Mission (Un)Popular (9 page)

I
MANAGED TO GET THROUGH
the rest of the afternoon without embarrassing myself. Unless you counted gym class, where we started our basketball unit and I accidentally threw the ball to someone on the other team. (The girl was on the yellow team, but she was wearing red shorts so it was very confusing.) Or French class, where Mr. Patachou asked me if I was a good student, and I said something like,
“Oui, je suis enceinte,”
which I thought meant, “Yes, I'm a saint,” but actually meant “Yes, I'm pregnant.” But compared to the events of the morning, that was nothing.

I was halfway down Manning Avenue, psyching myself up for babysitting duty, when I felt something hit my heel. I looked down and saw a pop can skidding away. “Hey!” Andrew was running toward me. He picked up the can and slam-dunked it into a recycling bin. “I've been calling your name since you left school. You didn't hear me, so I had to resort to kicking stuff at you.”

“Thanks!” I said sarcastically. “I needed that.”

“I know.” There was real sympathy in his voice. “Bad day, right? Amir told me you got sent to Vandanhoover's office this morning. What happened?”

“I just said something I shouldn't have,” I answered.

“You? Say something you shouldn't have?” He faked surprise. I hit him hard, and he started laughing. “Remember that time you told my mom her cornmeal muffins tasted like sawdust?”

“I only said they had a
texture
like sawdust,” I corrected him.

“Or the time you told Erika not to worry because having such big feet made her ankles look smaller.”

“Okay, you're twisting my words.” I tried to defend myself again. “I was making her feel better after she said her feet were like boats. And they
are
like boats…but I didn't tell her that, did I?”

“But you just told
me
that,” he said, grinning. “Yeah, but your feet are like bigger boats.” I motioned to his Nikes, which were at least size ten. “So you understand.”

“What?! My feet are big?” He pretended to start crying, and I whacked him again. We walked in silence for a while, except for the quiet sound of him still laughing at me.

“This time was different,” I explained. “It was worse. I was playing dirty hangman and I yelled a swear word. Really loud. Mrs. Collins hates my guts, plus everyone else thinks I'm an idiot.”

“No they don't,” Andrew tried to reassure me. “At least the people who matter don't. They probably just think you have a really colorful vocabulary.”

He wasn't making me feel much better.

“How's Erika, anyway?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Busy,” I muttered. “Making lots of new friends.”

“Tell her hi for me next time you talk to her, okay?”

“
If
I talk to her,” I replied. He let that one go. He's known Erika and me long enough to know it's best not to get involved in our fights. They usually don't last long anyway. But now something had changed. She was at a new school, with new friends, and she hadn't even returned my phone call.

“What's with the new look?” Andrew asked, changing the subject yet again and pointing to the scarf in my hair.

“Just something I'm trying.”

“I like it,” he said, then he touched my arm and left his hand there for a second. I stared at it like it was a strange butterfly that had landed on my jacket, and he moved it away. We both glanced down at the sidewalk for a second while we waited for the weirdness to pass. The whole rest of the way down Manning, all I could think about was that e-mail signed XXO, and I couldn't come up with a single normal thing to say to him.

Because here's the thing: you know how I said that Andrew's not my boyfriend, he's just my boy friend? Well, it's true. But it's also maybe not. It depends how you look at it. Just before school ended last year, and Andrew left for Barbados, we were watching movies at his house with Erika, Mike, and Amir. It was dark in the room, and while he was reaching for his pop on the shelf behind the couch, his arm ended up resting on my shoulder, just for a second. I guess I liked it. Or maybe I was just curious. Because after he moved it away, I kind of started moving closer to him on the couch, very slowly, until our shoulders were touching, just to see what would happen. And this is what happened: inch by inch, he kind of moved his hand over until it was partly touching my leg, and then I moved my hand over, to meet his…and we sat there like that, with our hands touching, for the whole movie. But that's all that happened. And we never talked about it or did it again. Even Erika doesn't know. If she did, she'd freak out.

I mean, Andrew's great. He's one of my best friends. But he's not the kind of guy you're supposed to have a
crush
on. And anyway, what if I
did
like him? Wouldn't it just mess up our friendship? And what about Gorgeous George? Hadn't anybody thought of him in all this? I hadn't wasted the past three years obsessing over his shiny hair just to give up on him that quickly, had I? Especially when I was finally in his class again?

“You around for lunch tomorrow?” Andrew asked when we reached the corner. There was a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“I dunno,” I said cautiously. “Maybe.” It wasn't that I didn't want to eat with him, but what
exactly
did he mean.…

“Well, if you are, meet us beside the basketball court, okay? Amir's bringing his Nintendo DS. He just got War of the Druids, Strike Three.” I breathed a small sigh of relief. Druids at war with Amir and Mike. I couldn't think of a single thing less romantic.

“Sure,” I said. “I'll try to come, unless I end up with another detention.”

“Yeah, well. I won't count on it, then.” He grabbed my waist to tickle me, jumped back before I could retaliate, then started running, turning and waving when he was safely out of reach.

I smiled as I watched him go. The weird arm touch had been nothing. Everything was normal with Andrew. Plus, I thought to myself as I walked along, Em seemed like she might turn out to be a friend. Of course I missed Erika so much I could hardly stand it, but I would get through it, wouldn't I? It was like Grandma Betty said: we persevere. Because what other choice was there? Nachos would never taste as good,
Charmed and Dazed
would never be as dramatic, drinking coffee with nobody to make faces with would be totally pointless…but I had to carry on.

I dug my hands deep into the pockets of the Parasuco jeans, bent my head against the wind, and shuffled through some fallen leaves. And that was when I felt the paper. At first I hoped it might be money, but when I pulled it out, I saw it was a piece of loose leaf folded into a little square. I knew it wasn't mine, but I unfolded it anyway. I'm nosy like that. It was dated September 1, Labor Day.

I read the note twice as I walked, my steps getting faster and faster. I could just picture Erika standing alone at the cemetery gates, pulling her sleeves over her hands and glancing back nervously in case any dead people suddenly popped out of their graves. Since first grade she'd been my best friend, and then on the worst day of her life I'd accidentally ditched her…at a cemetery…and then written her the meanest e-mail on earth.

But maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe I
didn't
have to picture my life without Erika. I broke into a run.

“Grandma,” I said, bursting into the kitchen. “It's a friendship emergency. Can you stay ten more minutes? I
have
to talk to Erika.”

She looked up from the counter where she was chopping apple slices and smiled. “Of course. Take all the time you need, sweetheart.”

I ran to my room, shut the door
,
turned on the computer, then wrote Erika a long e-mail, explaining the whole thing about how I didn't find the note until just then, and how I called her house and her mom said she was out with a new friend, and I got jealous because I'm a moron that way, and that I wished I'd never written the e-mail I'd sent that morning, and I didn't mean the thing about the moldy tangerine, and what was an ectothermic tetrapod? Then I begged and pleaded for her forgiveness by saying that I was so so so so so so so so so sorry. And then I hit
SEND
and checked my instant messenger. She was online, of course.

There was a long pause while we both tried to think what to say.

A few seconds later, the phone rang. Or at least it half rang, because that's how quickly I picked it up. “So?” Erika said. I gave her almost the full list of everyone in my class, saving Gorgeous George until very last. She screamed. “You haven't been in his class since fourth grade! That's the greatest news! What was he wearing?”

“Which day?” I asked.

“Both.”

I felt so relieved. I literally couldn't imagine my life without Erika.

Eventually, after we'd analyzed George's wardrobe, we moved on to discussing my hair-and-eyebrow disaster and the Sarah J. encounter.

“I can't believe she actually asked if you burned them off!” Erika said.

“How's it going at Sacred Heart?” I asked.

“Okay, I guess.” She sounded sad. “Everyone's been there since kindergarten, so they've already got their groups of friends. But this one girl let me borrow her hole-punch.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling horrible for her.

“Yeah, I know,” she added miserably.

Then I heard her mother in the background saying something about homework. I hadn't even had a chance to tell her about Em, but I decided it could wait until next time. It might just make her feel worse about not having met anyone.

“Gotta go,” she said. “Say hi to Andrew for me, okay? I have an orthodontist appointment tomorrow, and then we're leaving right after school on Friday to go to Toronto again. The fall stuff's on sale. But meet me at the cemetery gates at 3:30 on Monday, okay? I can help you babysit. And
actually
show up this time!”

I swore on the Parasuco jeans that I would.

W
HEN YOU'RE
almost thirteen, there's nothing more important than your friends. Not TV, not money, not clothes, not your family, not food, not water, not air…Okay, maybe air, but friends are a really close second.

So, with Erika back in my life, lunch plans with Andrew, and Em as a possible new friend, I woke up the next morning feeling great.

It took me an extra twenty minutes to re-create Em's scarf/ hair-band styling technique and to fill in my brow gap with eyeshadow, but I still made it to Mrs. Collins's class with a millionth of a second to spare. “Pleased to see you, Margot,” she said, giving me a big red phony smile as I slid into my seat. “I trust you'll be treating us to some more appropriate vocabulary words today.” I hated her more every instant.

“Overall,” she said, “your presentations yesterday were very well done. And now that we've explored a poem in detail, it's time we experienced one. Collect your books, go to your lockers, and come back with your jackets on.” Mrs. Collins looked so excited I thought she might explode. “Come on,” she said, “hop to it.”

At my locker, I put my books on the top shelf, checked my hair in my magnetic mirror, and glanced at the only locker decoration I had up so far: a photo of Erika and me dressed as pears for Halloween last year. Her dad had thought up the idea. “A pair of pears!” We thought it was so hilarious.

“Sweet fruit costumes,” Em said sarcastically. I jumped. I hadn't even heard her coming up behind me. “Who's your friend?” I caught a glimpse of myself grinning stupidly in my locker mirror and quickly tried to settle my face into a cooler, calmer expression. I was just so glad that Em had come over to talk to me.

“Oh, that's Erika.” I grabbed my coat and closed my locker before Em could get a closer look at the picture. Erika and I had made the pear costumes ourselves by putting inflatable pool rings around our waists and stretching size XXL green sweaters over them. Then her mom sewed stems on to the tops of green toques. Girls in New York probably wore hot costumes, like French maids or sexy kittens. A pair of pears? It was still funny, but maybe more dorky-funny than hilarious-funny, now that I thought of it.

By the time we got back to the classroom, Mrs. Collins had put a clipboard on everyone's desk with a piece of paper attached. She held up her hand for silence. “What do you think of when I say the words
poetry in motion
?” Everyone stared at her blankly. “What about the idea that poetry should be experienced? You should smell poetry. Touch it. Taste it. Walk through poetry and come out the other side changed by it.” She was pacing back and forth in front of the blackboard. “Today we'll be going out to Manning Avenue and walking up and down—carefully, quietly, and respectfully—looking for poetry. When you spot something that could become a poem, you'll write down some notes about it on your clipboard. Your assignment tonight will be to write the poem you've experienced.”

I rolled my eyes with everyone else, even though it sounded kind of cool. I'd been thinking about the quote that Mrs. Collins had put on the board the day before: about how poetry makes you remember what you didn't know you knew. I think the guy who said that was right, because my grandpa Button used to read me this poem called “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” He'd pull up a chair and lean forward, talking with his hands, while I sat, spellbound, on the carpet. I've never been to the Yukon like the characters in the poem, but I swear, by the time he was finished, I was always chilled right through.

Dressed in our coats and fully prepared to experience poetry (or at least to make fun of it and waste time), we shuffled up the stairs, blinking in the light. People broke off into their regular groups. Sarah J. led the way with her followers/worshippers, Maggie and Joyce, who were both wearing exactly identical pairs of black Pumas. George and Ken walked behind Laura and Tiffany, the two quietest girls in the class, pretending to pinch their butts. Amir had made friends with Erik Frallen the math genius and Simon, and Cameron Ruling and Stuart Smythe—these two really smart guys who codesigned and programmed the entire Web site for our old school, including this crazy animation of the school mascot that cheered when you clicked on its face. They were laughing over some un-understandable gigabytes joke. As for me, I was behaving like a more-or-less normal person on the outside, but inside I was doing the happy dance of joy about the fact that Em had decided to walk beside me.

We went slowly down Manning Avenue, kicking leaves. When I closed my eyes for just a second, I could swear they made the same sound a campfire does when it crackles, hisses, and pops. I started writing a poem in my head:

The fiery leaves glow warm in the sun.

Walk softly, they smolder,

To hear them burn, run.

“Found any poetry yet?” Em asked sarcastically. She was holding her clipboard under her arm and picking at her nail polish in a bored way. I didn't think she'd care about the sound of autumn leaves.

“Nope,” I answered.

We'd already reached the end of the street, so we turned and walked back. In the parking lot, Gorgeous George was pretending to club Ken over the head with his clipboard. His shiny brown hair reflected the sunlight as he tossed his head. Bethany and Michelle, the girls from the volleyball team, were walking alongside Sarah J. and her friends, laughing just a little too loudly at their jokes. And while Mrs. Collins was busy talking to Tiffany and Laura—the only two people in the class who actually seemed to be doing the assignment—Amir and his friends had ducked behind a hedge on someone's front lawn to chuck acorns at each other.

“Okay. Dude. I just experienced a poem,” Ken said as Em and I passed the parking lot. “Wait for it.” He paused dramatically.

“
My buddy, George,

He beat up my head.

My buddy, George,

He made me brain-dead
.”

Sarah J. came up behind them and said something that made them laugh even more. Her outfit, as usual, was perfect—a cute, tailored plaid jacket with a wide belt, paired with supertight dark-wash jeans. The back pockets had this cool swirl stitching done in light blue thread, plus just a sprinkling of tiny rhinestones, like the Parasuco jeans, only better because they fit her so perfectly you'd think the denim was painted on and the rhinestones had been individually bedazzled to her butt cheeks. Unluckily for me, she turned her head at just the wrong second and noticed me noticing.

“Take a picture, Hamburglar,” she said as they passed us. “It'll last longer”—like that wasn't the most unoriginal insult ever. I guess she realized how dumb it was too, because she turned and added: “Oh my God, Margot. Were you just checking out George's butt?” He looked around at the sound of his name. “Or were you checking out mine?” She threw me a disgusted look. “No offense, but even if I was a lesbian, which is gross to even think about, you wouldn't stand a chance.”

“Excuse me?” Em said, her mouth dropping open in disbelief. “Was that a homophobic comment you just made?”

“Oh please,” Sarah countered lamely.

“Because if it was”—she glared at Sarah—“that's harassment.” I pretended to be brushing away some imaginary fluff that had landed on my clipboard.

“Okay.” Sarah got right in her face. “It's not my fault if Margot was looking at my butt.” She turned to walk away like she considered the conversation over.

“Don't flatter yourself.” Em raised her eyebrows. “Margot wasn't looking at your butt. She happens to be straight. But the point is, you can't go around saying lesbians are gross. It's discrimination.”

Even though it was
not
smart of her to be talking to Sarah like that, I had to admit, Em definitely had a good point.

“I get it,” Sarah said, fixing Em with a stare. “You're a lesbian too. Is that why you're so offended? I don't know what they do in New York”—she made the name sound all lah-di-dah—“but here, we think it's pretty perverted to stare at people's butts, okay?”

Gorgeous George and Ken were both laughing uncomfortably. And things would have probably gotten way uglier if Mrs. Collins hadn't called us all to come inside just then. Em shot Sarah a look of death, but didn't say anything else.

“Do people actually like that girl?” Em asked as we walked toward the doors.

“She's been the most popular girl in school since third grade.” I didn't want to scare Em, so I didn't mention that now that she'd seriously crossed Sarah, she was going to pay for it. The stuff she did to me was nothing compared to what she'd put some kids through. In fourth grade, April Morgan had called Sarah a name behind her back. The next thing April knew, everyone was talking about how her family ate bone marrow and blew their noses into their hands. Since Sarah was the one who'd started the rumor, nobody was brave enough to be April's friend after that, and a bunch of kids even refused to hold her hand during the pass-the-peanut game on Fun Run Day. Eventually she just changed schools.

When we got inside, Em dragged me along with her to the bathroom. “Why does she call you Hamburglar?” she asked from inside her stall.

I should have known the question would come sooner or later, but still, it caught me unprepared. All the same, based on the way she'd just taken on Sarah J. for me, I figured I could trust Em. I told her a short version of the glazed ham story. “I don't even know why I did it,” I finished, as she fixed her hair in the mirror beside me. “It was just one of those dumb things.” Em made an understanding noise. We headed for the door.

“I ate dog food once,” she said, out of nowhere. I looked at her to see if she was serious.

“Wet or dry?” I asked.

“Dry,” she said.

“Why?” It was the obvious question.

“Just one of those dumb things,” she answered. “I guess I wanted to see what it tasted like.”

“And?”

“Don't try it.”

As we walked down the hall to our lockers, I couldn't help but smile. After all, you didn't admit to
just anyone
that you'd eaten dog food. It was really happening. I had a new friend. And not just any new friend. A cool friend from New York who knew how to make my hair look awesome and who stood up for me…as unwise as that might be.

I met Em at her locker after math that day, hoping, now that we were officially friends, she'd sit with Andrew, Mike, Amir, and me at lunch, but she glanced at her watch.

“I'll catch up with you later, okay?” she said. “I have to take care of something.”

“What is it?” I asked. “I can help.”

“Thanks, but no,” she said. “It's a personal thing.”

“Sure.” I nodded, not wanting to seem desperate or clingy, or to let on, just yet, how nosy I could be.

I watched her walk down the hall, then went out to the yard to find the guys. They were near the fence, crowded around the tiny Nintendo DS screen, watching Andrew's druid beat up a bunch of evil mythical woodland animals.

“You've got the magic dart,” Mike said, “
and
the force field. Plus the golden arrow.”

“So?” Andrew asked, his shoulder swaying as he dodged gnomes.

“So! Use one of them! Now!” Amir shouted, but it was too late. Amir and Mike threw up their hands. “Oh, man. He smashed your brains out.”

“Shoulda used your weapons,” Mike put in.

“I was saving them.”

“For what? A gift for your granny?”

Andrew shoved Amir's shoulder, then smiled at me. “Hey, Margot.”

“Hey.” I sank down on the bench beside him, hugging my knees to my chest. Andrew handed the Nintendo off to Mike, then sat down beside me and pulled some ketchup chips from his backpack, breathing in deeply as he broke the airtight seal. “Oh, yeah. That's the stuff,” he said, savoring the stench. “Want one?” He held out the bag.

“It's tempting.” I leaned away from the smell.

Amir sat down on the other side of me and reached across my lap into the bag, grabbing a handful. He put one in his mouth and crunched. “You have English this afternoon?” he asked Andrew, when he'd finished chewing.

“Yeah. Fourth period.”

“If she makes you do the poetry walk, there's tons of acorns at the big brick house with the huge tree. Me, Erik, Simon, and Stuart played torpedoes with them.” He reached across for another handful of chips, leaving a trail of fine red dust on my white coat sleeve. I brushed it off. “Sorry, Margot,” he said. “Here, want to switch?” We traded seats, and I think Andrew shot Amir the smallest annoyed look—like,
Hey man, I wanted her to sit there
. But maybe it was just my imagination. All the same, to make him feel better, I reached across Amir and grabbed a ketchup chip from the open bag. “Not bad, actually,” I said, crunching it. Andrew grinned.

“Do you like her?” Amir asked. For a split second I thought he was asking Andrew about me, and I nearly choked.

“No way,” Andrew answered. “She's evil. She's going to assign homework every day this week.”

“Plus, she looks like this—” Mike, who was sitting on the other side of Andrew, suddenly sat up perfectly straight, made his lips into a pinched line, and turned his head stiffly from side to side, like a constipated owl. Everyone burst out laughing. Mike didn't talk that often, but when he did, he usually said something unexpected, funny, or just worth listening to.

“Collins totally has it in for Margot, too,” Amir added. “Since the first second of the first day.”

I sighed heavily. Weirdly, though, the fact that Amir had noticed made me feel a lot better about how much my English teacher hated my guts. At least I wasn't imagining it.

“Want me to kick her butt?” Andrew offered.