“Oh—” I tried to come up with another question, but couldn’t. “Yeah, that’s it,” I said. “Thanks.” I switched off the camera.
Just then, the auditorium erupted in noise, and Flora and Lainey bounded up the aisle. “A break, finally!” said Flora, fixing her ponytail. “I thought we’d never be done with that scene.”
I smiled. “So,” I asked them, “who’s going first?”
“Me!” called Lainey.
Flora stuck her tongue out, and they both laughed.
“Okay,” I said. “Have a seat.”
After I warmed up Lainey, I summoned my courage to ask her the question I’d been dying to ask her. “So. How do you choose what to wear?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Some things just seem cool, so I wear them.”
“Okay. Do you try to be unique or to fit in? And why?”
“I definitely try to be unique,” she said. “Life is too boring when you dress like everybody else.”
I wished I could be as confident as she was! “I was wondering,” I said, making it up as I went along, “how did you decide to buy pink high-tops?”
Lainey was one of the only people in our grade who wore those sneakers, but they didn’t look dorky, like Priyanka’s old Reeboks. I really wanted to find out how people knew when originality was cool and when it was doomed.
She shrugged. “I don’t know why I decided to buy them. People know that I wouldn’t take pink seriously, so it’s kind of like a joke.”
A joke? Talking tofu was a joke, sure, but sneakers? “If another person wore them, would they be cool?”
She fiddled with her bracelets. “It depends on the person. If they were, like, babyish or trying to be cute, I wouldn’t think they were cool, but maybe that other person would. I think it’s all in how you look at things.”
It was the perfect quote to end with. “Thanks.”
“Whoa.” Flora was staring at me with her mouth half-open, spiky hairs falling out of her ponytail. “What was that?”
“What do you mean?” My mouth suddenly felt dry.
“Those questions,” asked Flora. “What is your video about, anyway?”
“Um . . . just . . . how people decide what to wear?”
“But . . . why?”
“Well . . . because that’s what Marina’s video is about. She’s doing that show, Victim/Victorious, and I kind of had to do something like that. It’s not what I would have chosen, but”—I threw a glance at Lainey, in the hopes that she might understand—“I sort of didn’t have a choice.”
Flora nodded slowly. “Okay.” She took her seat on the interview chair. “I just . . . that’s kind of weird for you, you know?”
I knew what she meant, but was I really too uncool even to wonder why people wore what they wore? Lately, talking to Flora felt like negotiating with a second Marina.
Once we started filming, though, she was great.
“I think people at our school get, like, these secret e-mails,” said Flora, looking sly. “You have to subscribe on a website called Clones.com. Or Snobs.com. You have to have at least six Hollister purchases to get the password, and once you do, you get special e-mails telling you what’s in and what’s out.”
I smothered a laugh. Still, how interesting! I had always thought that, like me, Flora couldn’t afford to dress like the popular girls, or wasn’t allowed. I never knew that she thought people who did it were dumb.
“. . . and if they ever send me one of those e-mails,” Flora was saying, “I won’t be excited. I’ll put it right where it belongs: the trash.”
Talk about a great ending. “Cut!”
Flora grinned. “You’re so official!”
“Thanks!” I checked the tripod, which had wobbled throughout her interview. Wait, I should have asked why she wanted to be different. Drat! Well, I could sit her back down again, right? Maybe that wasn’t official, but—
“Sachi?” Lainey said.
I looked up. To my astonishment, three other girls I only sort of knew were leaning on the row of chairs, waiting to be interviewed!
“Hey,” said one of them, chewing on a nail, “can we be in your movie?”
I flexed my fingers, dying for a good knuckle crack, while the next person took her seat. I was thrilled that people kept wanting to be interviewed, but no one was giving me any answers I could use. The video from last year hadn’t had people stumbling over their words. Maybe they just had had an easier topic. But still, Marina’s friends had had to memorize lines, and they’d done a great job! Marina and Sachi’s video would come to be known as Partly Funny with Pretty Eighth-Grade Girls and Partly Boring with Lots and Lots of Talking.
“All right,” called Ms. Mancini, “I need everyone up here for scene five.”
“Oops.” Lainey jumped up. “Showtime.”
The crowd of girls scrambled down the aisle. “Meet us in the lobby later,” Flora called.
I started packing up the video camera, looking around for Marina, when a familiarly scratchy voice behind me said, “Oh, so you’re only interviewing girls? I see how it goes.”
My stomach dropped into my feet. “Hi!” I said brightly as I turned to face Alex, who was leaning against the seats and grinning. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Yeah, the tech crew is pretty much invisible,” he said, “but we have our ways.”
“Um, that’s cool,” I said. I didn’t really know what tech crew did, but I didn’t think I was supposed to ask.
“So, can I?” he asked, gesturing at something.
“Can you . . .” Was he asking what I thought he was asking? “. . . be in my video?”
He nodded.
“Of course!” My cheeks felt hot again. Had I written any questions that boys would want to answer? “Have a seat.”
As he walked over to the chair, I tried to ignore how incredibly cute he looked in his dark green sweatshirt, so I could figure out what on earth to ask him. Did boys even think about their clothes? Did they talk about what was popular? I didn’t know much about boys, but I was pretty sure they didn’t.
“Is everything okay?” Alex asked.
I set down my clipboard on the chair next to the tripod. “Yup, everything’s fine! So, I’m just going to . . .” Why could I say “And five, four, three, two” in front of girls I barely knew, but not to the boy I sat next to every single day? “I’ll press ‘record,’ and the red light will go on, and then I’ll point to you—”
Alex crossed his legs. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ve been videotaped before.”
“Right.” I tilted the camera downward, my fingers numb. What was I going to say?
“Um . . .” I pressed the “record” button. “So, I’m making this video about how people know what they like, and I wondered, how do you know?”
Alex chewed his lower lip. “I’m sorry, can you say that again?”
Not for a million dollars, it sounded so stupid. “People like all different things, right? Some guys dress like rappers”—yes, like anyone in our school dressed like a rapper!—“and some are more preppy, some are . . .” How did guys dress? Our school wasn’t like a Nickelodeon show, where one guy was sporty and one was skatey. “Anyway, I guess I’m just wondering, how do you decide”—what to wear? That was like asking him about being undressed!—“what look you want?” I finished lamely.
He hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just—if it’s cold, I put on a sweater. If it’s hot, I put on a T-shirt. I don’t, like, think about it.”
Maybe he didn’t. But couldn’t someone have given me an answer?
“Okay, cut,” I said, letting out a breath. “Thank you, that was great.”
His mouth was half-open, his green braces visible. “That’s it?”
“Yup.” Unable to stand the humiliation another moment, I switched off the video camera and clicked it off the tripod. “That’s it.”
“Okay, well, thanks.”
“Thank you.” I pretended to be i
ncredibly involved with the tripod. My whole body seemed to be glowing with heat.
Somehow I made it back up to the video lab without dying of embarrassment. The Alex part of the day wasn’t over, though. When I met Flora and Lainey in the lobby after the end of Video, something about their grins told me that the misery had only just begun.
“Sachi!” Flora bumped me with her hip. “Were you interviewing Alex Bradley?”
I checked my bag for my history folder, which I thought I’d forgotten. “Um. Yeah.”
“Oh my lord,” said Flora, “that boy has to butt into everything.”
“No he doesn’t.” I found my folder and zipped my bag.
Flora shook her head as we pushed open the school doors. “You should see him in math. He has to raise his hand for every problem, even if he’s wrong.”
“Well, in English he writes really funny stories,” I said, a sweat starting up on the back of my neck. Why did Flora think she was right about everything?
“Ooh!” said Flora, looking at me across Lainey. “Sachi, do you like him?”
“Yeah, do you?” Lainey asked.
“No!”
But I said it too quickly, and they both laughed.
Flora chanted, “Sachi has a boyfriend, Sachi has a boyfriend.”
I hiked up my backpack. “You sound like Pallavi.” And I had just sounded like Priyanka.
“Okay, never mind!” Flora rolled her eyes as we stopped at the light. “We were just joking. God, you’re so cranky these days.”
I was cranky? I could have said the same thing about her.
I was feeling grouchy on Tuesdays and Thursdays, though. There had been one beautiful moment today, shooting B-roll. My real footage and everything that went with it was like D-roll. D for disaster.
MARINA’S LITTLE BLACK BOOK, ENTRY #9
* Most Annoying Hairdresser: Bianca Glass
Come on! Just say yes!
* Most Surprising Hottie: Jake Ling
Look out, Julian!
* Worst Choosers of a Time to Get Rhinestones: Addie Ling, Marina Glass
How could they have known? And what can Marina do?
I slipped my new dress into the garment bag my mom had lent me. It had taken me three shopping trips to find the perfect Bar Mitzvah outfit, but I had done it: black satin with subtle, silver-thread stitching and a delicate scoop neck. Tonight was going to be hot, hot, hot. I zipped.
My duffel and purse were packed, and my hair was feeling dry enough, so I went back into the bathroom to use the straightening iron. Usually I just blew my hair dry, but tonight I wanted to put my hair up in a half bun with the rest of my hair hanging stick-straight around it, and that took work. I sat on the toilet, plugged in the straightener, and waited for it to heat up while I listened to Angelica’s SpongeBob movie drift down the hall.
Twenty minutes later, SpongeBob had figured out the mystery of the missing Krabby Patties, but I was still sitting on the toilet, with the smell of toasted hair stinking up the bathroom. The stick-straight thing was not working at all. One side looked squashed and limp, while the other side kept curling out. I looked at my watch. Crud! Addie and I were supposed to start the anti-Rachel sound effects in twenty minutes, and every extra minute here meant chunks out of the half hour before Elizabeth and Rachel came over. Even if I took a cab to Addie’s, I would need to get going soon.
“Mom!” I yelled. Sometimes she was good at hair emergencies.
“Whaa-aat?” came the reply from her end of the house.
“Can you help me with my hair?”
“Come in here!”
I groaned. “Can’t you come in here?”
She didn’t even answer. “Poop,” I muttered, turning off the not-very-straightening iron. She and my dad were going to some benefit that night, but that didn’t start until seven. I had to leave soon.
I slumped into their room with my lame, hot straightener in hand. “It’s not working,” I said, sitting on the bed.
“Be careful of my dress!” My mother ran over to me in her slip and stockings, a blush brush in one hand.
I looked at the plum-colored dress on the other side of the bed. “I’m nowhere near it,” I said. “Can you help me with my hair?”
She lifted parts of it with her free hand. “What’s wrong with it?” she asked.
“It’s totally flat on the left,” I said. Someone who spent as much time on her hair as she did should know that ! “And see how it’s all wavy on the right?”
“It looks fine,” she said, sitting down at her makeup table. Why did people always open their mouths when they put on eye makeup? “It has a natural wave.”
“I don’t want a natural wave!” I said. “That’s why I have the straightener.” Duh! “Can I just plug it in and you can help me? You did it for Annabelle’s wedding.” My cousin’s wedding had probably been the one and only perfect hair day of my life.
“Your dad is using the bathroom right now.” My mother sifted through her makeup drawer.
“So just come to mine! Please? I have to go in, like, five minutes.”
“Can’t you wear your hair a different way?”
“No! I want to wear it in a half bun, and the rest has to be straight.” That was the whole concept!
My mother slammed the makeup drawer shut and stood up. “Marina, I don’t know why you have to make such a production of everything. It wouldn’t kill you to—”
Blah blah blah. At least she was going to help me. I followed her into my bathroom and didn’t even complain when she almost burned my neck. Twice.
“Bye, guys,” I said to Angelica and her babysitter, grabbing my coat from the hall closet. They were eating hamburgers in front of the TV.
My mom came padding down the hall in her bathrobe. “Here,” she said. “Cab fare.”
“You’re not going to come down with me?” I asked. Last year had been the first time I’d been allowed to take a cab alone. My mom had made a huge deal of always putting me in a cab with a “nice” driver, whatever that meant.
She waved me away. “You’ll be fine for one night.”
“Oh.” I pulled my coat out of the closet. “Okay.” I didn’t know why I cared—not like I wanted to spend more time with Bianca Glass. I just—I don’t know. Thought she might want to see me off to the big Bar Mitzvah or something. Even if I was just starting off at Addie’s.
“Marina,” said Angelica, “will you bring home your party favors?”
“No, I’ll leave them there,” I joked.
Angelica blinked, surprised.
“Marina.” My mom gave me a sharp look. “There is no need to be obnoxious.”
“I was kidding.”
“She’s too young to understand sarcasm.” My mother broke a dead leaf off the flower arrangement on the coffee table.
“Forget it,” I muttered. “Angelica, I’ll give you anything I don’t want.”
Angelica pulled the blanket over her knees. “Thanks.”
They were so annoying! I couldn’t deal with kissing anybody good-bye, so I pulled on my coat and left.
When I got to Addie’s house, the first person I saw after Addie was her older brother, Jake, wandering around the living room.
“Hi,” I said, keeping my voice down as I took off my coat. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s leaving soon,” Addie whispered. “He can’t find his wallet.”
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Jake said, looking under a stack of magazines.
Addie whipped around. “We just want some privacy, Jake. Is that so much to ask?”
“It is,” he said. “I really want to watch you guys do your makeup.”
I laughed as Addie handed me a hanger.
He found his wallet and walked toward the coat closet, leaning past me to grab a jacket. Yowza! I hadn’t seen him since before the summer, and he’d grown a lot. His hair had grown too, and now flopped over his eyes in a way that was just complete hotness. If this was what happened to guys on
ce they hit tenth grade, I’d definitely stay in school.
“Just don’t let me catch you in my room again,” he told Addie, pulling on a black fleece (preppy but manly.) “I don’t know how long I spent picking your gum out of the carpet.”
“That was in fifth grade!” Addie cried. “God, you always—you just—”
She looked at me helplessly.
“Gross,” I said. “As if we’d even want to go into your room.” I ran a hand over my supersmooth hair.
He laughed and slid his wallet into his back pocket. “You’re bad, Marina,” he said, and picked up his backpack. “I’ll see you guys later.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Addie yelled out the door. “We’re staying at Elizabeth’s tonight!”
“Whatever!” he called as the elevator door opened.
Addie closed the door, and for some reason, we burst out laughing.
“Can we get it?” I asked. “His computer?”
She nodded. “My stepmom’s at the grocery store, so we need to do it now.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were laughing hysterically in Jake’s room. “You have to burn me this CD!” I said. “I mean, how much better would your life be if you got to listen to this every day!”
I pressed “play” so we could hear “Barf #3”: Bleh, bleh, bu-le-huuuuuuh . . . plunk plunk plunk.
Addie burst into giggles. “Or no, wait, let’s try this one.” She pressed “Fart #4”: Ffffff . . . doink!
I held my sides to stop them from hurting. I knew it was not exactly the most sophisticated thing in the world to laugh at the sounds of barfing and farting, but it was just not what you expected when you sat down at your computer. And especially not Jake’s computer.
“Okay, so let’s see where we should put these sounds,” I said, loading my DVD into the disc drive. This week in class I’d finally gotten to work on my video a little. I had to admit, Mr. Phillips’s editing program was much better than the one I had at home. You could slow things down a lot more and take out bad light or weird sounds. This meant that the red carpet scene wasn’t a total waste—no thanks to my biggest victim.
“This is cool,” I said when the video popped onto the screen. “I think I know a few places where we can play these sounds. What if . . .” I dragged the sound files into the frame-by-frame lineup. “What if we do this?”
Nice and Mean Page 7
