After he left, the police came to school with drug dogs. They had our class (fourth-period Technology) leave our stuff in the room and line up against the wall in the hallway. The dogs were directed to smell each one of us and our bags.
Coincidence? There’s no such thing.
Maya’s Popularity Tip
When the boy sitting next to you in class kindly informs you that the best place to hide pot is in the heel of high-top shoes, you might want to think twice about wearing that style. You don’t want to give people the wrong impression.
Thursday, October 6
When it comes to shampooing your own hair, plan to save at least one night a week for the job. Most teens prefer Thursday night because it puts their hair in shape for the week-end.
It’s Thursday so I grab shampoo and conditioner out of the bathroom cabinet. They’re called Strawberry-Tangerine Smoothie. I personally don’t want my hair to smell like dessert, but it’s the only thing I can find.
Begin your shampoo by brushing your hair thoroughly. Then tub your head well in water, apply the shampoo, and scrub. Work up a good lather and make sure that it penetrates every square inch. Now rinse out the first lather and start afresh. With the second lathering you should have removed all the dirt. Then rinse your hair three times. With the third rinsing, you should hear the hair squeak as it runs through your fingers.
When I finish, Mom helps me by putting my hair in rag curlers, which Betty recommends for long hair, because they “will not split the ends, and they are lots more comfortable to sleep on.”
“Wow, your hair isn’t greasy at all,” she says, wrapping my squeaky-clean tresses in the curlers.
“I would hope not,” I say. She smiles.
I lean my head against her knee. She has to sit on a chair to do my hair because I’m as tall as she is now. Growing up is strange. When I was little, I couldn’t wait to get older. Now I’m not so sure. It’s hard realizing that your hand is larger than your mother’s. It makes me sad.
“You look just like those girls on Little House on the Prairie with your hair like that. You’re so adorable.”
I groan. Adorable isn’t popular. Adorable is what you call a Chihuahua that gets carried around in a purse.
I tell Mom this. She laughs, gives me a hug, and assures me that I don’t look like a handbag dog. She always knows what to say.
My rag curlers
Friday, October 7
I wake up early so I can take the curlers out of my hair.
I slowly unroll them, twenty-four in all, and see that they’ve made little ringlets all over my head.
OH NO! I LOOK LIKE A BROWN-ISH SHIRLEY TEMPLE!
I can’t go to school today, I just can’t.
. . . . . . .
At school.
With little curlicues all around my head.
Looking like a lollipop-licking five-year-old.
Or a poodle.
Fortunately Kenzie isn’t here today, so I don’t have to face her judgmental gaze.
“So, Maya, what’s up with your hair?” someone behind me asks. “It’s super-cute. What’s the special occasion? Boyfriend?” She’s a Band Geek, a seven on the Popularity Scale.
“Maya, with a boyfriend? Don’t be stupid,” her friend whispers.
I think of my beloved crush Ethan who hardly notices me, even with my new outrageous hairstyles. Who am I kidding? This girl is right.
Carlos Sanchez just looks at me, raises his eyebrows, and doesn’t say anything.
That itself is criticism enough.
Later I find out that next Friday is picture day! I have to see what Betty Cornell says about how to prepare for such an event. This could end up being a very big factor in my rise to popularity. My hair’s going frizzy just thinking about it.
Tuesday, October 11
Brodie and I are doing impressions of ranchera singers. We swish our hair back and forth to the radio. We even write a song using all the Spanish words we know. It’s sung to the tune of “Suddenly Seymour” from the musical Little Shop of Horrors.
El Casa Burrito
El Taco y Queso
La Mamá, El Papá
Soy papas con huevos
ROUGH TRANSLATION:
The House of Burrito
Taco and Cheese
Mom, Dad
I am potatoes with eggs (or testicles)
It’s obvious my Spanish is lacking.
Mom wanders into my room and lies down next to me. We talk and laugh for a while. I sing her our freshly composed song in Spanish.
“You almost got the el’s and la’s right.” She laughs.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, everything in Spanish is either masculine or feminine. I explained this to Brodie just this morning when we were waiting for his bus.”
“You gave my little brother the masculine/feminine talk while waiting for the bus?!”
“Yah, we had a spare moment. So I told him about how it all works.”
I’m a little horrified. This can’t be what I think it is, can it? “We aren’t talking about the same masculine/feminine thing, are we? Brodie still thinks girls pee standing up.”
Mom realizes what I mean and smacks me with a pillow. I laugh.
“Brodie, get in here!” Brodie comes in, red-faced and embarrassed, obviously aware of what we’ve been discussing. “Tell me, do girls pee standing up?” I ask.
“I don’t think that I should hear this,” he mumbles after a few seconds of silence.
Mom shudders. She and Dad have been putting off “The Talk” with Brodie for the past forever. “Look, kiddo,” she says after it’s clear he’s confused. “Guys have outdoor plumbing, girls have indoor. If we tried to pee standing up, it would just dribble down our legs.”
I laugh so hard at the expression on Brodie’s face that I fall off my bed.
Wednesday, October 12
Brushing is essential for beautiful hair. Not just lackadaisical brushing, but good stiff get-in-there-and-dig brushing. . . . To be adequately brushed, hair should be stroked at least one hundred times each night.
After I can no longer feel my arm and my hair is smooth as silk, I curl up under my covers. Dad comes into my bedroom. He kisses me good night and his hair falls all over my face. My dad has been growing out his hair for the last two years. Mom’s not crazy about the style, but understands that he’s doing it not only for his war re-enacting gig, but also because he wants to fully revel in his hair while he still has it. A last hurrah. He says that his students used to come to him for advice because he was always dressed properly in a tie with hair trimmed short. He seemed like a father figure.
Now, he tells me, they come to admit their wrongdoings. I think it’s because, with his hair grown out to his shoulders all curly and his unshaven sympathetic face, he kind of looks like Jesus.
Thursday, October 13
Kenzie and I are walking to our first-period classes. She pauses and takes a long look at me. “Okay, dude, what the hell is up with your hair? Seriously, I mean this is weird, even for you!”
This morning Mom helped me put my hair in two tiny buns on either side of my head. It looks like mushrooms are sprouting out of my skull. “I was going for the Princess Leia look,” I mutter.
“Who the hell is that?” Kenzie asks.
I roll my eyes. Kenzie has never watched Star Wars. Or eaten applesauce. Or seen Sesame Street. A deprived childhood if I’ve ever seen one.
I walk into algebra and sit down. Anna looks over at me and smiles. “I like your buns, Maya.”
The guy next to her lets out a really loud, obnoxious laugh.
She goes red and looks down, mortified.
. . . . . . .
By sixth period my hair has started to fall out of the buns, so it lo
oks as if my mushrooms are growing fur. I go into the bathroom to see what I can do about it, but every single sink has three or four girls (all fours on My School’s Popularity Scale—Less-Popular Girls Who Dress Seductively) trying to see their reflections. Their jeans look as if they cut off the circulation to their legs, and their glowing red bras (visible beneath their yellow polo shirts) match their thickly applied blush. I wait a few minutes in the vain hope that someone will leave, but when one girl starts curling her eyelashes and plucking her eyebrows, I know that’s not going to happen. I head to class, fuzzy fungi and all.
All of our Thirteen Colonies map assignments are on a table outside the door to history. Carlos Sanchez is playing with mine, pretending it’s a spaceship.
“Don’t touch Maya’s project,” says one boy.
Carlos Sanchez looks down at me. “This is your project?” he asks. I nod. “It looks delicious,” he continues. “I wish that I could get inside it, if you know what I mean.” He raises his eyebrows. I assume he thinks he’s sexy, but in reality, it makes him look like he has a forehead twitch.
“Do you have the answers (twitch, twitch) for the homework?” he asks me.
“I’m not giving you the answers.”
“Dumbass,” he says, tossing my project down on the table.
That seems just a little ironic.
. . . . . . .
Picture day tomorrow! I am so excited!
One of the most-looked-at pictures any teen has taken is the picture for her school yearbook. This picture need not ever cause any qualms if you give some thought to it. . . . To a photography appointment wear a white tailored blouse . . . Wear no jewelry, except perhaps a strand of pearls.
Mom bought me a pretty white blouse at the thrift store earlier today. But as far as the necklace goes, I don’t know where to look. I decide to check out Mom’s discarded 1980s jewelry box. She’s bound to have something.
Yep. I find the pearls within ten seconds of looking. I’ve never been forced to view so many pairs of giant, abstract earrings before. I’m a little worried about the horrible mental scars that may afflict me later in life. My personal favorite is a bulky, puce-colored, plastic bracelet that opens with a hinge. Mom got it in Paris. Of all the things to buy in Europe. There are no excuses.
I wash my hair and carefully set out my clothes for tomorrow. Mom helps me put my locks in curlers (looser this time) and even lends me some shiny lip gloss.
I think that tomorrow will be amazing.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Maya’s Popularity Tip
Make your yearbook picture memorable because, as my science teacher says, “Your grandkids have to laugh at something.”
Friday, October 14
My friend Dante straightened his curly black hair this morning, but apparently it was a catastrophe. So during lunch he sprayed it with water and now it’s back to normal. I could have warned him about that.
When taking school pictures, Betty Cornell advises the following: “Above all, do not change your hairstyle before your appointment—such experiments may turn out too disastrously, and you don’t want to go down in history looking like a freak.”
During science, we go to the gym where the photographers are waiting. Most of the boys take their pictures with mug shot–serious expressions and refuse to smile. I wait anxiously, practicing how Betty said to stand: my shoulders twisted slightly, a three-quarter view of my face, keeping in mind that whatever is closest to the camera will appear largest (which is why I try to get my left side closer, because of some lopsidedness in the booby department).
Absently, I turn to Dante and ask him if I look okay.
“To tell you the truth, Maya, you’ve always reminded me of a murderer in a horror film. In fact, that’s the reason I don’t argue with you. I’m afraid you may eat my face off.”
Well, that’s a fantastic thing to say to a self-conscious girl right before she is about to have her image preserved in the most permanent of ways.
“Van, Van, Wag, Wajen, Vagin, Wogen.” A large guy with a handlebar mustache reads off a clipboard.
I step forward, not even bothering to correct him. I’m used to people slaughtering my Dutch surname.
I position my body correctly and give a big smile. I see a flash and my vision goes black.
I hear, “Uh . . . let’s try that again . . . Without the glasses.”
I swipe the lenses off my face, still dazed. The flash catches me off guard. I’m sure I look hideous.
“I, I wasn’t ready. . . .” I stammer, but I’m shuffled over to the side by mustache-guy. I feel defeated and frustrated, but I hold my head high. I’m pretty sure that’s what Betty would want me to do.
Monday, October 17
Mom has gotten up early every day to help me change my hair. She’s totally awesome. Today she teased it into a really high side ponytail, but not a single person at school has said anything! At church yesterday, Ethan didn’t notice my hair, either. But that’s not surprising, seeing as how he seldom looks my way. I wonder if I will ever see the day when a boy likes me the same way I like him.
I contemplate this situation while shelving books in the library during lunch. Leon comes in like he does every day, lifting my spirits.
“Hi, Maya.”
“Hi, Leon.”
“You look beautiful today.”
“Thank you.”
He goes off to find a book on wolves. Ms. Corbeil catches my eye and motions me over.
“Maya, you know how Leon comes in every day and tells you that you look beautiful?”
I nod.
“I just want to make sure it doesn’t make you uncomfortable. I know that because of his autism he says things. You know a lot about autism because of your sister and well . . . if it embarrasses you or makes you uncomfortable, please tell me. I will talk to him about not being so . . . devoted.” She smiles sadly. “It’s obvious that he has a thing for you. So if he ever says anything inappropriate, let me know.”
I stand there looking at her and then at the mirror on the wall. I see a little girl with a side ponytail holding a stack of books close to her. I know Leon has autism. And I’m grateful that Ms. Corbeil is so protective of all of her students in her library. But suddenly I feel my stomach drop.
I walk back to the shelves. Leon looks up at me. “Hi, Maya.”
“Hi, Leon,” I say.
“You look fabulous,” he says. “You look gorgeous. You look beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
I close my eyes. I realize why it hurts. I was too blind to consider that maybe the only reason he thinks I am beautiful is because of his autism.
Wednesday, October 19
During after-school choir practice all of the Volleyball Girls are crying. Their normally perfect hair looks disheveled and their makeup is smudged. The teacher announces that Julina, one of their own, was called home during eighth period because her dad had died suddenly of a heart attack.
“I can’t believe he’s dead,” one sobs.
“He was like my dad,” whispers the girl who’s crying the hardest. “He was one of my favorite people.”
I stand there, feeling out of place. Without doing anything, Julina has a new identity. She is the girl with the dead father. I understand because much of my life I’ve been the girl with the dead sister. Ariana died when I was six, on the ninety-ninth day of her life.
Two-year-old Brodie and I stayed at our neighbor’s house while Mom and Dad rushed Ariana to the hospital. I swear I knew the exact moment when her damaged heart stopped beating. I was jumping on their trampoline when in midair, time froze. I could feel it. She was gone. That was the moment I went from being a bold, confident first grader to the anxious and fearful introvert that I am today.
At school as everyone whispers and sobs around m
e, I wonder how this moment will define Julina.
Brodie, Ariana, and me
Thursday, October 27
In the spirit of the Halloween season, I feel it appropriate to share some very odd observations about my neighborhood:
We can see the smoke from Matamoros, Mexico, as it burns in the drug war.
I’m pretty sure our neighbor buried a body in his front yard. He’s always watering the same patch of green lawn.
My little brother has a groupie next door. She follows him from the bus and stands outside our house, even when no one’s home. The kid’s only five years old.
I suspect there’s a drug dealer also; there are way too many expensive cars and late-night visitors. For my own safety I dare not say who or where.
There are dogs that bark all night long. Except during earsplitting ranchera karaoke parties. It’s a lose–lose situation.
A week ago, I saw a life-size nutcracker in our neighbor’s garage. I still have nightmares.
Spandex. A lot of Spandex.
“Speed bumps” here are known as “humps.” Our house is right behind a “hump” sign.
Every night a loud burst of static-filled music is heard. But there’s no need to be alarmed because it’s just the corn-in-a-cup man trying to sell you something to eat.
A free-roaming chicken wanders the streets all day. I’ve named him Little Sandoval.
Friday, October 28
“So, you’re really doing this?” I ask Mom from my perch on her bathroom sink. She’s just put on an oversized T-shirt that she got way back in her previous life (before kids) when she and Dad were dirt-poor documentary filmmakers who traveled the world. She brushes out her graying hair so that it hangs around her shoulders.
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