“Of course he doesn’t like Anya,” Venice spat back. “She’s a jerk! Weren’t you paying attention today?”
Double wow. This was one of the meanest phone calls I’d ever had with Venice. I was starting to get worried that she was going to say something really unforgivable to me. So I tried to let her know I appreciated what she was saying, but that I also didn’t like Leo’s influence on our friendship. “Thanks for calling me, but I think you’re acting crazy and that you should stop talking to Leo on the bus. I think he’s trying to start a toxic triangle.”
Piper had taken an AP psychology course in high school and had warned me about toxic triangles at my birthday party last year. “Watch out for kids who try to start toxic triangles,” she’d said. “Boys especially. They do it for the extra attention. They find a pair of really cool friends and then try to insert themselves and get them to fight by starting drama.”
“Are you quoting that weird thing Piper said at your birthday?” Venice asked.
That was when reality finally hit me. I was probably already in a toxic triangle. Leo was that good. I mean, Venice had yelled at me and basically called my sister weird. What was going on with that? I kicked my neighbors’ mulch a little harder. “Okay. Everything Piper said came from a psychology textbook. And I can’t believe you’re not asking me about how my day went. I feel like a total moron for screwing up the picture of Principal Hunt and the snake. And I gave Derby a panic attack. I’ve felt awful about myself all day. Seriously, Venice. I might not be strong enough to do what you want me to do here.” I started walking toward my driveway.
“Don’t crumble on me,” Venice said. “Do you think you can have your mom bring you by tonight so we can come up with a plan? Leo’s free to talk anytime after six.”
I couldn’t believe that Venice thought I would be willing to have a toxic phone call with toxic Leo. “This call needs to end right now,” I said. The timing was perfect because I was at my front door.
“Wait!” Venice shouted. “Don’t! We’ve got to figure out a way to get Ms. Kenny involved. If we don’t have a plan in place by Friday, when the sections are finalized, Leo thinks we’re sunk.”
“You’re breaking up,” I said, cupping my mouth and making static noise.
“No! No!” Venice said.
Click.
When I walked through my front door, all I wanted to do was sit in front of the television and zone out. But that didn’t happen. Because when I walked through my front door, my mom was unexpectedly standing in the kitchen instead of being at work. And she started taking pictures of me.
“Stop that!” I said, putting my hands up to block my face. “I have stains all over me.”
My mom ignored me and kept snapping away. “I need them. The ones I took on the first day of school are too dark.”
My mother had become super obsessed with scrapbooking. It happened when I was in the third grade. So for the first eight years of my life I had one photo album. And for the next three I had six. And those suckers included everything from report cards, to pieces of my hair, to napkins at fancy restaurants, to every stinking movie ticket stub we’d purchased since she took her Scrapbook Survival 101 course at the Idaho Falls public library.
My mom liked to think that her interest in scrapbooking and my interest in photography made us similar. But I didn’t see it that way at all. My interest in photography meant I was an artist who wanted to capture moments of time that would never happen again. And my mom’s interest in scrapbooking meant she was a mom who had a really tough time throwing stuff away, and who also enjoyed collecting evidence to prove to other moms that she was a super-interesting person. Because she loved showing our scrapbooks to other moms. I hope that didn’t sound mean. My mom was an interesting mom. I think that working as a receptionist at my dad’s dental office made her feel boring. Because when people asked her how she liked that job, she usually said, “I like it when it’s not boring.”
My mom handed me a plate with baby carrots and pickles and a scoop of hummus.
“Tell me all about your day,” she said, sitting down next to me on the couch. “How did things go with the snake?”
This was not the conversation I needed to be having right now. I didn’t want to talk about how I totally bombed the photos.
She rubbed my shoulder and took one of my carrots. “Was it super long? How close did you get to it? Did you learn any interesting facts?”
“Mom,” I said. “I’ll talk about anything but the snake.”
My mom smiled at me. “You are your mother’s daughter. I knew you’d think it was creepy.”
I couldn’t believe she was still talking about it.
“Mom,” I said in a huffy voice as I stood up from the couch. “I’m gonna eat these in my room.”
“Okay,” she said. “Sorry. No more snake talk. Sit down. Next subject.”
I sat back down.
“How are things going for Venice? Last time I talked to her she was really stressed about her math class.”
I couldn’t believe how insensitive my mom was being by asking me about Venice, even though she didn’t know anything about our drama. So I decided to pretend that we weren’t having any drama so I could avoid talking about it.
“Venice loves math,” I said. “The reason she was stressed is that Geometry is a combined class and has seventh graders and probably some dumb eighth graders in it.”
“Let’s not call them dumb,” my mom said, stealing another carrot. “You don’t even know them.”
“You’re right,” I said. Because I really didn’t want to call random people I didn’t know from a combined class dumb. I was just in a terrible mood.
“Come on, Perry. Don’t be grumpy. Let’s keep talking. I saw you’ve hung up a bunch of pictures in your room. How are things in Yearbook?” she asked.
And that was when I stared at my hummus for a whole minute and started to lose my mind. “Yearbook isn’t awesome. My class has a jerk in it and Venice has become friends with him.” It turned out that I was terrible at faking not having drama with Venice in front of my mom.
“A jerk?” my mom asked. “You mean a boy?”
I pictured Leo. His awful face was burned into my brain. “He’s a jerk!” I said.
“Let’s not call anybody a jerk,” my mom said. “Middle school is hard. Nobody’s perfect all the time. What did he do?”
And when my mom said that, I realized she was never going to be on my side. She was going to make me try to be friends with awful-face Leo.
“It’s important to give people second chances,” she said.
That was when I snapped and decided to get real with my mom. Because dancing around the topic of hating Leo wasn’t helping my situation. “Okay. So Venice has started talking on the phone and hanging out with this jerk. And he’s not just a jerk. He’s a seventh grader who rides at the back of the bus,” I blurted out.
My mother dropped her carrot. “What? She’s dating?”
That was when I realized that my situation was even worse than I realized. Venice was on the verge of going out with Leo. “Nobody dates in middle school, Mom. They go out.” I could feel myself breathing faster and faster.
“Well, let’s talk about it,” she said, picking her carrot back up.
“That has cat hair on it now,” I said, pointing to her carrot.
My mother picked the hair off and ate it anyway. Which felt a little unsanitary. Because when my food had Mitten Man hair on it, I either washed it off or threw it away or fed it to Mitten Man. Meow. Meow. Meow. Mitten Man entered the room and nuzzled my leg.
“Look who missed you today,” my mom said, picking him up under his fluffy belly and setting him between us.
“He’s just a cat,” I said. “I don’t think they even understand how time works.”
I felt so miserable. And seeing Mitten Man didn’t help. I kept thinking about Venice. I wished our conversation hadn’t ended that way. Because what I really wanted to d
o right now was to go into my bedroom and talk to Venice about my day. But I didn’t want to talk to the Leo-loving, mean version of Venice I’d talked to ten minutes ago. I wanted to talk to my normal best friend.
“Have you ever met somebody and realized after one minute that you couldn’t stand them?” I asked. I pictured Leo’s round face and his stupid long bangs.
“Well, I try to give people more than a minute,” she said, sounding like a mother.
It bummed me out that my mom didn’t automatically side with me. Because under normal circumstances I tried to give people more than a minute too. But Leo was different. “Do you think Piper is in class?” I asked. I mean, I didn’t really have time to waste trying to convince my mom to hate Leo with me. What I really needed was to find out how to survive a toxic triangle.
“Give her a try,” my mother said.
I dragged my backpack to my room and flung myself on the bed. The sad thing about calling Piper was that I had to decline an incoming call from Venice twice. I just didn’t want to talk to her until I knew what I was supposed to say. And that wouldn’t happen until I talked to somebody who knew psychology.
“Piper,” I said, when she finally picked up. “You were right.” That was how I started a lot of conversations with Piper. Because that was what she liked to hear.
“Holy, holy, holy,” Piper said. “You wore that orange hoodie today, didn’t you.”
I sniffled. “Yes.”
“And you had the worst day of your life?” she asked.
I felt myself holding back tears. “I’ve got a huge problem now,” I said.
I heard her take a deep breath. “First, let’s just agree that some outfits are totally cursed.”
I wasn’t even worried about that hoodie anymore. “Okay, but my huge problem is named Leo.” And then I told her very quickly about Leo making all kinds of trouble in my life and asked her for advice.
“He sounds crafty,” Piper said.
“Totally,” I said. “He literally spends most of class in the craft corner.”
“Don’t worry too much at this point,” Piper said. “It doesn’t sound like a toxic triangle. Yet.”
And when she said that I felt so relieved I almost started crying. Because the word toxic sounded so deadly.
“But you do need to figure out a solid plan,” she said. “You can’t let a seventh-grade conspiracy theorist derail your friendship.”
“A what?” I asked. She made Leo sound like a dangerous criminal.
“A conspiracy theorist is somebody who believes that other people are always involved in secret plots even though they don’t have proof.”
That definitely sounded like Leo.
“But I don’t want you to worry about this,” Piper said. “I’ll come by tomorrow and help you figure out a plan.”
It felt really exhausting that sixth grade required so many plans. I mean, when was I supposed to do my homework?
“It would be better if you came by tonight, because I don’t even know if Venice and I are still talking,” I explained.
“Yeah, I wish I could,” she said, “but Bobby’s picking me up in five minutes. He bought us tickets to a monster-truck rally.”
This was so depressing on many levels. Couldn’t she see that I probably needed her more than Bobby and those monster trucks?
“But what should I do about tomorrow? I feel so weird about everything,” I whined. “How should I act around Venice? What about Leo?”
“Relax,” Piper said. “Just behave around Venice like you always do. Be nice. As for Leo, go ahead and listen to what he has to say.”
“But I don’t believe him!” I said.
“That’s fine, but you don’t need to waste energy engaging him,” Piper said.
“I was never planning to engage Leo! That’s so gross!” I said.
“Right. I don’t know what you think engage means, but what I’m saying is that you shouldn’t waste energy challenging him. Let him say what he has to say, and then go about your day. Don’t let him influence your mood. Okay?”
That sounded reasonable. “I really don’t want to be in a fight with Venice. Sixth grade is going to suck without her.”
“You and Venice can make up in an instant. It’s not like you two are dunzo. Don’t worry about that. Go and do your homework. Get a good night’s sleep. Have a great day tomorrow. And I’ll come home for dinner.”
But I’d never heard the word dunzo. So I asked a simple question. “What does dunzo mean?”
“It’s like when a friendship totally dies and the whole thing is wrecked and you never speak again. My friendship with Ally Malloy went dunzo in fifth grade. It was the pits.”
I didn’t really remember Ally. “Did she move away?”
“Yeah, after we were dunzo her family moved to Wisconsin. But don’t worry about that. Do some homework. Go to sleep. Have a great day tomorrow,” Piper said.
“But I just declined two of Venice’s calls. I think she’ll be mad at me if I don’t call her back,” I explained.
“Maybe you should call her back,” Piper suggested.
This was terrible advice. “I can’t do that. I don’t know what to say to her. She told me to shut up! She yelled at me! I absolutely do not want to talk to her right now,” I said. “But I also don’t want her to get mad at me. And I want everything to feel normal tomorrow.”
“Listen,” Piper said. “You’re making this much harder than it needs to be. Send her a nice text. Throw in some cool emojis. Tell her you’ve got homework and you’ll see her tomorrow.”
That sounded like a good idea, because it was the truth and I could do it from a distance.
“You give really good advice,” I said.
“Yeah, life should be about finding peace and love,” Piper said.
I didn’t know if I agreed with that. Because I thought life should also be about having fun and learning stuff and visiting the beach once a year.
As soon as I hung up with Piper, I got out my notebook and started writing practice texts. Because I didn’t want to practice on my phone. Because once I had accidentally sent Venice a practice text that I meant to send my cousin Paloma about her sick dog and it put a lot of confusion into our friendship.
Crazy day! Sorry I didn’t pick up but I needed some time to think. I’ll finish thinking tonight and talk to you tomorrow!
That was a bad text because I didn’t need to remind her that I didn’t pick up.
Crazy day. I hope you don’t hate me for hanging up on you, but it really hurt me when you told me to shut up and then gushed on and on about Leo (who I think might be a secret conspiracy jerk) so let’s talk tomorrow.
I knew that was terrible even as I was writing it because it mentioned Leo and was longer than a text should be.
Crazy day. Let’s catch up tomorrow. You’re great! And my best friend.
Right before I sent the text, something weird happened. I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize.
Stranger
What are you doing?
Me
Who is this?
Stranger
Where are the photos?
Me
WHO IS THIS?
Stranger
Anya. W/Sailor and Sabrina. Dying to show them.
Me
[stared at phone]
Anya
Hellloooo?
Me
Left them at school.
Anya
Bummer!
I waited for my phone to buzz with more texts. But it didn’t. I was really surprised that Anya had my number. And I was also surprised by her emojis. Wink. Wink. Kiss. I wasn’t sure what it all meant. I thought back to what Piper had said about Anya probably not being evil. Maybe she was right. Maybe she was trying to just build the best yearbook she could. And maybe I shouldn’t try to sabotage her with nerd photos. Nerds probably enjoyed not being photographed. Based on what I had seen during the snake-holding photo, they didn’t know what t
o do when the lens was on them anyway. Was it my job to teach them? Did I have time to do that? Should I do what Piper said and wait until next year? Maybe I did need to work with Anya. Could I do that? Should I do that? I sent the text to Venice. Right now, almost anything seemed possible.
Final Page Count
Final page count was a big deal in Yearbook. Once it was set, you couldn’t change it. Not even by a single page. And it wasn’t like you could guess at the number. You had to plot out every single section. And that meant you had to think of everything. Home and away games. Student and teacher portraits. The school play. Clubs. Student council. Spirit Day. Signing pages. Assemblies. Dances. Index pages. And anything else we wanted in this year’s book. Today was the day it all got decided.
I was so nervous getting ready for school that I kept going back and forth about what to wear. Obviously, I wasn’t going to wear my cursed hoodie. At first, I thought I’d wear my stripy-stitch sweater and twirly skirt. But then I worried I’d be too hot. And it would probably feel awkward to act normal with Venice and potentially sweat at the same time. So then I thought I’d wear denim leggings and a long shirt. But then I worried that Venice was going to wear her denim leggings, because those were her favorite pants. And if I had a crush on a guy who was in my first class, I would probably wear my favorite pants to school. Then I realized I was thinking about my outfit all wrong. I shouldn’t be worried about what other people were wearing. I needed to dress defensively. Because today, wearing cute clothes wasn’t the point. My clothes needed to send a clear message.
When I walked out to the kitchen to join my parents for breakfast, it was clear that my clothes were sending exactly the message I wanted. People needed to stop messing with me. I was my own person.
“Whoa,” my dad said. “That’s a dark look.”
Project (Un)Popular Book #1 Page 5
