please, Margot. Don't insult our intelligence, okay? You go to this party, you don't invite us, and suddenly you're hanging out with them—with him”—he motioned toward George—“every day.” He bit his lip in frustration. “You knew Andrew liked you. And then you went in a bathroom with George Wainscott. Do you think he even knew your last name a few weeks ago? Do you think he would have spent an entire morning taking down posters for you or sewing you armpit cushions?”

“Wait a second—”

“If you didn't like Andrew back, you could have just told him that instead of giving him hope. He would have still wanted to be your friend. He thinks the sun rises and sets on you, but honestly, Margot, sometimes I don't get why.”

Amir turned and started across the yard. Mike went to follow, but stopped, blowing his long bangs up off his forehead. For a second I thought he was just going to stare at me disapprovingly, or shake his head, but then he actually spoke.

“You screwed up. Big-time,” he said, summing it up like no other words could. Then he walked away too.