Mission (Un)Popular (32 page)

“It's okay,” he said, looking off toward the fence before meeting my gaze. “You can't change how you feel, right? I can take the rejection.” He shrugged and smiled. “Anyway, there are, like, hundreds of girls waiting to get my number.” He glanced behind him as if he was looking for the imaginary lineup. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you'll just have to settle for being my friend. Here,” he said suddenly. “Catch.”

He threw the ball at me. I tried to react, but it was too late. It had already hit me in the face. My nose started bleeding immediately, but I was almost relieved. At least now we could both pretend the tears running down my cheeks had to do with the pain.

“Oh God,” Andrew said. “Sorry.” Before I realized what he was doing, he had taken his sweaty shirt off and was pressing it against my face. “Pinch here,” he instructed, demonstrating on his own nose. “Lean forward.” I did, letting the tears flow, too. I held my breath for as long as possible to avoid having to smell the shirt, but when I finally did take a breath, I was amazed. It smelled clean, like soap, and also fresh, like ocean air. It was a smell I recognized. I closed my eyes and breathed in again. It came to me instantly: Gorgeous George.

“What's this smell like?” I asked, still pinching the bridge of my nose.

“My mom got me deodorant,” he said. “Old Spice. She says I stank.” He shrugged. “Did I?” I nodded. I was never going to lie to him again. “Well, I would have thought
you
of all people would have said something.” He rolled his eyes at me. “I'd tell you if you stunk, which, by the way, you do.”

I elbowed him in the arm as hard as I could without letting go of my nose or the shirt. “Wait here,” he said, pulling himself up suddenly. “I'm going to get another shirt from my locker.”

He started jogging across the yard. “You can keep that one,” he yelled behind him, and flashed me a smile that lit up his entire face. As I watched him go, all I could think was this: one day, Andrew was going to make some girl so happy, and one day, I wouldn't be all that surprised to find myself regretting that it wouldn't be me.

I
F YOU'D ASKED ME A MONTH AGO
, I would have told you I was mature for my age. I drink coffee, after all (even though I hate it). And I sometimes watch the local news (mostly because I'm waiting for something else to come on, but it counts). Still, as I rode home with Bryan, mentally preparing myself to tell my mother everything I'd done, I felt like a little kid again. I could already picture the disappointed look on her face. “What were you thinking?” she'd ask. And I'd have to admit, yet again, that I didn't know.

So I was incredibly relieved when I got in and found the door to the front room shut. Grandma Betty was in the kitchen helping the triplets make necklaces out of Organic Oaty-O's, so, obviously—even though my mom said she was going to cancel her readings—she was with a client. Probably some emergency.

Maybe Sheila Wheeler met another guy on Lavalife, or Kathy Malloy needed help choosing the best fertilizers for her feng shui shrubs.

“Your mother's waiting for you in the front room, Margot.”

Grandma Betty poured more Oaty-O's onto the table.

“But the door's closed,” I said.

“I know, dear. But she said for you to go right in.”

I stood up uncertainly. Opening the door to the reading room went against everything I'd ever learned in life. “Are you sure she said that?” I asked. Grandma nodded, but I still had my doubts.

I went down the hall and pushed the door open a fraction of an inch. A strong waft of sandalwood incense drifted out. My mom was definitely doing a reading. I tried to look through the tiny crack with one eye, but all I could make out was a sliver of the sofa.

“Margot?” I heard my mother's voice call sharply. I jumped twelve feet and slammed the door shut. I was already heading for my room when the door opened wide.

“I was wondering where you were.” I turned to face my mom. She was wearing a brown peasant skirt with a purple button-up blouse. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. For the first time in a long time she looked relaxed. She'd even put on earrings. They were big and dangly and gold. They made her look like herself. In the room behind her, the tarot deck was on the table, wrapped in its silk scarf. “Come in,” she said.

“I'll come back when you're done with your client,” I said. The last thing I wanted was to tell her the awful things I'd done, and ruin her good mood.

“You
are
my client.” She stepped aside, leaving the doorway open.

“I am?” It literally didn't make sense to my brain.

“I know,” she said, possibly psychically reading my mind. “You're not eighteen yet. Come in anyway.” I followed her into the room, not about to argue.

“Please, have a seat.” She pointed to a chair on one side of the card table. “Can I offer you anything to drink? Water? Herbal tea?” It was beyond weird to hear her talking to me like I was an actual client.

“I hate herbal tea,” I said, then caught myself: “I mean, no thank you.”

“Well then, let's get started.” Mom smoothed the back of her skirt and sat down. “Is this your first reading?” she asked, even though she obviously knew it was. She went into a big description of the history of the cards and the powers they held—all of which I pretty much knew. Then she told me to put my fingertips on the deck and close my eyes. She did the same, and we sat in silence for a minute. When we were done, she placed the deck against my palm. I shifted the cards a little in my hand, watching how the soft light in the room reflected off the gold edges. “While you shuffle, I'd like you to focus on a problem you've been having, or a question you'd like to ask the cards.” I tried as hard as I could to concentrate on Erika; on how much I missed her; on how lonely I was.
Can't things just go back to how they were before?
I mentally asked the deck.

I handed it back to my mom, who laid the cards out in a cross pattern.

She got very quiet for a minute. “This card speaks to us of the recent past.” She pointed to a card with a picture of a man on it. He was carrying one of those sticks with a bundle of stuff tied to it.

“It's called The Fool,” she said. “You've done something you're not proud of. Right now you feel like you're back at zero. Starting all over again.” I gulped as I thought of this afternoon, sitting alone with the red maple tree in the school yard. “It seems like a negative card,” my mom explained, “but it's hopeful, too. The card represents a foolish act, but it also represents a fresh start. See this pack he's carrying?” I nodded. “The fool is on a journey. He doesn't know how he'll find his way from here, but not knowing is part of his adventure.

“This card represents a situation.” She pointed to a person carrying an armload of swords. “The Seven of Swords. Someone is stealing something from you. Your ideas? Or your time?” Nothing was coming to mind, unless it was Mr. Tannen and the solid hour of math homework he'd given us for the weekend. “Or they might be stealing your honor by spreading gossip about you. You might want to be confrontational, but this card is telling you to stay calm and be strong.” My eyes must have been wide with amazement, because Mom looked up and smiled. There was no way she could have known how Maggie and Joyce had told people their version of the mystery-on-a-spoon story (in which they were blameless and Em and I were monsters); how all the kids were mixing up the facts and making it even worse…except that, somehow, she did.

“This one tells us about the near future.” It was a king in a red gown. “The Hierophant. It's good news. You know how to solve your problem. It's not a quick fix, but it's doable. The solution is there in front of you, Margot.

“And this card,” she said, “is in the ‘self' position.” It looked like a naked lady inside a Christmas wreath. “It's called The World. It's about wisdom. Here you are, The Fool, taking the final step in your journey only to discover that you're right back at the start…at the edge of the same cliff you've stepped off before.” All I'd wanted was to be somebody different, somebody better, and here I was anyway: just Margot with the crazy hair. Margot who always said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Just Margot…unpopular, sarcastic, not at all photogenic. Only now I was missing my best friend.

“But this time around you see things differently. That's the key.” She sat back in her chair. “Now,” she said, suddenly sounding like my mother again, “do you want to tell me what all of that means to you?”

I took a deep breath and started at the beginning. My mom's face went from calm (when I told her how Em and I first met at the self-esteem workshop) to worried (when I got to our bet to make Sarah cry) to sad (when I told her that Erika and I hadn't talked for weeks) to furious (when she heard about the party Bryan and I had kept secret from her), but when I was finished, the look she was left with was something else. Something I barely recognized.

She sat for a while, going over all of it in her mind. “I'm sorry, Margot,” she said finally. “I let you down.” Her expression was apologetic, which was confusing, to say the least. “If you ever needed a parent, it was this past month. And I've been so overworked and overtired.” She looked down at her hands. I was afraid she was going to start crying, but she just shook her head a little. Her earrings made a soft, tinkling sound, like wind chimes attached to her head. “Do you know why I wanted to do this reading for you today?” She motioned toward the side table. The spider plant was sitting there, still looking a bit wilted. “You've always told me you were mature for your age,” she said. “And you're right.”

Okay, now I was seriously confused. Maybe it would have made sense if I'd brought home a report card with straight A's, or started a waste-free bagged-lunch program at my school. But not only had I done neither of those things, I'd behaved in some of the most immature ways I could think of. She took the card off the table and handed it to me. I flipped it open.

She walked around the table and hugged me from behind. I read the note twice, trying to pick out the part that made my mom think I was mature, but I couldn't find it.

Thankfully, Mom helped me out. “You were honest with me,” she said. “For months I've been trying to figure out how to reach you, and you finally told me. I know this has been a big adjustment for you.” She paused like she was working up the nerve to say something. “I love our new life,” she went on, “but sometimes I miss the days when it was just you and me, too.” That made my eyes well up with tears.

She hugged me again, then said with a huge, goofy smile: “You also called Bryan your family.” I read it again and realized with a shudder that she was pretty much right. “I know you're still getting used to him, but Margot, I hope you can see how good he is for us. He's reliable, for one thing, and he's also thoughtful and generous and devoted to you. When your grandpa died, I didn't think you'd ever have a male role model like that again…Bear with me while I get mystical on you”—she smiled—“but sometimes I wonder if Grandpa Button didn't have something to do with Bryan coming into our lives when he did.”

My mom wiped a tear off her cheek, and another off mine. “You've been through a lot these past few weeks, sweetie. And maturity doesn't happen overnight. It comes from making mistakes and learning from them.” She leaned over and picked The World card off the table. “This is a good card,” she said, studying the picture. “The Fool approaches the same cliff. He takes the same step. But this time, instead of falling, he soars.”

T
HIS AFTERNOON IN MY
room, I kept going over the reading in my mind. It was spooky how right on it was. Of all the cards I'd drawn, the one I kept thinking about was The Hierophant. “The solution is there in front of you, Margot,” my mom had said. I kept looking at things that were right in front of me, but none of them seemed likely to make Erika forgive me.

A list of things right in front of me:

1. My nose. I could flatter Erika into forgiving me by-telling her she smells good?
   
2. My bedroom door. I could walk right out it and tell-Erika I am sorry.…Except she isn't outside my bedroom door, so I'd only end up apologizing to the hallway, and what good would that do?
   
3. A magazine on the nightstand. I could buy her a gift subscription as an apology present…but it just so happens to be
   Home Style Today
   . Her mom already subscribes.
   
4. Dirty Snoopy underwear on the floor. Not even a little bit useful.
   
5. A nearly empty box of Kleenex. At least I could use it to dry my tears when I come home from school for the rest of the year and have nobody to talk to.
   

I gave up and got up to turn on the computer, but halfway there, one of my crutches slipped sideways over a hardcover book. (My room still looked way better since I'd redecorated, but the de-cluttering part hadn't exactly worked out for me.) I fell hard on my butt. Two feet of laundry cushioned my fall, so it didn't really hurt, but tears sprang to my eyes anyway, mostly from exhaustion and frustration.

I pulled one crutch up from under me and leaned it against the bed, but when I went to pull up the second one, it wouldn't come free. It took a bit of digging, but I finally discovered what it was caught on: Erika's stupid Parasuco jeans, which I hadn't returned. I tried to pull them off the crutch, but my room is so small, and the crutch is so long, it was like trying to twirl a baton in a closet. I came an inch from smashing the lamp on top of my bookshelf, and I knocked everything off my bedside table, including the nearly empty box of Kleenex, the magazine, and the apple festival photo of me and Erika.

That was when I gave up and yelled as loudly as I could, “Mom? Can you come help me?”

“Just a second,” she called back from the kitchen. “I'm knee-deep in couscous, chickpeas, and anise seed.” It sounded gross, but weirdly enough, it made me happy. My mom was actually cooking…without a microwave!

About ten minutes later, she finally appeared at the door, wiping her wet hands on her skirt. “Margot.” She rushed over as soon as she saw me on the floor. “Why didn't you tell me you'd fallen?”

“I'm fine,” I said. “I just slid on some clutter.” She picked up the crutch and started pulling the jeans off of it. It's a funny thing, but when you're stuck sitting on the floor for ten minutes, waiting for your mom to finish with her couscous, the wheels in your brain start turning.

“After dinner, can you drive me to Erika's house?” I asked. It was the kind of request that, lately, would have made my mom sigh heavily.

This time, though, she gave me her hand and pulled me up. “As long as your grandma doesn't mind putting the girls to bed.”

An hour and a half later, my mom, the jeans, and I pulled up in front of Erika's house on Park Street. “Do you want me to wait?” she asked, turning off the ignition. I nodded. There was no telling how this was going to go.

As I walked down the landscaped pathway, I ran over what I was planning to say in my mind.
Erika, I need to talk to you.
With each step I took, I felt a little more certain. I was going to be confident. I was going to be mature. We were going to resolve this like adults. I checked my reflection in the leaded glass of the door, then grabbed hold of the familiar brass knocker and banged it three times.

A few seconds later, the door swung open and there was Erika, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a matching Sacred Heart sweatshirt. She'd cut her hair to shoulder length. It looked really grown-up. And it instantly made me really sad. I should have been with her to help her decide whether or not she should do layers and how short her bangs should be.

“Erika” I said, “I need to talk to—” but before I could finish, she took a single step back and slammed the door so hard that the windows on either side of it shook. A gush of warm air from inside the house came at me. It smelled like the little pots of dried flowers Erika's mom keeps in the hallway.

I desperately wanted to go back to the van. I'd been rejected enough for one day. But I knew I'd never forgive myself if I didn't do what I'd come to do. I reached for the knocker again.

“What?” Erika said when she opened the door. “I don't want any Girl Scout cookies, okay?” She spat the words at me. I knew I deserved them.

“Erika,” I started again. “I need to talk to you.…”

And that's kind of where my plan fell apart. In the script in my head, at that point she was supposed to also start acting like a mature adult. I mean, of the two of us, she was the one who always said thank you to the bus driver and who knew which fork to use for dessert. She was raised to be ultrapolite. She was supposed to say something like: “I'm glad you're here. Let's discuss this.” Except she didn't. She just stood there glaring at me.

“Anyway,” I improvised, skipping ahead in the script, “I brought back your jeans.” I took them out from under my armpit and handed them to her.

She held them by the waistband, shaking them out and inspecting them as if she was looking for stains. Then she folded them in half, lengthwise, and draped them over her arm. “It's about time.” Then, with her hand on the door, she added, “Is that all?”

I exhaled in frustration. She was supposed to thank me for returning them. If she didn't want to behave like a rational person, how was I supposed to make her forgive me?

“No. Wait.” I slid my hand into my pocket. “Do you remember this?” I held out the photo from the apple festival. She squinted at it under the porch light.

“I guess,” she said. “The hayride thing.”

“Yeah,” I said, a bit too brightly. “We're seven years old in this photo.” This was the part where she was supposed to remember all the good times we'd had growing up. I'd even envisioned a tear trickling down her cheek as she hugged me and said, “I can't believe how close we came to throwing it all away!”

“Well.” I hesitated. “Do you want to go this year? With me? It's this weekend.”

She looked out at the street behind me. There was an uncomfortable silence. I heard two cars pass and some cats fighting a few yards over. “We're not really friends anymore.” She passed the photo back to me. “Plus, it's kind of for kids.”

“Yeah.” I looked down at my feet, then shook my head like I should have realized. “You're totally right. It's for kids. Anyway…” The beams from someone's headlights washed across her thighs and over the stone path before disappearing into the dark. A car door slammed somewhere. “My mom's waiting.” I motioned toward the street. “So…” I trailed off and turned around to go. Mom must have seen me, because the van started with its usual coughing, wheezing, about-to-keelover-and-die noise.

And then, of all the things in the world I could have said, these words came out of my mouth: “I like your new haircut.” I knew Erika was still standing there because I hadn't heard the click of the front door closing yet. “It makes you look older.”

The cats had stopped fighting. Everything was silent, except, of course, for the wheezing of the van. I turned back toward Erika as my mom switched off the ignition again.

“Thanks,” she said, but she didn't sound very thankful. There was another pause. “Your new bangs are…”

“Horrible.” I helped her out. “I know.” After what had happened with Em and the mystery spoon, I'd felt wrong wearing any of the head scarves she'd given me. I even felt iffy about the frizz-control serum—but I'd decided to keep using it anyway. Just for the next couple of days. Just until I could save up enough to buy my own bottle.

“When you told me on the phone that you'd cut them, I didn't expect them to look so…”

“Ugly?” I supplied.

“Different,” she said coldly. As if sensing that things had taken another turn for the worse, Mom turned the key in the ignition again. The van wheezed to life.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Anyway.” I motioned to the street. The engine revved noisily, then went quiet. Mom was obviously getting sick of not knowing if I was leaving or staying. Just then, I heard the van door open and slam shut.

“Goddamn it,” my mom said, coming up the path. The wind whipped her cotton skirt around her ankles. “It's dead,” she said, throwing up her hands. “We should all just admit it. It's finished.”

She was right. I'd tried everything I could think of and it hadn't changed anything. Erika hated me. Our friendship was really and truly and finally over. “I know,” I agreed, feeling numb.

“It leaks coolant. The shocks are gone. The windshield wipers get stuck every time you go over a bump. The mirrors are cracked. The paint is rusting. The cup holders are too small.” My mom listed off on her fingers. “And now,” she finished, “the engine won't start.” She glanced back at the van and sighed. “Hi, Erika,” she said. “It's good to see you. Could I use your phone?”

Erika smiled warmly. “Of course, Ms. Button.” She stepped aside to let my mom in.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mom called. She kicked off her shoes in the front hall as though nothing had changed. “Anybody home?” Erika's mom appeared at the top of the stairs, a little too quickly for my liking. I'd bet anything she'd been eavesdropping the entire time. “I just drove Margot over to have a talk with Erika, and the van's finally kicked the bucket,” Mom explained. “Just when we've barely got two cents left to rub together.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Erika's mom cooed, as if she knew anything about rubbing cents together. “Come into the kitchen. I'll make you a cup of decaf while you use the phone.”

Erika and I were left standing alone in the hallway, both wishing we were anyplace else on earth. “I guess you're going to be here awhile. Would you like to sit down?” Erika asked in a very formal, unwelcoming way. I actually would have rather stood freezing my butt off outside, except that she was right—there was no telling how long we'd be there. Erika led me into the good living room—the one with big flower-print couches, where there were always vacuum marks on the carpet.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked in the same cold voice.

“No thank you,” I said. We sat stiffly for a long time, like two strangers at a tea party. Finally, though, Erika's curiosity got the better of her.

“What happened to your leg?” she asked.

“Sarah J. pushed me down the stairs,” I answered. I could tell that she was surprised, and I could also tell that she wanted the details (how could she not?), but she didn't ask.

“That's unfortunate,” she said. There was another long silence.

“How's Sacred Heart?” I asked.

“Very nice, thank you,” she responded. “And Manning?”

“Lovely,” I shot back. Two could play at this game. “Splendid.”

“Mmmmm.” Erika pinched her lips into a tight smile, like she was so pleased to hear it. “And your blond friend? What was her name again?” It was a trick question, obviously. Erika had never met Em…not unless you counted the two seconds before she'd slammed the door in her face.

“Liesalot McDognapper,” I answered in the same polite tone. I don't even know why I said it.

“What an unusual name.” Erika didn't even crack a smile.

“It's her pseudonym,” I said, “for modeling.” She nodded as if that made sense and was a very interesting fact.

“Have you made any friends at Sacred Heart?” I tried to sound uninterested, like I was asking about the weather.

“Yes,” she smiled smugly. “Several. My best friend is Gabriella Whipplechuck.”
Her best friend? Traitor!
It had taken us years to be as close as we were—or as close as we used to be. Plus, what kind of a stupid name was Gabriella Whipplechuck?

“How nice,” I said, practically spitting venom.

“It
is
,” Erika said. “She was here after school today, actually. We watched the Discovery Channel and ate nachos.” She paused for maximum effect. “She makes good nachos.”

I'd been practically biting a hole in my tongue to keep from saying something rude, but now she was taking things too far. “That's nice,” I said again, but I couldn't help it. The words felt like hot lava trapped inside my throat. I was a natural disaster waiting to happen. “Really nice, Erika,” I snapped. “Really frigging nice. Just throw our friendship away like the past six years were made of rancid potatoes. Just go and replace me with a new best friend as easily as you'd replace a”—I paused, trying to think of the right words, and then gave up, saying whatever came into my head—“maxi pad.”

“Rancid potatoes?” She stood up. “A maxi pad? Do I need to remind you that you're the one who ditched me? That you're the one who had a new friend within days of starting school? And do I need to remind you that it took you weeks to come over and apologize? Or, actually, not even apologize, because you haven't even apologized yet. Like, what, Margot? Did you expect me to put my life on hold forever?”

I hung my head. I felt two inches tall. She had a point. She had lots of points, actually. Everything I'd said and done since coming over was meant to show her I was sorry, but it had all come out wrong, as usual. “I sent an e-mail,” I said. “You never answered.
And
I called.”