Nice and Mean

by Jessica Leader

  Then I noticed that there were only two minutes left until homeroom—time to speed things up. “Look,” I said, “if you keep it a secret, I’ll let you have the computer first every day for a whole month.”

  “You think I’ll lie to Ma and Papa just to use the computer?” She started walking toward the stairs, fast. “Ha.”

  I wanted to cry, but I had to keep going. “Okay,” I said, struggling to keep up with her, “I wasn’t going to say this, but if you tell Ma and Papa about Video, I’ll tell them that when you went to the movies this summer, it wasn’t just with the cousins.”

  She whirled around. “You wouldn’t!”

  I shrugged, trying to seem cool for once in my life.

  “Fine,” Priyanka said. “Take Video, see if I care. If you end up going to a bad high school, don’t come crying to me about it.”

  I itched to crack my knuckles but restrained myself. “You won’t tell them?”

  She pursed her lips. “Fine. But you’d better use my books. If Ma and Papa find out you ditched Test Prep, I don’t want them to blame me for letting you get a bad score.”

  “Fine.”

  Priyanka stepped up the stairs two at a time, which I recognized as the sign that we were done. I let her go for two paces, then scrambled on up. I didn’t want to be late to homeroom on top of everything else.

  But, I reminded myself as the air burned in my lungs, she had said yes. And that meant—Video.

  MARINA’S LITTLE BLACK BOOK, ENTRY #3

  * Most Likely to Be Booted Out of Video by Marina Glass: Everybody in the Video Lab

  Who are you, and what have you done with the hotties?

  * Most Likely to Become a Sleeping Pill: Mr. Phillips

  Next time I have trouble falling asleep, I’ll imagine his voice and . . . zzz.

  I pressed so hard against my Little Black Book that I dented my lavender Pilot Precise Rolling Ball’s extra-fine tip.

  “Crap,” I muttered, but nobody heard. They were all too busy drooling over Mr. Phillips, leaning forward in their desk chairs like he was giving out swag instead of obvious rules about how to handle equipment. Like, oh, wait, don’t throw the video camera? Forget about Tall, Dark, and Handsome—Mr. Phillips was Tall, Dark, and Boring. And why was he shuffling through his papers again? He wasn’t going to give us another handout, was he?

  “So I decided,” Mr. Phillips said, “that to simplify things, I would assign partners.”

  My pen tumbled onto the carpet.

  As I dove down to pick it up, I thought, partners? How could he do that to us? He didn’t even know us. And I knew—I just knew—that he would put me with the biggest squeegee in the room.

  “Squeegees” were what my friends and I called nerds after the school counselor outlawed words like “geek,” “dork,” and “nerd.” You could outlaw a word, but you couldn’t outlaw a nerd, and the circle of kids in the video lab was proof. Exhibit A: a boy who looked like he’d chopped his bangs with safety scissors. Exhibit B: another boy who shot up his hand to answer questions before Mr. Phillips had even finished asking them. And Exhibit C: that Indian girl from homeroom who was actually taking notes.

  How could there not be even one hot guy? Just one, to talk about while Rachel mooed over Julian and his arm-flinging technique—was that so much to ask? I’d thought video would be woo. Instead, it was poo.

  Mr. Phillips sifted through the papers on his desk. I gripped my pen. Partner time.

  “Eli and Trevon,” said Mr. Phillips, reading from a list. “Ethan and Ricky. Makayla and Li-Ling . . .” Just get to Marina, I thought. After what seemed like forever, he finally read out: “And Marina and Sachi.”

  Sachi. Right. The one with the big smile and wrinkled tank top.

  Terrific.

  Mr. Phillips must have said something about sitting with your partners, because the next thing I knew, everybody was jumping up and dragging desks across the room. I didn’t bother. She’d come over to me sooner or later.

  “Uh, Marina?” said Sachi, once she’d plunked her chair next to mine. “I’m Sachi. I think we’re partners?”

  I slammed my Little Black Book shut. “I know.”

  Had Mr. Phillips said, “Now hover over your partner, clutching your giant spiral notebook like it’s a squirmy kitty”? Nice to make an effort.

  I tried a smile. She smiled back and slid into the seat next to me. Effort? Check.

  “Should we do the partner questionnaire?” she asked, trying to smooth her hair. It was nice and thick, I’d give her that. Her big brown eyes were glittery too, if you could get past the hair frizz and the pointy chin.

  “We could do the questionnaire,” I said, as if I was thinking it over, “but I actually really want to talk to you about my idea.”

  She drew back, and I thought, Yep, this one wants to follow all the rules. So I was surprised when she said, “Okay. What?”

  I leaned in. “Here’s what we should do: Victim/Victorious.”

  I’d thought that Sachi would clap and squeal the way Addie had. Instead she started twisting this big gold ring around her left index finger like it was going to bring her back to Oz.

  “Victim/Victorians?” she asked. “Is that historical fiction?”

  “Victorious,” I corrected her. “On Channel 32? Thursdays at nine?”

  Sachi’s fingers traced the edge of the page. “We don’t have cable.”

  “Oh.” How did she live? “It’s ragingly cool,” I assured her. “They show stars on the red carpet at different events from the week, and then in the studio these two hosts, Esmé and Scotty G, rate them ‘Hot, Hot, Hot!’ or ‘Not! Hot! At! All!’ ” I scanned her face for a sign, please God, that it rang a bell. But she still looked confused, so I asked, “Haven’t you ever heard people say ‘Not! Hot! At! All!’?”

  “I think so,” she said. “Maybe.”

  Oookay.

  “Anyway,” I went on, “I thought we could do a show about the fashion victims and, um, victors”—was that the right word?—“at Jacobs! You know, whose clothes are in and whose are out? Elizabeth Ellis can totally do the accent for Esmé, the host, and I know tons of people who’d play stars.”

  I sat back and tightened the belt of my new cream-colored wrap sweater. I’d saved it for the first day of this class—not that anybody was there to appreciate it—but at that moment it did sort of make me feel like a movie producer. “Cool, right?”

  “That does sound fun,” Sachi said. “And actually, I had an idea too.”

  I breathed out through my nose. Here it came—the squeegee pitch. I would listen to be polite, but I couldn’t imagine anything better than Victim/Victorious.

  “Okay,” I said. “What’s your idea?”

  She bit her lip, then began talking quickly. “Doyourememberthatvideofromlastyear—aboutthelunchtables?”

  “Ummm.” I talked slowly, hoping it would calm her down. “Yes.”

  It seemed to work a little. “I thought maybe we could do something like that. Something where we interviewed people to see what they thought about different nationalities at Jacobs.”

  She didn’t have much to say after that, and I could see that she didn’t think her idea was so great after all. I didn’t want her to feel bad, though, so I said, “Yeah, that video was kind of fun, but it’s already been done, you know?”

  “Yes,” said Sachi, “but maybe we could pick up where they left off? Maybe we could ask people why there have been no Asian girls on the basketball team for the last three years. At least, they’re not in the yearbooks. I don’t think it’s prejudice, so are Asian girls just not trying out? Something like that.”

  Squeegee alert! Mayday, mayday! “I know what you mean,” I said, “but that does sound like the one from last year. You don’t want people saying you’re trying to copy.”

  “I wouldn’t copy,” Sachi said quickly. “I just thought—”

  A deep voice nearby interrupted. “And how is this group doing?”

  Sa
chi and I looked up to see Mr. Phillips standing over us.

  “We finished discussing the questionnaire,” I told him (lie), “so we were talking about the topic of our video.” It was nice to tell a teacher what I’d gotten done, instead of being yelled at for “getting off task.” Teachers have been writing that on my report cards since kindergarten.

  “I see.” He plunked down his stool and sat. “And what have you come up with?”

  I told him, “We were thinking of doing Victim/Victorious.”

  “Hmm.” He rested his chin in his hand, his fingers brushing against some little black curls that did not add up to a beard. “Is that a reality show?”

  Did these people live under a rock? “Uh, no. More like a fashion show, but kind of like news. See, the stars walk down the red carpet, and the hosts, Scotty G and Esmé, like, rate the outfits, and—”

  “I think I get it.” He turned to Sachi. “Do you watch this show?”

  Oh, so I didn’t even get to finish my sentence?

  “I haven’t actually seen it,” she admitted.

  “But it’s going to be really cool,” I said, and told him how I had leftover red carpet at home from when we had our front hall redone.

  “Hmm,” he said when I was done. “You should have a look at it, Sachi, before you commit to the topic. It may be hard to do a parody of a show you’ve never seen.”

  A parrot? Who said anything about parrots?

  “You don’t have to decide on your topic until the next class,” he said, “so why don’t you think of a few other ideas you could work on?” He stood up and headed on to the group next to us.

  I snapped my pen shut. If Sachi had come up with the Victim/Victorious idea, he would have been like, “Oh, Sachi, you are a genius, let me have your autograph.” Instead he was trying to make me feel like I had twisted her arm, when in reality her plan would put people to sleep. Did teachers talk about who they were going to like and who to be mean to? I lay my arms across my desk and rested my chin on my hands. I hated school. I just hated it.

  Sachi glanced at Mr. Phillips, who was now hovering over another group, then flipped to a new page in her giant spiral. “Should we start making a list?”

  A list of what—new ideas? Victim/Victorious was the one and only best idea. Plus, how else could I get in my little dig about Rachel’s clothes? There was no way I would change my mind, but Mr. Phillips was looking at me from across the room, so I needed to play a little pretend.

  “Go ahead,” I told Sachi, but in no way did I mean it.

  SACHI’S VIDEO NIGHTMARE #4.0

  INTERIOR. JANE JACOBS MIDDLE SCHOOL AUDITORIUM—DAY

  CLOSE-UP: movie screen. The words

  “VICTIM/VICTORIOUS, BROUGHT TO YOU BY MARINA GLASS”

  In very small letters: “and Sachi Parikh.”

  Students CLAP listlessly.

  CUT TO: the audience.

  CLOSE-UP on Sachi, with FLORA and LAINEY on either side.

  FLORA

  That was . . . weird.

  LAINEY

  Hunh. I didn’t know you liked Victim/Victorious so much, Sachi.

  CUT TO: Priyanka, standing at the end of Sachi’s aisle.

  PRIYANKA

  You made me lie to Ma and Papa for that? Who are you?

  I flung open the school door with a mighty push, hoping an afternoon breeze would provide some relief after the suffocation of the video lab. But it was one of those steaming fall days that made me feel like I might as well be back in Ahmedabad, and the dense, sticky air did nothing to improve my mood. At least I could jog a little on the way to pick up Pallavi from after-school. I needed to get out my energy.

  Why oh why had Mr. Phillips assigned us partners? And why had he assigned me to Marina Glass? Did he think we had anything in common? Did he secretly want me to do a video on clothes? We were going to end up doing Victim/Victorious, I knew it. Marina had barely said anything as I brainstormed, and I knew that she wasn’t taking any of my ideas seriously at all. Everything I had done to get into Video seemed like a joke. Lying, sneaking—and making a video about clothes until Thanksgiving.

  What did I have to say about clothing? My mom took us shopping twice a year in Queens, where the prices were cheaper, and my main fashion thoughts went something like, This shirt basically looks like everyone else’s, right? The idea of me helping to make a video where people decided what was hot and what was not would have made me laugh, except that it made me want to cry.

  I ground to a halt as something lunged toward me—a taxi, careening into the intersection, its silver bumper giving off heat just inches from my knees. I started to back away, my hands held in the air, but the driver gestured in an irritated manner, Go, go. I bent my head and scurried across the street, mumbling, “Sorry,” even though he couldn’t hear me.

  Yes, I thought, exactly. Lunged at by a shiny silver Marina, and scuttling away.

  A warm breeze blew as I passed a fruit stand, giving me a breath of mangoes, just like in India. I missed India terribly. Things were so much easier there. No tests, no cliques—just my Nani’s Best Movies of the Twentieth Century DVDs, going to the marketplace with my aunties, and playing in the courtyard with our cousins. Even though I hadn’t lived in India since I was five, Nani—Ma’s mother—really seemed to understand me. She was the one who had gotten me started making videos, when she’d asked me to tape Priyanka’s fifth-grade graduation. And while the aunties had scolded me for cracking my knuckles—a habit I had started in sixth grade and couldn’t seem to stop—only Nani had actually tried to help, offering me her gold and onyx ring if I could stop cracking by the end of the summer. I’d succeeded, but now I hoped that doing the video with Marina didn’t zap away my powers of resistance. If I returned to Nani’s home in Ahmedabad cracking my knuckles, I would spend the summer hanging my head in shame.

  Pallavi’s class burst out, a cluster of second graders dwarfed by their giant backpacks. I was skimming faces for my sister’s when I heard voices chanting high above the crowd, “Pallavi is the princess! Pallavi is the princess!”

  Pallavi, her own enormous backpack square against her shoulders, skipped in front of the singing girls. She turned to say good-bye and, to my amazement, they all curtsied! Pallavi gave a laugh that seemed to bubble up from deep inside her as her shiny black hair rippled down her back. She waved to her friends and ran over to me.

  “Sa-cheese!” She gave me a jack-o’-lantern grin and her lunch box.

  “Hi!” I said, bending down for a hug. “How was your day?”

  She grabbed my belt loops and shook them. “I was the princess all day long!”

  I laughed. “Wow!” I turned her around to leave the crowd. “How’d that happen?”

  Pallavi took my free hand and gave a little skip. “I don’t know! I just said, ‘Who wants me to be the princess?’ and everybody said, ‘I do!’ and so I was!”

  “Oh!” Why couldn’t my life be like that? If I said to Marina, or even Flora, “Who wants me to be in charge?” I doubted that they would respond by calling out, “I do!”

  “Pul-vee!” sang a voice, and I turned to see Pallavi’s friend Molly waving good-bye. “Don’t forget to dress pretty tomorrow for your boyfriend.”

  Pallavi burst into giggles. “He’s not my boyfriend!”

  Molly’s dimples appeared. “I’m just kidding.” Over her head, Molly’s mother made a face like, Oh, kids, and with all the maturity I could muster, I smiled. But inside, I thought, Oh my word: Princess. Boyfriend.

  Was my little sister one of the popular girls?

  “Matthew’s not my boyfriend,” Pallavi confided as we stepped out of the crowd. “He likes me, but I don’t like him back.”

  “Oh.” So she didn’t have a boyfriend. She had something even better: a boy who liked her.

  “Sachi?” Pallavi peered up at me as we waited for the light to change. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Pallavi!” I was shocked. “You’re not supposed to ask ques
tions like that.”

  “Boo.” She kicked at the ground. “You never tell me anything.”

  I was about to say, You’re too young, but then I remembered all the times my parents had told me the same thing, and how it had made me burn.

  “Actually,” I confided, “there is a boy I like.”

  “Really?” she shrieked. “Sachi has a boyfriend! Sachi has a boyfriend!” The light changed, and she charged across Seventy-third Street.

  “Pallavi!” I struggled to keep up. “We’re in public!”

  “Who is he?” she asked, her eyes wide. “What’s his name?”

  “Alex.” Alex Bradley. Just thinking his name gave me a thrill.

  “Does he like you back?”

  Why did she have to ask that? “We sit next to each other in English”—assigned seats, but still—“and sometimes, when he can’t decide what to write about and I’m writing really fast, he says, ‘Ms. Avery! You need to move my seat. Sachi’s distracting me!’ ” My heart thumped as I thought about all the glorious times he had said that, the way his clear green eyes bulged out when he pretended to be serious, and how the whole class laughed and I’d felt like a part of something.

  “He says you’re distracting him?” Pallavi wrinkled her little nose. “I don’t get it.”

  The light changed. “Never mind.” I hurried us across Second Avenue, where a bus waited several blocks ahead. And certainly never mind that he was going out with Elizabeth Ellis. Pallavi would probably think it was silly to like someone who was taken. She’d wrinkle her nose so fully, her face might never get unstuck.

  We reached the bus stop, and as I fumbled in my bag for my MetroCard, I thought, if I were Alex, I’d pick Elizabeth over me too. Sure, she and I were both in honors classes, and both of us were nice—we had both won Nicest Girl in the poll, in fact—but there was something about her that said “Boyfriendable.”

  I’d thought about it in English, when Ms. Avery sometimes assigned me and Elizabeth to be partners. Yes, her jeans never sagged below her behind, the way mine did, and her hair fell into straight, even lines, while mine clumped. Yet I had this feeling that even if I managed to get my hands on a pair of the right jeans, or learned the secrets of the blow-dryer, I still wouldn’t be Boyfriendable Sachi. The “right” kind of jeans would change, and clumpy hair would be the next cool thing.