The Rise and Fall of a 10th Grade Social Climber

by Lauren Mechling

  Underage in Undercroft

  A FEW DAYS LATER, AT TEN-THIRTY IN THE morning, I was crawling on the floor of the student lounge, where Her Royal Highness Pia Pazzolini had dispatched me to locate her cherry-colored suede shoulder bag.

  Five minutes earlier, I’d been leaning against the wall outside school telling my friends about the happy conclusion to my weekend with Myrtle when Pia interrupted me with a crisp “Hon, can you pop into the lounge and grab my bag?” Before I could assert my human rights, she mentioned a special surprise flask stashed inside it containing some very pricey vodka. She knew this would get me to act: I was by no means pining to get drunk so early in the day, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Pia. “It’s in the front, by the shabby blue couch,” she’d called after me. “Fetch it and meet us in the bathroom in five!”

  The lounge served as a Baldwinites’ official “hang-out space” (as Zora Blanchard put it), but only the lamest members of the community spent any time there. The whole room perpetually reeked of a week-old salami sandwich, and most of us entered it only in desperation, to stash or retrieve belongings. It was the communal closet of the high school, cluttered with textbooks, iPods, water bottles, old Kleenex packages, makeup bags, pencils, burned CDs, sneakers, anything and everything. One of Baldwin’s many unwritten rules was never to take anybody else’s stuff from the room. In return, you could trust that your own possessions would remain safe amid the mess.

  I was rustling through a pile of jackets and wadded-up sweatshirts when I spotted a piece of red poking out from behind a brown shopping bag. I nudged the bag to the side, pulling at it, but it resisted. Peering closer, I identified the red object as a pair of parachute pants, and then I saw that the pants were connected to an actual person. Before I could back away, the pile of jackets quivered and Sam’s tan quilted jacket shot out, followed by his face. The whole sequence reminded me of those fast-action films of tulips spurting from the earth.

  Sam snapped off his earmuff-size headphones, looking flustered and delighted and morbidly embarrassed all at once. We hadn’t spoken or even e-mailed since That Night. I know that after kissing somebody for the first time, you’re supposed to look forward to seeing him again, but not when it’s your best friend—trust me. If there was one person I did not want to look in the eye right then, Sam Geckman had to be him.

  “Uh, hey, I thought I might catch some Z’s in here. I haven’t been sleeping too well lately,” he said, and rubbed his eyes.

  I stood there, frozen, stomach somersaulting. If only I could find that bag.

  “So, uh, what’s been going on with you?” Sam asked.

  “Nothing much—just been busy, really busy lately.” I shrugged, and right then I caught sight of Pia’s bag near his ankle. “Would you mind passing me that bag, the red one, behind you?”

  “No problem,” he said.

  “Sweet dreams.” I took the bag from him, looking away as his fingers grazed my wrist, then mumbled an incomprehensible “thank you” and took off.

  I walked out of the lounge quickly, unnameable anxieties welling up inside me. Outside the lounge, the lobby was uncharacteristically noisy. A group of junior guys had set up bowling pins in the middle of the floor and were hurling soccer balls at them. “Strike!” one of them, a skinny green-haired guy, yelled. “Strikers Island!” his friend said. The two of them ran toward the same spot and smashed into each other, making a loud belly-flop sound in the process.

  The longer I’d been at Baldwin, the more I was beginning to believe that many of the students were normal people who just pretended to be otherwise during school hours. After only a few weeks, for example, I had no trouble picturing the green-haired bowler sitting down to dinner with his family, smoothing the napkin on his lap, saying “please” and “thank you” and chewing with his mouth closed.

  Rather than watch the bowling game unfold, I continued down the stairs to the Undercroft, where the nicest women’s bathroom in the school was tucked away. I found my friends huddled together inside the handicapped stall. I glanced from one face to another—Vivian with her smudged black eyes and ripped-up vintage Dead Milkmen concert T-shirt; Pia with her lip-curled, eye-rolling half-sneer and thick eyebrows; Jess with that porcelain skin and dark circles rimming her eyes; and Lily with her supersize hooded sweatshirt and hair that hadn’t been brushed in a week—and recalled the awe I had felt at Nona Del Nino’s party that night. These were the popular girls? Nope, I’m sure not in Kansas anymore, I thought happily, handing Pia her bag to kick off our midmorning cocktail party.

  “Here, everyone, take one,” Jess said as she distributed dainty cocktail napkins with the letters PHG monogrammed on the corners. “I took them from Preston’s parents’ bar when he wasn’t looking.” She giggled. “Someone gave them to Preston as a Christmas present—aren’t they adorable? I’ve never had anything monogrammed in my life.”

  “Oh, spare us,” Pia scoffed. “I’ve had my whole existence monogrammed, and believe me, the thrill wears off really fast.”

  Lily laughed. “Yeah, just ask my mom.”

  Only Vivian, lowering the toilet seat to sit, appreciated the decorative napkins. “These are priceless,” she said, laughing. As she smoothed the napkin over her lap, I noticed the black polish on her fingernails was chipping off into stripes. It looked beautiful somehow.

  Huddled in a circle, we passed the flask in one direction and the pint of orange juice in the opposite to enjoy our makeshift screwdrivers. So what if we only got about three sips of vodka each—it was the thought that counted.

  “So,” Vivian said, “did you all see what Gretchen wore to school today? The very same Liberty print Marni dress that Pia had on last spring.”

  As far as I could tell, Gretchen Foergeron’s greatest defining personality trait was her unlimited clothing budget, coupled with her total lack of creativity Pretty much everything she wore, someone more popular had worn the previous week. Still, Gretchen made no attempt to conceal her rip-offs and was always hassling Vivian about where she bought her shoes. Still, it scared me sometimes, how no one at Baldwin could do, say, wear, or even think anything without being scrutinized like an amoeba under the microscope in bio class.

  “What? Only a dumb-ass would pay a thousand dollars for an outfit like that!” Pia looked ready to hurl.

  “But didn’t you?” I asked. Pia glanced quickly at her feet as I went on: “Or I guess it doesn’t count when your parents pay for it, huh. You’re so lucky—my dad has the gayest taste ever. He considers the Wizard of Oz costumes totally high fashion. And my mom pretends that buying me clothes compromises my sense of ‘adult responsibility,’ but really it’s just because she’s queen cheap.”

  “My parents don’t buy me shit,” Pia said, her mouth twitching. “That would require sorting out their own lives long enough to think about mine.” She averted her eyes from mine, fixing them instead on the stainless-steel toilet-paper dispenser.

  “Pia—” Lily began warningly. Viv bulged her eyes at Jess.

  “Yeah, but having access to their credit cards must be the best!” I pursued. “Every time my friend Rachel got an A, her mom would let her go on a mini-spree at Neiman’s—”

  “Mimi, drop it,” Vivian warned.

  “What?”

  And then it happened: Pia’s face, usually pulled into that tight scowl, went limp and sad. Her voice, however, remained sharp. “Oh, you might as well tell her,” she said. “I mean, it’s not a big deal, I don’t do it on purpose or anything. And not that often, either. I just can’t . . . I don’t do it often at all, Vivian. Stop giving me that awful look!” A tear traced Pia’s cheekbone as she added, “I swear I don’t!”

  That was all she said, but it was enough. I already understood. A parade of Armani tops and Prada skirts and Tse cashmere turtlenecks flashed through my head, and it was suddenly totally obvious that Pia wasn’t just a lucky brat who dined on caviar and considered filing her own nails a summer job. Several memories floated to the
surface right then: Pia flaking out on our shopping trip last Sunday, my cutting off the price tag of her new sweater in the middle of assembly. Was it possible—was Pia not just a genius, but a shoplifter as well? I was still putting two and two together when Pia dissolved into tears and swiveled toward the toilet.

  No one knew what to say: We were all too stunned that our superconfident leader had lost control so suddenly.

  “It’s OK,” Lily braved after a long silence that was punctuated only by Pia’s weeping. “We’re all a little messed up, Pia. I don’t exactly have the most involved parents in the world, either—the only time I’ve ever seen my mother cook is in the television studio, and the only time she’s ever complimented me is in women’s magazines—and even then she doesn’t use my name. She just says, ‘my daughter.’ God, I’m like the biggest, bulkiest disappointment of all time.”

  “I’m not exactly un-messed-up myself,” Jess jumped in. “Over the past week, sex has really screwed things up between me and Preston. I mean, I know sex changes everything, but I didn’t think it would change everything this fast. We’re supposed to be in love, but lately I get the feeling that I embarrass him. And I found his cell phone and couldn’t help but notice that he and his ex-girlfriend Pamela are calling each other practically every night during Letterman.”

  “Did you tell him you saw?” I asked.

  “No, I decided to let it slide. But I can’t stand it when he acts like I’m asking him to walk on the moon when I invite him to Park Slope. He always makes the most pathetic excuses whenever I try to get him to hang out with my mom and me together. The worst was the other night, when he invited me to his parents’ dinner party and then totally ignored me—he didn’t even put up a fight when I left before dessert. I mean, he could’ve at least pretended. He said he was just tired, but I know for a fact that he went to a Dalton party later that night. I don’t know—I just feel really bad about the whole thing, like I’ve ruined it. Us.”

  “Really?” Pia, still tearful, scooted across the stall to hug Jess.

  “So it’s my turn, I guess,” Viv piped in. “Well, look, it’s not exactly a state secret, but”—her voice dipped to a barely audible volume—“I suck at school. Even little things that should be simple, like reading a short chapter.” She threw up her arms. “It can take me an hour just to get through a few pages. And it’s not the easiest thing in the world, being no Einstein when you’ve got an aggressive mother from the Philippines who was raised to think that there’s no greater offense than being a lousy student.”

  “You probably just need a personal trainer for a little bit,” I said. “My friend Rachel used to go to a tutor three times a week, and she’s almost as smart as Pia.” I shot Pia a guilty look. “You know what I mean.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t tried. I can’t even get a tutor to stay with me longer than a month,” Viv said. “I don’t even know if I’m going to pass World Civ this semester.”

  “Babe,” Pia jumped in, “if you ever need help with anything, I can try to help you out.”

  “I’m not going to ask you to waste your time on my sophomore course load,” Viv said. “I’m just going to have to give up hopes of getting into Harvard, even though Dad’s a legacy.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Pia, invigorated now that the spotlight was off her problems. “After school tomorrow, I have to go up town to Columbia to meet with my professor. You’re coming along so we can go over your World Civ work on the train. Afterward, we’ll go to Tom’s Diner and keep at it until it comes together. ’K? You’re very smart, Viv. Seriously. Being good at school is just a skill, like gardening . . . or eyebrow plucking.” She gave Viv an encouraging clap on the back. “So we’re on for tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” Viv said, slightly awestruck.

  Just as I’d always sort of suspected: Pia’s bitchy aristocratic act was mostly a cover-up. She was actually, dare I say it, a softie. “You guys are so cheesy,” I said.

  The air in the stall thickened as all eyes shifted to me. It was my turn to confess. But where to begin? With the Quinn fib? My sloppy first kiss ever with my best friend from childhood? The sob story of my parents’ breakup, the nagging suspicion that all my happy childhood memories were based on lies? Or, I’ve got it: What if I just announced that our whole friendship began with a bet?

  “Well . . .” I exhaled. “Sometimes, I get acne on my back.” Nobody spoke for an entire Chinese dynasty. I felt like the rottenest person on earth for denying my very good friends access to my intimate secrets and fears, but what choice did I have?

  “Let’s see,” Jess said finally. She pulled up my shirt to study the pink zit that had blossomed just south of my bra strap.

  “You should really do something about that,” Vivian said. Suddenly, I felt a throbbing sting. “Ouch!”

  “I just did something about it,” Pia said. “I have an amazing product you can borrow, but in the meantime, nothing beats the good old-fashioned pop.” She held up a pus-smeared square of toilet paper and smiled proudly.

  November 3

  6:45 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  This revelation has been a long time coming, but I’m afraid to say that Sam is no longer your faithful reader. I hope you’re not too disappointed: He lost that privilege when he felt me up. Looks like it’s just you and me, D. Anyway, not mucho to report. Headlines aren’t exactly ablaze. The race to Cooliedom has pretty much slowed to a crawl, as it seems I’ve reached the finish line before the final hour. I mean, I haven’t officially been given a trophy or signet ring or anything, but at this point it’s safe to say that I know more about these girls than their therapists. Pia’s a shoplifter, Jess’s a toxic love addict (pardon the Mom language!), Viv’s struggling not to fail out of a school that doesn’t even give grades—and Lily, well, Lily still dresses like a bag lady—an athletic bag lady. The funny thing is, Lily isn’t even good at sports. It’s nice, being the most normal person in a group. But I’m not sure that’s even the point. I never thought I’d find myself writing this, but I like these girls. They’re pretty cool. They sure are a million times better than Amanda and her crew. Having too many problems is a lot more interesting than having none at all. At least that’s what I was thinking when I ran into Amanda and Courtney outside of the subway this morning. Honestly, I have no idea how I thought those two were Coolies, even for an hour. Amanda was raving about a new low-carb breakfast bar she had discovered in an organic grocery store on the Cape a few weeks ago. Courtney was so excited that she went online and ordered an entire industrial-size crate of the apricot-almond treats. Yuck-o. Both she and Amanda were so busy trying to force-feed me that they didn’t seem to notice how I’d always rather start the day with a screwdriver than a reduced-calorie orange juice! There’s just one reason, to tell the truth, that I wish Sam and I were still friends: I would love, love, LOVE to see the look on his face when he finds out he’s lost the bet! I can just see him and Amanda, walking arm in arm toward the squash court, and later returning home to a delicious, zero-carb dinner by candlelight . . .

  X’s and O’s

  And 40 extra calories

  Mimi

  Hamptons Heaven

  “WELL, DUH, I NEVER SAID HE WAS A real celebrity, just the executive producer of the worst soap on TV.” Pia huffed. “And God, he scores the skankiest women in world history.” She passed me the binoculars so that I could see her next-door neighbor sunbathing.

  “Yeah, just imagine if he went prime time!” Lily laughed.

  “He does that thirty-minute soap opera, right? The one on right before the lunchtime news?” Jess asked. “So ghetto.” She had joined the gang’s Bridgehampton expedition at the last minute, when Preston canceled their usual Friday-night movie with some vague excuse about a mock Dartmouth interview with a junior associate at his dad’s firm. Coincidentally, there was a dance at Chapin, the all-girls school known for having two Seventeen models in its junior class alone. Jess had decided to take off for a
whole weekend—her version of “hard to get.”

  As for me, well, I couldn’t believe I had finally made the Bridgehampton cut—I felt as if I had truly arrived. When Pia invited me the previous Wednesday afternoon, I had determined not to get my hopes up—just in case. I packed only the bare essentials, to be as unpathetic as possible should something go wrong again. I showed up at school Friday with my unobtrusive backpack, and was hugely relieved when Pia told me that the limo would be picking us up at three sharp, so I’d better be ready. And was I ever—with good reason. Bridgehampton is total bliss, I thought, peering through the binocs and hoping they obscured my goofy grin.

  Across the equivalent of about twelve football fields—a huge lawn even by Texas standards—Pia’s googly-eyed neighbor, as squat and curvy as an owl, was lounging by the pool. He was wearing only a shiny black G-string, which was a lot more than I could say for his blonde companion. This weekend already promised to rank among the best of my life. “Wow.” I whistled. “I was never really sure what silicone looked like before. It sure, uh, stands at attention, doesn’t it?”

  “I know, can you believe it?” Pia hooted appreciatively. “But our executive producer friend won’t have it any other way. He likes female beauty to bounce like a basketball!”

  Lily let out a long sigh. “I’m bored,” she whined. “All we ever do here is spy on your neighbors. It’s worse than public-access cable.”

  “You’re right,” Pia said, just as the hired hoochie slipped on a single red spike heel and bunny-hopped on one leg toward her host, “but do you have any better ideas? It’s totally dead here—there isn’t a single party or even any lame barbecue all weekend. Guillermo says celebrity sightings have hit an all-time low. Like, nil.”