Mission (Un)Popular (31 page)

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Can you get that?” she called to Maggie and Joyce. “Tell him I'll come with the credit card in a sec.” Then she turned back to me, but I never found out what she was going to say next. The pizza guy was obviously in a hurry. He was banging on the door now. Hard. And then we heard a deep voice in the front hallway.

“A 9-1-1 call was traced to this residence. What's going on here, girls?”

Em poked her head through the doorway. When she turned back, she was glaring at me. Her jaw was clenched. “Fantastic,” she spat, her eyes narrowing. “Awesome job, Button. The cops are here.”

D
O YOU KNOW WHAT
I hate most about hospitals? More than the disinfectant smell of the floors? More than the sick people in blue gowns that gape at the back? Even more than the constant PA announcements about people code-redding, code-blueing, and code-yellowing?

It's the waiting.

I hate waiting at the best of times, but hospital waiting is the worst because you're almost always waiting for life-altering news. Like, it's a boy…or it's a girl (or it's three girls)…or the surgery was a success…or, I'm so sorry, we did everything we could.

I'd been checking my watch obsessively ever since I'd sat down on the orange plastic waiting-room chair. It had only been twenty-five minutes since Bryan and I had arrived at the hospital to check on Sarah, but they'd been the longest twenty-five minutes of my life. I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened.

Back at Em's house, there'd been two police officers: a man and a woman. Em had tried to keep them outside, but they'd pushed past her. The male officer had hardly taken two steps into the kitchen before he reached for his belt. I thought he was going to pull his gun on us, but he was only reaching for his radio to call an ambulance.

The female officer bent down beside Sarah to ask her name and how she was feeling, then she asked if I was the one who'd made the call. I was certain she was going to start yelling at me for hanging up before giving the full address, but instead she patted my knee. “Good girl,” she said.

Minutes later, the ambulance showed up. The female officer stayed in the kitchen with Sarah and the paramedics while the policeman took us into the living room to ask questions, writing everything down on a notepad. Then they made us call our parents.

Bryan was the first to arrive, coming through the door breathlessly like he'd run all the way there from real estate class. I was expecting him to freak out, but instead he caught me up in a bony-armed Bryan hug, smushing me against his chest so I could hardly breathe. Em looked on with an expression of absolute hatred. While Bryan was giving the officer our address, she took one finger and drew it across her throat while clearly mouthing the words “You're dead, Button.” I just looked away.

A few minutes after that, Maggie's and Joyce's moms showed up and made a big commotion before taking them home. That's when Em completely zoned out. Her mom was missing in action. Apparently her phone was off, and Em claimed she couldn't remember where the benefit was. So the officers had to take her with them.

I wonder if I'll ever see her again.

* * *

“You must be Margot.” I looked up from a brochure about multiple sclerosis, which I'd been unsuccessfully trying to read to distract myself. Standing in front of me was a blond woman. She was old, but younger than middle-aged—maybe thirty. I'd never seen her before. “The nurse told me you were waiting outside.” She held out her hand. “I'm Angela.” I must have looked at her blankly. “Sarah's sister.”

Bryan stood up. “Margot's stepfather, Bryan.”

Angela shook his hand, then sat down in the seat beside me. I'd never known Sarah had a sister, let alone a much older one. “I was just in with her,” she explained. “They're getting her settled into a room for the night.”

“Is she going to be okay?” I hadn't said a word since we got there. My voice came out squeaky and strange.

“She'll be fine,” Angela said. “They thought they might have to pump her stomach, but they won't. She's thrown up so many times.”

I felt a huge wave of relief wash through me. “That's good,” I said softly, trying to hold back the tears, which were threatening to start again. I unfolded and refolded the brochure in my hands.

“Can I ask you something?” Angela said, setting her purse down at her feet. I looked up. “Why did you do it?”

It was a simple question, but the answer was so complicated. Because Sarah was mean. Because she'd always hated me. Because, even though I'd hated her, I wanted to be like her and have what she had. And then by trying to be like her, I'd become somebody I barely recognized. I wished now, of course, that I'd never made that stupid bet with Em, and that I'd never let things get so out of hand.

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess I was really mad at her. She's not always very nice.” I didn't mean to, but I glanced down at my cast as I said it.

“I figured,” Angela said. “I actually came out here to thank you.”

“
Thank me
?”

“For calling 9-1-1,” she explained. She obviously saw the look of disbelief on my face. “No. Really. There are a lot of people who would have panicked instead of telling the truth. I'm sorry about your leg,” she said. “Sarah…she's the baby of the family. It's like my parents think she can do no wrong. Anyway.” She stood up. “She can have visitors now, Margot, if you want to come in with me. My mom's busy with paperwork, so it would be a good time to get her alone.”

I
so
didn't want to get her alone. Really. If somebody had asked me which I would have rather done—sing the national anthem naked in front of everyone in the room or go talk to Sarah, I would have been stripping off my clothes and humming the first few bars of “O Canada.” Unfortunately, though, nobody was giving me that choice.

“I've talked with my mom,” Angela said. “We're going to ask the police to drop any charges.” A second wave of relief washed through me. “On one condition. Whatever's going on between you, it stops today.”

Bryan leaned forward in his seat, giving me a meaningful look.

“Agreed,” he said, as if anyone had asked him.

“I'll come in with you,” Angela said, “to make sure you and Sarah talk it out.” She passed me my crutches, and I stood up reluctantly. “Don't worry,” she said. “She's had some time to cool off. I'm sure she'll want to thank you for what you did today.”

I swallowed hard, imagining all the ways I was sure Sarah would want to thank me. Clubbing me over the head with an IV pole was the first thing that came to mind.

When we got to the elevator, Angela pushed the button. “You okay?”

I nodded, but I was picturing Sarah pacing the floor of her room, sharpening a scalpel, and planning to plunge it into my heart. The elevator door dinged open and we got inside.

“You can do this,” Angela said, once the doors shut. “Trust me, she's not as scary as she seems.”

Of course, that got way harder to believe when I stepped into the room. Sarah was sitting up in bed surrounded by pillows, flipping through a fashion magazine. She turned her head, took one look at me, and freaked right out.

“Oh no,” she said. “Angela. Get her out of here. I told you, I'm not talking to her. She tried to kill me.” Sarah glared at me.

“I didn't—” I started.

“You did,” Sarah said. “You poisoned me.” She paused, then added dramatically, “In cold blood.”

“It was an accident,” I said. “I didn't mean—”

“In cold blood,” Sarah repeated, glaring at her sister now.

I looked helplessly at Angela. Obviously this whole talking-it-out thing wasn't going to work.

“Kind of like the way you pushed Margot down the stairs?” Angela asked calmly.

“That was so different.” She paused. “I only meant to grab her backpack and make her stumble a little, and then she went flying. It wasn't the same.”

“I was just going to give you one spoonful,” I explained. “And then, I don't know. Things got out of control.”

“Sounds kind of the same to me,” Angela said.

“Yeah. Out of control, Margot? I almost
died
.”

“Nobody almost died,” Angela said reasonably. “Nobody was trying to kill anybody else. Can we at least agree on that?”

“We can agree on that when Margot stops trying to kill me,” Sarah shot back. “And when she stops stealing all my friends.”

“I didn't steal your friends.” I was starting to get really mad. “Like it's my fault you were talking behind both their backs.”

“Whatever,” Sarah answered. “What about Erika Davies?” I looked at her blankly. “Oh, come on. Like you don't remember?” As far as I knew, Sarah J. had always thought Erika-with-a-K and I were unworthy of being in her presence. “In first grade?” she prompted. I still had no idea. “My birthday party?” She looked irritated that she was going to have to explain. “Me and Erika were best friends, okay? I invited her, and she said she'd come. But next thing I knew, she changed her mind because you invited her to some stupid singing hayride thing.”

And then I remembered: the apple-picking hayride at Organic Orchards. They always had two big horses pulling a wagonful of hay, and they'd hand out these song sheets that had normal songs converted into lame lyrics about apples. Stuff like, “Hi-ho, the derry-o, the farmer picks an
apple
.”

My mom used to take me every year, and come to think of it, there was a photo somewhere of me and Erika with a basket of apples. I didn't remember anything about Sarah's birthday party, though, and I definitely didn't remember anything about the two of them being best friends.

“And I know you told her not to come,” Sarah accused, “because you were jealous I didn't invite you.”

“I don't even remember that,” I said honestly.

Angela looked amazed. “And that's why you pushed Margot down the stairs, Sarah?”

“Well, duh. Of course not,” Sarah answered, letting her head fall back against the pillows. “It wasn't just that. She's
always
hated me.”

“You've always hated
me
!” I shot back.

“Well, you've always hated me
more
,” she said.

“And you've always hated Erika!” I added. “You call her Nerdette.”

“So?” Sarah said. “I liked Erika.” She paused and looked out the window. “She used to give me the Fruit Roll-Ups from her lunch.” She paused. “And then you and your new friend started throwing sandwiches at me, and trying to break up me and my boyfriend, and burning my eyebrows off. And you purposely didn't invite me to your party, just to get back at me for the time I didn't invite you to mine.”

In first grade? Did she seriously think anyone would hold a grudge that long?

“We didn't invite you because you called us lesbians.”

“Well, I only called you lesbians because you acted like lesbians.”

“Okay, stop,” Angela said, and held up her hands. The room got quiet. “I don't care who didn't invite who to whose party. I don't care who called who what. This ends. Today.” She took another breath. “Are you listening to yourselves? You're not in first grade anymore. You're big girls now.”

She reminded me of myself for a second; the way I often told the triplets how big girls were supposed to behave: “Big girls don't throw things and hurt other people.…Big girls don't whine.…Big girls say please and thank you.…Big girls use the potty.” It was true. Sarah and I were almost thirteen. But (with the exception of that last point about the potty) we'd forgotten some pretty basic things.

There was no excuse for the way I'd treated her. I was a better person than that. Or at least I wanted to be. “I'm sorry,” I said, and I meant it, “about feeding you furniture polish.” The words caught in my throat. “And also about all the mean things Em and I have said and done to you since school started. That's what I came in here to say. I'm not going to fight with you anymore.”

Angela smiled. “Sarah?” she prodded. “Is there something you'd like to say to Margot?”

Sarah pretended to be looking out the window. I was just beginning to think she wasn't going to say anything at all when she finally turned her head. “If you tell anyone I held your hand in the kitchen, you're dead,” she spat.

Angela sighed heavily. “Sarah! For God's sake!”

“Oh fine.” Sarah gave in. “And I'm sorry. About pushing you down the stairs, and also about a lot of other things.” I didn't know if she meant it, but it didn't really matter. I wasn't scared of her anymore, and I definitely wasn't jealous.

Angela took a deep breath. “So we're good here?” Neither of us answered.

“See you at school, Margot,” Sarah said, opening her magazine.

“Yeah,” I answered. “See you at school.” Then I walked out to meet Bryan.

I
DON'T REMEMBER THIS, BUT
apparently, when I was little, I asked my grandpa Button what it was like to live before color was invented. He was confused until I went to the shelf, pulled down some old photo albums, and showed him how all the pictures of him and Grandma Betty as newlyweds were in black-and-white.

“Margot has always had an interesting mind,” he used to finish the story.

Still, even after he explained the wonders of full-color versus black-and-white film, I was always bored to death when he or my grandma would take out those pictures and start meandering down memory lane.

It's weird, isn't it, how other people's photos are boring…but you can look at a photo from your own life for ages. You see yourself, six years old, standing in your princess pajamas, grinning at the camera in the kitchen of the house where you used to live. Suddenly you can remember what it was like to run your tongue over the gap where you'd just lost a tooth; the sound of the radio—which was always on—playing some boring talk radio show; the way the air smelled like lilacs when the back window was open in the spring.

When we got home I went straight to the garage, moving aside the sports equipment, to get to the box of old photos we'd never unpacked. I found what I was looking for halfway through the first album. It was a sunny fall day in the photo. We were dressed in Windbreakers. Erika had bangs, two thick braids, and huge, crooked front teeth. She was crouched beside a barrel of red apples, but she wasn't looking at the camera. She was looking at me, and I was looking back, grinning. Except for the fact that I was smaller and my hair was frizzier, I looked pretty much the same.

I took the picture out of its plastic sleeve and brought it back to my room, where I flipped it over. There was my mom's slanted handwriting: “Margot and Erika at Orchard Fest. First grade. Best of friends!”

First grade. That was two years before my grandpa died. Three years before my mom and Bryan met. Four whole years before the triplets had been born. I flipped the photo again. We looked like we'd just thought up the world's funniest joke. We probably had.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. I was expecting my mom and the lecture of a lifetime, but my grandma's face appeared. She came and sat on the bed beside me. “Bryan told me what happened.”

I stared at the outline of a quilted butterfly on my overturned blanket so I wouldn't have to look her in the eyes.

“I'm not here to be hard on you, Margot. I know you. You'll be hard enough on yourself. I just wanted to let you know that I love you.” She kissed my cheek. Somehow, I would have rather she'd given me a stern look, or even a speech about the dangers of household cleaners. I didn't deserve her understanding and her love. It made my cheeks burn with shame.

The rest of the night, I tossed and turned in bed, waiting for my mom to come talk to me, but nobody else knocked on my door.

All of which brings me to this morning, when I woke up and found my mom waiting for me in the kitchen. She took one look at my face. “Do you want some coffee?” she asked.

“I hate coffee,” I said.

“I know,” she answered. “But do you want some?”

I nodded. She handed me a mug and sat down across from me. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” I took a sip and resisted the urge to spit it back into the cup. It didn't even have sugar in it. I looked at my mom, but didn't know where to begin. “Is it all right if I say no?” I asked.

Mom took a sip before answering. “No.”

“Well, is it all right if I say not right now?”

She thought about it again. “Okay,” she answered. We sat in silence. Well, sort of in silence. The triplets were having a screaming fit over who had more milk in their cereal bowl and why it wasn't fair, which my mom was ignoring.

“I have to get ready for school now,” I said finally. Mom nodded vaguely, like she was a million miles away.

“I'm going to cancel my clients tonight,” she said. “I'll be here when you get home. Maybe we can talk then?” I nodded and went to get dressed, and that's when I noticed the bag on my dresser with the spider plant in it (a little worse for wear, because I hadn't watered it or given it any sunlight since I got it). Before leaving for school I put the plant and the note on the coffee table in the living room, where my mom would find them.

I was in no rush to get to school. I asked Bryan to take the scenic route, but I still ended up getting there five minutes before the bell. Bryan opened the van door for me and handed me my crutches.

“I'll be here to get you the minute school lets out,” he promised.

As I made my way through the yard, I could feel people turning to look at me. Michelle whispered something to Bethany, who shrugged. Maggie and Joyce, already perched on the concrete ledge, didn't say a word, but stared hard at my back. Andrew, Mike, and Amir all stopped the game of basketball they were playing. For a second it looked like Andrew was going to walk toward me, but Amir put a hand on his arm to stop him.

The one thing I was thankful for was that Em didn't seem to be around.

Still, everywhere I looked, there were reminders of what I'd done. “Why do you think the boys killed Simon?” Mr. Learner asked, balancing an open copy of
Lord of the Flies
on his thigh as he perched awkwardly on the corner of Mrs. Collins's desk. “Anyone? Ken?” I waited for the inevitable smart-assed pig pun.

Ken sucked at his teeth. “It's like they forgot how to be decent,” he said. Mr. Learner nodded for Ken to go on. “They were stuck-up choirboys, but then they got stranded on this island and just went nuts.”

We'd just finished reading a scene from the book out loud, and it had sent chills down my spine. There was this one quiet kid on the island, called Simon. He was a bit of a loner.

Probably the most mature of them all, though. And when he'd only been trying to reason with everyone, they'd all taken out their spears and stabbed him to death. They were chanting: “Kill the beast. Kill the beast.”

“Good,” Mr. Learner said. You could tell from his tone that he was surprised. “That was a thoughtful response, Ken.

“Anyone else? Margot?” I looked up from my book. The fact that I'd barely slept the night before was starting to catch up with me. All I wanted to do was lay my head down on my desk.

“They forgot who they were,” I answered. “Kind of like Ken said.” Ken gave himself a thumbs-up. “And they didn't even realize Simon was a person anymore. All they could see him as was, like, the enemy.”

Mr. Learner nodded, satisfied with my answer. He moved on. I wished I could have moved on as easily, but every time I looked over at Sarah J.'s empty desk, a fresh wave of guilt washed over me. And every time I glanced to my left, the sight of Em's empty desk filled me with dread.

I lay my cheek against my hand, trying to focus, but it was useless. So instead I looked out the window and counted shoes for a while. I got to ten sets before the bell rang.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Learner said, holding up his hand, “this is good-bye. I'd like to thank you for your attendance, your attention, and your insights. Mrs. Collins will be returning tomorrow.” A collective groan went up, and Mr. Learner smiled for the first time. “Your misery warms my heart,” he said. “Before you go—” He held up a stack of marked essays and started calling names. “Tiffany Abraham, Amir Ahmed, Bethany Bluffs…”

“Sir?” Amir raised his hand when he got his paper. Mr. Learner waved him up to the front to see what the problem was. While they talked quietly over the essay, George turned around in his seat.

“So they're moving back to New York.” I looked up in surprise. He was the first person who'd said a word to me all morning. “You know you ruined everything for her, right?”

Amir and Mr. Learner had finished talking by now. “Margot Button,” he called, passing my test paper down the aisle. When it got to George, he turned, placing it facedown on my desk. “Oh, and one more thing…she told me you never met K.wack'ed.” If I hadn't been so totally depressed, I might even have laughed. Of all the things that had happened, and all the lies Em had told,
this
was what George was upset about?

He flipped his hair, and suddenly I could see it. Em hadn't been that far off when she'd said he was like a Ken doll. Gorgeous George was always cool, always well dressed, and he was incredibly hot. But he was also kind of empty, and a little bit plastic. Like another accessory in Barbie's closet.

I turned my paper over and stared at it hard until George faced the front. I got an A+. Mr. Learner had scrawled a comment in red ink using totally unreadable handwriting. As the class started to empty out, I gathered my stuff and walked to the desk where the teacher was sitting. “Excuse me, sir?” I interrupted him. “What does this say?”

“What do you think it says?” Mr. Learner asked, without looking up from his paperback.

I squinted at his handwriting. “‘A zaythful onlys. You're a right squirl, Margot'?”

“Hmmm. I don't recall writing that.” Even
he
had to squint. “Right,” he said, and read in a monotone voice: “A thoughtful analysis. You're a bright girl, Margot.”

“Really?” I couldn't help smiling just a little.

“Really,” he answered, turning his attention back to his book.

I desperately wanted to ask Mr. Learner which part of the essay he'd liked best, but I could tell I was only bugging him, so I turned to go. I was almost at the door when I heard his voice. “Don't let the bastards bring you down,” he said. “You're too smart for that.” I looked back to see who he was talking to. “Yes, you,” he said, glancing up as he turned the page. “They can call you names and fart at you with their armpits and behave like animals, but don't let them break you.” He waved his book at me. “Now get lost.”

I like trees, I thought, as I sat alone under the red maple at lunch. They're so leafy, so barky, so rooted to the ground. They never lie to you about who they are; never glare at you, whisper behind your back, or try to trip you in the hall—like Ken had done after math class. “Way to get my man George's girlfriend kicked out of the country,” he said. (So much for thinking I was
so beautiful
.)

Friends are for losers. Trees are for winners, I told myself as I sat miserably in a pile of leaves.

“I heard they had to pump her stomach and that she was like, clinging to life by a thread,” an eighth grade girl said as she walked past with her friend.

“What did the other girl feed her anyway?”

“I think it was gasoline and lighter fluid. She could have easily died.”

“Then that blond girl. The one who threw the party with the SubSonic song? She got sent to juvenile detention or something.”

“God. Seventh graders are so dumb.”

I lay my head back against the trunk and closed my eyes, trying to block it all out. After all, Em was gone and nobody was going to believe anything I said about what had really happened, so what was the point of even caring about my reputation anymore?

I was about one breath away from falling asleep when I heard a bang and felt the whole trunk shake. I jumped, expecting to find Ken standing beside me, kicking my tree for revenge, but when I looked around, nobody was there. Then a basketball rolled by and came to a stop beside my cast. I looked in the direction it had come from and saw Andrew walking across the yard, his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry,” he muttered when he reached me. He picked up his ball and turned to go back to the court, where Amir and Mike were waiting.

“Andrew,” I called. “Wait.” But he kept walking. “Andrew.” I tried again; my voice came out small and shaky. I noticed a crushed 7Up can sitting on the ground. It was within reach, so I grabbed it and threw it. I hadn't played War of the Druids in at least a week, but the improved hand-eye coordination was obviously long-lasting, because it hit Andrew's heel. He stopped and turned to see where the ball had come from.

“I was calling you,” I explained, trying to hold back tears. “But you didn't hear me, so I had to resort to throwing stuff at you.” He took a small step toward me, looking doubtful. “I know I've been acting like a total idiot lately,” I started, talking fast, trying to get it all out before he could turn and walk away again. “I should never have ditched you for Em. Or lied to you about the party. You didn't deserve that. And about what I said yesterday in the hall with Sarah J.—”

“Classic Margot.” He cut me off flatly, shaking his head as he switched the ball from one arm to the other.

“What?”

“Classic Margot. You know, always saying something you shouldn't.”

“Yeah,” I answered, biting my lower lip.

“I hear you're poisoning people now,” he went on. “So that makes you, what? A ham-stealer-slash-attempted-murderer?”

“I guess…”

He nodded. “I don't know if I can be friends with a person like you. Bad influence, you know.” I looked at the ground. I understood. After all, I wouldn't want to be friends with me either if I were him. “Are you crying?” I wiped a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand. “Margot, I was kidding!” He walked back and crouched down in front of me, but I could hardly look at him. “Do you seriously think I'd believe you tried to murder someone?” I didn't answer. “And as for the other stuff, no big deal. I forgive you, okay? When have I ever
not
forgiven you?” He paused. “Okay, maybe there was that one time in fourth grade when you said my cursive letter Q's looked like little flowers. I still can't write the word
quiet
without feeling kind of girly. Or
quail
or
quicksand
. . .”

Was he actually making a joke? “But how can you forgive me?” I said. “I lied to you. And then you found out I was in the bathroom with George Wainscott…even though, seriously, nothing happened. But that's not the point. I should have been honest with you, and told you I didn't like you…I mean, like that. Not that there's any reason why I shouldn't. You're such a great guy, it's just that—”