by K L Going
“Something wrong?” he asks.
“No,” I say firmly. “Nothing is wrong.”
But the truth is, everything is wrong.
17
“COME IN, PLEASE. Shut the door behind you.”
I slide into my seventh-grade guidance counselor’s office.
“Am I in trouble again?”
“No. You’re not in trouble. I’m talking with all the students this year about your future plans and how you can achieve your goals. Tell me, what would you like to be when you grow up?”
My mind slides across an image of the runway in Paris and I remember the feel of the colors and lights, but just as quickly I let it fade.
“That life is not for you,” Dad always says, and Mom said it too. “Oh, Li, modeling is a crazy business. What about doing something with your hands? You love to build stuff.”
I try to think of something else I might become. Maybe an astronaut?
“What are your skills, Liam?” the guidance counselor asks, leaning in. “What kind of aptitudes do you possess?”
I can’t think of any skills I have, so after kicking the leg of my chair, I say, “I’m really popular?”
The guidance counselor chuckles.
“Being popular isn’t a skill,” he says. “I’m looking for something substantial. Do you like math or science?”
“No,” I say, frowning. “What do you mean by ‘substantial’?”
“‘Substantial’ means that something has a purpose. A significance. Being popular doesn’t mean anything other than that people might like you.”
Might? But they do like me . . . don’t they? Could they be pretending?
“You need to pick a different aptitude,” the guidance counselor says. “Something that can help you unlock your future.”
As soon as he says it, I finally understand what Dad means when he says I’ve compromised my future. Now the image is perfectly clear . . . my future as a locked door.
After talking to Darleen, I decide I’m going to stop being Mr. Popularity. I look around Pete’s trailer full of glam-rock records, zebra stripes, chip crumbs, empty cans, and drab brown paneling, and I realize that this is exactly what Dad always warned me about.
This is my future: compromised.
It’s possible that it’s too late to turn things around, but maybe moving in with Aunt Pete is the wake-up call Dad always said I needed. My last chance to make things work.
So Monday morning, instead of my usual ritual, I stand in front of my mirror combing my hair down as flat as it will go. I don’t have a cowlick, but I try to create one, which is harder than it sounds, and involves a lot of hair gel and a rusty old curling iron Aunt Pete happened to have stuck under his bathroom sink. Just as I’ve finally mastered the perfect flattened, mishmashed spot on the back of my head, I see Pete squinting at me from the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Fixing my hair. What does it look like?”
He squints harder, so I slip in a casual question.
“Would it be okay if from now on I take the school bus? There’s a bus that goes by here, right?”
Aunt Pete frowns.
“You want to take the bus instead of having me drive you? In my day, not too many seniors rode the bus.”
I shrug.
Pete has the cereal box poised over his bowl, but he stops and screws up his face.
“Is everything . . . okay?” he asks at last. “I know we don’t know each other all that well yet, and I don’t mean to imply that somehow I think you’re acting strangely if in fact you’re not acting strangely, but . . .” He loses his train of thought. “I guess what I mean to say is, um . . .”
He clears his throat.
“Well, were you talking to your father the other day? I wasn’t listening in or anything, it’s just that you got home and it didn’t seem like you’d had a great day at school, so I was concerned, and I thought maybe before you were lying on the picnic table you were talking to your dad. And then over the weekend you seemed kind of different. So, uh . . .”
My body gets tense, and for a moment I genuinely panic. I run through the whole conversation I had with Dad in my head. If Pete knows Dad won’t let me come home, he might kick me out, and if that happens, I’d be moving to Nevada for sure. No other options.
“That wasn’t Dad,” I say quickly. “Did it sound like it was Dad? Because it wasn’t. It was my friend Brad. He’s a good friend but we fight sometimes, and that’s who it was.”
I’m a horrible liar.
“Your friend Brad?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re not acting even a little bit odd? I mean, you always spend your weekends reading the dictionary?”
“I’m improving my vocabulary.”
“Okay,” Aunt Pete says with a resigned sigh. He finally pours the cereal. Then he looks like he’s going to eat it, but he doesn’t. “I just hope you aren’t trying to be someone you’re not. That’s something I’ve always tried not to do. A lot of people say, hey, why do you live in a dumpy old trailer in a small hick town, but you know what? That’s me. I like my job; I like my friends; I like my band . . . and you’ve got to be true to what you like. No one else.”
I nod, but the whole time Aunt Pete’s talking I’m thinking about the red dress, wondering why he doesn’t wear it anymore if he’s so liberated. If there’s one thing I actually know about, it’s clothes, and Aunt Pete’s boring old T-shirts and jeans are not him.
“You can’t let others dictate what you think about yourself,” Pete’s saying. “In fact, there was this one time—”
“So, is it okay if I get dressed now?”
There’s a long pause. “Sure,” he says at last. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“Cool. I’ll be right out.”
I shut my bedroom door and stand in front of the curtain rod I’ve turned into a makeshift clothes rack. I need to pick out something uncool to wear, but not a single piece of clothing is by itself unattractive, and since I only wear clothes in my personal color spectrum, even odd combinations of clothes end up vaguely related.
Crap.
Day one and already there are obstacles.
I go out to the kitchen.
“Pete? Can I borrow one of your T-shirts?”
He gives me an exasperated look, but I interpret that as a yes.
“Thanks,” I say, jogging down the hall to dig through the clothes on his bedroom floor. Unlike my room, Aunt Pete’s room actually has a closet, but it’s full of musical equipment, so all that hanger space is wasted.
Mostly Pete has T-shirts, which are great for my purposes, because unless it’s a really retro T-shirt, they totally say you’re not trying. None of Aunt Pete’s T-shirts are retro. In fact, he only has two variations. One of them is black with white lettering and the other is white with black lettering. They all say WXKJ on them because he gets them free at the radio station. The only variation from this rule is that occasionally one of the T-shirts has a red lightning bolt through the WXKJ letters. I choose one of those.
“Pete?” I holler.
“Yes?”
“Could I borrow some shoes?”
None of my shoes are uncool.
“Hunhunhh? Come on now . . .”
“Thanks.”
I dig around under a pile of silver and gold leotards until I locate a battered sneaker. I pull it out and search for the match, but Aunt Pete peers in the door.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
It’s surprising how fast an old guy like Pete can move when he wants to.
“Out!” he hollers, coming around behind me and pushing me toward the door.
“But . . .”
“OUT!”
I don’t have time to find any shoes, but at least I have the T-shirt. It’ll do. In fact, it will be perfect. I take it into my room and try it on with my worst pair of pants. Gap khakis. Then, since I
didn’t get the sneakers, I slip on my oldest shoes. Suede loafers.
I examine myself from every angle and decide I still look good. The outfit needs something. I tuck in the shirt and, as much as it pains me, I resist the temptation to balloon out the front and back. Much better. Now all I need is a studious accessory. This one almost stumps me, but then I see the pack of pens sitting on my floor. Now I’ll be unpopular and have pens to write with.
Excellent planning.
I put the pens in the back pocket of my pants and go outside to wait for the bus. I haven’t ridden the bus since elementary school, and I’ve forgotten whether I’m supposed to do something to flag it down. I don’t do anything and it passes me by, but it stops at Darleen’s trailer, so I head over. The bus driver glares at me as I climb the stairs. He’s short and stout with huge ears.
“You’re not on my list,” he says.
Am I supposed to reply to that?
The driver nods at Pete’s trailer.
“That’s Rockin’ Pete’s place, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“And that would make you the ne-pha-ew?”
He says the word nephew as if it has three syllables and is a synonym for serial killer. I nod more slowly, and the bus driver looks like he’s considering kicking me off the bus already. How is that possible? Do I emit some sort of scent? Ode de Screwup?
“I don’t put up with any attitude,” he says. “Got that? Don’t try any funny business or I’ll send you packing. You got that?”
Yes, I got that. Honestly, I can’t imagine what kind of funny business a person would try on a bus, but I certainly won’t be racking my brain to come up with any. All I want is a quiet seat in the back of the . . . nooo, wait. Make that the front of the bus. I’m in luck. There’s an open seat next to Darleen.
“Mind if I sit here?”
She nods. “Yes,” she says. “I do.”
I look around for another seat, and fortunately the girl sitting behind Darleen says, “You can sit here.” She moves her books, spilling half of them, and I can’t help but notice she’s got bright red hair and purple braces. Since she’s stuck with the braces, she should dye her hair a dark brown and invest in lots of clothes with small touches of purple somewhere on them, like these purple camouflage pants I saw once online. Nothing solid because that would be too much, but . . .
I realize I still haven’t sat down, so I slide in next to her.
“Hi,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“Rebecca,” she answers. “You can call me Becky. Are you Liam?”
I wonder how come she knows my name, but maybe she works in the front office or something.
“That’s me,” I say. Then I decide that probably sounded too cool, so I change tactics. “I mean, uh, yeah. I’m new here. Just moved to Pineville from Westchester. I don’t know anyone yet.”
The girl giggles.
“My mom heard from Annette, who heard from Donna, who heard from Eddie that you got kicked out of your house because you slept with a model,” she whispers. “Is that true?” It’s a loud whisper and I can sense the ears perking up all over the bus.
“What?!” I blurt out. “That’s not true. I mean, I slept with this girl, but she wasn’t a model.”
“Oh,” she says. “Then it wasn’t that Vanessa girl from the cover of Elle?”
I snort. “Vanessa Hart? I wouldn’t sleep with her in a million years. She came to my mom’s boutique once with her stylist, and she’s a real bitch when she’s not doing press.”
“You actually know her?” the girl asks, leaning in.
Crap.
“No. I mean, yes. But I didn’t sleep with her. I wouldn’t . . . or I mean, she wouldn’t sleep with me. That’s what I meant.”
Now everyone on the whole bus is leaning forward. We hit a speed bump and everyone jumps.
“The truth is,” I say, trying to dig myself out of the hole I just created, “I got kicked out for sleeping with a really unpopular girl. She wasn’t even pretty but she was the best I could do . . .”
Oh, god, that sounded horrible.
“. . . and I was drunk at the time, which is very uncharacteristic of me, because usually I’m very focused on academics. So, anyway, I don’t know what you heard, but the truth is I’m just grateful for my aunt Pete . . . I mean, uncle Pete! Did I say aunt Pete? I meant uncle. Uncle Pete.”
I am literally starting to sweat. I can feel it dripping down the back of my T-shirt, and I cannot wait for this bus ride to be over. For the first time it occurs to me that being unpopular might be harder than I think.
18
ONCE WE ARRIVE AT SCHOOL, I am determined not to screw up.
I follow Darleen off the bus and try to make conversation on the way into the school building, but she’s preoccupied with hanging up flyers on all the school bulletin boards before the bell rings. This looks like a good opportunity for me to be enthusiastic, so I stand next to the library board waiting for her.
“Hi,” I say, when she shows up.
She sighs and hangs up a flyer.
SAVE THE ARTS! SAY “NO” TO HOMECOMING! URGE THE SCHOOL BOARD TO REALLOCATE FUNDS!
“No” to homecoming? Who would be against homecoming? I’m confused, but I plaster a grin on my face anyway.
“Great cause,” I say, nodding at the flyer. She glares just as a guy in a football jersey reads it. He looks like he’s ready to tackle someone—namely, Darleen—so I step in between them.
“Funny,” I say, loudly. “This is a great joke.”
The football player looks me over. I’m hoping maybe he’ll punch me or something, because then right away I will have gotten beat up by a football player, which would be perfect, but instead of tossing me into the row of lockers, he says, “You’re new here, right? You should join the football team. Just sign up with Coach if you’re interested. We always need players so there aren’t any tryouts or anything.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say.
“No problem.”
He walks away, and when I turn back Darleen is staring at me with her arms crossed over her chest.
“I should have expected that from you,” she says.
Then she turns and stomps off to class.
“Did you at least notice my outfit?” I call after her, but I can’t tell if she hears me and she certainly didn’t appear to notice that I look like a dork.
In fact, no one at school seems to care. It turns out that Pineville High is a very friendly place. Especially the girls.
That girl Jen, from my first day, asks me to sit with her at lunch, and I totally want to because she’s hot, but I remember Darleen said Jen is head cheerleader, so I shouldn’t get mixed up with her. But she catches me just as I come out of the lunch line with my tray, and I’m not sure where else to sit.
“Over here!” Jen hollers, waving me down.
I walk over real slow. “I shouldn’t,” I say, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
Jen looks confused. She’s got light blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her eyes are a perfect clear blue. Plus, she’s matched her shirt to their exact shade.
“Why not?” she asks.
I glance around the cafeteria and spot Darleen reading a book. I think it might be our physics textbook.
“Well, uh, just because.”
“Because why?”
That’s when Joe Banks slides his tray over to make room for me.
“Come on,” he says. “We’re cool.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. Joe Banks is the captain of the football team, and his girlfriend, Nikki, is hanging over his shoulder.
“It’s Liam, right?” she says.
“Yeah . . . but you can call me . . . uh . . .” There aren’t any awful nicknames for the name Liam. “. . . well, Liam.”
Suddenly I’m exhausted, so I sit down just for a minute. I pop open my milk with one hand and take a huge gulp as Jen eyes my tray.
“How come you only have hamburger b
uns?”
I glance down, forgetting what I took from the lunch line.
“Oh, that. I’m a vegetarian.”
Jen gasps. Then she claps. She actually claps for me.
“That’s so cool,” she says, giggling. “Guys are never vegetarians.” She leans in close. “I’m thinking of becoming a vegan. Is it hard?”
That’s a silly question. It’s not hard at all if you think about what’s in meat products these days.
“My mom’s a vegan,” I say. “Dad’s vegetarian, but only because of Mom. He sneaks meat whenever he can. I never even tried meat until I was twelve years old, and then it was by accident because I went to someone’s house and they made lasagna with meat sauce. I thought the meat was tofu, so I ate it and it made me sick. Meat’s pretty gross.”
Joe makes a face. “Gross?” he says. “I live for meat.” He makes a muscle. “Got to bulk up.”
“Hey,” I say, “everyone’s got what they like. I guess if I liked meat, I’d eat it, but . . .”
It suddenly occurs to me that I’m having way too casual a conversation with these people. I glance over my shoulder and Darleen is watching me over her book.
“You know, I really should go,” I say. “I’ve got some, uh . . . studying to do. I’m aiming for a four-point-oh this year. Got to buckle down.”
Jen looks disappointed.
“Okay,” she says. “Maybe we’ll catch you later.”
I pause. I don’t want her to feel bad, so I smile. “Yeah,” I say. “That would be great.”
Of course, I don’t really have any studying to do, so I end up in the guys’ bathroom, killing time until the bell rings. That kind of sucks. Then when the bell rings, I accidentally bump into Darleen in the hallway on my way out. Twice.
Actually, she bumps into me. She sort of trips over the long skirt she’s wearing and her books go flying. I help her pick them up, even though she’s acting like it was my fault she tripped, and then just when she’s got them all together, she starts to walk and trips again because really her skirt is way too long and she’s got on clogs, which are hard to control. I make a mental note to trip more often.
“Enough already,” Darleen says when I try to help her up, and then she stomps off down the hallway as if somehow it’s my fault she tripped.
