I remembered a saying my social studies teacher told my class once: May you live in interesting times. The meaning seemed a little deeper when he said it actually was a Chinese curse. I didn’t understand why then, but I kinda did now. Even when your life sucks, some stability and predictability is … hell, I don’t know … comforting, I guess. My times were definitely interesting, but they sure as shit weren’t comforting.
My stomach hurt. I’d been lying on the bed for hours, totally spent but also wide awake. And Mom was calling me downstairs for dinner.
“Just us again?” I asked, sliding my roast beef around the plate like it was a ship at sea. My mashed potatoes sorta looked like an iceberg, and I found myself re-creating the Titanic disaster. It’s okay, Leo. You can grab on to the peas until the rescue boats arrive.
“I think we’re just going to have to get used to it, honey,” Mom said. “I’ve gone from cooking for four to cooking for two. We’re going to have to get a dog before we both gain fifty pounds. But then, you’re doing fine in that department.”
“Yeah,” I said, barely listening, killing rich seafarers with every slide of my fork.
“Especially if you don’t eat any of your dinner,” Mom said.
“Yeah.”
I didn’t really catch the next few things she said, having totally tuned out, the million things going on at school zipping through my stressed-out bean. I just heard the dink-dink-dink sound like someone was making a toast, and my mom yelling at me: “Hailey!”
“Huh?” I said, looking up, noticing the dink-dink-dink again, and looking down. I was making the sound. My hand was shaking so hard that it kept clanging the fork against the plate. Peas and potatoes were everywhere. Too late for the lifeboats.
“Whoa,” I said, putting down my fork. “Sorry, Mom. Can I be excused?”
“Hailey, you should eat something. You’re too skinny these days as it is.”
“Yeah,” I said, ignoring her point and heading upstairs. Do people get ulcers in high school? Will I be the first?
That night, I decided to email Noel. Our communications had been sporadic at best since she left—a brief email here, a text there. When she and Mom would talk on the phone, I’d invariably be called over to “say hi to your sister”—whether either of us wanted to or not. We’d exchange small talk for a minute or two, tops, before finding an excuse to jump off.
Which was all sort of weird, I realized, given that I was using Noel’s journal to totally reinvent my life. But that was different. Noel’s journal didn’t even sound like Noel, exactly. It’s like seeing a movie star on the street. He’s one guy when he’s kicking the ass of an invading alien force with all the CGI and the soaring orchestra and all that, but then you see him coming out of Whole Foods wearing a ball cap and an ill-fitting sweatshirt, and he’s just some dude.
I started writing Noel an email. It was weird, because we’ve never been given to heart to hearts. I almost scrapped it, like, five times, but that’s Old Hailey behavior, right? So I toughed it out and put it all out there. I didn’t mention How to Be a Hater, of course—that might piss off Noel enough to come home and beat me to death with the journal—but I told her how tough school was, all the haters and all the crap. How the few friends I’d made (following an incredibly brief and self-destructive flirtation with the popular crowd) were as invisible as I was. Everything up until today. I laid it all out and hit send.
Now I was more exhausted than ever. My stomach still hurt. I was all stressed out. But I felt strangely better for getting that off my chest. When would Noel answer? Tonight? Tomorrow? Maybe Noel would have some really good ideas! Those are all through her journal, after all. Maybe this would kick off the start of a closer relationship with my sister. She could start telling me all about her college adventures, I could go to her for advice on boys, we could be a team for once, dealing with the haters and the bitches and the—
Plink!
There was a sound I know by heart. It was my computer notifying me there was a new email in my inbox. It was a reply to my email to Noel.
Huh? That was fast. I had just sent it, like, five minutes ago. Even assuming Noel pulled it up and replied immediately, what could she write that fast?
Before I opened it, visions of various possible replies ran through my head:
Dear Hailey:
Fuck off.
Dear Hailey: You’re adopted.
So we’re not actually sisters.
Also, fuck off.
Dear Shithead:
You don’t even deserve a response, but I wanted to respond just so you’d know that you don’t deserve a response.
P.S. You’re adopted.
P.P.S. I meant to mention this earlier, but fuck off.
Have you ever been afraid of opening an email? I mean, how pathetic is that?
I took a deep breath and opened her actual reply.
It wasn’t anywhere near as bad as those examples … but it also wasn’t what you’d call good. It didn’t even start with a Dear Hailey or Hey Sis or anything.
It just said:
Sorry youre having tough time. High school sucks, but could be worse. You have no idea. Talk to mom & dad. Theyll help. Gotta run. Well catch up.—N
I spent the next hour trying to parse out the meaning of twenty-eight words. I stared at my monitor so long my eyes ached. And after all that careful analysis, my well-considered conclusion was this:
WHAT THE FUCK?
I write three full pages telling Noel everything (well, almost everything) going on in my life, and this is the bullshit I get back? Something she banged out on her phone in thirty seconds? Noel’s a good writer—even in her journal, something she wrote just for herself, there’s barely a spelling or punctuation mistake in there. Now she can’t even spend an extra second to send me something with apostrophes?
As bad as the possible responses were I had in my head, they at least indicated she gave a shit about me one way or the other. But this? I’ve written unsubscribe-me-from-your-list emails with more emotion.
I plopped down on my bed, and the next thing I knew, I was crying. Not crying like blubbering and choking and snot all running from my nose, but crying like you just feel tears running down your cheeks from out of nowhere, like something says, You need to let this out whether you want to or not.
It wasn’t just the letter. It was everything. It was the stress, the haters, the pressure to do something great with Abby Invisible, to stay in shape, to look good enough every second I was at school so the haters wouldn’t have an opening. So, so much pressure. And Journal Noel has helped me navigate it a little, but Real-Life Noel couldn’t care less about me.
I lay down and eventually faded into sleep, with this thought running through my head:
I definitely live in interesting times.
This is what you get when you mess with us.
—RADIOHEAD
“Karma Police”
CHAPTER
10
Much like frozen yogurt—and just as sweet—revenge is a dish best served cold. So the Invisibles decided to meet and plot world domination—or, at the very least, some divine humbling for those bitches—at Pinkberry.
It had been three days since I got the blow-off email from Noel, which still annoyed me, but I’d calmed down about it. I’m sure she’s just busy. Maybe she didn’t understand how much the move and this new school were kicking my ass. Maybe I’m not so good with words; I should have drawn her a comic strip!
Anyway, I decided not to get so down about it, especially since I had bigger fish to fry—pun intended. It had also been three days since the fish incident, which Anya almost immediately began referring to as the “Fishcident,” and the rest of the Invisibles followed suit.
The lone holdout (at first), me. I was a little hurt Anya was making light of an incident that actually was a bit traumatic, but Anya set me straight:
“Look, Hailes, we’re all about taking ownership of our situation, right? That’s
why we call ourselves the Invisibles—because we’re ‘invisible’ to the so-called popular crowd. We’re going to own that shit. So Skyler and her scum squad turned your locker into a scene from a Saw movie? So they’re so screwed up they think gay jokes are funny? They think we’re going to get embarrassed just because they like to pose Barbie dolls together, you know, something most people grow out of when they turn seven? Screw that. We’re not going to run scared.”
She was totally right. “And we’re gonna turn it back on them,” I said.
“Damn straight,” she added.
“Or not,” I said. “We can hold hands in the hallways.”
“Oh, you know it,” she replied, sporting the most wonderfully evil grin.
I wasn’t going to even mention the Fishcident to a teacher or any other adult, but word got around quickly, largely because the stink tracked into several nearby classrooms. I ended up in front of the dean of students, who was pretty riled up over both a locker getting burglarized and the fact that two janitors and five gallons of bleach still didn’t completely kill the smell.
She pressed me to tell her of anyone I suspected of the offense, but I played dumb. It’s not like you can dust fish guts for fingerprints, and the school was replacing the replaceable contents of my locker (and my lock) already.
Plus, we already had our own plans to exact some justice.
As far as our revenge plans were concerned, we’d decided on Pinkberry between third and fourth period, and sixth period, all of the players knew where to go. Why? Because Invisibles don’t do anything halfway. We had cool meetings at fun locations, and there was a unique order and fun hierarchy to our meetings. Ever seen the movie Dead Poets Society? We were like a modern-day version of that group, but instead of using poetry to seize the day, we were using our own unique talents.
Everyone had a voice, and no matter what, we had one another’s backs. We were an all-inclusive bunch, and there was a specific way for each of us to contribute. Though we may have seen ourselves as outsiders, the truth was that our group was composed of the most interesting, funny, creative, artistic kids in school. To name just two, among our members was Taylor Witt, who did T-shirt screen-printing, and Dahlia Charles, a computer whiz so brilliant she could walk into Apple or Google immediately and be running the place in no time flat. Dahlia set up a secret message board for us to communicate privately online. I designed our own logo: a pair of lips, sealed with a zipper; Taylor screened us all T-shirts with the logo.
When we passed each other in the hall, if we needed to meet or discuss something, we’d mimic the zipper: two fingers, crossed, horizontally held across our lips. (Our inside joke: The first rule of the Invisibles is you do not talk about the Invisibles.) The zipper gesture signaled to its recipient to check the online board if she hadn’t yet. That was how everyone knew to meet at the Pinkberry that afternoon.
It was almost like Noel was there with us, reminding us of her credos: Always have a plan. Always have a comeback. Never be intimidated. Or in Noel’s words:
Picture the person who intimidates you most. Now picture them crouched like a dog, pooping on the sidewalk, looking up at you, all vulnerable. We all poop. Maybe not on the sidewalk, but nobody is better than you and don’t let them think they are for a minute.
We discussed our plans for more than three hours, going over the details until everyone knew what they had to do and where they had to be.
“I feel like I’m not being utilized to my full capacity,” Xandra said. “I mean, I am in theater.”
“Fine,” I said. “Xan, you switch with Emily.”
“That’s not fair,” Emily protested. Being vegan, she was always good for a protest.
“Then work it out between yourselves,” I said. “Moving on…”
“What if we don’t get it on the first try?” Anya asked.
“We try again,” I said. “We try another way in. Another question. Another lead-in. We do whatever it takes.”
“You’re sure your information is good?” Anya asked me.
“Yeah,” I said. “Aren’t you?”
Anya sighed. “I think so. I think we can trust Andy. If he says they’ll be where they’ll be, that’s the spot … yeah, I think he’s for real.”
“Me too,” I said. “Me too.”
“This is gonna be so good,” Grace said.
Kura didn’t say much. She was too busy enjoying her yogurt.
Once we had our plan solidified and collected our gear, we slowly began to execute. It was an intricate plan—much more complicated than buying some fish at the grocery store and depositing it in some poor unsuspecting person’s locker. (That was pretty pedestrian. Disgusting, sure. But definitely lacking creativity.) Our plan required multiple people all executing their assignments, working together to achieve one thing:
Payback.
* * *
A person’s greatest strength can sometimes be their greatest liability, and so it was for Skyler. She had become Miss Popular in large part due to massive self-confidence born from being the most narcissistic person ever in the history of ever. Skyler’s list of most important people started with Skyler, ended with Skyler, and found room for exactly one person in between: Skyler.
Which is why it turned out to be so easy to spy on her.
Seriously, when your whole mind-set is focused on yourself—and just maybe the tiny group of friends you deign suitable to breathe your rarified air—you don’t even notice all the “commoners” around you. (Unless you’re looking for a target to humiliate, obviously.) I learned quickly that pretty much anytime I needed to, I could listen in on Skyler from just a few feet away, and she wouldn’t even notice. (It doesn’t hurt that I happen to have kick-ass hearing. You can blow a dog whistle and I’ll come running.)
It was Wednesday afternoon between second and third period. Skyler, Daniella and Jericha were chatting by Skyler’s locker, which was the perfect place and time—for a few reasons. And we knew them thanks to our own personal, adorable double agent:
Andy.
As Andy explained to us, Skyler and Jericha have Miss Kramer for third period, and Miss Kramer’s like this old-school hippie free spirit who doesn’t care if anyone’s late, or early, or whatever. So they’re always late. (And we’d be late for our classes, but oh well. We’d take a little slap on the wrist if needed for sweet, sweet revenge.) We found a great hiding spot just around the corner from Skyler’s locker, one where it’s really easy to watch what’s going down undetected, so the three of us—me, Anya and Xandra—were able to listen in for the perfect time to make our move.
As always, Skyler looked good: hair perfectly done, makeup applied to achieve beauty without looking too made-up, Rag & Bone skinny jeans paired with a Vince thermal, ankle boots to match. You couldn’t deny she had style. (Too bad she lacked class.) There was something almost Noel-ish about her, if I was being totally honest. It was hard not to envy her a little bit, with her perfect clothes and perfect life … though the minute she opened her mouth you’d get a reality check.
Meanwhile, an asset of being one of the Invisibles is being, well, invisible! Skyler had never met Xandra—that would require at least some slight interest in the arts—and I felt pretty sure Skyler and her minions had no idea Xandra was my friend. We’d done a few test runs in recent days where Xandra had crossed Skyler’s path, and she got no reaction from Skyler. That was promising.
Xandra was dressed in cobalt blue jeggings, a Union Jack long-sleeve T-shirt and Adidas sneakers. Oh, and a baseball cap. A very important baseball cap.
“I’m so obsessed with your shirt,” Daniella said to Skyler. “Obsessed. It’s so simple but perfect. Totes amaze.”
“I know, right?” said Skyler as she looked down and admired herself.
“I wish I’d got one,” Daniella said.
Xandra and I looked at each other. Even from our hiding place, we could feel the arctic chill blow through. Wrong answer, Daniella.
“Why?” Skyl
er asked Daniella, bitchiness factor increasing by the second. “So we could wear it the same day and be humiliated? No thanks.”
“My mom did those last season anyway,” Daniella said, a weak attempt at a face-saving dig. She closed her locker and headed off.
“She’s kind of being a bitch,” Skyler said. “I’m tempted to not do any locker decoration for her birthday—if anything. Teach her a lesson.”
“So mean,” Jericha said.
Skyler just gave her a look, and you didn’t need to be psychic to get it:
How. Dare. You.
Oh, yes, locker drama. Here, we need to take a moment to examine the issue of lockers. (More specifically, lockers that don’t still stink of bleach with just a slight remaining hint of fish guts.)
There was always locker decoration drama to be had if it was someone’s birthday. Since who knows when, locker decorating had become the thing to do for a birthday. There would be notes, and collages, and flowers, and balloons, all of them attached to the “birthday locker.” But that’s where the politics kicked in. (Yes, birthday locker politics. Sad, huh?)
If you gave three balloons to Kristin, but Sophia only got two—well, Sophia would feel slighted, and it would become a big deal. (Sophia now feels she’s only two-thirds as important as Kristin, but that’s presuming Sophia can do math, which is total speculation when you’re dealing with hypothetical girls, but whatever.) There was an unwritten rule among friends: All decorations had to be equal … or else.
Locker placement was also key. This was the case at my last school, and even more so at West Hollywood. You had to have your locker in the coolest hall (in this case it was the main hall, which was creatively named Main Hall), and you needed to be near your friends.
Confessions of a Hater Page 12
