Mission (Un)Popular
Page 34
Erika and I were left standing alone in the hallway, both wishing we were anyplace else on earth. “I guess you’re going to be here awhile. Would you like to sit down?” Erika asked in a very formal, unwelcoming way. I actually would have rather stood freezing my butt off outside, except that she was right—there was no telling how long we’d be there. Erika led me into the good living room—the one with big flower-print couches, where there were always vacuum marks on the carpet.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked in the same cold voice.
“No thank you,” I said. We sat stiffly for a long time, like two strangers at a tea party. Finally, though, Erika’s curiosity got the better of her.
“What happened to your leg?” she asked.
“Sarah J. pushed me down the stairs,” I answered. I could tell that she was surprised, and I could also tell that she wanted the details (how could she not?), but she didn’t ask.
“That’s unfortunate,” she said. There was another long silence.
“How’s Sacred Heart?” I asked.
“Very nice, thank you,” she responded. “And Manning?”
“Lovely,” I shot back. Two could play at this game. “Splendid.”
“Mmmmm.” Erika pinched her lips into a tight smile, like she was so pleased to hear it. “And your blond friend? What was her name again?” It was a trick question, obviously. Erika had never met Em…not unless you counted the two seconds before she’d slammed the door in her face.
“Liesalot McDognapper,” I answered in the same polite tone. I don’t even know why I said it.
“What an unusual name.” Erika didn’t even crack a smile.
“It’s her pseudonym,” I said, “for modeling.” She nodded as if that made sense and was a very interesting fact.
“Have you made any friends at Sacred Heart?” I tried to sound uninterested, like I was asking about the weather.
“Yes,” she smiled smugly. “Several. My best friend is Gabriella Whipplechuck.” Her best friend? Traitor! It had taken us years to be as close as we were—or as close as we used to be. Plus, what kind of a stupid name was Gabriella Whipplechuck?
“How nice,” I said, practically spitting venom.
“It is,” Erika said. “She was here after school today, actually. We watched the Discovery Channel and ate nachos.” She paused for maximum effect. “She makes good nachos.”
I’d been practically biting a hole in my tongue to keep from saying something rude, but now she was taking things too far. “That’s nice,” I said again, but I couldn’t help it. The words felt like hot lava trapped inside my throat. I was a natural disaster waiting to happen. “Really nice, Erika,” I snapped. “Really frigging nice. Just throw our friendship away like the past six years were made of rancid potatoes. Just go and replace me with a new best friend as easily as you’d replace a”—I paused, trying to think of the right words, and then gave up, saying whatever came into my head—“maxi pad.”
“Rancid potatoes?” She stood up. “A maxi pad? Do I need to remind you that you’re the one who ditched me? That you’re the one who had a new friend within days of starting school? And do I need to remind you that it took you weeks to come over and apologize? Or, actually, not even apologize, because you haven’t even apologized yet. Like, what, Margot? Did you expect me to put my life on hold forever?”
I hung my head. I felt two inches tall. She had a point. She had lots of points, actually. Everything I’d said and done since coming over was meant to show her I was sorry, but it had all come out wrong, as usual. “I sent an e-mail,” I said. “You never answered. And I called.”
“Well, yeah,” she said, like that much was obvious. “One e-mail. One phone call.”
And then I got it…the answer…the thing that had been right in front of my face. I’d slammed the door on Erika, and now she was going to slam it on me. Right in my face. She had every right to. This was a big screwup. The kind that might need hundreds of apologies. And Erika was the kind of friend who was worth knocking on the door for. And then knocking on the door for again. And then knocking on the door for again, no matter how many times she had to slam it in my face before she felt better.
“I’m an idiot,” I said. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” She didn’t disagree. “And that girl, Liesalot McDognapper? She’s an idiot too. We’re not friends anymore.”
Erika sat back down on the sofa across from me. She folded her hands in her lap. Neither of us said anything for a very long time.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally. “I’ll do whatever it takes if you’ll just think about forgiving me.”
She let out a long exasperated breath while she picked at the fabric on the sofa.
“I’ll grovel,” I said. “I’ll eat cement. I’ll tattoo your name on my forehead. I’ll go to school naked. Oh, I’ll wear bell-bottoms. For a month. Without washing them.” She didn’t smile. “I’ll shave my head?” I looked up at the ceiling. “I’ll give up ice cream. Oh! I’ll do the chicken dance in my underpants. I’ll crank call your most hated teacher. I’ll do your homework for six months…only not math…and, come to think of it, you probably don’t want me to do your French either. But I’ll do English. I just got an A-plus on an essay.”
I couldn’t tell for sure, but the corners of her mouth seemed to lift into a tiny smile, just for a second. “Shut up, Margot,” she sighed.
We sat quietly again, listening to the muffled voices of our moms in the kitchen. Finally Erika broke the silence. “My mom probably wants to make pies for Thanksgiving,” she said, sounding annoyed. I looked at her, confused. What did pies have to do with anything? “And we could make fun of the songs, I guess.” I still didn’t get it. “The apple thing,” she said impatiently. “I should probably go buy my mom some apples. For her stupid pies.”
“Oh,” I said, resisting the urge to grin. “Okay.” I could already picture us on the hayride, singing all the words to the stupid songs just a little bit too loudly, stuffing hay down the backs of each others’ shirts, being on the lookout for cute guys even though there wouldn’t be any.
“I already have plans with Gabriella this weekend, though, so she’ll have to come too,” Erika said. I felt my heart sink again. Suddenly there was a new person in the picture, sitting between us. I pictured her rolling her eyes at the songs; refusing to get her face painted, even as a joke. She was probably the girl from the corner store. The trail-mix-eating, ultra-Goody Two-shoes, red-haired, Catholic schoolgirl. I hated her already. But Erika was looking at me expectantly. I knew what I had to do, so I took a deep breath.
“Great,” I said, smiling. And for once, I said the exact right thing at the exact right time. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
Acknowledgments
There are lots of thank-you’s to say, but it’s easy to know where to start: with my former teachers and classmates from Canterbury High School’s Literary Arts program. You taught me everything I know about writing, revising, and revising again.
Huge thank-you’s to my husband, Brent, for his unwavering support; to my daughter, Gracie, and my son, Elliot, for giving me the best reason on earth to go after my dream (then taking really long naps so I could do it); to those who read drafts, offered feedback, and helped with research (Jamila-Khanom Allidina, Farrah Khan, Jane Moore, Taylor Guitard, and Keith Malcolm); and to my immediate and extended family for their encouragement—my mom especially, who, by example, taught me that the things you want are worth working really hard for.
Thank you to my former agent, Nikki Van De Car (of Sterling Lord Literistic), who came like magic into my life and made it all happen; and to my new agent, Rebecca Friedman (of Hill Nadell Literary Agency), for being so enthusiastic about what I might do next. To Emily Schultz, my editor at Disney•Hyperion, a million scoops of thanks with a cherry on top. You made Margot a better person, and you made me a better writer. Thanks, too, to Catherine Onder, for stepping in and seeing the book through production.