How to Be Popular

by Meg Cabot

  Finally, as my undies grew colder and colder around me, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I got up and padded to the master bedroom, where Jason’s grandmother was sleeping.

  She woke up right away, though she was a bit groggy.

  “Oh, Stephanie,” she said when she realized it was me. “Darling, it’s not time to get up yet. See, in this house, we get up when the big hand is on the twelve, and the little hand is on the eight. Or nine.”

  But I explained to her I wasn’t up up. I had had an accident.

  Kitty was GREAT. She got me out of my wet undies and threw them into the washer, without waking up Jason.

  And then when she’d tried to make me go back to bed, and I’d balked because I didn’t have underwear on (Yes. That’s the kind of kid I was), she got out a pair of Jason’s and told me boy underwear was just as good as girl underwear, and that I could wear it under my pajamas, and Jason would never know.

  I was, of course, skeptical. I mean, boy underwear is nothing like girl underwear—it has a fly! Plus, Jason’s underwear had Batman on them.

  But it was better than nothing. So I went back to bed with Jason’s Batman underwear on, with the promise that, in the morning, my own underwear would be returned to me, clean and dry.

  I had lain there thinking, “I’m wearing Jason’s Big Boy pants,” because that’s what he’d called them back when we were both transferring out of training pants—his were Big Boy pants and mine were Big Girl pants.

  And the truth is, I’d felt kind of a thrill about wearing Jason’s Big Boy pants. I was a sick kid, even way back then.

  In the morning, while Jason was in the bathroom, Kitty smuggled my panties back to me, and I gave her Jason’s Big Boy pants—which I was sort of sad to see go. And she never said a word—not to Jason, not to his parents or mine, nobody. To this day, I don’t know if she remembers how she saved me…but I will never forget it.

  And I’m glad she’s going to be my grandma, because I think she’s one of the finest grandmas a girl could have.

  It’s sad my mom doesn’t agree. But maybe that’s because Kitty never rescued HER from the mortal embarrassment of wet panties before.

  “No,” I said to Grandpa, in answer to his question about Mom. “But don’t worry. She’ll come around.”

  I don’t actually believe this. It’s just something I tell Gramps when he looks sad, like he did just then. My mother is a very determined person. I once saw her physically throw a guy she suspected of being a shoplifter out of our store, just because he’d been hanging around the earring rack a little too long. He was way bigger than her, but it didn’t matter. Mom’s center of gravity is lower than most people’s, I think on account of her having given birth so many times.

  “I hope you’re right, Stephanie,” Grandpa said, his blue eyes narrowing as he stared at Mom over in the church parking lot. “I sure do miss her.”

  I patted him on the arm. “I’ll keep you posted,” I told him. “And expect another installment against my loan next week.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on interest rates,” Grandpa assured me.

  Then I kissed him good-bye and ran through Bloomville Creek Park to join the rest of my family by the minivan. They, as usual, had no clue I’d even been gone.

  Which is the only advantage of having soon-to-be five brothers and sisters.

  * * *

  What are some other habits of popular people?

  Popular people:

  Got that way because they are “the real thing.” They are genuine, true to themselves.

  Are totally consistent in their beliefs and their actions. They are the same people in private as they are in public.

  Do what they want to be doing in life. They enjoy various pursuits and hobbies and live with purpose.

  Are direct and honest, while always being conscious of the feelings of others.

  Are never “phony” or “fake.”

  Can you honestly say the same about yourself?

  * * *

  Six

  STILL T-MINUS ONE DAY AND COUNTING

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 27, 3 P.M.

  Jason came over as I was laying out everything I was going to need for the coming week. He went, “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” Jason said. “Sorting through your clothes?”

  “See,” I said. “They were right to let you go on to eleventh grade this year, after all.”

  “Funny,” Jason said. He was staring at all my clothes. “Are those new?”

  “They are.”

  “Where’d you get the money?”

  I just looked at him. It is a well-known fact that Jason cannot handle money. The only way he was able to save enough for his car was by giving the money to me. He got it back six months later with a healthy return.

  I didn’t think it was necessary to reveal that, in this particular case, I had borrowed from Grandpa. I had only needed to borrow from Gramps because all of my savings are currently invested in mutual funds.

  “Well,” Jason said, apparently realizing the stupidity of his question, “okay. But, like…since when do you care about clothes?”

  “I’ve always cared about clothes,” I said, genuinely startled by this question “I mean, I care how I look.”

  “Oh, really, Crazytop?”

  “For your information,” I said, “this haircut is all the rage on the runways in Paris.” Well, the straightened version of it, anyway. But no way am I going to all the trouble to straighten my hair on a non–school day.

  “Paris, Texas, maybe,” Jason said, flopping down on my floor, the only place in my room not covered with the various ensembles I was putting together (because The Book very clearly states that you should pick out your clothes, including undergarments, well in advance of whatever event you are planning to wear them to, in order to avoid a last-minute fashion crisis).

  “Whatever,” I said. He’ll so be singing a different tune when he sees the straightened version of my haircut. More importantly, so will Mark Finley. “Don’t you have something you should be doing?”

  “Yeah,” Jason said. “I was thinking about taking The B to the lake.” This is how Jason refers to his new car. As “The B.” “Wanna come?”

  As tempting as the idea of seeing Jason without his shirt on was—and without the benefit of Bazooka Joe binoculars—I was forced to decline, due to the busy afternoon I had ahead of me, cataloging my entire fall wardrobe.

  “Aw, c’mon,” Jason said. “When’d you get to be such a girl?”

  I glared at him. “Thanks.”

  “You know what I mean,” he said, rolling over and staring at the stick-on glow-in-the-dark constellations we’d pasted to my ceiling back when we were in the fourth grade. “I mean, you never used to care about clothes and your hair—and how big your butt’s gotten.”

  “Well, not all of us can eat anything we want and not gain weight,” I pointed out. “Not all of us NEED to gain weight. Like some people I could mention.”

  Jason propped himself up on one elbow. “Is this about Mark Finley?” he demanded.

  I could feel myself flushing. Not because he’d mentioned Mark, but because when he leaned up on one elbow like that, I could see some of his underarm hair tufting out from beneath his shirt sleeve, and that reminded me of the hair I’d seen tufting out from other parts of his body. You know. Through the window. With my Bazooka Joe binoculars.

  “No,” I said, more loudly than I meant to. “Because if it were, I’d be crawling all over myself to go with you, wouldn’t I? Since the lake’s the most likely place Mark and all the other A-crowders will be today. Which begs the question, why do you even want to go there, considering how much you hate all those guys?”

  Jason rolled over and scowled at my blue shag (Yes. I have blue shag. My parents are slowly renovating the house, but until my dad actually sells one of the mysteries he is constantly writing between mixing up batches of homemade g
ranola, stuff like getting rid of my blue shag is so not on the horizon).

  “I wanna take The B to the lake,” he said. “She’s never seen it. At least, not with me. Plus, you know, there are those curves over on the turnpike I want to try her out on.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “And you accuse me of being such a girl? You are such a boy.”

  With that, Jason got up and said, “Fine. I’ll just go by myself.”

  “Why don’t you ask Becca? She’s probably just home scrapbooking, or something.” Becca, now that she’s moved away from the farm, isn’t used to having free time, and so fills her days with craft projects, like making skirts out of pillowcases, and filling scrapbooks with pictures of adorable kittens she cuts from the Sunday Parade section. If she weren’t my friend, I probably wouldn’t even like her, based on that fact alone.

  “She gets carsick on the way to the lake,” Jason said. “Remember?”

  “Not if you let her sit in front.”

  “Becca…” Jason hovered in the doorway to my room, looking…well, weird, is the only way I could think to put it. “Becca’s been acting strange around me lately. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “No,” I said. Because I haven’t.

  And also, if anyone should be acting strange around Jason, it’s me. I mean, I’m the one who’s seen him with his pants off, not Becca.

  And may I just say what I saw was very impressive?

  Not, actually, that I have anything much to measure by. Except my brothers.

  “Well,” Jason said, “she has. Pestering me to give her a criminal mastermind name. That whole thing last night about finding your soul mate. That kind of stuff.”

  “Come on, Jason,” I said. “She just wants to fit in, be part of the gang. I mean, it’s hard for her, living in town. She’s used to hanging out with cows and stuff. Cut her some slack. Can’t you just think of a criminal mastermind name for her?”

  “No,” Jason said bluntly. “Want to go to The Hill tonight?”

  “No. Last time I had to dab myself with gasoline to get rid of all the chiggers that crawled into my underwear.”

  “We could go to the observatory, then.”

  “Why? The Perseids are over. And the Orionids don’t start until October.”

  “There’s other stuff to see in the sky besides meteor showers, you know, Steph,” Jason said. “I mean, there’s Antares. And Arcturus.”

  I swear, I wanted to be like, “See, Jason? This is why you aren’t popular. You could be popular—you have a decent-looking face and, as I know only too well, a killer bod. You have a good sense of humor and you’re an only child, so your parents can afford to buy you the right clothes. You get good grades, which is a strike against you, popularity-wise, of course, but you play golf, a sport growing in popularity among teens. But then you have to go and ruin it all by talking about stargazing and BMW Courtesy. What is wrong with you?”

  Only I couldn’t. Because that would be too mean.

  Instead, I just went, “It’s a school night, Jason. I’m not going to the observatory.”

  “Who’s not going to the observatory?” my dad asked, poking his head around Jason’s shoulder.

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Landry,” Jason said, turning around. “Steph and I were just talking.”

  “I can see that,” my dad said in his too-jovial I’m-talking-to-a-teenage-boy-standing-in-my-daughter’s-bedroom voice. Except, of course, it was just Jason. “How’s the new car?”

  “Awesome,” Jason said. “This morning I cleaned the bulbs on my dash gauges. Now they shine like new.”

  “Good for you,” my dad said. And the two of them fell into a completely random conversation about wiring harnesses.

  God. Boys are so lame sometimes.

  * * *

  Examine those in your social circle who are more popular than others.

  Study them.

  See where they go.

  Observe what they do and how they behave.

  Analyze what they wear.

  Listen to what they talk about.

  These people are your role models. Without “copying them” (no one likes a copycat!), try to be more like them.

  * * *

  Seven

  STILL T-MINUS ONE DAY AND COUNTING

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 27, 9 P.M.

  Well. This is it. Everything is ready. I have my:

  Dark denim stretch jeans (not too tight, but definitely not too loose).

  Slim-fit cords in multiple shades.

  Simple yet versatile two-piece sweater sets in various flattering tones.

  Activewear (with hoodies)—no jogging pants, as drawstrings “draw” attention to your middle.

  Jackets in corduroy and denim, nipped in at the waist to reveal my hourglass figure.

  Skirts—knee-length pencil, again in corduroy and denim (one in khaki); mini (but no microminis…leave that to Darlene Staggs).

  Multiple tops (none belly-baring—a girl should save SOME secrets for the pool, or that special someone), including scoop neck and ruched tees; blouses with just a hint of ruffle at the cuff or neck, to maximize femininity.

  Round-toe shoes such as Mary Janes; boots with flattering heel; slim yoga sneaker.

  Close-fitting down-filled jacket for casual outings, and coat with flattering (imitation) fur collar for more formal events; matching cashmere scarf and gloves, for winter.

  Dresses (not too revealing, full skirt) in black or pink for dances.

  Of course, I had to fudge SOME of The Book’s advice a little. I mean, The Book is pretty old. I didn’t think a girdle or something called “pedal pushers” were going to fly in the halls of Bloomville High.

  Not to mention the fact that if I walked around in white kid gloves for evening (even “unsoiled, unsplit” ones), I wasn’t going to win any fashion points with Lauren and her friends.

  So, obviously, I pretty much had to improvise with the clothes thing.

  But with the help of a couple of teen fashion magazines and their back-to-school wardrobe tips, I think I did pretty well. Thank God for T.J.Maxx, is all I have to say. Oh, and the outlet stores outside the Dunes, where Becca’s mom and dad took us that one weekend in July. How else would I have found Benetton sweaters for fifteen dollars?

  Anyway, I really do think I’m ready. Tomorrow morning—and every morning for the rest of my life, as per the instructions in The Book—I’ll:

  Shower—shampoo and condition hair, exfoliate, shave legs and underarms, then moisturize.

  Use deodorant liberally (clear, quick-drying kind, so as not to leave unsightly deodorant stains on shirts).

  Floss AND brush teeth (Crest Whitestrips to be applied for a half hour every morning and night).

  Apply mousse, Frizz-Ease, blow-dry, and flat-iron hair.

  Put on clean underwear, including bra that actually fits (thanks to saleslady at Maidenform outlet who actually measured me correctly, unlike Mom) and makes me look a size larger than the (wrong) bra size I used to wear.

  Have shoes shined, cleaned, scuff-free.

  Make sure nails are clean, filed, clear gloss applied, no chips, cuticles all pushed back (check into viability of weekly manicures in mall).

  Wear perfect makeup—foundation, lightly applied in problem areas and well blended, with SPF of at least 15; cover-up for any acne flare-ups (to be controlled with Retin-A, prescribed by Jason’s dad, as well as nightly routine of washing, using astringent, and applying benzoyl peroxide before bed) and circles beneath eyes; long-lasting lipstick/gloss, subtle mauve only; eyeliner (lightly applied, soft shades, like gray and lavender); waterproof black mascara.

  Make sure clothing is neat, no wrinkles, everything coordinated, nothing showing that shouldn’t be showing. SET OUT CLOTHES THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!

  Choose accessories—earrings (small studs or hoops ONLY) match; no more than one necklace, if any; watch on one wrist, bracelets (if any) on other; no piercings, anklets, belly chains, tattoos (as if); backpack (small to medium, new, no scuff
s) in black or brown, or shoulder tote (ditto), small purse, designer ONLY.

  Phew. That’s a tall order for a non–morning person like myself.

  But I figure if I start at quarter to seven, I’ll have just enough time to grab a protein bar or whatever for breakfast and meet Jason and Becca at The B by eight to get to school by first bell at eight ten. I can grab a Diet Coke out of the machines by the gym for my caffeine jolt.

  My mom just waddled into my room and sank down on the bed beside me.

  “How are you doing, honey?” she asked. “All ready for school tomorrow? It’s a big day…eleventh grade. I can’t believe my baby’s a junior already!”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I said. “Everything’s great. Don’t worry about me.”

  “You’re the only one I don’t worry about,” my mom said, patting me on the leg. “I know what a good head you’ve got on your shoulders.”

  Then she noticed the outfit that was hanging on my closet door.

  “Well,” she said after a minute. “That’s new.”

  She didn’t exactly say it like she thought it was a good thing, either.

  My mom is funny that way. I mean, I have tried explaining to her before that Wrangler jeans aren’t the same as Calvin Kleins. I’ve tried telling her how “just ignoring Lauren” at school when she starts in with the Don’t Pull a Steph stuff really doesn’t work.

  But my mom—and Dad, too—totally doesn’t get it. I think because she never cared about being popular in school. All she ever did was read books. It was always her dream to open and run a bookstore, just like it was always my dad’s dream to be a published mystery writer (a dream that still hasn’t come true).