How Not To Be Popular (6 page)

I close the door, grab my cell, and press it against my sternum. The thwack of my heartbeat causes it to vibrate a little, making it seem as if the Nokia is coming to life. I take that as a sign.

My bedroom is barely big enough for its two pieces of furniture. So as I turn away from the dresser, I don’t even have to take another step to climb onto the mattress. I huddle in the corner, cross-legged, and press the phone’s On button. It makes its chirpy powering-up tune and flashes me a menu screen, waiting for action.

I push the contacts list and select the very first entry that comes up—contact number one: Trevor’s cell.

It rings once, then twice, and suddenly I hear his trademark answer. “’Lo?” It takes me a few seconds to reply. “Hey, Trevor?”

“Hey, babe.”

A warm, gushy feeling spreads through my chest. He’s glad to hear from me! Happy tears start slipping down from the outer corners of my eyes.

“God, I’ve missed you!” I squeal. “I’m so sorry about my last text. I was just angry. I’m better now. At least…I’m trying to understand. And I…I really wanted to hear your voice.” There’s a brief pause. “Sugar-Mag?” he says, all hushed-sounding.

“Yeah.” Didn’t he already know that?

“I’m sorry. It’s just…whoa. Time warp, you know?”

Not really.
Instead I say, “Yeah.”

“So…what’s up?” He says it as if I were ringing him up from across town instead of midway across the country.

“Did you hear what I said? I said I was sorry about my last message.”
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“Yeah, I heard. It’s no biggie. You were upset.” Another pause follows. I’m glad he’s not angry with me, but it still feels weird. Maybe he’s just really surprised to hear from me. Or maybe he
is
mad but doesn’t want to say anything.

“Look”—I take a big gulp of air—“I know you don’t think we should be exclusive and stuff but…we can still stay in touch, right?”

“Of course. Just because we’re not a couple anymore doesn’t mean we hate each other.” I don’t know how to react to this. I teeter back and forth between being thrilled that he wants to keep up with each other and feeling totally crushed by his emphasis that we’re not a couple.

Silence sets in. I squirm in my corner, listening to the melancholy buzz of the cell connection.

“So…how are you doing?” I ask, just to make noise.

“Fine.”

“How’s school?”

“Aw, you know. Okay. How’s Texas? How do you like your new place?”

“It’s…fine.”

Again, there’s silence. It makes me ache.

I close my eyes and take a shaky breath. “Are you at all glad to hear from me?”

“Yeah! It’s just, you know, a big surprise. Especially after your message.”

“I said I was sorry about that!”

“Yeah, I know. Chill. I was just saying I was surprised.”
Chill.
He always used to say that to me whenever I got really happy or frustrated, basically anytime I veered out of the middle range of emotion. I hated hearing it, and I consider telling him so right now. But I don’t want to start a fight. And besides, it doesn’t make me mad anymore, just sad.

“I got a package from Ritenour with a Stanford application in it,” I say, to change the subject. “I’m going to send it off as soon as I beef up my transcript and get another letter of recommendation. That’s where you’re going, right? You and I could be back together in less than a year.” He doesn’t say anything.

A squeezy sensation passes through me, pushing tears out of my eyes and making my voice high and squeaky. “You’re…still mad?”

“Don’t do this. You already made your decision. You left.”

“You know I didn’t want to go! I hate it here! I miss you so much!” I’m really crying now.

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“Look, just chill, okay? I’m not mad. It sucks here too.”

“Really?” That I might not be alone in my suckage makes me feel a little better.

“Yeah.”

“Just one more year, Trev. We can do that, right?”

He sighs, and it makes a long crackly sound. “You know I think you’re great. You know I’d like to see you again but…let’s not make promises and stuff, okay?”

“Why not?”

“Because…it’s so controlling, you know. We should just let things happen.” Great Gaia! He sounds like my freaking parents! I know that’s one of the reasons I love him, because he is so easygoing and hippielike, but right now I want him to fight for us. He says it sucks there without me, but I need to hear him in a little bit of agony. I need to know he feels as gashed up inside as I do.

“Do you ever go see our tree?” I ask hoarsely.

“Sometimes.” This time there’s a trace of sadness in his voice, which comforts me. I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t.

“Well…tell it I said hi when you’re there next.”

“Sure.”

I want to say more, but I can’t transform my thoughts into words.

“Hey, Sugar-Mag…I’m sorry but…I have to get off the phone. I have to go to a Ranger meeting.” I almost say “Now?” but then I remember: he’s two hours behind. He’s just now getting out of school.

For some reason, that makes the vast distance between us seem even more real.

“Okay,” I mumble. “Will you write me sometime?”

“Sure. Yeah. When I get the chance. Senior year is a bitch.”

“Yeah.” Again I go all panicky. There’s so much more I should be saying, only I’m not sure what exactly.

“Well…thanks for calling. Take care, okay?”

“I love you, Trev,” I say. But it comes out so croaky, I don’t think he understands me. And he doesn’t say it back.

The line clicks and goes silent. He’s gone.

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T
IP: Never let them see you be cool—even outside of school.

In case of emergency, flash your undies.

Les and Rosie have
a new pet. His name is Norm. He’s a forty-something-year-old man who lives in an abandoned chicken coop on someone’s land.

Norm is nothing like his name. I’ve met some powerfully weird people in my life, but even I took a giant step backward when he appeared at the door three nights ago asking for my parents. Apparently they’d met him the day before at the farmers’ market and told him to stop by. Since then he’s showed up twice, usually around supper time.

Norm is supertall, with a big shaggy mane of hair, a beard so long it might very well house a family of gerbils, and the flat-eyed, startled expression of someone in the middle of a very unpleasant hallucination.

If my first meeting with him had been on a dimly lit street, I would probably have used an entire can of Mace. Or maybe Raid.

In spite of his appearance, though, Norm is quite harmless. No matter where we go in the world, my parents have a way of attracting the Norms of a community. Rosie calls them wayward souls with

“tortured karma” brought on by past-life situations, and she feels it’s her duty to help them. Les mainly just gets a kick out of them and loves having a willing audience for all his stories.

Which brings me to tonight and why I have to get the hell out of here.

Norm is going to teach an astrology class. I love astrology—we Cancers are always looking for ways to solve the mysteries of the Universe—but Norm freaks me out too much. And not just because he looks like Bigfoot on a bad acid trip.

The first night he stopped by, while Rosie and Les were in the kitchen making chai, he stared at me hard, as if he’d just then realized I was there, and said, “She’s sad…. Sad, sad, sad…. Don’t be sad.” It made me feel all ooky inside. So no way am I going to let him dissect my birth chart and start preaching about my so-called sadness. It’s been hard enough keeping my nightly crying jags over Trevor a secret from my parents.

“Norm, my brother!” Les calls down as Norm’s bushy head appears on the staircase.

“I brought the dead heads,” Norm says in his booming Christopher Walken voice. He hands a bowl of fruit over to Les, who then hands it to me.

“Put this in the kitchen with the other snacks. Okay, Sugar?” It’s code. Les wants me to be sure to wash them thoroughly, since Norm likes to find free food. If he says he got something from Whole Foods, it probably means he dug it out of a Dumpster
behind
Whole Foods.

I give him a knowing nod and head to the sink to wash Norm’s “dead heads.” It’s a snack he invented.

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He takes organic, migrant-friendly blueberries and tops them with organic, migrant-friendly raspberries so that they resemble faceless blue heads with fuchsia Afros. I spray the fruit with a special wash solution and dump it into a colander, then wash the bowl. After that I head into the living space, where Rosie is lighting candles and Norm is helping Les arrange pillows around the coffee table.

“Okay. I’m going now,” I announce. I lean forward to kiss Rosie, carefully avoiding the lit fireplace match in her hand.

She looks surprised. “You’re leaving? But you’ll miss the class.”

“Sorry,” I say with a shrug. “I’ve got plans.”

“The others will be here soon,” Les points out. “They really wanted to meet you.” We’ve been in Austin less than a week and already my parents have so many new friends they’re hosting a party. Meanwhile I’m hanging out with senior citizens and chronic-bladder-infection girl. But this does not sway me.

“Sorry,” I say again. “Maybe next time.”

Rosie still looks disappointed. “I guess we should have realized. Young people always have plans.”

“Have fun, sugar bear,” Les says, giving me a quick hug and kiss.

Norm claps his hands together in front of his Legalize Cannabis T-shirt and gives me a little bow. “Go find joy, indigo child.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

As I grab my bag and head for the stairs, I hear Norm say, “Ah, those Cancers. So sensitive.” I walk ten blocks to the nearest theater, where a new James Bond movie is playing. As I stand in the ticket line, I pull a handkerchief out of my Guatemalan bag and dab my forehead, cheeks, nose, and neck. Texas is so damn humid, I might as well have worn my bathing suit. But I have to admit, it feels good to have on normal clothes—a bunchy white cotton blouse and a swingy blue skirt—instead of my crazy school attire.

Of course, I’m pretty sure I wore this exact ensemble on a date with Trevor. Maybe even to the movies.

Now here I am alone.

Ever since my surprise phone call to Trevor, I’ve careened back and forth between hope and despair.

On one hand, he did seem to care still. But he also wasn’t all that encouraging. If only I could have seen his face. If I could have been there, watching him, I’d know exactly where we stood.

As I wait in line, sweating and feeling sorry for myself, I’m suddenly aware of the person behind me.

Maybe it’s intuition. Or maybe it’s that this doofus is standing just a smidgen too near. Whatever the reason, I feel compelled to turn around. And there in back of me, grinning like a politician, is the Young Republican from homeroom. Jack.

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“Hey,” he says.

He
is
rather close. I can see dark rims around the light brown color of his eyes and faint grooves on his front teeth. And I can practically feel the warmth coming off his body.

I dab my forehead some more. “Hey,” I echo. Luckily the line starts moving, and I take a giant step back, safely out of heat range. I notice he’s still decked out in dork wear—slacks, dress shirt, and loafers—even though it’s a Friday night. No teachers around to give him gold stars.

“What are you here to see?” he asks, walking forward to close the distance between us.

Crap burger!
I have no idea what to say. I figure he’s probably here to see the Bond film too, considering everything else is starchy, Academy Award–courting stuff. I scan the Now Showing posters for the most boring option, hoping to exchange my ticket for a later showing of 007. “That one,” I reply, gesturing toward a poster for a very bleak-looking, subtitled Russian movie called
Heat of Winter
.

Jack’s eyes grow enormous. “Really?”

“Yup,” I say, silently congratulating myself.

“Me too!” he exclaims. “I thought I was the only person my age who liked Mironov. Man, he’s cool, huh? Did you see his collection of shorts? You know, where women play all the men’s parts and men play all the women?”

“N-no,” I respond truthfully.

Jack starts rambling on excitedly about “tracking shots” and “monochrome cinematography,” as if I’ve pressed some sort of On switch, while I just stand there liquefying in the humidity. It’s one of those horrific moments when your mind is in complete conflict with your body. The kind when you smile and nod and by all outward appearances seem quite peaceful. Meanwhile your inner voice is letting out spine-tingling screams and praying to an unseen almighty to make you fall through a trapdoor.

Now what?
I can’t change my mind about the movie or it will be totally obvious that I tried to fool him.

But do I care? It’s not like I’m so concerned about being a friendworthy person these days.

And yet, it’s not that easy. He’s being nice to me right now—nicer than practically anyone has been so far. Still, I don’t want to see some depressing foreign film, and I really don’t want to see it with him, and I’d better make up my freaking mind fast because there’re only two people in front of me…. Make that one….
Ack
!

“Two for
Heat of Winter,
” Jack says, reaching past me to push a twenty through the hole in the ticket window.

“But…but…,” I sputter pitifully.

Jack smiles his best lead-candidate smile and says, “You can buy the popcorn.” Damn, damn, damn, damn,
damn
!

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I bounce nervously in my theater seat, cursing inwardly on each downbeat. I can’t believe this. I’m sitting in an itchy chair. I’m sitting in an itchy chair next to some Young Republican. I’m sitting in an itchy chair, next to some Young Republican, about to see some sleep-inducing foreign film. A movie so deadeningly dull we’re the
only ones in the entire theater
!

I should have stayed home with Norm.

“He was really influenced by the French New Wave, especially Godard.” Jack is still orating. “You’ve seen
Breathless,
right?” He’s leaning forward, hanging over me again—his aura melding with mine. His eyes are all superfocused and he makes little waving motions with his hands as he talks.

“Nope,” I reply truthfully.

“Really?” At first he looks shocked. Then he tilts his head sideways, reconsidering me. “I bet you’re into the American mavericks, right? You a fan of Altman? Kubrick? Lynch?” I shrug, hoping he’ll just drop it.

Jack’s forehead bunches into tiny folds. “Okay, so…who
do
you like?”

“I don’t watch movies all that much.”

“Why not?”

I blow out my breath, irritated that he won’t just shut up. “I don’t know. Maybe because we move around a lot, so I don’t do much of
anything
regularly.”

“That explains everything.” He sits back in his seat, nodding.

“Explains what?” Now I’m the one tipping forward into his space. He just looks so damn pleased with himself I have to find out what he thinks he knows.

Jack’s eyes swivel up toward the ceiling. “It explains a lot, actually….” I can tell he’s using some annoying debate-team strategy of rephrasing my question to buy time. “It explains why you don’t know much about film…and why you aren’t all that good at…fitting in.” He meets my gaze and looks worried.

“Ah.” I slowly sit back in my chair. A chain of reactions goes off inside me. I
am
slightly hurt and insulted that he would say something like that. Plus I’m surprised he’s been paying that much attention to me. But I also feel a little like laughing. Because he’s wrong. When you rove about as much as my family does, you get almost
scarily
good at fitting in. It’s just that I’ve chosen
not
to this time. “Yeah…well…oh well,” I mutter.

“That’s got to be tough. Moving all the time,” he mumbles, his head shaking pityingly.

A medley of Trevor-moments parades through my mind, bringing on sudden and severe Stabby pangs. I hunch forward slightly, folding my arms across my middle.

“It’s not so bad.” I wince as I hear myself. My tone is not at all convincing. “I’ve been to a lot of really cool places….”
All too briefly
. “And met a lot of cool people….”
Who have totally forgotten me by
now.
“And I’m really close with my parents….”
Even though I kind of hate them these days.
“And…” I try to come up with something else but can’t. Instead my words just hang there lamely. “It’s not so
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bad,” I repeat, just for some sort of closure.

Jack nods and smiles. Not his ultraconfident campaign-trail grin, but a nice, warm, snug one. “Still,” he says. “It’s got to suck. At least a little.”

“Yeah, okay. Maybe a little,” I concede. Then I crack up. I don’t know why; I just do.

I flop back against the itchy upholstery and turn toward him at the exact moment that he turns toward me. He’s so near I have to focus on one eye at a time. First his right, then his left, and back again. My laughter slowly loses power, and I realize that this is the first real moment I’ve had with someone in Austin.

It also occurs to me that I’m still staring at him. And that he’s staring at me. And that this close up he looks sort of sweet and gentle. Cute even. And his eyes have this optical illusion quality that makes it seem as if they go deeper than the diameter of his head. And when he smiles, the landscape of his face becomes soft and curvy. His hairstyle, with its severe part and too-tidy edges, doesn’t seem to fit. I have a sudden urge to reach up and muss it.

And because I’m not real good at stifling my impulses, I sit on my hands.

“You know…I’m glad I ran into you,” he says.

He’s so earnest that I have to look away. I fidget on top of my hands while heat sizzles up my neck.

Fortunately, just when my cheeks start to feel like two enormous blisters, the lights go out.

Oh my god! The movie is actually
good
!

This lady wanders into a village. It’s the middle of winter and the weather keeps the town totally isolated, so these people sort of take turns looking after her. She’s absolutely gorgeous, but she can’t talk. Because she doesn’t say anything, people ramble on whenever they’re alone with her, to fill up the silence. Before they know it, they’re spilling out all this personal stuff. And there’re all kinds of characters: this sweet old lady and this crazy guy and his wife and a supersmart kid and this guy who’s falling in love with her…

What does she think she’s doing? She can’t go in there!
Stop!

Damn it! This is horrible!

I just grabbed Jack!

There was this scene where the lady and the kid were lost in a snowdrift and all of a sudden they fell into a ravine. It scared me so much I let out an eagle shriek and yanked down on the thing closest to me—which happened to be Jack’s right arm. I ended up pulling him toward me until we were practically cheek to cheek!

“It’s okay,” he said when I finally freed his arm.

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Now we’re sort of leaning toward each other, almost shoulder to shoulder. And you want to know the worst part? He smells really good.

The credits roll to some sappy violin music. I pretend to scratch the bridge of my nose so that I can secretly wipe the tears that built up. Otherwise, neither one of us moves.