How to Be Popular Page 7

  And then, just before the bell rang, in came Lauren Moffat, hand in hand with Mark Finley. The two of them weren’t looking at each other—no gazing deeply into each other’s eyes, going, “I love you…no, I love YOU. No, I love YOU.” Instead, they were gazing out across the sea of faces in the seats on either side of the aisle they were walking down, the way a bride and groom might smile and nod at people assembled for their wedding, or a king and queen might nod to their populace.

  Which is, in a way, what Lauren and Mark are: the king and queen of our school. No matter how much Jason—who followed my gaze, saw who I was looking at, and made a very rude noise—might not like to admit it.

  As soon as Lauren and Mark sat down—front row, since Mark, as senior class president, would be getting up to go to the podium to give us all a back-to-school pep talk, and also rally us to help the senior class raise enough money to send them all to Kings Island in the spring, a Bloomville High senior tradition—and Principal Greer finally approached the microphone, the chattering hordes fell silent. They shut up because Principal Greer, who golfs, keeps a club in his office with which he often practices swings—without regard, rumor has it, to anyone who might happen to be sitting in his office at the time. There’s a guy who works at the car wash who only has one working eye, and everyone says Dr. Greer is the one who put it out with his 5 iron the day the guy got sent to his office for mouthing off to Swampy Wampler.

  Dr. Greer started his welcome speech—“Welcome, students, to another school year at Bloomville High”—and Jason, slumped in the seat next to me, slumped down even farther, putting his Converse high tops on the back of the seat in front of him and causing the person in that seat—Courtney Pierce, class suck-up—to turn around and give him an aggravated look, to which Jason responded with, “What? I’m not touching you,” a line he actually learned from my little brother Pete.

  Beside Jason, Becca, clearly bored, took out a purple sparkle pen she’d put on my employee account over at the bookstore ($1.12, seventy-three cents with my thirty-five percent off) and started making little stars on the white part of Jason’s high tops.

  And Jason, after throwing a startled look at me (as if to say, “Do you see what your insane friend is doing?”), just sat there and let her keep doing it. Like he was afraid if he moved, she might plunge the pen into his forearm, or something.

  After Dr. Greer’s mind-numbingly boring speech about how we should use the coming school year to Realize Our Full Potential came Swampy’s reading of the highlights of the student code of conduct: no cheating, no violence, no harassment of any kind, or you will be expelled and have to go to Culver Military Academy or the alternative high school.

  It was hard to see which would be worse. At Culver, you’d be forced to rise at dawn and perform drills. At the alternative high school, you’d be forced to put on performance pieces about your feelings concerning war. It was a lose/lose situation, either way. It was obviously better just to keep from violating the Bloomville High student code of conduct.

  Finally, after she had the place alternately looking at the clock and longing for it to be lunchtime, and snoring, Swampy turned the mike over to Mark Finley, who sauntered up to the podium to thunderous applause that caused some people—like Jason, who’d nodded off—to start in their seats.

  “Oh, man,” Jason said looking down at his shoes. In addition to the stars, Becca had added tiny unicorns.

  “Aren’t they cute?” Becca asked, clearly thrilled by her own artistic prowess.

  “Oh, man,” Jason said again, not looking like he found them at all cute.

  But I didn’t have time to deal with Jason’s shoe drama. Because Mark had started speaking.

  “Hey,” Mark said, his deep voice gruff—but totally charming—in the microphone, which he’d had to adjust to his own height after the diminutive Ms. Wampler stepped away from it, to amused chuckles from the student body. “So, yeah. Uh. It’s a new school year, and you know what that means…last year’s juniors are seniors now, and—”

  Here he was cut off by more applause and cheering as the seniors congratulated themselves for managing to make it through the summer without killing themselves in drunk driving accidents or by diving headfirst into the shallow end of the pool (not to mention not drinking any batches of lemon Joy lemonade).

  “Um, yeah,” Mark said when the seniors settled down again, grinning his sheepish little grin. “So, you know what that means. We gotta start saving up for our senior trip this spring. Which means we gotta make some money. Now, I know last year’s senior class made like five thousand dollars doing weekend car washes. And I propose we do the same thing. The Red Lobster out by the mall said we could use their parking lot again, so…whadduya say? You folks up for a car wash?”

  More applause, this time accompanied by whistling and shouts of “Go, Fish,” which inevitably led to snickers about childhood card games.

  I seriously don’t know how our school got stuck with the Fighting Fish as its mascot. Because as mascots go, fish suck. Apparently it has something to do with the fish weather vane on top of the courthouse…which some people suspect is a crappie, the most commonly found fish in the lake. So I guess things could be worse. We could be the Fighting Crappies.

  Mark looked around the room to see if anybody had anything but “Go, Fish!” to say. I looked around, too.

  But the only person who raised his hand was Gordon Wu, the junior class president (elected solely due to having run unopposed, my class being—what’s the nicest way to put this?—slightly apathetic), who stood up and asked, “Excuse me, er, Mark, but I was wondering if there weren’t some other method by which we might raise funds, other than car washes? You see, some of us would prefer to have our Saturdays free for, um, lab work—”

  This remark was followed by the hissing it deserved from the crowd and several shouts of “Don’t be such a Steph, Wu!”

  I couldn’t believe my good fortune—I mean, that Gordon Wu, of all people, had actually cracked the door open for me to go barging through. Which I did without another second’s hesitation, before Mark could say anything.

  “Gordon brings up an interesting point,” I said, standing up in my seat—so suddenly that Jason started and dropped both his feet from the back of the chair in front of him. He didn’t seem aware of the loud thumping sound they made as they hit the cement auditorium floor, either. Instead, he craned his neck up at me and mouthed, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? SIT DOWN!” while Becca, one finger in her mouth (she’s a nail biter), stared up at me with a horrified expression on her face.

  Silence roared through the auditorium as every face in the room turned toward me. I could feel heat rushing up to my cheeks, but I tried to ignore it. This, I knew, was it. My big chance to show my school spirit, after years of pretty much doing what Jason had been doing a second ago—dozing—through every school-related event I was forced to attend, and not showing up at all at the ones I wasn’t.

  Well, not anymore.

  “We have a lot of very talented individuals in this room,” I went on, glad that no one could see my knees from where I was standing (except Jason. But he wasn’t looking at my knees) since they were shaking so badly. “It seems a shame to waste them. Which is why I was thinking a good way to raise money for the senior class trip this year would be to hold a student talent auction.”

  The crowd, which had been stunned into silence up until that point, began to buzz. I saw Lauren Moffat, her eyes alight with glee at what I was doing (making a public spectacle of myself…again), lean forward in her chair to hiss something in Alyssa Krueger’s ear.

  “Let me explain,” I said hastily before the buzzing could drown me out. “Students like Gordon, for instance, who are very good with computers, could auction off a few hours of computer programming to a member of the community.”

  The murmuring became louder. I could feel the crowd growing restless. Soon, I knew, the “Don’t be such a Steph”s would begin. I didn’t have them yet. I needed
to close the deal.

  “Or, you, for instance, Mark,” I said, looking up at the stage and meeting Mark’s calm, hazel-eyed gaze. I wondered vaguely if he knew what an electrifying effect his gaze had on the female population of Bloomville High.

  It’s weird what you think about as your life is slipping away before your eyes.

  “Being the school’s quarterback, Mark,” I went on, “you could auction off your time to film a local television ad for a community business. People would pay a lot for that kind of endorsement.”

  I noticed that, at the table behind the podium at which Mark stood, both Ms. Wampler and Dr. Greer were staring at me. Swampy even went so far as to lean over and say something to Dr. Greer, who, still looking at me, nodded. I wondered if she’d always suspected us for last year’s Tin Can Rolling incident and had finally put two and two together. I tried to ignore them.

  “It just seems like we have so many extraordinarily talented people in this school,” I went on.

  This was the tricky part. The Book was very explicit about not sounding like a suck-up. Although The Book doesn’t call it sucking up. The Book calls it “currying favor.” Under no circumstances were you to do it.

  Still, it was hard, I was discovering, to suck up without seeming like you were sucking up.

  “It would be a shame not to give them a chance to shine at what they’re naturally good at,” I said, “as opposed to forcing everyone to work…well, at a car wash.”

  Which was when a voice hissed, “What’s YOUR talent, Steph?”

  And another answered, “Oh, right. Super Big Gulp!”

  I didn’t need to look in their direction to know it was Alyssa and Lauren. I knew those voices plenty well.

  “Which is not to say,” I went on, conscious of the snickers from those who’d been seated near enough to hear Alyssa’s question and Lauren’s answer, “that we shouldn’t have a car wash in addition to a talent auction, for the participation of those people whose talents are less marketable than others.”

  I wanted to add, “Or whose only talents are the kind you could go to jail for if you accept money for them,” while looking directly at Lauren.

  But The Book states very explicitly that if you want LASTING popularity, you aren’t allowed to publicly slight your enemies.

  Which makes me wonder if Lauren knows how limited her time at the top of the popularity totem pole might actually turn out to be.

  “But,” I went on, “I think we ought to consider a talent auction, as well.”

  And then I sat down.

  Good thing, too, since my knees had finally given way. I couldn’t have stood for a second longer. I sat there, my heart slamming against my rib cage, and looked at Jason and Becca. They were both staring back at me, their mouths slightly ajar.

  “What,” Jason asked softly, “was THAT about? Since when do you care—”

  But I didn’t get to hear what he said after that, since Mark, tapping on the microphone to get attention after everyone had started whispering among themselves, went, “Uh, okay. Thanks, uh, um—”

  “Steph Landry!” Lauren screamed from her seat, where she’d dissolved in a puddle of white-thigh-high-wearing giggles.

  “Thanks, Steph,” Mark said. He looked back at Ms. Wampler and Dr. Greer. Both of them, I noticed, were nodding.

  What did that mean? That they liked my idea?

  Or that Mark should just ignore me and go on?

  “Um, I think a, um, talent auction,” Mark said, his hazel eyes looking right at me—no, burning right through me—where I had dissolved into my own seat…only not from a fit of the giggles, but from sheer mortification, “sounds like a great idea.”

  “WHAT?”

  The word—which had come out of Lauren—cracked through the auditorium with the explosiveness of a starter’s pistol down by the drag racetrack.

  Everyone looked at Lauren, whose face was a comedic mask of outrage.

  Or at least I thought it was comedic.

  Mark looked from Lauren back to me, his bemused expression clearly indicating that he, Mark Finley, had no idea what his girlfriend’s problem was.

  “Great,” Mark said to me. “So, is it okay if I put you in charge of signing people up for that, Steph? The, um, talent thingie?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Great,” Mark said again. “Then all we need next is a Bloomville Fighting Fish Slap….”

  And then Mark led us all in our school chant, a ridiculous thing you do with your arms, flapping one against the other to make a slapping sound like a fishtail on the water.

  Then the bell rang.

  * * *

  Do not be surprised if a few acquaintances resent your newfound confidence and attempt to undermine your efforts at self-growth.

  They are undoubtedly envious and perhaps concerned about their own social status in light of your meteoric rise to popularity. Do your best to soothe their fears and let old friends know they will always be important to you—as important to you as your new friends.

  * * *

  Ten

  STILL D-DAY

  MONDAY, AUGUST 28, 1 P.M.

  Everyone took off for lunch.

  Everyone, that is, except for me.

  And Jason and Becca, because they were pinned into my row by the fact that I wasn’t moving.

  But of course, I COULDN’T move. Because my knees were still wobbly. On account of what had just happened.

  And things didn’t get much better when everyone was filing past us, and people like Gordon Wu stopped by our row to say things like, “Great idea, Stephanie,” or, “Do you think I can auction off drawing lessons for, like, little kids? Because I can draw. Does that count as a talent?”

  Even Dr. Greer stopped by my seat on his way to his next round of golf and said, “Very nice suggestion, Tiffany. It’s good to see you taking part in school activities for a change.” He flicked a glance at Jason and Becca. “Your friends here might want to follow your lead.”

  “It’s Stephanie,” Jason said as Dr. Greer went away. “Her name’s Stephanie.”

  But Dr. Greer didn’t appear to hear him.

  Not that it mattered. Who cared whether or not the principal knew my name? Mark Finley knew it.

  And that was all that mattered.

  I knew Mark Finley knew my name because as he came down the aisle next to my seat, he grinned and nodded to me.

  “Cool idea, Steph,” he said. “See ya.”

  And, okay, his arm was around Lauren Moffat’s neck as he said it.

  But that’s only because she picked it up and put it there. I SAW her do it. She was waiting as Mark came down off the stage and pretty much threw herself at him as soon as he set foot on solid ground.

  And sure, she sneered at me as she went by, even as the guy she was attached to at the hip was smiling at me.

  But who cares? MARK FINLEY SMILED AT ME.

  Which is exactly what Becca said after everyone was gone.

  “Mark Finley smiled at you.” Her tone was reverential. “He SMILED. At YOU. In a NICE way.”

  “I know,” I said. I could feel the strength slowly starting to return to my legs.

  “Mark Finley,” Becca murmured wonderingly. “I mean, he’s like…he’s the most popular guy in the whole school.”

  “I know,” I said again. Empty, the auditorium is a very different place than it is when full. There is something almost restful about its echoey size.

  “What the hell,” Jason, who up until that point had been strangely silent, finally burst out, “is the matter with you, Steph? Did someone pour crack all over your cornflakes this morning, or something?”

  “What?” I asked, trying to look—and sound—like I didn’t know what he was talking about. And not about the crack, either.

  “Don’t give me that,” Jason said. “You know exactly WHAT. What was all that back there? What’s a talent auction? And what’s with you volunteering to participate in one? What’s with you showing SCHOOL
SPIRIT?”

  By that time my legs had stopped shaking, and I was able to climb to my feet.

  “I just wanted to help out,” I said. “I mean, someone’ll do the same when it’s our turn to go to Kings Island next year.”

  “You hate Kings Island,” Jason said, climbing out of his seat. “You threw up on the log flume the last time we went there and refused to go on any more rides.”

  “So?” I said with a shrug. “Does that mean I’m not allowed to try to help other people enjoy something, just because I don’t like heights?”

  “Yes,” Jason said, loping after me as I started up the aisle toward the exit to the rest of the building. “Because that is perilously close to school spirit. And you don’t have school spirit.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about that, and—”

  “Oh no,” Jason said, reaching the doors before I did and barring the handles with his own body to keep me from slipping out before he’d had his say. “Don’t even try to go there with me, Steph. How in hell can you want to help those people have a good time on their senior trip when all they’ve ever done is make your life miserable?”

  “That wasn’t them,” I pointed out. “That was Lauren. She’s not going to Kings Island.”

  “So what?” Jason demanded. “She’s the enemy—and they’re her friends. Ergo, they’re your enemies.”

  I just stood there and looked at him. Well, not like I had much of a choice, since he was blocking the doorway.

  “You’re being really childish about this Jason,” I said in my most reasonable voice. “There’s nothing wrong with showing a little school spirit by trying to help out others who might be in need. We’ve only got two more years in this place. We should really try to enjoy the short time we have left.”