Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek

by Maya Van Wagenen

  “Yet another reason I’m grateful not to be in that hell- hole,” Kenzie snorts. She’s been in band since sixth grade. She plays the oboe, but she doesn’t have her instrument with her today, because she “accidentally” dropped it in the hallway, and it “like, um, kind-uh, sort-uh” broke.

  I first met Kenzie two years ago on the first day of school. She was sitting alone, wearing a studded belt, and her frizzy hair was pulled back into a menacing ponytail. All I could think was, “Gosh, I hope she doesn’t kill me.” Little by little our classes forced us together and we soon became close, although it’s clear that she could still take me out in a fight. She’s really cool despite her dark aura. She’s my opposite in every way, but she’s one of the few people who doesn’t make me feel like an outsider.

  Seeing my Hispanic facial features but light skin, kids here ask if I’m Mexican. I answer that my mom is half, so that makes me a quarter. Actually my mother is a mix of English, French, Spanish, Jewish, Mexican Indian, and African. I’m not sure how you classify that, but on her it’s beautiful. For me, in a school district that is 98 percent Hispanic, I’m told that I don’t have enough of the right DNA to be part of team-Latino. Ironically, off the border, I consider myself Mexican.

  Maybe with Kenzie being Korean, me not being Mexican enough, and neither of us with sufficient knowledge of Spanish to ask directions to a bathroom, we connected by not fitting in anywhere else.

  Although Kenzie isn’t the pillow-fight-at-sleepovers type, I’ve always appreciated her honesty. If I have a booger in my nose, she tells me. If my fly is down, she’s quick to let me know.

  “Maya,” she says now, “you’re a mess. Like, really.”

  Friends like that are hard to find.

  The sixth graders are staring at us over the tops of the seats with large eyes. “They look so innocent,” I say. They giggle in their prepubescent voices.

  “Not for long,” Kenzie grins. She turns to them and shame-lessly belts out a chorus of filth that includes the anatomically correct names of body parts and their biological functions.

  I hide my face in my hands. I try to chastise her, but Kenzie is laughing so hard, she can’t hear anything.

  Just before we get to my stop, one of the sixth graders turns around and spits at me.

  First week of school down, countless more to go.

  And yet, this year will be different. This year I have a plan.

  . . . . . . .

  I open the front door.

  “Hi, babe!” Mom chimes from the kitchen. To my surprise there is a box of apple fritters on the counter. I notice the perky yellow 60 percent off sticker. I also see a bag of stale cookies and a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. They all have the yellow tag. And a massive calorie count.

  “I shopped without eating breakfast,” Mom says. “I hear that it has an effect on what you buy.”

  I nod solemnly.

  “But don’t worry,” she continues, “it was all on clearance.”

  Mom has a not-so-secret love affair with food. “It could be worse,” she says. “I could be a raging alcoholic or a cocaine addict.” Mostly she buys chocolate. When I was little, I used to find her stashes of sweets. They were always in places where my dad would never think to check, like the cleaning closet or the vegetable drawer. But Mom works out at the gym Monday through Friday and is rather fit.

  “How was your day?” she asks.

  I look down at my feet. “I got spit on by a sixth grader.”

  She bites her lip respectfully to keep from laughing. “I guess it’s a good thing that it’s the weekend, huh?”

  I nod and grab a fritter out of the package. Natalia, my autistic five-year-old sister, wanders in with crumbs all over her face. It’s quite clear that she’s already enjoyed hers.

  “Eat quickly, Maya,” Mom says. “Those have to be gone by the time your father gets home.”

  . . . . . . .

  Dad opens the door an hour or so later. He throws out his arms in a gesture of defeat and shouts, “Well, we’re officially the Fat Wagenens!” It’s definitely not his usual “Hello, everyone!” or “I missed you all.” He must have had a rough day. The university is really struggling, and they’re getting ready to fire faculty.

  “Excuse me?” Mom’s voice rings out loud and clear.

  My nine-year-old brother, Brodie, cowers in the doorway, a banana grasped in his hand. His eyes are wide. He’s rather touchy about his size, and how quickly he’s growing out of his clothes. He’s most often prey to Dad’s “You-know-(Insert-Name-Here)-the-eating-habits-that-you-develop-as-a-child-stay-with-you-your-whole-life,” lectures.

  “I said we are officially the Fat Wagenens. I saw the doctor today and he said that I have to lose some weight. We all need to lose some weight.”

  “Excuse me?!” Mom is really quite angry now. She has that dangerous tone in her voice she sometimes gets when she’s on the edge. Dad’s weight plan can only mean three people in our family. Like I said, Mom works out, and Natalia never stops moving, so her calves are like rocks.

  I go upstairs to avoid seeing Mom and Dad whisper-fight. Brodie is staring wide-eyed at his panza.

  “Oh please,” I say. “You’re just going through a chubby stage. I did too when I was nine.” I don’t mention that mine hasn’t ended yet, but it’s okay to bend the truth when trying to build self-esteem.

  He smiles halfheartedly.

  Maybe it’s a good thing that I’m starting the Betty Cornell Diet on Tuesday. It sure would make Dad happy. Anyway, I’m not ready to start signing my name Maya “Fat” Wagenen.

  Monday, September 5

  Many of you bring your lunches to school and buy milk at the cafeteria. That is a good way to avoid temptation—you don’t even have to go near the long line of delicious dishes. . . . Any sensible combination of three or four of these items will make a healthful luncheon and probably one that is light and easy to carry. . . .

  Hard-boiled eggs.

  Small container of cottage cheese.

  One slice of whole-wheat or rye bread . . .

  Fresh fruit (you can eat lots of it).

  American or Swiss cheese sandwich, lots of lettuce—no mayonnaise—use whole-wheat or rye bread.

  Any kind of lean meat sandwich.

  Consommé.

  Milk.

  I pack a lunch of a half sandwich, some applesauce, and a hard-boiled egg. I don’t include any meat though, because I’ve been a vegetarian since I was eight years old, thanks to Charlotte’s Web, my pet parakeet, and a bad case of the stomach flu.

  I’m feeling rather conflicted about starting my diet tomorrow. While I’m excited about the prospect of losing weight, I’m sad to say good-bye to carefree eating. Let’s hope everything goes well!

  Tuesday, September 6

  It’s funny how we live on the southernmost border of the United States, the epicenter of fantastic Mexican cuisine, and yet the school serves frightfully below-average cafeteria meals. Our town is a land of contradictions.

  Ironically, like me, Brownsville, Texas, is a place that doesn’t quite fit into any category. It’s not quite the United States, and it’s not quite Mexico. My father got a job here at the university the summer before my sixth-grade year. So we moved from the West to this place Brodie fondly describes as “The gum stuck to the bottom of the shoe of the U.S.” Our school is across the street from the poorest community of its size in the nation. Down the road is a raspa (snow cone) stand, a panadería (bakery), a very shady-looking doctor’s office, a taco place, and a used tire shop.

  But the food makes up for everything. Even as a vegetarian in the land of fajitas, I never run out of vibrant flavors and colors to experience. Granted not everything’s enticing. In the meat section of the grocery store, you can buy pig heads and chicken feet. Dad says there’s even a way to make intes
tines taste good (in tacos, in case you’re wondering). If such a deed can be accomplished, then there should be a way to make the school lunches look and smell less like melted plastic.

  These are the days I’m grateful to bring my own lunch. While I nibble on some carrot sticks, curvy and voluptuous Kenzie eats two jumbo chocolate chip cookies, the same as every day. Oh, how I envy her. I try to keep in mind what Betty says.

  If the prospect of lunch without a sweet dessert is too gruesome for you to imagine, there’s no hope for you. You have allowed your sweet tooth to overrule your wisdom tooth. . . . As for taunts from your friends—and they will taunt you—keep your chin up and your weight down.

  Wednesday, September 7

  Kenzie and I walk to the library—“the Fishbowl” as we call it—in the morning. The library gets its nickname from its three glass walls. We volunteer there in the mornings and during lunch as an escape from the cruelty of the outside world. Our librarian, Ms. Corbeil, is one of a kind. She welcomes all Social Outcasts and talks to us like we’re adults and worthy of her attention, something many of us don’t get very often. She’s funny, smart, and rides a motorcycle. Teachers come to her to talk about anything from faulty technology equipment to a midlife crisis. And she buys new books with her own money because the school cut almost all of her budget. So it’s no wonder that the Fishbowl is an oasis, a home away from home.

  On our way, we pass Mr. Lawrence as he limps down the hall. He catches my eye and smiles.

  “Hi, Maya, how’s everything going? I sure do miss having you in my class this year.”

  I stop. “I miss having you as a teacher!”

  I met Mr. Lawrence in sixth grade when he was in charge of the school’s literary club. When I showed up at his room for the first meeting, he asked me if I liked to write. I told him, “More than anything.”

  Mr. Lawrence and me in sixth grade

  He submitted my stories and poems to competitions and the local newspaper. He pushed me to enter every contest that came up, and would e-mail the people in charge for weeks to find out if I placed. Although I didn’t always win, he was proud of me. He read my work to all his classes, to the other teachers, to anyone who’d listen. He’s the best teacher I’ve ever had. But he’s getting older, and I can tell by his tired eyes and the way that he walks (now with a cane) that he’s going to have to retire soon. The thought makes me want to cry.

  Friday, September 9

  If you are one of those Lazy Lils who just can’t get up in time to eat breakfast, then you are starting the day off on the wrong foot. . . . Eating a good breakfast may not come easily at first. But after a little practice you’ll enjoy it. . . . And you’ll feel much better for doing so.

  Government statistics show that 96 percent of the students in my district are “economically disadvantaged.” Therefore, everyone is provided breakfast and lunch for free, whether you ask for it or not. In the past we’ve eaten both meals in the cafeteria, but this year the district has decided to serve breakfast in our classrooms. They say that it’s to ensure that we get a healthy start to our day, but it’s hard to believe that when you see what they bring in.

  The breakfasts are packages of sugar-sweetened cereal, chocolate milk, and some sort of fried meat-filled thing—Betty Cornell definitely would not approve. I eat some whole-wheat toast and fruit as my classmates gorge on Lucky Charms. I stopped eating those things years ago when they turned Brodie’s poop neon green, scaring the living daylights out of my parents.

  After breakfast, our reading class goes to the Fishbowl. I lend a hand by helping my classmates check out books. I almost feel popular.

  And then, of course, Carlos Sanchez, leader of the Football Faction swaggers up with a devious grin on his face. He’s a tall, scrappy-looking jock. His short, dark brown hair is slicked forward in an attempt to make him look cool.

  He hands me a skinny picture book about race cars and a novel called Gay-Neck, a Newbery Award Winner with a bird on the cover.

  “I like cars,” he says, as if that explains everything. “And this is a book about gay pigeons.”

  “Hmmm.” I bite back what I really want to say which is, “Gee, Carlos Sanchez, I didn’t know you had such an interest in homosexual wildlife.” Instead I hand him the books and mutter that they’re due on the twenty-third.

  He goes off to the corner with his football cronies who laugh at his every pitiful joke. “Hey, guys, it’s about a gay pigeon.”

  Our reading teacher gives him the death stare over her glasses. She’s got it down to a science.

  “I mean gay as happy, you know, like emotions and stuff,” he adds quickly, sheepishly looking down at his fancy sneakers.

  Remind me again how he got to be popular.

  . . . . . . .

  In addition to sharing Betty Cornell’s wisdom on how to not just survive, but thrive, at school, I’ve decided to pass along my own insights that I pick up along the way.

  Maya’s Popularity Tip

  When one of your peers has an interest in gay pigeons, it is best to hold your tongue—even when you’d rather come up with a snarky comment—especially when no one but the books are around to applaud your wit.

  We’re on our way to the beach this evening. I’m wedged in the backseat between Brodie, who sits drawing monsters and weapons of mass destruction in a notebook, and Natalia, who is clicking her tongue and reciting songs from Blue’s Clues.

  When we get to the beach, we all take long deep breaths of the salty South Padre Island air. We’ve been here five minutes, and I’m already feeling bad about my body and how I look in a bathing suit. “Now overweight is nothing to be alarmed about. It is easy enough to do something about it and do something about it sensibly,” Betty says.

  I know, I know. So far I’ve been slowly cutting back on my eating, but I haven’t lost any weight.

  I look down at my one-piece. It’s the first one I’ve ever owned with actual breast padding. It’s nice because it makes my 34A boobs look just a little bit perkier.

  Natalia is giving me a goofy grin while Mom tries to get her into a bathing suit. “Smile!” she says. I lean down so she can rub her face in my ponytail.

  Uh-oh. Natalia has taken off running down the beach.

  Did I say running?

  I mean sprinting.

  Did I mention that she’s completely naked?

  Sunday, September 11

  Church today. I have to listen to Mrs. Garcia talk again about how marriage to a man of our faith is the one thing that girls our age need to be planning for. We can always “learn more things as a mom than from going to college.”

  I try not to listen too closely.

  I see Ethan, my darling crush, sitting on the other side of the chapel. I sigh and for the first time, I really wish that this diet was working.

  He really has the most gorgeous eyes.

  And hair.

  And smile.

  I wonder if the boys Betty Cornell crushed on all liked her back.

  He catches me staring at him.

  He raises his beautiful eyebrows at me and mouths the words, What are you looking at?

  I hide my burning face and say a silent prayer of gratitude that he didn’t catch me drooling this time.

  I only ate a light breakfast before leaving, and now my stomach is bellowing like a horny walrus. It’s bad.

  Maya’s Popularity Tip

  If your stomach is prone to making loud noises when your crush is within earshot, seriously consider having it removed. It will save you tons of embarrassment.

  In her book, Betty Cornell gives some instructions on how to do certain exercises that help maintain a well-balanced figure.

  Now to flatten the tummy, resorting . . . to the boys’ football practice. Lie on the floor and raise the feet to a 45-degree angle; now lower them, keeping the k
nees straight, ever so slowly to the count of ten. Feel it pull? Although I know this exercise hurts, it also helps.

  Once you get the hang of her exercises they’re easy as pie. Sort of.

  Yum.

  Pie.

  Trying but not quite succeeding at Betty’s exercises

  Tuesday, September 13

  I’ve lost a whole six-tenths of a pound!

  The diet is working.

  Will anyone notice? More specifically, will Ethan notice?

  Other good news. My bra is officially too tight! I never thought it would happen because I come from a long line of small-breasted women. But every time I put it on it cuts off my circulation.

  I’m so full of happiness and hormonal-ness that I can hardly stand it. So just for fun I tried on Mom’s bra, which is the next size up.

  I don’t even begin to fill it.

  I am greatly humbled.

  I’m still doing the Betty Cornell exercises, but I haven’t yet made the promised transformation from “tubby teen” to “the girl with the well-proportioned figure.” I’ll keep it up, though, because it’s not over until the fat lady sings. Ha-ha-ha.

  Thursday, September 15

  In PE, Kenzie and I are sweaty, exhausted, and our arms are bruised from spiking rock-hard volleyballs. Ever since I started “Figure Problems,” I’ve made an effort to become better at one sport. I’ve never been remotely coordinated, and I have the knees of a seventy-year-old woman. It’s quite embarrassing to give PE my all and still be so terrible at everything I try. It’s intimidating to know that the top of the social hierarchy is based on athletic ability. It feels so ancient, so raw. The strong survive. The weak get eaten. Betty doesn’t have any quick fixes to suddenly gain years of athletic experience, skill, and strength in a month. I looked.

  Kenzie and I crowd around the locker we share. It’s like having a roommate whose only possessions are deodorant and sweaty gym shorts.

  “Wow, I stink,” Kenzie blurts.