Spencer raised his hand as if he were in class. “¿Dónde está la biblioteca?”
“You guys are such arithmophobes.” If only more people could see the beauty of mathematics, the endless possibilities of its application to our everyday lives, I swear calculus would be the most popular class in high school. “It’s simple.”
Spencer slouched on the arm of the sofa. “Liar.”
I sketched axis lines on the page and then drew a curve through them, roughly coloring in the space below. “This is happiness, defined by the points f and s, i.e., the four years we spend in high school. In order to maximize the amount of happiness—um, that’s this shaded space below the curve—we need to raise the line, increasing its area.”
Gabe leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How?”
I bit my lip. This was the hard part. “We need to establish new roles at school.”
Spencer shook his head. “Impossible. Those dickheads aren’t going to wake up tomorrow and think of us as totally different people.”
“Why not? I mean, people change who they are all the time.” I pointed at Gabe. “Remember that guy in your US history class sophomore year? The one with the weird growth on his face?”
“Lyle Kontos,” he said. “He had that thing lanced off and suddenly he was God’s gift to chicks.”
“Exactly. He’d been shy, kinda quiet before, and then he came back from summer vacation a completely different person.”
“Bea, the guy had corrective surgery.” Spencer walked over to the minifridge beside the sink and grabbed a bottle of Perrier. “It’s not like he just woke up one day and decided he was going to be a different person.”
“Didn’t he, though? I mean, simply removing a giant boil didn’t transform him from a wallflower to a playboy. He had to make a conscious decision to change.”
“You’re right.” Gabe scooted forward to the edge of the sofa, and I could see by the lightness in his eyes that he was excited by this idea. “So what do we do? What roles could possibly make the three of us socially acceptable?”
“This morning when you were joking about how Spencer should play up the gay thing. Could you do that again?”
Gabe stared at me blankly. “Do what?”
“You know, the voice, the hand gesture . . .” How was I supposed to explain?
“She wants you to flame on, Johnny Storm,” Spencer prompted.
I cringed. It sounded gross when Spencer put it like that. “Er, yeah.”
“Okay.” Gabe straightened up, cracked his neck, and shook out his hands like a boxer preparing for the first round, then lowered his chin and smiled wickedly. “Sweetie,” he said, “that color is absolutely divine on you. Makes you look ten years younger, like a Botox-Kybella cocktail.” He pursed his lips for an air kiss, held the pose for a moment, then dropped the act. “Like that?”
Spencer leaned back against the sink, sipping his Perrier. “A piece of me just died inside.”
“You and me both,” Gabe said. “I think I just lost my gay card for that.”
While I shared their aversion to a derogatory portrayal of flamboyant homosexuality, it could be Gabe’s ticket to safety at Fullerton Hills. “Do you still have the bow tie and suspenders from when you went as the Eleventh Doctor for Halloween last year?”
Gabe jutted out his chin, as if the mere suggestion that he would have discarded his beloved Doctor Who cosplay garb was an insult to his nerd cred. “Of course.”
“Excellent.” Now I just needed to deal with Spencer. I stood up, eyeing him closely as he continued to lean back against the sink. He’d always had a disheveled, unkempt air to his style, but now his hair was bleached from the hot European sun, and it had the shape of an actual haircut—close cropped in the back but longish in the front, sweeping over his eyes. Even his clothes looked more sophisticated than they had a few months ago. He was still in his usual uniform of black jeans and a button-down shirt, but the jeans were crisp and tailored, the shirt slim-fitted with a scroll of embroidery across the chest.
He looked cool and edgy, like the artist he was.
And how do you make an artist socially acceptable in a typical American high school?
You make him paint something people want to see.
“Spencer, haven’t you always wanted to do portraiture?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Maybe.”
“What if you offered to paint some of your fellow Fullerton Hills Honchos?”
“Slow down, Machiavelli.” Spencer held his hands up before him. “I don’t want any part of this little makeover.”
“I’m not trying to make you over,” I said, which was almost entirely true. “But do you remember last year when Milo and Thad cornered you in the locker room after you’d stood up for Gabe?”
Spencer couldn’t meet my eyes. “I remember the choke hold.”
“I know I’ve told you this a thousand times,” Gabe said, “but I really am sorry I called Thad a ‘nad knocker.’”
“If Coach Summers hadn’t walked in,” I continued, “who knows what would have happened.”
Spencer’s bright blue eyes (how had I never noticed they were that blue before?) turned to me. His face was pinched, practically pained, his eyebrows drawn together in silent pleading.
“I don’t want to change who I am,” he said, “because of them. Then they win.”
I joined him at the sink. “I don’t want to change who you are either. I like you. I like us. But we need to think of this like the ultimate Fuck you to Milo, Thad, and the rest of those assholes who have made high school a living hell.”
Gabe shifted on the sofa and the ancient coils groaned in protest. “You mean like going undercover?”
I spun around. “Yes! You could write an article about your experience—infiltrate the popular crowd, change them from within. This is the perfect opportunity to make Fullerton Hills a more tolerant place.” I smiled wickedly. “And don’t you think the Orange County Register would go nuts over an article like that?”
Gabe’s eyes grew glassy. “I can see the headline now: ‘Nerdy Queer to Fashionably Fey—My Journey from Outcast to A-list.’”
“Brilliant.” I turned back to Spencer. “My formula gives you a chance to add portraiture to your portfolio and keeps Milo and Thad off your back. Wouldn’t that be worth it?”
Spencer looked skeptical. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain MIT scholarship, would it?”
I caught my breath. “I hadn’t even thought of that.” He was right, though. This formula I’d come up with . . . It was exactly the kind of everyday application of mathematics MIT was looking for. If it worked, if we actually pulled this off, it could mean more than just our security at high school. It could literally mean my future.
“Sounds like a no-brainer to me,” Gabe said.
“Just hear me out,” I said to Spencer. “If you hate my plan, you’re free to continue on your path toward an ass kicking.”
He took one last chug of his Perrier, then banged the empty bottle loudly against the counter. “Fine. I’m listening.”
I hugged him, pressing my face against his chest.
“But only because you asked me to,” he said.
I pulled away as my stomach tightened, once again feeling vaguely uncomfortable for reasons I couldn’t quite define.
“Okay, yay!” Gabe said with over-the-top enthusiasm, shooting his hands into the air like a cheerleader. “Go, team!” Then he folded his arms across his chest. “Now what?”
“Gather ’round, kids,” I said, pulling a chair up to the coffee table. “We’ve got work to do.”
SEVEN
WE MET IN Spencer’s studio bright and early the next morning for one last strategy session before we unleashed our new personae on Fullerton Hills. It was a bold move we were about to make, and everything had to be just right. I’d outlined our new roles, including the most minute details of wardrobe, attitude, vocabulary, even the way we carried ourselves. The more I thou
ght about the Formula, the more I was convinced it was going to work.
(1) Find the niche.
(2) Play the role.
(3) Fill the void.
GABE
(1) Find the niche: The article on Coach Summers aside, Gabe’s issues with the jocktocracy at Fullerton Hills had nothing to do with his homosexuality (I doubt Milo and Thad even knew he was gay) and everything to do with the fact that he was an attention-seeking smart-ass who didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut. Of course, I liked that attention-seeking smart-ass, but we needed to find a way to make his one-liners and subtle cutdowns more socially appropriate. Embraced, even. How? Keep the snark, and add a dose of gay stereotype.
(2) Play the role: Instead of baggy cargo shorts and flannel shirts, Gabe’s new wardrobe was colorfully nerd chic with a hint of retro flamboyant. He wore a slim-fitting blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up crisply so they hit just above his elbows. The collar was buttoned to the neck and affixed with a burgundy clip-on bow tie. His blue jeans were also tightly fitted, cuffed at the ankle to reveal a pair of white loafers he’d borrowed from his mom, and instead of a belt he wore a pair of dark blue suspenders. He had also slicked his usually messy hair up into a tightly coiffed pompadour with a pair of white heart-shaped sunglasses perched gingerly on top.
(3) Fill the void: Fullerton Hills lacked an outspoken gay best friend. Gabe would be the cool, hip new thing, a fabulous accessory to Cassilyn’s clique, and she and her fashion-conscious friends should fall all over themselves to befriend him. Popularity was all about trendsetting, and Gabe would be the hottest trend of all.
And he’d get something out of it too. This would be the ultimate test of his journalistic prowess—a full-immersion undercover assignment, the opportunity to view high school social hierarchy from the top down and dissect how something as simple as changing one’s appearance and attitude could affect their role within it. That’s the kind of article that the Orange County Register would pounce on.
SPENCER
(1) Find the niche: Fullerton Hills High School lacked a resident artiste. So we’d give them one.
(2) Play the role: Instead of trying to hide Spencer’s predilection for painting and drawing, we’d highlight it. He already had the clothes, and his newly acquired Euro-cool attitude. We just had to put them to good use.
(3) Fill the void: How does an artist gain cachet in the typical American high school? From the top down. In the case of our sport-crazed campus, Spencer was going to offer up his painting skills in the name of school spirit, creating portraits of Fullerton Hills’ fastest, strongest, and most skilled athletes—the very douche bags who wanted to kick his ass. The jocktocracy would love seeing themselves immortalized on canvas, and though, as Spencer whined last night via text, painting sportsball portraits was going to destroy his soul, he would be honing his portraiture skills in the process.
Spencer may have been loath to admit it, but he needed this push. Despite some amazing feedback from a few gallery owners downtown, Spencer had very little confidence in his art. Which was why he hated letting his friends see any of it. Doing portraits for the A-list would force him to be more public about his art and boost his confidence while simultaneously bulking up his portfolio. If he was going to apply to art schools for next year, he was going to need both.
BEATRICE
(1) Find the niche: Gabe had told me a million times that if I just agreed to nurse the mean girls through algebra, I wouldn’t be such an outcast. Even Jesse had realized that if I embraced this as my “thing,” I’d have a surefire way to fit in. I’d been fighting against the label of Math Girl since freshman year, but maybe it was time to own it.
(2) Play the role: I had the easiest transformation. I was already a know-it-all math genius. Didn’t really need to change anything there. The hardest part for me would be actually talking to my new client base without disdain radiating from every pore. Maybe not so easy after all.
(3) Fill the void: All I had to do was swallow my pride and offer my services as a math tutor. Free of charge. They might not like or accept me, but they definitely needed me. And as with Gabe and Spencer, it wasn’t like I’d get nothing out of the experience. Spencer’s comment about the MIT scholarship had lit a fuse. The Formula was the perfect research: mathematics and information theory applied to everyday life. I could chronicle how the Formula worked for us, and present a surefire proof of my equation. “Math Girl” may have made me cringe, but it was going to be my ticket to MIT.
I smiled at my friends, standing before me in their new skins. Even the combative glint in Spencer’s eyes was somehow perfectly in character. This was totally going to work.
“This isn’t going to work,” Spencer said.
“Of course it will,” I snapped.
“I look like an eighties gay stereotype on glitter rainbow crack,” Gabe said.
“You look fabulous,” I said. “Now, did you come up with a catchphrase like we discussed?” Based on my research, a catchphrase was of vital importance to any over-the-top character.
“Yeah, how’s this?” Gabe fanned his hands on either side of his face like Judy Garland in A Star Is Born. “Zoopa!” He dropped his hands to explain. “It’s like ‘super’ with a highly affected German accent.”
I gave him a thumbs-up. “And what are you going to say when you see Cassilyn in the halls today?”
Gabe took a deep breath. “Oh em gee, Cassilyn! I’m so glad you went with the Michael Kors over the Tory Burch! That bitch is so last spring.”
It was disturbingly perfect.
Spencer was also impeccably in character. He’d followed my instructions and put together the most emotastic outfit possible. Black boot-cut jeans over a pair of heavily buckled motorcycle boots. On top, a black V-neck T-shirt and a distressed pin-striped jacket, and even though he stood before me with his hands shoved into his pockets, trying with all his might to throw me some shade, he still looked like the epitome of a brooding, mysterious artist.
As for me, I hadn’t changed much. I’d pulled my long wavy hair into a high ponytail, and instead of my contacts, I’d fished an old pair of cat-eye glasses out of a drawer. I certainly looked like a nerdy Math Girl, which, let’s face it, wasn’t that much of a stretch.
“I don’t like this,” Spencer said for like the fortieth time that day.
“I don’t like it either,” I said. Which was partially true. I wasn’t much of a fashionista, but I cringed at the idea of Jesse seeing me in all my nerd glory. “But we have to focus on the positives. Gabe gets his article. You get a portfolio. I get a scholarship. And we all get a break from the daily bullying.”
“Dahlings.” Gabe sailed forward and whisked his shoulder bag off the floor with a ballerina’s grace. “Let’s go show Fullerton Hills what we’re made of.”
EIGHT
GABE PUSHED OPEN the double doors at the front entrance of Fullerton Hills High School and strode into the two-story foyer. “I just love the smell of freshman boys in the morning.” His voice, higher-pitched than usual, pinged off the tile floor and vaulted ceiling.
Gabe might not have had any formal theater training, but his flair for the dramatic meant he was perfectly suited for this new persona, and he’d thrown himself into the role like it was the ultimate LARPing experience.
“Freshman boys are hardly your type.”
He grazed his chin with his forefinger, supporting his elbow with the opposite hand. “Touché.”
I glanced around the foyer, looking for Jesse. I’d texted him last night and asked him to meet us there before class so the sight of me all dorked out wouldn’t be a horrifying surprise at lunch, but he hadn’t responded, and was nowhere in sight. Which sucked. I was dying to explain the Formula and how it would change everything for us at school.
But though Jesse wasn’t there to see it, our entrance had definitely turned some heads. I could feel the subtle shift in the energy of the foyer. People were whispering, pointing fingers, staring
. It was working. We were making a splash.
Then a doughy face emerged from the thickening crowd.
“What’s this?” Kurt Heinzmueller asked, examining Gabe up and down. “Dress-up day? Did I miss the memo?”
Gabe didn’t drop his pose, just his voice. “Trying something new,” he said softly.
Kurt laughed. “I’ll say. Where the hell did you find these clothes?”
“Not now, Kurt,” Gabe said out of the corner of his mouth.
“What do you mean, ‘not now’? You don’t want to talk to me in front of your friends?”
He was going to ruin everything. “Kurt,” I said, drawing him aside. “Gabe’s just conducting an experiment on social acceptance. For a new article he’s working on.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. “And you’re going to blow his cover.”
Kurt tilted his head to the side. “His cover in the gay mafia?”
With that, Gabe broke character. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said, his affected attitude gone. “Okay?”
Kurt stared at him for a moment. “Whatever.” Then he bounded across the foyer and disappeared down the hall.
The whispering and finger pointing doubled, only instead of excited curiosity, I sensed derision and ridicule in the attention. Had I miscalculated somehow?
“This isn’t working,” Spencer whispered in my ear. “What do we do?”
“Maybe we should just head to class,” I suggested, “and try this again later.”
“Screw that,” Gabe said, then he swung around and started blowing kisses toward the balcony above us. “Dahlings!”
I froze as the four most popular girls in school descended the stairs to the foyer.
Esmeralda Juarez led the way. The daughter of Fullerton’s deputy mayor, she looked like a twenty-five-year-old Playboy centerfold. Flawless brown skin—darker than my own but with a radiance that meant she either was a master of bronzer or had a megawatt bulb lighting her from within—doe-like eyes, and enormous boobs that seemed to hang suspended from her chest without any sign of adequate support.
I'm Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl Page 4
