Mission (Un)Popular (33 page)

“Well, yeah,” she said, like that much was obvious. “One e-mail. One phone call.”

And then I got it…the answer…the thing that had been right in front of my face. I'd slammed the door on Erika, and now she was going to slam it on me. Right in my face. She had every right to. This was a big screwup. The kind that might need hundreds of apologies. And Erika was the kind of friend who was worth knocking on the door for. And then knocking on the door for again. And then knocking on the door for again, no matter how many times she had to slam it in my face before she felt better.

“I'm an idiot,” I said. “I don't deserve your forgiveness.” She didn't disagree. “And that girl, Liesalot McDognapper? She's an idiot too. We're not friends anymore.”

Erika sat back down on the sofa across from me. She folded her hands in her lap. Neither of us said anything for a very long time.

“I'm sorry,” I said finally. “I'll do whatever it takes if you'll just think about forgiving me.”

She let out a long exasperated breath while she picked at the fabric on the sofa.

“I'll grovel,” I said. “I'll eat cement. I'll tattoo your name on my forehead. I'll go to school naked. Oh, I'll wear bell-bottoms. For a month. Without washing them.” She didn't smile. “I'll shave my head?” I looked up at the ceiling. “I'll give up ice cream. Oh! I'll do the chicken dance in my underpants. I'll crank call your most hated teacher. I'll do your homework for six months…only not math…and, come to think of it, you probably don't want me to do your French either. But I'll do English. I just got an A-plus on an essay.”

I couldn't tell for sure, but the corners of her mouth seemed to lift into a tiny smile, just for a second. “Shut up, Margot,” she sighed.

We sat quietly again, listening to the muffled voices of our moms in the kitchen. Finally Erika broke the silence. “My mom probably wants to make pies for Thanksgiving,” she said, sounding annoyed. I looked at her, confused. What did pies have to do with anything? “And we could make fun of the songs, I guess.” I still didn't get it. “The apple thing,” she said impatiently. “I should probably go buy my mom some apples. For her stupid pies.”

“Oh,” I said, resisting the urge to grin. “Okay.” I could already picture us on the hayride, singing all the words to the stupid songs just a little bit too loudly, stuffing hay down the backs of each others' shirts, being on the lookout for cute guys even though there wouldn't be any.

“I already have plans with Gabriella this weekend, though, so she'll have to come too,” Erika said. I felt my heart sink again. Suddenly there was a new person in the picture, sitting between us. I pictured her rolling her eyes at the songs; refusing to get her face painted, even as a joke. She was probably the girl from the corner store. The trail-mix-eating, ultra-Goody Two-shoes, red-haired, Catholic schoolgirl. I hated her already. But Erika was looking at me expectantly. I knew what I had to do, so I took a deep breath.

“Great,” I said, smiling. And for once, I said the exact right thing at the exact right time. “I can't wait to meet her.”

There are lots of thank-you's to say, but it's easy to know where to start: with my former teachers and classmates from Canterbury High School's Literary Arts program. You taught me everything I know about writing, revising, and revising again.

Huge thank-you's to my husband, Brent, for his unwavering support; to my daughter, Gracie, and my son, Elliot, for giving me the best reason on earth to go after my dream (then taking really long naps so I could do it); to those who read drafts, offered feedback, and helped with research (Jamila-Khanom Allidina, Farrah Khan, Jane Moore, Taylor Guitard, and Keith Malcolm); and to my immediate and extended family for their encouragement—my mom especially, who, by example, taught me that the things you want are worth working really hard for.

Thank you to my former agent, Nikki Van De Car (of Sterling Lord Literistic), who came like magic into my life and made it all happen; and to my new agent, Rebecca Friedman (of Hill Nadell Literary Agency), for being so enthusiastic about what I might do next. To Emily Schultz, my editor at Disney•Hyperion, a million scoops of thanks with a cherry on top. You made Margot a better person, and you made me a better writer. Thanks, too, to Catherine Onder, for stepping in and seeing the book through production.

Heaps of gratitude to the City of Toronto through Toronto Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for providing financial support. And last but definitely not least, thank you to everyone who ever truly believed there'd be books in the world with my name on them (that's mostly you, Dad).