Tyler takes his glasses out of his pocket and puts them on. The frames are rectangular and dark and give him a bookish appeal.
“Let me guess, Sue Storm doesn’t like a guy in glasses?” I say.
He gives me a self-conscious smile. “Superheroes wear contacts.”
I look at the empty paper plate beside him and remember why I’m here. “So what did you buy?”
He lists off several items and provides mini-reviews of each. “Avoid the maple fudge,” he concludes. “It had maple flavoring instead of real syrup.”
“You could tell?”
“Sure,” he says. “My parents run a catering business. I knew a shiitake from a chanterelle by the time I was five.”
“Impressive.” I’m pretty sure he’s talking abut mushrooms. “I could barely tell the difference between canned spaghetti and canned ravioli at five.”
Tyler laughs, and it sounds genuine.
“My mom isn’t known for her cooking,” I continue. “Her specialty is meat loaf.”
“A good meat loaf is hard to find.” Tyler describes the best one he ever tasted in great detail, becoming even more animated.
“My mom uses two secret ingredients,” I say. “I’m not supposed to divulge them, but since you’re such a foodie…”
“Caramelized onions?” he asks eagerly. “Sun-dried tomatoes?”
“Close. Onion soup mix and ketchup.”
He laughs again, and I marvel at the fact that this cute, seemingly normal guy is finding me entertaining. That’s the real story from this bake sale, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve spent all this time looking for my FB in assemblies, never thinking to check the bleachers.
“My goal is to be a food critic for the Tribune one day,” Tyler confides.
Rachel breaks into our conversation before I get a chance to question him more. “Lu, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I need to show you something.”
After introducing Tyler, I try giving Rachel a look to convey that I’m having too good a conversation to leave. The only problem is that she’s never seen that look on my face before and doesn’t recognize it.
“Nice to meet you, Tyler,” she says, literally pulling me to my feet and hauling me away.
“This had better be important,” I say. “I was interviewing that guy.”
“You were just flirting with him.”
“If you knew that, why did you drag me away?”
“You’re here to do a job, and I stopped flirting with a guy to help you. I thought you’d want to know I found the other columnist.”
Rachel points to Mac Landis, who’s busily taking notes as Mariah holds forth on some undoubtedly fascinating topic.
I tell Rachel the burrito story, my face burning almost as much as my tongue did half an hour ago.
When she’s finished laughing, she gives me a strange look. “Why is Mac Landis suddenly paying attention to you?”
“He’s not paying attention to me,” I say. “I nearly bumped into him, that’s all.”
We ease a little closer, taking cover behind a large stack of gym mats so that we can eavesdrop.
“So why won’t you let me sample your goodies?” Mac asks. “I’ll pay twice the asking price.”
Rachel whispers, “Like he’d have to pay.”
“Sorry, sweetie, mine sold out in three minutes,” Mariah coos. “But if you’re nice, I might give you my VIP number.”
Mariah has two cell phones—a regular one for general use, and a hot pink one for VIPs. Her number changes every time she dumps a guy.
“This is the best bake sale I’ve ever been to,” Mac says, as the volume of the music goes up and Mariah starts to bump and grind.
She dances closer to Mac. “Here’s my secret: You have to put the kick in the campaign.” Mariah stops gyrating for a second to do a high kick.
Mac takes her hand and pulls her away. “Let’s go somewhere quieter to talk.”
“See?” Rachel says as they leave. “There’s no way he’d cut short a private dance to talk unless he’s the columnist.”
I’m still not convinced, but it’s worth noting that Mac’s sports-god status does give him the inside track on everything.
“Now what?” I say, nudging Rachel. The Dunfield cheerleaders—who had very little to cheer about before Mac arrived—have emerged from the girls’ locker room wearing red Santa Claus hats over their purple-and-white uniforms. They click by us on stiletto boots to the side door of the gym. I beckon Rachel to follow.
Out on the football field, students are sprawled on the bleachers, smoking or eating. The cheerleaders take up a position in front of a camera set on a tripod. One of Mac’s jock pals is behind the camera, directing them, while another climbs a ladder, carrying a large, cardboard box.
“Okay, dude,” the photographer says. “Fire.”
The guy on the ladder tips the box and sifts fake snow over the cheerleaders.
“And… turn!”
The cheerleaders spin so fast their short skirts swirl.
After a few more snowy butt shots, the photographer looks up from his lens and sees Rachel and me watching. “Sorry, ladies,” he says. “You can’t audition for The Literacy Challenge Calendar. Mac is handpicking everyone.”
The guy on the ladder shouts down, “But if you want to show us what’s under your jeans, we might be able to put in a good word for you.”
Tyler has disappeared by the time I return to the gym, so I sit down alone in the bleachers to study the crowd.
“Always on the outside looking in, aren’t you, Coconut?” Mariah asks, appearing out of nowhere.
Mariah used to lob an insult or two my way if I stumbled into her path, but today I think she actively sought me out. I wonder what I’ve done to earn this promotion.
“Well, someone has to cheer from the sidelines,” I say, forcing a smile. But then my lips move again, seemingly of their own accord. “Love the signage, by the way.”
Mariah glances up at the spelling error and mumbles something in Spanish. From the sound of it, one of the Understudies was holding the paintbrush.
“I thought it was a marketing strategy,” I say. “To prove we really need the money for literacy.”
It’s a joke, at least sort of, but Mariah obviously doesn’t share my sense of humor. She swears at me in English to be sure I get the point. “If you’re so smart, why don’t you take over?” she says.
“I couldn’t. Not with all my hours at the grease pit.” I’m digging myself in deeper and deeper. Regular exposure to Grace is having a bad effect on me.
“But you’ve still got all the hours other girls spend with guys,” Mariah says.
Ouch. “True. I’m surprised you get as much done as you do.”
Mariah’s eyes bulge. “Are you calling me a slut?”
“Of course not!” I would never call anyone a slut, even if she were. How did this get so out of hand?
Mariah snaps her fingers, and the Understudies instantly materialize at her side. “She called me a slut.”
The Understudies advance on me, and I realize that while I may have absorbed some of Grace’s attitude, I don’t have her fists to back it up. I doubt the girls would risk a dance-limiting injury to beat me up, but they have many enforcers around who needn’t be so cautious.
There’s only one escape route, and I take it. “That totally came out the wrong way, Mariah, and I’m sorry.”
She considers this for a moment. “I’ll let you off this time, Coconut, but only because the press is here and I can’t afford to get a bad rep.”
“The press?”
“The columnists for the Dunfield Bulletin.”
“You actually read that piece of crap?” I looked at last year’s issues, and I speak the truth. There’s a reason I didn’t know it existed. It’s hopelessly dull—something I will have to try to change.
“Look, stories get out, and I have a career to think about. Some of us don’t want to spend our lives serving burgers to
dropouts.” She saunters off, trusting the Understudies to deliver a last, contemptuous look.
Dunfield girls kicked off the Year of Literacy this week with a bake sale that attracted nearly a thousand students and generated a profit of $3,000. Now that’s tasty!
Students raved about the event, demanding that the school cafeteria serve food that good every day. They’re missing the point. Surviving Dunfield cafeteria food prepares us to face any challenge the real world can offer, and as Mr. Sparling always says, no one has died from it yet.
At any rate, Newshound enjoyed sampling cuisines from around the world and is glad to see that something as wholesome and traditional as an old-fashioned bake sale could be such a hit. Kudos to team leader Mariah Mendes for demonstrating that good taste and fund-raising can work together to great success.
Unfortunately, the guys’ team has chosen not to follow her excellent example. Under the leadership of Mac Landis, the men of Dunfield are currently putting together a girlie calendar and soliciting participation from female students. A word to the wise: some call this harassment.
Everyone knows that sex sells, fellas, but couldn’t you come up with something a little more tasteful? It’s too early in the competition to take the low road, although we figured you’d end up there eventually. There are so many creative ways you could raise money. You may have to work harder to find them, but that’s what competition’s all about. When we beat you, we want to know you played your best game.
Dunfield girls will probably be the ones enjoying the bonus vacation days at spring break because The Dunfield Bootylicious Calendar is not going to win any extra points for originality from Mrs. Alvarez. You might as well put a stop to this ridiculous and sexist project right now.
And girls, if you’re asked to pose, just say no. You don’t need to prove you’re gorgeous by stripping down for the benefit of a bunch of guys who still aren’t capable of growing a beard. Send a message that Dunfield women will not be considered sex objects. Yes, we’re sexy, but we’re also smart and funny and talented. We respect ourselves and we expect to be appreciated for our minds as well as our behinds.
Mac, your team is going to have to come up with a better way to raise cash. According to this Newshound, you’re barking up the wrong tree.
Chapter 4
I may share this space with someone else, but it appears to be the only thing we have in common. Unlike Newshound, Scoop is 110 percent behind the Dunfield Bootylicious Calendar. Mac Landis and his crew deserve props for creating such a useful and attractive fund-raising item.
A famous designer once said: “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” In my humble opinion, this calendar is both. I plan to refer to it often for information and inspiration.
Fortunately, instead of heeding Newshound’s alarmist cries to boycott, the women of Bootylicious listened to their hearts and put their butts on display for this very worthy cause. Ladies, your efforts were not in vain. I, for one, respect you more than ever.
As a media rep, I got an advance copy of Bootylicious and avoided the mob scene after the shipment arrived yesterday. Newshound’s early publicity meant that all 600 calendars sold out in minutes. For those of you who hate math as much as I do, that’s a whopping six G’s, and twice what the girls brought in at the bake sale. Hopefully, Mac’s dad can pull some strings for another rush print job.
Newshound called this project unoriginal, yet never in the history of Dunfield has there been such a calendar. Mac also showed ingenuity by covering production costs through auctioning off positions on the crew. Everyone except the models had to pay for the privilege of being involved. Apparently, the photographer blew his entire savings for the honor of shooting our Dunfield beauties and said it was worth every penny.
Only one thing could have improved this work of art: Mrs. Alvarez. Mac offered to make her the model for March in the next print run if she agrees to give the guys the bonus days at spring break. Think about it, Mrs. A.
I don’t want to use this space to run down the competition. It’s all for a good cause, right? The leader of the girls’ team knows this and graciously posed for July, which, in my opinion, has never been hotter. As Ms. Mendes says, “You have to put the kick in the campaign.”
Scoop can’t help but wonder if there’s more behind Newshound’s complaints—and her pen name—than she wants us to know. Would she be howling a different tune if she’d been asked to pose?
“He called me a dog,” I say, slapping the paper on the counter in front of Rachel and Izzy. “He called me a dog!”
“He didn’t call you a dog,” Rachel says. “He doesn’t even know who you are.”
The Bulletin came out yesterday afternoon, and I’ve read it at least ten times. My friends have already seen it too, but as soon as they arrive at Dan’s, I read it aloud anyway. “He thinks I’m jealous I didn’t get asked to be in that sexist piece of junk!”
“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you,” Izzy says, dunking a marshmallow into her hot chocolate with the tip of a fingernail. She examines the photo of Miss July that appears beside the article. “I suppose it would be nice to be asked. I mean, what’s Mariah got that I don’t?”
As far as I can tell, the only thing Izzy and Mariah have in common is their bra size. Izzy is cute in a quirky way, but what you tend to notice about her are the distractions—the bright makeup, the spiders stenciled on her nails, and her ever-changing hair color. Mariah, on the other hand, is beautiful from every angle, in any light, with or without makeup. And that’s what you notice.
“Izzy, do you really think it’s an honor to be asked for a butt shot by a bunch of pervy guys?” I ask. “What do you think they’re doing with this calendar in the privacy of their own rooms?”
Rachel drops her spoon into her coffee with a clatter. “Gross!”
“What’s gross?” Shirley asks, setting a plate of fries in front of each of my friends. She didn’t have to ask what they wanted; Izzy and Rachel visit me at work every weekend. They try to come when business is slow so that we can catch up in peace. Dan doesn’t mind, as long as I keep my customers happy.
I slide the paper toward Shirley. “Check out the picture.”
Shirley gives Mariah the once-over before scanning the article. “I was asked to do a bikini shot once—for an advertisement for snow tires.”
“And you said no because you didn’t want a bunch of greasy mechanics ogling you all day, right?” I ask.
“Oh, I did the ad.”
“But you regretted it?” I ask hopefully.
“Are you kidding? I’ve got it hanging it in my bedroom to remind me of how good I used to look.”
“It’s a great shot,” Dan says, coming out of the kitchen to join the conversation.
I sincerely hope that Shirley brought it in to show him. Otherwise, Dan has been in her bedroom, and if they’re that close, I don’t want to know about it.
Dan takes a look at Miss July and whistles. “That gal is practically naked.”
Mariah is wearing a short leather skirt, fishnets, and nothing else. She has her back to the camera, but is giving a coy half-turn and arching her back, porno style. Her left breast is partially blocked by a bouquet of red roses.
There’s a shout from across the room. “Did I hear the word ‘naked’?”
It’s Paz, and he’s surrounded, as usual, by the Truffle Gang. The factory’s staggered work week means that even weekends aren’t Donner-proof around here. Happily, the guys landed in Shirley’s section today. She waves The Bulletin at them, and in seconds we’re swarmed.
“Whoo-hoo!”
“I’d like to stop and smell those roses!”
“She’s hhhhhot.”
I snatch the newspaper out of Paz’s hand. “Toss me a rag, Dan, there’s drool on the counter.”
“Oh, come on, Shorty,” Paz says. “What does it hurt to look?”
It might hurt Grace that’s he’s leering
openly, but I’m not going to say so in front of all these people. Instead I close the newspaper. “Show’s over.”
“Luisa must be a feminist,” Gordo says. “We don’t like the F-word, do we, guys?”
“Why not?” I ask. “Are there too many letters in it for you?”
“See?” Paz shakes his head. “Fembos are harsh. No sense of humor.”
Rachel leaps to my defense. “Feminists believe in equal rights for both sexes, that’s all.”
“They’re bitter,” Gordo says, “because they can’t get a guy.”
“Or they don’t like guys,” Joey offers suggestively.
“So tell us, Shorty,” Paz says. “Are you a fembo?”
I can see where this is going. I’ll get all shrill and defensive, and the guys will act like I’ve proven their point. Better to take a different route. “I hear you’re a feminist, Paz. You’ve finally figured out how a washing machine works.”
The guys chuckle and shove Paz playfully as they migrate back to their table.
Joey reaches for the paper. “Can I take this?”
I pull it out of his reach. “No.”
“Buy the calendar,” Shirley says. “It’s for a good cause.”
“He can’t,” I say, glaring at Shirley. “It’s only available to Dunfield students.” I leave the “not dropouts” unsaid, but Joey knows what I mean.
Far from being offended, he grins. “We’ll find someone to hook us up. Since it’s for a good cause.”
He ambles back to the booth, and I start clearing the counter.
“You know, that guy would be cute if you took away the Donner uniform,” Rachel says, staring after Joey.
“Maybe,” I answer, shrugging. “But you can’t take away the Donner attitude. And a cute lost cause is still a lost cause.”
“Speaking of which,” Izzy says, “any progress between Paz and Grace?”
I shake my head. If anything, Grace is even more entrenched in her position that he’s a lazy bum and a lousy father. Unless one of them cracks soon, I might as well kiss my privacy good-bye forever.
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