Mission (Un)Popular (5 page)

I was just sharpening a few pencils when there was a knock at my door.

“Can I come in?” my mom asked. Then, as usual, came in without waiting for an answer. She straightened out my butterfly quilt, sat on the edge of the bed, and traced a wing with her finger.

“Margot,” she said finally. “I want to apologize. I overreacted this afternoon. I'm sorry I threw your magazine.” I listened warily. I kind of deserved the apology, but it wasn't like her to admit her mistakes. “It wasn't all about the babysitting. You help out so much with the girls. Bryan and I appreciate it. I don't know what we'd do without you.”

I picked some clothes up off my computer chair, dumped them on the floor, and sat down. This seemed like it might be a long talk.

“I
do
want you to treat Bryan with more respect,” she said, “but the real reason I was frustrated had more to do with some news we got on Friday that I was still trying to process. Some bad news.”

Mom looked really worried. I gulped, bracing myself for it. Had she predicted her own imminent death in a tarot reading? Was Grandma Betty sick?

“Bryan's contract for the travel insurance commercials got canceled.”

“What?” I exclaimed. Just the month before, TC Travel Co. had told him he had the “trustworthy” look they'd been searching for. “I thought they loved him for that part!”

“They did,” Mom said with a small sigh. “They still do. But Bryan had a moral objection to the latest script.”

“A moral objection? To a travel insurance commercial?” I could feel my temper rising because I knew exactly where this was going. Bryan was unemployed again, and now we were all going to have to suffer because of it. Again. “You're kidding, right? Why couldn't he just say the lines and get paid, then object later?”

“Bryan is a man with strong principles, Margot. It's just one of the things I love about him.” It took all of my willpower not to sigh loudly or roll my eyes. “I really think this could be an opportunity in disguise,” she said. “I did a reading for him. The Ace of Wands came up, suggesting he would chart a new course—and that's just what he's going to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's decided to become a real estate agent. We called the college and there was an opening in a night school class. It's like everything is lining up to make this possible. He starts tomorrow.”

My mom stood up and walked across my room, stopping at my bookshelf and looking at the stack of cards I kept there. They were all from my dad, postmarked from the different places he'd traveled through—England, Bangladesh, Peru. Each one had a few sentences scrawled inside. Mostly about the people he'd met or the work he was doing.

“Bryan's a good man,” she said, idly picking up one of the few gifts my dad had sent me—one of those pocket-sized games where you tip a tiny metal ball through a maze. “He's giving up a big dream for us, Margot, so whether you consider him your family or not, I need you to be kinder to him right now.”

I didn't know what to say. All Bryan ever talked about was acting (when he wasn't talking about yogic breathing, or quoting from his favorite self-help books). Rainbows of happiness practically sprouted from his ears whenever he told the story of the time he was Hamlet in Shakespeare in the Park and it never rained once during the whole three-month run. I couldn't picture him in a suit and tie, touring people around houses and pointing out the great light and new laminate flooring.

“Okay,” I said. I guessed I could try.

“And I need to ask you another favor.”

I swiveled back and forth in my chair, waiting for the next blow.

“Things are going to get easier for us soon. But while we're paying Bryan's tuition, money's going to be tighter than ever. Donatello has agreed to give me some morning shifts at All Organics, which means I'll get the cashier's discount on groceries.” Soy cheese and organic beet casserole! I tried not to jump for joy. “And I'll have to do more tarot readings in the afternoons. Which is where you'll come in…” I already knew what she was going to ask. “I'll need you to babysit from 3:45 until dinnertime while I'm with clients.” She didn't miss the look of disappointment that was clearly written across my face. “Just from now until Christmas, sweetie. And Erika can help you anytime she wants.”

I sighed, thinking of all the reasons this was a bad idea. Like, first, even if Erika was allowed to come over, when were we supposed to actually talk, or have any fun, or go to the mall with three two-year-olds to watch? And second, there's supposed to be a lot of homework in seventh grade. When was I going to finish it all? And third, how exactly was this fair?

“This time next year,” Mom went on, “things will be different. You'll see. But we need to come together to make that happen.” I nodded miserably, and my mom stood up. “I'll let you keep getting ready,” she said. “It's a big day tomorrow.” She kissed me on the top of my head and left, shutting the door softly behind her.

After she went, I lay down on my bed and stared at my ceiling for a long time. It's one of those bumpy ceilings that looks like it's made of cottage cheese. I used to spend a lot of time worrying that one of the little cottage cheese bumps might fall off and hit me in the eye (I guess I still worry about that), but at that moment I had bigger things on my mind. Like the fact that we were broke, again. And the fact that, as much as I loved the triplets, I missed our old house and our old life, where my mom always made sure we had enough money for whatever we really needed, with a little left over for popcorn at the movies and brand-name shoes.

Also, I thought about how much I was going to miss Erika. The idea of facing Manning alone made me feel queasy, and the news that I'd have to babysit every afternoon made me furious. But mostly I thought about how I was sick of being almost thirteen and having absolutely no control over my life.

M
Y GRANDPA
B
UTTON
used to say this thing when he'd drive me to Brownies or swimming lessons, and I'd ask if he had candy in the glove box. I think it was part of a poem. “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.” He'd laugh, ruffling my hair, and hand me a caramel wrapped in cellophane, or a Scotch Mint, or whatever else he had hiding behind the maps. “Now don't tell your grandma about our stash.”

Back then I never gave his little saying much thought, but now I get what it means. It's about how, even when everything seems against you, it's human nature to dream of caramels—or better things. Which maybe explains why, when my alarm went off at 7:00 that Tuesday morning, I jumped out of bed, ready to get the day started.

It was still School Year's Day, after all—a new beginning, a reason for hope. Erika wouldn't be there, and just the thought made my throat close up, but another part of me couldn't help being curious to find out who would be in my class and who my teachers would be. Plus, I was excited to see Andrew, who'd been in Barbados all summer—not to mention Gorgeous George.

I managed to make it to the bathroom before anyone else woke up, getting off to a good start by giving myself a solid half hour for my ten-step hair routine.

1. Wash
   
2. Condition
   
3. Towel-dry
   
4. Spray on leave-in conditioner
   
5. Blow-dry
   
6. Put in smoothing gel
   
7. Flat iron
   
8. Apply mousse liberally
   
9. Flip head and shake vigorously to add oomph
   
10. Flat iron again
    

Then I put on the striped shirt and Parasuco jeans. All in all, I looked okay, at least until I started to walk to the kitchen. That was when I noticed that the jeans, which were a size seven to fit Erika, kept sliding down my hips, showing off my ladybug underwear. Definitely not great. I went back and rifled through my closet for a belt. The only one I could find was made of purple elastic and had a sparkly butterfly buckle, but as long as I pulled my shirt down, nobody would see.

By the time I got to the kitchen, the morning was already in full swing. My mom was dressed for her shift at All Organics, had the triplets set up with bowls of Oaty-O's, and was trying to wash some dishes. “Oh no!” she cried, dropping a fork into the sink. “Don't do that, honey.” Aleene was taking big gulps from her sippy cup, then sticking out her tongue and making farting noises so that soy milk spurted out. “No, no, Aleene!” Mom said again. But Aleene started laughing at her own hilariousness, and then the other two thought it looked like fun to be human soy milk fountains. “Alice, Alex, no. The milk stays in your mouth.” It was too late. Fake milk was being spewed in all directions. Pretty much a typical morning.

I grabbed a slice of bread and buttered it with EarthBound Organic Spread. My stomach was way too queasy for a real breakfast. “I'm going now,” I said, messing up the triplets' hair from behind, so I'd stay clear of the dairy supplement disaster.

“Oh, okay,” my mom answered, taking away Aleene's sippy cup before wiping her chin. The protests started immediately.

“No no no no no NO, Mommy. My cup. My cup. MY cup.”

“Have a great first day, Margot,” Mom yelled.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, even though I thought she should have said something more like “good luck,” or even “be brave.”

With all the general morning chaos and the sick feeling in my stomach, I was already past the park when I remembered that my mom had forgotten to take the back-to-school picture. Ever since kindergarten she'd taken a photo of me on the front steps. We even kept them in a special album. In the first picture I'm standing in front of our bungalow wearing a frog raincoat. I'm smiling crookedly with my gappy teeth showing. In second grade I have these dorky pigtails that I obviously did myself because one is way higher up on my head than the other. I'm holding the Powerpuff Girls backpack my grandma bought me, and I'm about to jump off the step like I can't wait to get to school. I'm actually kind of cute.

From there, though, things go downhill, with different variations of fashion mistakes and bad hair. By the time I get to the fifth grade photo, I can hardly stand to look at it. I've got on a pair of too-tight jeans with obvious fake fading on them, and I'm leaning over onto one hip, trying to seem cool.

Since fourth grade my mom has practically had to force me to stand still for the picture anyway. I wondered if she'd forgotten about it or just decided not to bother this year.

And not taking the picture wasn't the only thing about School Year's Day that felt weird. When I passed the corner where Erika and I always met up I had to take a deep breath and force myself to keep walking. I even tried repeating Mrs. Carlyle's lame mantra in my head.
I am powerful. I am unique. I am powerful. I am unique.
It
so
didn't help.

As I rounded the corner onto Wayne Drive I saw a group of four girls up ahead who I recognized from the enrichment program at Colonel Darling Elementary. They each had a brand-new backpack and a cute fall jacket and cardigan, even though it was still warm enough to be in a T-shirt.

“And he totally kissed her on the couch with, like, his dad in the next room,” one of them was telling the others. They all mini-screamed. I tried to think of some way I could work my way into their conversation.
I knew someone who kissed someone on a couch once,
maybe—except that I didn't, plus, why would they care? Or,
That's so crazy!!
Or even,
Hey, do you guys know what time it is?
But they'd only think I was some kind of eavesdropping weirdo, so instead I hung back about six feet—just close enough that, to a casual onlooker, it might seem like I was with their group and had fallen a little behind…but far enough away that they wouldn't think I was trying to look like I was with them.

By the time we reached Manning Avenue the sidewalk was getting crowded with kids. I gave a small, subtle wave that none of the enrichment-program girls even noticed, and casually veered off onto the lawn, where I wandered aimlessly for a few seconds before I spotted Michelle, showing some photos to her friend Bethany. Michelle's this really tall, athletic girl who stood beside me in the chorus of the sixth grade musical. She was good at harmonies. Plus, she was captain of the volleyball team last year.

She looked different, but I couldn't quite pinpoint how. Had she dyed her hair, or at least lightened it? She'd definitely gotten even taller, which was saying something—she'd been the last person in the back row in every school picture since kindergarten.

I walked over. “Hey,” I said. “How's it going? Is that a Ferris wheel?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Oh my God,” I went on, seeing my opening. “I love rides. But not Ferris wheels. One time, my mom and I went on the one at Niagara Falls. And there was some kind of power outage. We got stuck right at the top for half an hour and I had to pee
so
badly. It
so
didn't help that I was staring right at the biggest waterfall in the world.”

“Really?” she said. “That's funny.” But she didn't sound like she thought it was funny at all. I could tell by the way she was looking down, a small smirk on her face, already flipping to the next photo.

“Oh.” I pointed. “Wonderland, right?” Erika went every year. I recognized the big fake mountain in the background. As I was pointing, though, my shirt rode up a little. I tugged it down quickly, but not before Michelle had caught a glimpse of the sparkly butterfly belt.

“Wow,” she remarked, raising her eyebrows. “I
love
your belt.”

Now I could tell what it was that had changed: over the summer, Michelle had turned into a giant B-word.

“Yeah. Thanks. Anyway,” I said, taking the not-so-subtle hint and giving them another of my lame little waves. “Better go see some of my friends.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and walked away, hearing Michelle and her friend giggle softly behind me. Whatever, I thought. So she could sing harmonies and get a serve over the net. Big deal.

I kept walking, trying to act like I had someplace definite to go. Two boys I didn't recognize were having an arm wrestling match on the grass, so I stopped to watch next to these girls, Christine and Amanda.

“Hi,” I said, turning to Amanda. We hadn't exactly been friends, but she and another girl named Kim had done a project about bugs with me and Erika in fifth grade. Basically all Amanda did was draw the bubble letters for the display, and she misspelled
antennae
, but we never complained to the teacher. She kind of owed me.

“Hi,” I said.

She turned and squinted. I kept watching the arm wrestling match, which, by the way, was no contest. The smaller guy's face was already turning so red I thought his head might pop. “Margaret, right?” she asked.

“Margot.”

“Oh my God. I can't believe I forgot your name. How many years were you in my class?”

“I don't know,” I answered, even though I did know. “Three maybe.”

“That's so weird,” she said. I smiled, even though I didn't really think it was weird, just kind of insulting. She turned her attention back to the match. All of a sudden she looked at me. “You did the ham thing, right?” My face froze. “I thought it was either you or that other girl called Margaret. Your names are practically the same.”

I nodded.

Just then, the bigger guy put the scrawny one out of his misery. “You suck, Tucker!” he shouted, jumping up and pumping his fist in victory. Christine and Amanda went over to talk to them, and I quietly stepped away.

All around the yard people were standing in groups. Girls were squealing and hugging, comparing tan lines and new haircuts. And the guys, who suddenly looked so much older and taller, were standing with arms crossed, leaning against the fence, or shoving each other around.

I spotted Andrew's friends, Mike and Amir, across the yard, playing one-on-one on the basketball court. Amir looked up and waved, and I waved back gratefully and started to walk over. “Hey, Margot,” he said, passing the ball to Mike and coming to greet me.

Amir is one of the only other brown-skinned kids in our grade, so you'd think we'd have something in common, but besides the fact that we're both friends with Andrew, we really don't. Sometimes he talks about religious stuff—like fasting for Ramadan, and celebrating Eid, like he expects me to be all interested, or asks me questions about my dad, but I don't know the answers. Mike's nice too, but really quiet. His family moved here from Korea, and he only started at our school in fifth grade. When I first met him I wasn't even sure if he could speak English, because he barely said anything.

“Did you have a good summer?” Amir asked. He was dressed in his usual khaki pants along with a new collared polo shirt.

“Okay, I guess.” I shrugged. “I babysat a lot. What about you?”

“Oh, you know,” he answered, catching the ball Mike threw back to him. “Same as always.”

I nodded. That was about the extent of our usual conversations when Andrew wasn't around.

“You want to play?” Amir asked, holding up the ball.

“No thanks,” I said. Even though the idea of having nobody to talk to was terrifying, the thought of attempting to play basketball was much, much worse. I could just picture it now: me, walking into Manning on the very first day with a bloody nose. “I have to go look at something before the bell rings. See you.”

“Later, Margot.” He dribbled the ball and tossed it to Mike, who sunk a basket.

I wandered over to a lamppost near the sidewalk and pretended to be interested in one of the posters stapled to it:
HEE-HAW HOEDOWN: A LINE DANCE FOR SENIORS!
—only noticing too late that I'd placed myself dangerously close to Sarah J. and The Group girls. They'd already staked out a concrete ledge, a few feet from where I was standing. It ran all the way along the fence. Nobody who wasn't part of their group—not even the eighth graders—seemed to be brave enough to approach it. Sarah J. was sitting sideways on the ledge with her feet up, while her best friends, Maggie and Joyce, stood beside her. They all looked perfect in their fitted fall jackets with their long shiny hair.

“I'm so starving right now,” I could hear Maggie complaining. “I ate like, half a piece of toast this morning so I could fit into these jeans.”

“Well,” Joyce soothed, “it was totally worth it. They look great.”

“Thanks.” Maggie's cell started buzzing, and she took it out of her pocket, walking away as she answered the call.

Sarah J. watched Maggie's back for a second too long, then turned and whispered something to Joyce. Joyce nodded and whispered something back. I could tell by the stupid fake-pity on their faces that they were probably saying mean things about Maggie's weight.

I stepped a little closer to the poster and leaned in like I was studying the fine print. I was just starting to wonder how long I'd be able to keep pretending I was interested in the biography of Rosie Bartlett, an experienced dance instructor who was “crazy for country,” when I felt someone grab me around the waist from behind. I screeched and jumped twelve and a half feet in the air.

“So that's why you never wrote back to my last e-mail? You were too busy line dancing with seniors?”

“Andrew!” I practically sang his name. I was so thankful to see somebody who liked me. “How was Barbados?”

“About as much fun as hanging out with eighty-year-old people is.” He shifted his backpack strap on his shoulder, revealing a sweat stain in the armpit of his shirt, which I pretended not to notice. Andrew spends every summer in the Caribbean, visiting his grandparents. He'd written me a few e-mails, but they were mostly just about how bored he was, and about how his grandma kept making him wear slippers when it was a million degrees out. And I mostly just wrote back about how sick I was of babysitting.