“Have you noticed—” I begin.
“That guys are staring at us?” Izzy finishes, linking arms with Rachel and me. “Of course they are, Lulu. We’re all-star hot.”
A DJ is grooving on a platform in front of a movie screen on which Mariah’s two seconds of fame on The Right Moves are playing in a continuous loop. In front of the screen, the real thing is gyrating through a series of choreographed moves with the Understudies. Down below, her fans try to follow along.
Like her namesake, Mariah is wearing short shorts, high heels, and a top that would qualify as a bra in my wardrobe. The Understudies are equally underdressed. Either the Dunfield dress code doesn’t apply after hours, or the teachers have decided to turn a blind eye because Mariah’s team is raking in so much money for the cause. Although Mariah delegates most of the work to her legions of fans, you have to give her credit for scoring one hit after another.
Jason is waiting for us by the locker room door, as promised. “You look amazing,” he tells Rachel, kissing her cheek. “And you guys, too. Very hot.”
My eyes meet Rachel’s, and she gives me a strained smile. We’re both thinking about what Scoop said about how guys’ minds work. Jason’s smile seems so sincere that I can’t believe he’s imagining anything tasteless.
I hope Jason turns out to be as nice as he seems, because Rachel is head over heels. The only hitch is that her parents still don’t know about him. While she’s hinted that she likes someone, they automatically assumed he’s Jewish, and so far she hasn’t enlightened them. Jason’s grandmother is only half Jewish, but Rach is banking on a few drops of the right blood being enough to win over her parents.
After Jason and Rachel leave to dance, Izzy and I circulate, pushing through the crowd.
“There are too many people here,” she complains. “We’ll never find Carson and Mac.”
“I already saw Mac. He was at the drinks table with his friends.”
Izzy looks at me as if my curls have gone limp. “And you didn’t say hi?”
“I don’t think he noticed me. I didn’t want to disturb him.”
“Uh, news flash: Every guy in this room is hoping to be disturbed by a cute girl. Let’s go back and see if he’s still there.”
“Later,” I say, but Izzy’s already changing course like a missile locking on target.
“Mac liked you as of this afternoon, but some cheerleader is probably sweeping him off his feet tonight. We don’t have forever to find the right guy, Lu. The pool will dry up in ten years, tops.”
“Ten? That’s crazy. Look at your aunt Alicia. She’s still dating.”
“Yeah, one jerk after another. And how about your mom? When’s the last time she had a date?”
Before she married my father, as far as I can tell.
Izzy takes my silence as victory. “All you have to do is ask him to dance.”
Like that’s a total breeze. “Why can’t I sort of lurk until he asks me?”
“Ten years, that’s why. Carp diem.”
“That’s car-pay diem. A carp is a fish.”
“You’re the writer, not me.”
Mac is still at the drinks table surrounded by seven or eight of his jock friends when we get there. Izzy gives me a little shove, but my feet are rooted to the floor.
“I can’t do it,” I whisper. “What if he says no?”
“He’s not going to say no. It’s just one dance.”
“One dance with Mac Landis,” I remind her. “Dunfield all-star.”
“The same guy who practically asked you out this afternoon.”
At this moment, Mac’s eyes happen to light on me. There’s a brief flicker of what appears to be admiration on his face, but the fact that he doesn’t crack a smile isn’t encouraging.
“If he’s interested he’ll walk over here and ask me,” I say.
“He’s probably saying the same thing to his friends right now. Maybe he’s shy. Just because he’s popular doesn’t mean it’s easy being Mac Landis.”
Easier than being one of the many Luisa Perezes, I’m sure. “He’s not shy. Look at how he behaves around Mariah.”
“That’s because he doesn’t respect her. You earned his respect by fighting him off at the planetarium and now he’s intimidated.”
I laugh. “You’re really stretching.”
“All I’m saying is, sometimes you have to help the process along.”
As she speaks she’s easing me ever closer to Mac. Giving me one last push, she whispers, “Good luck,” and races toward Carson, who has just arrived.
I’m practically standing among Mac’s posse, but no one acknowledges me. If I want to be noticed I am going to have to speak up. The question is, do I want to step out of the faceless ranks of the Luisa Perezes and put my pride on the line?
I should just ask Mac to dance. Yes, it’s a risk, but not a huge one. The guy showed up at my workplace twice in the space of a week. I’ve already spent hours talking to him. Besides, he’s just a guy, and if I’m even starting to consider a career in journalism I’ll have to get used to putting myself in uncomfortable situations.
It’s moments like these that define a person. I can complain about being invisible forever, or I can ask to be seen and perhaps change the course of my high school life.
Pulling my shoulders back, I straighten to my full, nearly normal height (thanks to Izzy’s heels), and do what any self-respecting, modern, intelligent woman would do.
I order a drink.
In the time it takes for the kid behind the table to hand me a soda and count out my change, the posse breaks apart, leaving Mac with just one other guy. Unfortunately, the guy is Morgan McGee—or Morgan the Moron, as he was known at Lincoln Elementary. Like Mac, Morgan eventually grew into sports prowess, and although his IQ didn’t change, the term Moron fell into disuse. I’ve never had much to do with him, but the deadly combination of size and stupidity makes me nervous.
Still, I am determined to make my move. Covering the few steps that separate Mac and me, I say, “Hi.”
Morgan is describing a move on the basketball court and doesn’t even pause.
“Hi,” I repeat, much louder.
Morgan turns to stare down at me. “What?”
I direct my full attention to Mac and ask, “Doyouwanttodance?” The words tumble out so fast they run together.
Morgan frowns. “Do we know her?”
With an almost imperceptible nod, Mac says, “The auction.”
“She must have got her money’s worth if she’s back for more,” Morgan says.
An explosion in my head prevents me from responding.
Mac says, “Look, uh… I don’t dance,” he says, his voice completely and utterly flat. “Ever.”
“Oh. Okay. No problem.” I’m surprised to see that he already appears farther away when I didn’t feel my feet move.
“You got your date,” Morgan calls after me. “Don’t be greedy.”
I turn to make my getaway, and someone sideswipes me.
“Watch where you’re going, Coconut,” Mariah says. She pushes past me to slide her arm around Mac’s waist. “I need you.”
He drops his arm over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s that geek from the auction,” she says, pouting. “He won’t leave me alone.”
Morgan points to me. “Mac’s having the same problem.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Coconut,” Mariah says. You can’t possibly think—”
Mac cuts her off. “Where’s the geek?”
Behind us, someone calls her name. It’s Curtis, and he’s wearing the baseball cap with the hidden camera. “You owe me a dance,” he reminds Mariah. “I rigged up the sound system like you asked and dubbed fifty copies of your demo reel.”
Mariah gives him a strained smile. “I appreciated your support, Kermit, but remember, it’s not personal. It’s all for the Literacy Challenge.”
“You said you’d dance with me,” he repeats stubbor
nly.
“And I will,” she says. “But Mac asked me first, so I’ll have to catch up with you later.”
Mac follows her to the dance floor, and the guy who doesn’t dance—ever—is soon draped over her with his hands on her butt.
Now I know what happens when you ask to be noticed: humiliation. No wonder Mac seeks me out at the diner instead of just chatting with me at Dunfield: he’s ashamed to be seen with me. Among his people, he needs to be with the right type of girl, and I clearly don’t qualify. I feel like crying, but I won’t. Not now, anyway.
“Would you like to dance?” Curtis asks, peering at me through dirty glasses.
“No thank you,” I say. “I’m actually leaving as soon as I find my friends.”
“You have time for one dance,” he says, obviously less deterred by rejection than I am. Without waiting for a response, he starts jerking spasmodically on the spot. His arms are white and rubbery, and his eyes half closed as he blisses out on the music.
We are not on the dance floor. We are yards from the dance floor. We are surrounded by a crowd—a crowd that is parting to watch the show.
“I’m sorry,” I say, starting to walk away. “I really have to go.”
In a flash, Curtis circles me and starts flailing again. “Just one dance.”
I dart the other way, but he cuts me off. He is dancing at me. It’s a weird sort of assault. All I can do is stand there and watch, speechless with embarrassment. Taking this as encouragement, Curtis bucks his hips in my direction.
All eyes are on us. In the distance, Mariah is leaning on Mac, laughing as she watches the show. Beside me, Morgan’s guffaw shakes the drinks table.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I vow to myself that if I make it out of this with a shred of dignity, I will never again ask to be noticed.
Someone takes my hand and squeezes. “Dance with me?”
I glance up to find Tyler Milano at my side. Even as I’m choking out a “Yes,” he is towing me onto the dance floor, away from the writhing Curtis. Once the crowd closes behind us, he turns.
“Thank you so much,” I say. “You really are a superhero.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “I like to dance.”
He’s good at it, too. Much better than I am, especially when hobbled by humiliation and footwear a size too large. “I owe you, Tyler.”
“You do,” he agrees. “Because of you, half the Dunfield population is under the impression that I date guys.”
“Untrue. The guy who won your tickets sent out a news release confirming his heterosexuality.”
“You know how it goes: the more you protest, the guiltier you look. Not that there’s anything wrong with dating guys. If you actually like guys.”
“I know how to make it up to you,” I say. “I’ll set you up with a nice girl.”
“Not just a nice girl—a hot girl.”
I laugh. “Okay, a hot girl.”
“Given how humiliated I was, I think you’re going to have to make that two hot girls—at the same time.”
“Dream on,” I say. “I will set up a date with one hot girl and make sure she gets the word out about how great you are.”
“Deal,” Tyler says. “On one condition: the hot girl has to be you.”
I spin happily under the disco ball, relieved to have gotten my priorities in order before it’s too late. The all-star has nothing on Mr. Fantastic.
Rachel, Izzy, and I debrief on the way home, wedged in the back of Izzy’s dad’s old hatchback. He likes to have his toolbox beside him on the passenger seat at all times since the car breaks down often.
I act out all the parts of Mac, Curtis, and Tyler, to a mixed reaction of sympathy, disgust, and satisfaction.
“I’m so glad you’ve got another chance with Tyler,” Rachel says, her hopes of double-dating reigniting.
“I am too, but I still worry he might be Scoop.” Lowering my voice, I describe how he mentioned an interest in a threesome. “Plus, he was wearing a Strokes T-shirt. He was at the concert last week.”
“Tyler and thousands of other people,” Rachel says.
“He’s too nice to be Scoop,” Izzy says.
I turn to glare at the side of her head. “Your opinions on guys aren’t very reliable.”
She sighs. “I’m sorry about encouraging you to ask Mac to dance. I honestly thought he’d say yes. But at least it saved you from wasting another thought on him. Tyler’s the better man.”
“Not if he’s Scoop.”
“Every guy you meet can’t be Scoop,” Rachel says. “Anyway, it’s just a column. Scoop is trying to get a rise out of readers.”
“Just like you are,” Izzy adds slyly.
“I am not! I believe what I write.”
“Your views are more extreme in print, though,” Rachel says. “You’re pretty critical of guys.”
“What’s happened to you?” I ask. “You totally backed me before.”
“We love your column,” Rachel says. “I’m just saying it’s possible that Scoop is exaggerating his views to create a persona.”
Since when is Rachel the type to drop terms like “persona” into casual conversation? She doesn’t even like English. Obviously she has allowed herself to be swayed by Jason’s views. And Izzy, who ended up dancing for a full hour with Carson, is no better. They have succumbed to pheromones.
One day, when their heads have cleared, they’ll look back on my columns and realize I was more than fair to the guys at this school.
In the meantime, I give them the silent treatment to punish them for their lack of support. They’re so busy comparing notes about their guys, however, that they don’t even notice.
Chapter 9
If you’re one of the few students who didn’t make it to the Dunfield Groove last Friday night, you missed the event of the Literacy Season to date. The dance put the girls’ team so far in front of the guys’ that they’ll need binoculars to enjoy what Scoop so eloquently called “the view from behind.”
Although the guys’ performance has been lackluster of late, the girls have more than compensated, and as a result, school board officials just announced that Colonel Dunfield has reached the number four position in the Literacy Challenge. (If exclamation marks weren’t the crutch of the amateur, I’d add a row of them here.)
This marks the first time Dunfield has ranked in the fourth place citywide for anything other than arrests and false fire alarms. Oh, right, and one basketball tournament.
There’s no time to rest on our laurels, though, because we’re still lagging behind Turnbull Academy and Warwick Central. As anyone who watches the local news knows, Warwick’s fund skyrocketed last week after a group of renegade cheerleaders kidnapped the principal and staged a fund-raising treasure hunt to locate him. That’s the sort of creativity that wins competitions. (Note to Buzzkill: better watch your back.)
Here at Dunfield, we need to unite. If you want to sleep till noon when every other Chicago high school student is in class next January, you need to get involved and stay involved. That means supporting every event—even if the guys’ attempts are woefully unoriginal.
In Newshound’s humble opinion, the success of the girls’ events has everything to do with communication—the very thing Scoop dismisses. If I learned one thing in biology last year, it’s that communication defines us as a species. Yet Scoop is advising his Dunfield brethren to ignore thousands of years of evolutionary progress and stop talking now. Obviously it takes a certain amount of effort and brain power to communicate effectively. Maybe Scoop doesn’t think guys are up to the challenge?
They certainly don’t appear to be up to the challenge of making their fund-raisers appealing to the entire student population. While Golfing for Greenbacks raised some good coin, the guys could do better if they organized events that appealed to more than half the school’s population.
When it comes right down to it, Dunfield guys are only interested in impressing each other. They pretend to be interested
in us, but the only opinion they really value is that of their buddies. Guys crushing on guys, that’s the story.
The Literacy Challenge has been a real eye-opener for a lot of women in this school. We’ve discovered that the top-ranking primates in Dunfield’s male hierarchy are too scared of losing status to step out of their comfort zones.
Get a spine, guys, and you may just get a life.
Mr. Sparling looks up from my draft and stares at me. “Are you sure you want to say that all guys are spineless?”
“I didn’t say they’re all spineless.”
“Just Dunfield guys.” He leans back in his chair. “That might make Newshound rather unpopular.”
No more unpopular than Lu Perez, a girl who guys like Mac Landis are too ashamed to acknowledge within the walls of Dunfield. As I see it, I don’t have much to lose.
“It’s not a popularity contest, right?” I ask. Over the past few weeks I’ve become more comfortable speaking my mind to Mr. Sparling—the editor, if not the teacher. “A columnist can’t afford to worry about what people think of her. That’s why you wanted us to be anonymous.”
“I didn’t tell you to alienate a whole gender.”
His gender. I bet he isn’t complaining to Scoop, whose words are even more inflammatory. “You wanted us to feel free to express our feelings, so I am. I can’t believe you’re going to start censoring me now.”
Mr. Sparling’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. I suppose no English teacher wants to be accused of squelching free speech, but columnists have to push buttons sometimes—it’s part of the game. I know this because I’ve been researching some of the columnists he recommended. Whether they’re writing humor pieces, or about sports, or politics, they all seem to push buttons. They have strong opinions. They say what other people would say if they only had the guts. Writers don’t get offered a prime chunk of newspaper real estate for being wishy-washy.
“No one is censoring your opinions,” he says. “But Mrs. Alvarez is concerned that ‘The Word’ is drifting from the Literacy Challenge.”
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