As we enter the room, students turn to look at us. There are kids who look rich, kids who look too trendy for their own good, kids grouped by language (I hear some speaking Spanish, some speaking something like Russian, and some speaking an Asian language I don’t know), and there are cheerleaders huddled in their skirts and sweaters, hip-hop kids, long-haired kids, and no shortage of boys who think they are Usher. It’s the same as back home, but with more kids who seem to be from other countries. The rich kids and geek kids are multiracial. I see a lot of different kinds of people, and I can’t imagine how I would ever find a group to fit in with here. I’m not trendy. I’m not typical, I guess, for anything.
When I see everyone bunched together in cozy cliques, I am glad to have Tina, even if everyone probably thinks she’s a little strange. She’s probably one of those people other people look at and then turn away and laugh together about. Even so, the other kids all seem to have a certain respect for (or fear of?) her. As we walk, she greets almost everyone we see by name, with a friendly hello. She acts almost like a grown-up. She knows a lot about a lot of kids, asking about their hobbies, their sisters and brothers, their sick parents, puppies, whatever. Things like that. It doesn’t matter if they look like preps, glamour queens, skaters, or geeks, Tina is nice to everyone, and she introduces me to as many kids as will listen to her.
We get in line for lunch and I panic for a second that I don’t have any money. How much would that suck? But I remember the ten bucks Dad gave me before he left for his meeting. I pick a personal-size pizza and a side salad. The food here looks better than it did back home, like something you could actually eat. Tina gets a veggie burger and tells me that she’s a vegetarian for ethical reasons, then lectures me on my choices. It makes me look at the pepperoni on my pizza a little differently when she tells me that pigs are smarter than dogs, and that they have not only saved each other but have, on more than one occasion, saved a human being, too. Tina’s nice but weird. Something tells me that after a while, it might get kind of hard to be around her.
We sit down at a far end of the cafeteria, and I start to nibble my food. Tina pulls out her drawing pad, squints at the assembled people, and her jaw tightens as if she’s thinking. She starts to draw without looking at the paper, something that my dad does sometimes.
“Okay,” she says. “Now, don’t turn and look right now, but the most ‘popular’ — and I say that in quotes — girls in the school just walked in. I don’t buy in to the whole popularity thing, but I think it’s important you know the hierarchy, even if it’s just to say ‘screw it.’” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Okay, so, Paski. Listen. Turn very slowly and casually so it doesn’t look like we’re talking about them.”
I do as she has asked, and sure enough, see Jessica Nguyen and the two girls who rode with her in the Lexus this morning. I can see their outfits now. The blond one who looks like a younger Britney Spears or an older Jamie Lynn Spears wears tight long jean shorts with long black socks and checkered beige and white sneakers with a big E on the side. She wears a tight beige sweater that shows off her big boobs. With her tiny waist, shapely legs, and firm butt, she has a body like a porn star.
“They’re not real,” says Tina.
“What?”
“Brianna’s boobs.”
I look at Tina, amazed that she knew I was even looking at Brianna’s boobs. Amazed and embarrassed.
“Don’t worry,” says Tina. “Everyone stares at them. I think that’s the reason her mom got them for her sweet-sixteen present.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She was here one week, flat as a board, and then — boom — she goes to ‘Greece’ for a ‘family vacation’ and comes back with enormous knockers. It’s kind of funny or kind of sad. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Yeah,” I say. I’ve never known anyone my own age to get plastic surgery, much less as a gift from her mother.
“Brianna’s family is from Greece,” Tina tells me. “Brianna Sarantopoulos.”
“That’s cool,” I say, hating myself as I say it. “Cool” is one of those words you use when you can’t think of a better word.
“Yeah? Well, that’s probably the only truly cool thing about her. Her dad made his money building tract houses and charging way too much for them. Her mom’s a trophy wife. Brianna’s about as original and exciting as the houses her dad makes. She’s popular by default. The other two are talented and smart, they have something interesting about them. But Brianna? She’s just a hanger-on.”
I say nothing, surprised by Tina’s venom. I thought she would be nice to everyone, but apparently she has her favorites, like everyone else.
Tina looks at me and backtracks. “I shouldn’t make it out like she’s useless. You’re right. It’s not fair.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t fair.”
“You thought it.”
I say nothing.
Tina continues, “Brianna plays volleyball pretty well, but in all honesty, not that well. She looks good in a bikini when she plays, especially with all that saline bouncing around, so the guys are all, like, drooling over her. That’s the value of having Brianna around, basically. Guys like her. A lot. The fact that she’s smart as an eggplant doesn’t bother guys. You know how they are.”
I shrug and think of Ethan Schaefer, who actually likes smart girls. I don’t think Ethan could date a stupid girl. Stacey must be very smart. He’d get bored otherwise, wouldn’t he? Then again, if she had huge fake boobs like Brianna Sarantopoulos, he might make an exception. You never know. Thinking of him makes me realize again that I’ve lost him. I have to call him later and just ask him, point-blank. That’s the best way.
“Okay,” says Tina. “So, the one with the turban on her head?”
I nod and look at the girl who reminded me of Alicia Keys. She wears a frilly skirt made out of something like yellow gauze; it rides low on her hips, showing off a flat belly and a hip with a tattoo of a snake or something on it. The skirt falls just above her knees. She has on a short T-shirt, the kind with sleeves but that shows the tummy anyway. The girls out here seem to like showing off their tummies. The colorful shirt is striped and has a V-neck that she’s filled with a bunch of wooden beads in different colors, like a hippie friend my grandma has. Her earrings look even bigger now than they did before. She has that turban around her hair and a color/kind flower stuck behind one ear. She wears flat shoes with open backs, round toes, and shiny beads all over them. She looks like she just stepped out of a music video.
“Haley Williams,” Tina tells me.
“She looks like Alicia Keys,” I say.
“Yeah, and that’s not all. She’s a musician. She plays guitar and she sings and writes songs like Alicia and sounds as good.”
“That’s cool.” I am really starting to hate how I keep saying this word. Tina is smarter than me, and I’m not doing much with my vocabulary to redeem myself. I stuff pizza in my face and try not to think about all the brilliant little piggies who died for my lunch.
“No, you don’t understand,” says Tina. “She’s really good. You have to hear her. She plays at assemblies sometimes. And she has a job playing at a café in Laguna Beach on the weekends. They say she had an offer from a couple of record companies to make some records, but her mom wouldn’t let her.”
“That’s crazy,” I say.
“No. It’s sane, actually. Her mom is a singer who used to do backup for Mariah Carey. She’s, like, this white studio singer who everyone says sounds black. Her dad actually is black. He’s a big-time record executive who used to work with Babyface and has his own company now. Haley’s parents were all ‘No, you can’t take the deal, because the music industry sucks and they’ll just eat you up and spit you out by the time you’re eighteen, and you’ll be done.’ They want her to wait until she’s, like, twenty, to get her record deal, so she has a chance at surviving as a real artist. I actually respect them for that.”
“Yeah.” I stop short of say
ing it’s cool. My head is spinning. In Taos, the closest we got to a celebrity was a kid whose cousin’s friend’s sister had dated a guy on a WB show. But he wasn’t really even like a cool guy. He was, like, one of the supporting characters. Then there was the girl who once met Jared, the formerly fat guy who does ads for Subway, at the airport. That’s about it.
Haley catches me looking at her, and I look away fast. I don’t want them to think I’m looking, but it’s hard not to look at these girls. They command attention. Everyone is staring at them, even if they don’t want to. Haley leans over to Jessica and whispers something, and they all look at me. Great. Now I’m on their radar.
“They’re looking at us,” I say.
“Let them,” says Tina. She sips her water like she doesn’t care. I admire her for it, but I wonder how sincere she is about not caring. I feel her fear.
I concentrate on my salad and take a bite but manage to dribble white ranch dressing on the front of my shirt. Great. Now I look like an idiot. I mean, like more of an idiot than before. Tina eats and pretends to look around the room like she isn’t talking about anyone specific.
“Now, Jessica Nguyen,” she says with a flinch, like it hurts to think of her.
“I know about her,” I say. “She’s in my English class.”
“What do you know?” Tina looks like she is obsessed with Jessica in a way that she hates. Her eyes narrow.
“I know that she’s into motocross.”
“Yeah, only the national champion,” says Tina, like this is a bad thing. Tina has a jealous streak I don’t like. “She has endorsements like crazy, and a couple of months ago there was this documentary on her on one of those kid networks, one of the Disney networks, and some big athlete saw it and gave her a crapload of money for her life story.”
“Really? Who?”
“Someone like Shaquille O’Neal, some old basketball star. I can’t remember. I’m not big on sports. I’ll find out for you.”
“That’s amazing,” I say. I sneak a look at Jessica, and she looks at me right as I’m looking away. She gets this look like she’s amused that I was watching her, like she thinks she is perfect. It’s like she turns in slow motion toward me and I can’t get away. She’s still wearing that hat and the low jeans with the sparkly belt. Her jeans are so low you can see ass cleavage. Her body is perfect, trim but strong, with not an ounce of fat anywhere. She wears pink jeweled flat thong sandals, like a girl who isn’t trying that hard but looks incredible anyway. I’ve noticed that a lot of people wear this kind of flip-flop sandals around here.
Tina says, “No, listen to me. That’s not even the tip of the iceberg with Jessica.” She gives a sarcastic smile, like she thinks about Jessica way, way too much. “The other thing you need to know about her is that she’s the richest girl at this school.”
“Really?” That’s saying something, considering the cars and clothes I’ve seen around here.
“Yeah. Her dad is some big-time businessman. They wrote about him in the Orange County Register a while back as one of the richest guys in the county, and none of the other kids here had parents on that list. They said he’s worth over two hundred and fifty million dollars. People were all, like, ‘Jessica, is it true?’ and she was, like, ‘Of course.’ Can you believe that?”
“Two hunderd and fifty million?” I choke on my Pepsi.
“Yeah. Isn’t it disgusting?”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a ‘venture capitalist,’ whatever that is. That’s what the article said.”
I sneak another look at Jessica. Her clothes look nicer now than they did five minutes ago.
“No, there’s more,” Tina continues. Her eyes dance with a wicked sort of pleasure mixed with bitterness. “Jessica’s mom used to be a model, right? In Vancouver and Hong Kong. But the lady’s super-smart and good at designing clothes, so she’s come up with this line of racing clothes for girls called “JessWear.”
I gasp. I’ve heard of JessWear. Emily wanted to order some shorts from the company online after she read about it in Seventeen and we realized, as we often did, that we couldn’t buy the clothes anywhere in the state of New Mexico. “That’s hers?” I ask.
“It’s her mom’s, but I heard Jessica has half the company in her name. The racing stuff was so popular they branched out into regular clothes, like tops and shorts and skirts.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Okay, so you know. They sell the clothes in Macy’s. It’s insane. All the Harajuku girls in Japan like it, too. She’s a phenomenon in Japan. Like they weren’t rich enough, now Jessica’s making a ton of money with her racing, like, every time she wins a race, she gets a boatload of cash, and now her mom is raking in the dough with the clothes named after her, and Hollywood’s knocking.”
“That’s unbelievable,” I say.
“Yeah, well, once you see the girl ride, you’ll understand. It’s hard to hate her, even though you want to. Even though she herself hates everyone who isn’t her slave.”
“She’s good?”
“God, yes,” says Tina. “She’s hot on a bike. It’s pretty amazing to watch. I hate her.”
“She’s really pretty, too,” I say.
“Yeah, well, that’s the crappy part. She gets to be rich, talented, with parents that adore her and think the world revolves around her, and she’s just, like, the most beautiful girl in school.” Tina looks at me and grins. “Or she used to be.”
“What?” I ask.
“You’re as pretty as she is.”
“No, I’m not,” I say. Is Tina insane?
“You could be. With some makeup and the right clothes, you could look like a Mexican Rachel Bilson.”
“I could?”
Tina nods, then glances at Jessica and her friends, who’ve taken a table near the door. They aren’t eating. They sip water and laugh too loud, like they’re making fun of everyone. Tina says, “You look exactly like Rachel Bilson, Paski. You just don’t know it. And that makes you prettier than the hater girls.”
I wonder for a second if Tina’s a lesbian or something but thank her anyway.
“And I’m not gay, don’t worry,” says Tina, like she read my mind. “I have an amazing boyfriend. Cesar.”
“How did you know I was thinking that?” I ask.
Tina shrugs, stuffs the remainder of her veggie burger in her mouth, and says, “It sounds crazy, but I have really good people instincts. Too good sometimes.”
I look up and see Andrew Van Dyke leaning down and flirting with Brianna. Brianna’s all, ooh, look at my boobs, sticking them out. Yuck. Jessica whispers something to Andrew, and he looks my way. They all laugh, and then Andrew starts to walk toward me and Tina like he’s on a mission.
“Uh-oh,” I mutter. Tina sees the same thing, and it looks like she braces her body for a blow.
Under her breath, Tina says, “Andrew Van Dyke. Major womanizer. Typical rich white boy who thinks he was born to rule the world, which, if you examine history and so on, he unfortunately was. Youngest of three brothers. Filthy-rich family, the dad’s a surgeon of some kind and heads a hospital or something, but I’m pretty sure he cheats on the mom.” She stops talking and tries to look like she hasn’t said anything.
“Hey, Paski, right?” says Andrew. I nod. Andrew sits down with us, taking a look back at the popular girls. What’s he looking for? Approval? Why? He stares into my eyes with a grin that’s not even close to being as charismatic as Chris’s. But still; he is cute. “So, like, I was wondering if you had a boyfriend back in Mexico.”
“New Mexico,” I say. “It’s a state.”
“Hello, Andrew,” calls Tina, waving like he might not have noticed she was sitting right there next to him.
He sighs and looks at her. “Tina. What’s up.”
“That’s better,” says Tina.
Andrew looks at me again. “So. You got a man?”
“Kind of,” I say. I think of Ethan, and I hate to admit it, b
ut my feelings for him are already fading. I can’t really remember what he looks like anymore. I mean, I know what he looks like. But it’s like my brain doesn’t want to remember him right now. Whenever I try to think of him, all I can see is Chris Cabrera’s sexy smirk. I shouldn’t be attracted to Chris. He’s the kind of guy who will break a girl’s heart. I am pretty sure of that, plus he’s got a girlfriend. But I can’t help it.
“That’s too bad,” says Andrew, “because I was gonna invite you to Trent’s party with me and my friends. You know, Chris Cabrera and Tyler Ma, those loser dickheads from English.” At mention of Chris’s name, my heart surges. Tina looks at me with a warning in her eyes. I’m, like, I know. In my head I know. But the heart isn’t the head, and that’s all there is to it.
“When is it?” I ask Andrew. “Can Tina come too?”
“This weekend.” He tries to look casual and comfortable. I can feel the eyes of Jessica and he friends on me.
“I’m busy,” says Tina. Andrew ignores her and says, “Give me your number, and I’ll call you.”
I blush. “I don’t know my number yet.” How lame am I? “We just moved here.”
“That’s cute,” says Andrew, looking over at the popular girls like he’s bored with us already. Jessica and her crew seem to be laughing at me. Andrew smiles back at them, I have no idea why. He says, “I’ll give you my digits, and you ring me when you know your number. How about that?”
“Okay,” I say. “But I have to ask my dad.”
“That’s cute, too,” says Andrew, like he never has to ask his parents for permission to do anything. He pulls out a business card and flips it toward me. A business card, okay? This is a high school junior with his own business card. It has his picture on it and about a thousand numbers and e-mail addresses. Apparently Andrew has his own website and blog, too.
“Call me,” he says, doing his hand like a hang-ten phone at his ear, all suave. Why do people do that? Aren’t the words “call me” enough? Anyway.
Andrew joins the other girls. Tina shakes her head and blows air out of her mouth. “Paski,” she says. “You should let me teach you about these people before you go to a party with them.”
Haters Page 8
