Mom got in around nine thirty. I’d eaten every last bit of the yummy leftovers—funny how sometimes they’re better than a fresh-cooked meal—and was studying when she got back.
She dropped her purse on the coffee table. “Your dad’s not home?”
Duh, I thought. His car’s not in the driveway.
“Nope,” I said. “He didn’t call you?”
She glanced at her cell phone as she walked into the kitchen. “No. He didn’t call here?”
“Nope. That job must be really kicking his—” I stopped myself. “Um, butt.”
I expected a laugh, but Mom just said, “Thanks for doing the dishes, honey. You should get ready for bed.”
“Uh,” I said, “but it’s only—”
Mom had already vanished into their bedroom and shut the door. I shrugged it off and tried to study, but my thoughts wandered back to Chris, and then back to the Invisibles.
After a lot of soul-searching, I decided to call a meeting of the Invisibles the next day.
I realized we’d been going about this whole thing wrong. We’d been trying to not get noticed. We were trying to make sure we flew under the radar, didn’t get made fun of, didn’t get publicly humiliated … but what good was a life where you strive to not be noticed? We deserved to be noticed. And be liked. And it was already starting to happen anyway.
And really, wasn’t that more in the How to Be a Hater spirit in the first place? Noel was never interested in being a wallflower. Her journal was about taking action. Sure, there’s something revolutionary about working against the system, but isn’t it just as radical to find a new way to work inside the system?
Each of us had pretty cool qualities that, in my humble opinion, made us way cooler than the “cool kids.” So why couldn’t we turn the tables?
Forget just not being the biggest losers at Spirit Week … we could beat them at their own game.
“So in the movie of our lives, this is the makeover moment?” Anya asked.
“Pretty much,” I said.
“Do I get to give thumbs-up or thumbs-down as you all try on new clothes?” she continued. “Because I’ll do that, as long as it’s set to some really cheesy pop song. But if you think I’m gonna go out and buy a pair of J Brand skinny jeans and whoever makes the Top of the Moment, it’s not gonna happen. I like how I dress.”
“I’m not saying you have to change how you dress,” I reassured her. “I like how you dress too.”
“I wouldn’t mind a few pointers,” Dahlia said.
“I’m in theater,” Xandra said. “I’m supposed to dress all artsy. Plus, none of my gays would let me walk around looking like a total loser.”
“None of your gays?” Anya said. “Okay, Kathy Griffin.”
“I don’t think it really matters how I dress,” Grace said in a defeated tone.
“That’s not the attitude we want,” I said. “Remember one of Noel’s cardinal rules: ‘Fake it ’til you make it.’ We’re gonna run with that one.”
“Did you ever ask Noel why the diary stopped so abruptly?” Kura asked.
“Yeah,” I said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “I called her and said, ‘Hey, Noel, me and a bunch of my friends have been combing through your diary, reading your innermost thoughts—you don’t mind, do you? Anyway, we’ve been using your wisdom as a kind of how-to and, well, it stops abruptly, so we were wondering what happened or if you had any further tips you might want to share with us—’”
“Okay, okay,” Kura interrupted. “I see your point.”
But she did bring up a valid issue. Noel’s diary stopped short. I did wonder what happened. We were sort of left to our own devices a few pages after:
Ugly or bitchy. You can only be one.
Short and sweet, that one. Then there were her movie guidelines:
Do not EVER watch horror films when home alone. However, watch Disney movies in PRIVATE ONLY. Related: Do not watch Michael Bay movies anywhere.
The gym etiquette:
Never be the girl wearing a ton of makeup to the gym. You look desperate and ridiculous. Related: Never flirt with guys who wear jewelry at the gym or anywhere. They are desperate and ridiculous.
Timing:
Be confident and funny. But also know when not to be. Timing is everything. Cracking jokes at a funeral is not a good look. Neither is dancing like nobody’s watching.
And then:
Don’t try too hard, no matter the situation. Everything in moderation—including moderation.
That was the last sort-of rule she’d put down, and I did wonder what happened, why she stopped keeping her diary and if there was more to the story. I already felt like I barely knew my sister at all, but after reading her diary it was even more clear how close we weren’t.
The makeover plan wasn’t about compromising who we were; it was about embracing it. As usual, we were at odds. Whereas during our discussion pre-Skyler’s Partypocalypse, it was me and Anya who were the most anti, and everyone else pro, this time it was Grace and Anya who were against it.
(Sometimes I wondered if Anya just liked to go against the grain no matter what, which could be a little frustrating at times, but, hey, that’s also what made Anya Anya.)
In a moment when we’d gotten off topic, I asked Kura what happened the other night, why she wasn’t at the party.
“It was really stupid,” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“Yeah, you missed an interesting night. But … what happened?”
“Yeah,” Emily said. “We were concerned.”
Kura stared straight at the ground, and I knew that look. Like that look your dog gives you when someone went to the bathroom on the living room rug, and it’s only the two of you there, so you both know you didn’t do it.
She sighed and looked up, but she still didn’t look me in the eye. “I just wasn’t feeling too hot.”
There used to be a Hailey who would have taken that bullshit for an answer, but that girl was long gone.
“Kura, what’s the deal?” I asked. “You can tell us. We’re here to help each other.”
She sighed again. “You know Adderall?”
“Sure,” I said. “You have ADHD?”
She shrugged. “Don’t we all?”
“Pretty sure we don’t.”
“Well…,” she said, “I … snorted some.”
She paused, presumably gauging our reactions. Emily didn’t seem to react at all, and I wasn’t sure what to think. So Kura continued.
“I know. Look, I had this crazy big test I was studying for Thursday night. I really needed something to get me through. But maybe I did too much … I don’t know. But I didn’t feel great the next day.”
Emily stepped forward and put an arm around Kura, to my relief, because I didn’t have a clue how to handle this one. “Babe, that’s really dangerous,” Emily said. “Please don’t do that again.”
“I won’t,” Kura said. “I swear. It was a one-time deal. Can we get back to the task at hand?”
I was far from convinced, but this really wasn’t the time or place to get into it, so I turned my focus back on our strategy. Most of the Invisibles were all for the new plan. They loved the idea of knocking down the popular kids a peg or two (or twenty). We might not be able to become the popular clique, but we could certainly jump a few rungs on the ladder while making their clique look ridiculous. It might be wishful thinking, but maybe we could eventually make Skyler & Co. obsolete altogether.
It had been steadily happening anyway. Lines were starting to blur as we were becoming more confident. People had been starting to notice us, and boys were paying attention. Hell, Emily and I were about to have a double date with two of the most popular boys in our grade!
I am human and I need to be loved …
—THE SMITHS
“How Soon Is Now?”
CHAPTER
14
Little did Mr. Hecht know that when we studied the physical properties of leaves and t
he physiology of the leaf cells, his students would be so inspired they’d take it upon themselves to grow their own science project in the planters along the walkway, just outside the cafeteria.
I mean, a plant is a plant is a plant, right? It takes just as much effort to analyze the structures of a fern as a daisy, a rhododendron as a daylily, a sunflower as … well, that interesting little plant in the corner—three plants, actually—each an annual, dioecious, flowering herb with a distinctive formation that clearly identified it as—
“Pot? Pot! Your kids are growing pot? On campus?”
I wasn’t actually there for the principal’s response when Mr. Hecht laid that revelation on him, but that’s a pretty accurate report of his reaction, according to the word on the street.
For us, the “word on the street” came from having an Invisible as a student assistant in the principal’s office for three periods a day. Grace actually sat just outside the principal’s office, and he closed the door for conversations such as this, but the door was so thin Grace couldn’t help but overhear what was going on, even if she wasn’t trying to listen in. Which, of course, she was. All the time.
Yes, some remarkably green-thumbed prankster had decided it would be rather awesome to deposit three fine examples of the female Cannabis sativa plant in the school planters. Given that a good portion of the marijuana had been harvested by the time the plants were discovered, they clearly had not gone entirely unnoticed by some of our classmates, and almost certainly some of the faculty: Everyone knew Mr. Mitchell—the pervy driver’s ed teacher—could sniff out bud from a half mile away. (And the less he had to buy from his students, all the better for him. Heck, the guy had a super-secret invitation-only Super Bowl party every year, and the “bowl” part had nothing to do with football.)
But the gig was up, and the administration called everyone into the auditorium so Principal Dash could reprimand the crap out of us, even though 97 percent of the school had no idea where the pot came from (or where some of it went).
You can figure out where it went from there. Lots of threats about juvie and stuff being on your permanent record. Sure, you didn’t want to consider any of that for your potential fate, but the fact remained that someone had the balls to plant three pot plants right there on campus. It was kind of hilarious. Not to mention that every time Principal Dash said “weed” or “bud” or any other slang variation, the entire place would erupt in stifled laughter—and even though we were all trying to stifle it, the combined result came out like a cacophony of snorts.
Note to anyone who plans to eventually be an authority figure supervising teenagers: Don’t try to use hip terms or references to “relate” to the kids. You’ll just make a fool of yourself. In a case like this, don’t say “marijuana,” which sounds stupid (like saying “intercourse” instead of “sex”), just say “pot.” Simple. Classic. Everyone knows what you mean. And most definitely don’t say …
“It appears that some not-so-clever students fancy themselves budding Snoop Doggs.”
Oh, no, Mr. Dash. You did not actually say that.
Snickers rose up through the auditorium. From somewhere around the middle of the auditorium, a kid mimicked a stoner’s voice, shouting: “He said ‘budding.’”
The entire place erupted with laughter.
“This isn’t the time or place for jokes!” Mr. Dash said a bit too loudly. He paused to compose himself, then said, “When we find out who did this—and we will—those students involved will face very serious punishment, up to and including expulsion and criminal charges. Right now, I’m calling on anyone involved to speak up. The first person to come forward can still avoid the most severe penalties by confessing and telling us who else was involved.”
“Don’t roll over!” came a voice from a ways behind me.
“But if you do, roll it tight!” yelled another student.
Another eruption of laughter. Even at this distance, I could see Mr. Dash steaming. His head looked like a cherry tomato.
I could relate, at least to some degree. Chris was seated one row over, and every time we made eye contact, I could feel the blood rush into my cheeks. We were going on our double date with Emily and Andy that night, and if the day could have gone any slower, it would have been some kind of space-time continuum feat worthy of a scientific journal somewhere. (In this month’s issue of Boring Shit by Boring People, “Electrons: Hot or Not?”) Granted, this impromptu assembly was eating up third period quite impressively, but still, it seemed like this day was taking forever.
The only distraction was, well, actually sorta gross. Kura sat two rows down from me, and though I invited her to squeeze in next to me, she mumbled something about not feeling great. I guess not, because she kept wiping her nose with tissues and then quickly stuffing them in her purse. She must have gone through a dozen of them. It was weird because she wasn’t sneezing and she didn’t sound stuffy or anything. At first I started to wonder whether she had some sort of weird OCD addiction to Kleenex, like those people who wash their hands every fifteen minutes. (I mean if she wasn’t a little bit weird, she wouldn’t be an Invisible.) But then I remembered her having mentioned the Adderall thing and I made a mental note to start keeping a closer eye on her. That was not cool.
The assembly finally ended, albeit somewhat abruptly, after Mr. Dash made the mistake of working in a few announcements about other school-related events, specifically the Environmental Club, aka the “Green Team.” You can imagine what happened from there. I guess Mr. Dash felt his precious time was wasted. (Like, totally wasted.) And after what seemed like nine years, the school day finally ended. It was time for our sorta-kinda (but hopefully a) date.
I’d carefully planned my wardrobe and changed my mind sixteen times before the day began. I wanted to wear something to school that could also transition to cute-enough date clothes. I had settled on these dark turquoise, almost teal skinny Hollister jeans and a burgundy button-down thermal by Joie. I wore flat brown riding boots (courtesy of Noel) and had my hair in a messy ponytail (purposely styled to look like I just threw it up casually, with wispy tendrils that hung loose to flatter my face on either side). The messy low ponytail was one of Noel’s commands. Like it said in her journal,
Tease your boys, not your hair.
I made sure my pony was mid to low on my head because—while the Southern credo went, “The higher the hair, the closer to God”—Noel had her own version:
The higher the ponytail, the more varsity boys she’s slept with.
I didn’t want to send the wrong message.
I met Emily by her locker and the two of us walked down the stairs, through the main hall and out to the front lawn, where Chris and Andy were waiting for us. The second I saw Chris, I got this warm, fuzzy feeling, and I could tell I was smiling way too big—totally breaking the cardinal no-gums rule—but I couldn’t help it!
He was so perfect. And there he was waiting for me.
How did this happen?
When we finally caught up with them (sixty-three steps, not that I was counting), something happened that I did not expect: Chris grabbed my hand. In public. Right there on the front lawn.
I felt a jolt of electricity course through my body as we secured our now-entangled fingers. We were holding hands like a “real” couple. Were we a couple now? Did this make it official?
I mean, in high school there’s no real “dating” like older people do. There’s a lot of hanging out and going out in groups, and if you hang out with one person all the time, it pretty much makes you a couple—but I still felt this overwhelming sense of shock that it was me on the other end of Chris Roberts’s hand. It was stunning. I’d gone from the never-been-kissed-unless-it-was-a-dare girl to the girl who was holding hands on the front lawn with the most popular boy at West Hollywood. I mean, we still hadn’t kissed!
Was I being crazy? Getting ahead of myself? The kiss had to come today, right? A million questions were running through my head, but I just had t
o tell myself, calm down, head! And then I started to worry about my hand getting sweaty, and it getting all slimy and gross in Chris’s hand. Calm down, hand!
“How are you doing, ladies?” Chris said.
“Great!” Emily said. “How are you boys?”
“Rockin’,” Andy said. “We’re just chilling out here on the grass.”
“But it’s kinda hot out here,” Chris said. “We’re trying not to get baked.”
Both boys chuckled. You could tell they’d spent the last several minutes plumbing the depths of every pot joke they could think of. It was juvenile, but adorable. Then again, anything Chris did while holding my hand would be adorable. He could sentence a litter of kittens to death by chainsaw* and it would be the sweetest thing I’d ever seen, just as long as he was holding my hand.
(*Okay, that’s not true at all, unless they were, like, really, really evil kittens who beat up and tormented other kittens or declared war for no reason on some other kitten nation. In which case, justice must be meted out. Gawd, even then it still sounds like a bad example. So, no kitten-killing, but yes to Chris holding my hand.)
“Are we ready to go?” I asked.
“Yep,” Chris said. “By the way, Hailey, you look really pretty.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“And, Emily,” Chris said, “you look awesome too.”
If I weren’t head over heels already, that sealed the deal. Chris not only took the time to compliment me, but he also complimented Emily, and I knew how much that sort of thing would mean to her, especially coming from someone as popular (and as gorgeous, IMHO!) as Chris.
Confessions of a Hater Page 18
