But as embarrassed as I am, I’m deeply touched by her compassion and generosity. If ever someone were to need a pair of shoes, I hope that they meet a person as kind as her.
But then I realize my algebra teacher and several others heard our conversation. So, I’m back to feeling mortified.
Wednesday, January 11
Kenzie and I aren’t even quite sure if this insanity is real. How can it be?
We have just witnessed the depopularization of Nadia, a Volleyball Girl.
This much we can confirm (assuming Volleyball Girl gossip is a reliable source):
“Nadia was like, so like, being a bitch.”
“So everyone else, was like, ‘whatever,’ and got all pissed and stuff.”
“She stopped hanging out with us, and suddenly everything was different.”
Kenzie and I have also pieced together the following time line:
It started with the angry, screaming music blasting on her iPod. Then she began hanging out with Josefina and Flor, the leaders of the Goth Art Chicks. Out went the sparkly headbands and in came dyed black hair. From there, she burned all bridges with the Volleyball Girls. It was official. She wasn’t going back.
The strangest thing yet is the fact that Nadia is actually talking to me and Kenzie. She smiles at us. Ten days ago she didn’t acknowledge our existence. Now she remembers our names.
So what is going on? Does being popular mean that you have to be a “bitch” to everyone except for your “friends?” In which case, do I really want to be like that? Maybe there is another definition of popularity. There has to be.
Thursday, January 12
I can’t take it anymore. I have to know what’s going on with Mr. Lawrence. Is he really sick? So I ask the one person I can trust to not “childproof” the answer for me. My librarian.
“Ms. Corbeil, do you know what’s happened to Mr. Lawrence?”
She doesn’t meet my eyes at first, but finally she speaks. “He’s in the hospital again. Stage four cancer.”
My heart stops and suddenly it’s like the earth has lost all sound. My thoughts are painful and sharp like daggers. I’ve watched enough trashy doctor shows with Mom to know what happens during stage four of any cancer. I get on the computer and sure enough, my conclusions are confirmed.
Mr. Lawrence is dying.
The rest of my classes are a daze. I’m not quite sure how I make it through the day. Kenzie looks at me funny and asks what’s wrong. I give her a quick explanation, and she apologizes sweetly and gives me my space.
When Mom picks me up and I tell her what’s happened, I can’t hold back the tears any longer.
“He’s dying,” I sob. “He’s dying, and nobody told me.”
She pats my back and lets me grieve.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispers, “So sorry.” We’re quiet for a while before she speaks again. “Honey, you should write him a letter. You need to make sure he knows what an impact he’s had on your life.”
When we get home I curl up at my desk and write for hours. It’s more painful than anything else I’ve ever had to write. Two measly pages to sum up two years’ worth of mentoring, teaching, and helping me discover my passion. Two pages to tell him how he helped me to discover myself.
Mom describes how I feel: “wrung out.”
I curl up on the couch, not thinking.
Sometimes it hurts too bad to think.
Sunday, January 15
Today is Kenzie’s fourteenth birthday party at the local bowling alley. I’m even wearing pants, just so I don’t embarrass her. I got the invitation last Friday, but Natalia promptly ate it, so I’m not sure exactly where we’re meeting inside. I open the front door and look for Kenzie. The music is deafening and it smells like fried food and shoe spray. I don’t see her. My heart speeds up a little. Where is she? I pull out Mom’s phone that she lent me before I left. I open it and see the date. My heart sinks.
“Kenzie’s birthday party was yesterday,” I groan out loud.
I sink against the dirty wall of the bowling alley. I feel so bad that I can hardly move. That is, until I notice the creepy guy with the Virgin Mary tattoo and sweaty wife-beater staring at me from over his plate of greasy nachos. I hide in the girl’s bathroom and try to pull myself together.
You are the worst person in the world. You deserve to die a slow and painful death. In India, those who were sentenced to die would have an elephant step on their heads. You should move to India! How could you do this to your best friend?
When I finally get home I stare at the phone and try to find my courage. I dial Kenzie’s number with shaking fingers.
“Hello,” I hear Kenzie’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Oh, I am so sorry! I went to your party, but a day late. I’m such a terrible friend!”
“Uh, who is this?”
“Oh right, it’s Maya. I went to the bowling alley tonight, and the Virgin Mary and an elephant! I’m so stupid! I understand if you never want to speak to me again.”
I finish my blabbering and hear suppressed emotion on the other end of the line. Oh my gosh, she’s crying. I’m never going to forgive myself. Really and truly.
Then I realize what I’m really hearing. She’s laughing at me.
“I’m sorry,” she says between gasps. “It’s just too funny.”
“What?”
“Just imagining you there with all those people, all loner and stuff. Oh, it’s awesome!”
After I give her all the details of my terrible evening, we hang up. Not before she asks me if I saw the hot guy at the desk. Which I didn’t.
Kenzie is a really fantastic friend.
Tuesday, January 17
“Welcome to your first day of health class,” Ms. Welch says from her seat behind the desk. Ms. Welch is a tall, boisterous woman with long black hair.
Kenzie and I glance at each other. This is the moment we’ve been dreading since starting eighth grade. The last weeks of this semester will be entirely comprised of sex education.
We turn our textbooks to page four as instructed, and Ms. Welch begins discussing the many factors of health: physical, emotional, and social. “Another factor in your emotional health is how you deal with the many magical physical changes that you go through during your teenage years,” Ms. Welch says.
A collective groan rises up. There’s nothing worse in the world than an adult talking about “magical physical changes.”
“I’m serious,” Ms. Welch says, raising her eyebrows and throwing her hands up in the air. “When you girls are on your periods, it really does affect your emotional health.”
The guys snort. I feel my face go red. Ms. Welch barrels onward. “Oh come on, if you boys were feeling bipolar and had to change a bloody pad five times a day, I don’t think that you’d make fun.”
Their eyes go wide. I am so glad Carlos Sanchez isn’t in this class.
“Anyway, it doesn’t end there. Later in the year, we’re going to watch a video on STDs, and we will actually observe different diseases on the penis and the vagina. I swear, boys, your penis can look like a piece of cauliflower.”
By the end of class every girl has her legs crossed so tightly it would almost be funny if it weren’t so disturbing.
Ms. Welch is the most effective teacher I’ve ever had.
I will never have sex. Ever.
Friday, January 20
Since I’m halfway through the school year, I will now take stock of how I am perceived:
TEACHERS: “Well behaved and dedicated.”
GOTH ART CHICKS: “She’s . . . weird.”
FOOTBALL FACTION (mainly Carlos Sanchez): “Nerd.”
LEON: “Beautiful.”
LIBRARY NERDS: “She’s nice, I guess.”
CHOIR GEEKS: “Nerd.”
KENZIE: “Epic Loser. Epically.”
SUBSTITUTES: “I must find a coupon for where she
shops. Where did she get that cardigan?”
Saturday, January 21
“You have to call Mr. Lawrence,” Mom says, handing me the phone number. I sink into the kitchen chair. I hate making phone calls. It doesn’t make things easier that now I have to call my favorite teacher in the world who is dying of cancer. Life isn’t fair sometimes.
I exhale slowly. “Okay.”
The phone rings five times and I prepare to leave a message.
Then he answers. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Maya,” I try hard to sound cheerful.
“Oh hi, Maya.” His voice is happy. “How are you doing?”
“Good, and you?”
“Not fantastic, but I’ll be okay. As you probably heard, I’ve been recuperating from cancer.”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” I say, biting my lip. “Can I visit you? I’d like to show you some of my writing.”
Mom smiles at me when I get off the phone.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“I’m telling him about Betty Cornell. Tomorrow.”
She shakes her head. “No, Maya, you can’t. If word gets out that you’re doing an experiment, everything you’ve done this year would be for nothing.”
“This may be my only chance. He won’t tell anyone.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “It’s your secret.”
Sunday, January 22
Mr. Lawrence lives in a beige house with a ceramic gnome on the front porch. “Ready?” Mom asks.
I nod, my fingers clasped tightly around the vase with the yellow rose and the envelope full of my recent short stories and poems. At the very back is the letter I wrote for him. Under that is hidden Betty Cornell’s Teen-Age Popularity Guide.
I’m wearing a knee-length skirt with a blue blouse and my old lady shoes. No pearls or nylons. Or makeup. I want him to recognize me.
When I knock on the door, his wife answers. She brings us upstairs to Mr. Lawrence. He looks exhausted and has lost a lot of weight. He talks a little bit about his family and grandson, although he has trouble remembering what grade he’s in. He tells me he misses teaching, except he can’t recall who’s covering his class now.
Finally he asks about writing. That’s when I tell him about Dad finding Betty’s book and about Mom’s idea. I tell him about Kenzie and Carlos Sanchez. I tell him about my chapters.
I ask him to give me a quote about popularity so that I can use it in my book. He smiles and says he will.
When I leave, I say good-bye and promise to e-mail. I’m unsure if I will ever see him again.
The last words I hear him say are to his wife. His proudest voice echoes down the stairs and into my heart, “She’s going to be a famous author someday.”
Monday, January 23
Today during choir, Nadia (Volleyball Girl turned Goth Art Chick) walks in with a new piercing at the top of her ear. She collects quite an audience of seventh graders as she shows it off. “When they pierced my ear my hearing changed,” she says seriously. “Now I can talk to God . . . and Gandhi.”
Her listeners nod gravely. It’s no surprise that last year they were gullible sixth graders.
She walks up to me and stares at my outfit. I observe hers: black shoes, black earrings, black hair, black jeans, and a yellow polo.
“Wow,” she says. “You look . . . pretty. Wait . . . No. Not pretty . . . Conservative. That’s the word. You look conservative.”
I stare down at my outfit. Yellow old lady cardigan and Pilgrim shoes.
She’s right.
“Does it make you smarter?” she asks.
I tell her I need to think about that. Later, even Carlos Sanchez compliments me.
“Hey, Maya. I am enjoying your sweater.”
Ew. I have no idea what he means by that, but the way he says it makes me feel the need to scrub my brain out with bleach.
“I like your necklace,” he continues.
I touch the strand of pearls at my collarbone. “Er, okay.”
“It’s kind of funny,” he sneers. “My grandma has one just like it.”
The class erupts into laughter.
Friday, January 27
After finishing our Emotions collage Kenzie and I pass notes in health class discussing tuberculosis. Suddenly she drops her pen on the desk and smiles deviously. “I’m going to ask Ms. Welch about sexual things. Later loser.” I watch as she casually strolls across the room to where the teacher is grading papers. She says something I can’t hear and Ms. Welch’s jaw drops. The woman mutters something unintelligible. Kenzie sits back down, content.
“You have no limits, Kenzie,” I say. “There is never a dull moment with you.”
“I know.”
. . . . . . .
Ms. Corbeil calls me over to her library desk, her cell phone in hand.
“Mr. Lawrence called and wanted me to ask you about a quote?” she says, confused.
I freeze.
“He couldn’t remember which class you needed it for. What should I tell him?”
He’s losing his memory. He’s slipping away. My heart breaks. At the same time, I’m terrified. What if someone finds out about this project that I’ve been living for five months? It could all be over in an instant.
“It’s okay, I can e-mail him,” I say, pausing. “Um . . . It’s for church, so there really isn’t a time limit.” My voice shakes, but I push through the lie.
Ms. Corbeil stares at me for a long moment before she turns her back. I can tell she’s suspicious.
Tuesday, January 31
It’s the last day of the month. I wear my long pioneer skirt that hits my ankles and my turtleneck sweater. Nobody whispers. Nobody looks at me funny.
“Do they like my outfits now?” I ask Kenzie as we leave health and walk through the schoolyard to get to our next class.
“No, you’re still a loser,” she states, pushing me in front of her to serve as an I-am-texting-and-don’t-want-teachers-to-find-out barrier.
I sigh and realize she’s right. I’m not popular. I am a loser. I make my way to choir and that’s when I see it.
Across from me, standing there as cool as can be is a semi-popular Choir Geek. And on her neck is a strand of pearls.
A glimmer of hope in a dark and unpopular world.
At a choir concert wearing pearls
February
GOOD GROOMING & AWAY FROM HOME
In fairy tales, Prince Charming may have discerned Cinderella’s beauty under the soot and ashes, but the chances are against a modern young man poking through layers of dirt to find his own true love.
The first time I ever witnessed popularity was when I was eight years old. There was a girl named Vanessa. She had to have spent hours on her clean, organized appearance every morning. And, of course, the guy I had a crush on at the time, Jason, was in love with her.
I’d stand in front of the mirror and look at myself judgmentally for hours trying to figure out the differences between her and me. She was thin; I was chubby. She had smooth skin; I had a unibrow. She had new, pressed, clean clothes; I wore stretch pants and hand-me-downs. She had guys follow her home; I had the neighbor boy who would throw naked Barbies into our lilac bush. Vanessa was perfect. How could I measure up?
She was just so . . . put together.
This month I will strive to be more like Vanessa. I will iron my clothes. Bathe or shower daily. Keep my nails trimmed and my legs shaved. Take care of my unibrow. I will follow all of Betty’s advice on how to be neat, tidy, and completely changed from my slobbish self. If the saying “The devil is in the details” holds true, then this is where the real transformati
on begins.
Thursday, February 2
Nobody wants to book a girl with dirty fingernails or a torn blouse. And certainly nobody wants to work with a model who stints on bathing and doesn’t use a deodorant.
Kenzie and I stand outside waiting for school to start. My wardrobe has changed again for this month’s theme. I’ve moved from rumpled skirts to ironed pants and spotless sweaters. My hair is slicked back in a neat ponytail. My Pilgrim shoes are shined.
All leather goods need to be polished—a little elbow grease and some wax will work wonders and make the leather last longer too.
When I point this fact out to Kenzie, she snorts. “What kind of a loser polishes her shoes?”
. . . . . . .
I wear the same outfit to the church youth activity tonight. Liliana gives me a strange look but says nothing. I try to ease the mood with light conversation about the book I’m reading, which happens to be The Hobbit.
Ethan walks in and asks what we’re talking about.
Uh-oh. . . . Here comes the verbal retching.
“Some girls at school and I do competitions on who can sound the nerdiest,” I spew forth. “You see, one girl is a big follower of Star Wars, and another does Star Trek and now I’m reading Lord of the Rings.” It’s all true. Two Choir Geeks and I started the battle a couple days ago. There is no definite winner yet.
Then like a God-sent messenger, the rational voice comes back to my head.
SHUT UP, MAYA! SAVE YOUR DIGNITY BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE, YOU IDIOT!
“What do you mean ‘sound nerdiest’?” he asks, his beautiful forehead wrinkling.
I heave again. “Well, we nerd-talk. You know, try to describe major plot points in the geekiest way possible.”
“I still don’t get it.”
I try to swallow. I try to stop myself. But I’ve gone too far. “Let me demonstrate,” I say with a stereotypical nerd voice. “There once was a Hobbit named Bilbo Baggins who lived in a Hobbit-hole in the magical land of Shire. He was very content smoking his long wooden pipe and eating several meals a day, but one day Gandalf, he’s a wizard, came and invited Bilbo to join him on an adventure. Before he knew what was happening dwarves called Dwalin, and Balin, and Borin and Thorin (may his beard grow ever longer), and all these others took him on a big quest to go retrieve the stolen treasure from the dragon Smaug. On the way they stop at the house of Elrond and meet the Elvish folk . . .” I go on for about another Hobbit lifetime (well beyond a hundred years) until finally I’m left dry heaving and exhausted.
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