Surviving High School

by Lele Pons

  These girls have been my friends for almost five years, and I love them, but I am without a doubt the ugly one in the group. Lucy is the athletic beach babe, Arianna pulls off the sexy-bookworm look, and Mara is . . . well, she’s the most beautiful girl most people have ever seen. Beautiful but approachable in a girl-next-door kind of way, that’s what everyone is always saying. Plus she’s the sweetest person and an amazing friend, so I can’t hate her for it, which makes it even worse.

  “Lele,” Lucy says, “you have to tell us about your new school! We feel like we haven’t seen you in forever.” We’re eating frozen yogurt in the food court right by some skater boys with studded belts and backward baseball hats. You know the look.

  “Ah, yeah, well, I’ve been so busy making a fool out of myself that it’s been hard to find time for friends.”

  “Has it been that bad?” asks Lucy. “Are people being mean to you, Lele? You know I’ll beat them up.”

  “Thanks, Luce. People have been . . . less than welcoming. Public school kids have some anger issues. Especially this girl Yvette.”

  “What’s her last name?” Arianna is pulling up the Facebook app on her new iPhone.

  “Amparo.”

  “Is this her?”

  “Whoa, that was fast.” I look at the page, Yvette’s sleek hair pouring over her shoulders like a waterfall of ink while she poses on that balcony overlooking the pool. My balcony of shame and self-loathing. “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “Oh, you’re so much prettier,” Mara says, getting a peek. I don’t think so, and Mara probably doesn’t either, but that is exactly what good friends are supposed to do: lie to each other about how pretty they are.

  “You’re an angel from heaven,” I tell her, kissing her on the cheek. “Why can’t you guys be with me at Miami High? I miss you so much!”

  “We miss you too! Things are so boring since you’ve been gone,” says Lucy.

  “Like really,” the others agree. These are my girls, the people who appreciate me. I want to shrink them down to pocket size and carry them around with me all day so I’m never alone. #SquadGoals. I’m about to tell them this, but then I hear how it might sound creepy if said out loud.

  “You are the best friends and human beings,” I say, then excuse myself to ask for more sprinkles for my frozen yogurt.

  Over by the yogurt stand, I can see Skater Boys checking out my friends.

  “Hey, girls,” one of them says, and puts his hand up in one of those motionless waves. Mara waves back at him, then expertly turns her attention back to the yogurt. Way to leave ’em hanging, bb. This aloof attitude makes the guys stare even more. They like what they see and they want attention from these girls who are so clearly out of their league.

  “Hi, guys!” I say, plopping back down next to my girls. “What’s up?”

  The skater boys might as well have visibly recoiled in disgust. They exchange awkward glances with each other and then one, clearly the ringleader, the Mara of the group, says, “Uhh, we were just heading out. See ya.” Their faces are graced with looks of sheer horror and disgust.

  See? What did I tell you? I’m the ugly one. Plus, no one likes a girl with braces.

  “Oh, Lele, don’t let them get to you,” Mara says. “Guys are intimidated by confidence.”

  Me? Confident? Nah. This is everyone’s way of saying, “Guys prefer mild-mannered ladies with easy faces to look at who will cook them dinner and tie their shoes.” Well I won’t have it! I can be me and still be desirable, right? I can be a beauty queen with just a little extra work; I can slay the hearts of men everywhere and influence girls to respect and honor me, even fear me. In other words, I can become popular without sacrificing my individuality, I know I can, all I have to do is tell the world (Miami High) that I am here and I am taking over, no more Miss Nice Guy, no more target of ridicule!

  I may not be the prettiest girl at Miami High, but when I put my mind to something, I tend to get what I want.

  And that, my friends, is called confidence.

  • • •

  At home I take a bag of Rolos from the fridge (candy is always better cold, duh) and devour them in front of my computer while I upload “When You’re the Ugly One in the Group” and watch the likes start to pour in. Ah, the reliable comfort of validation from others. Then I have to spend twenty minutes cleaning Rolos out of my braces. It is not cute. Note to self: get these things off. IMMEDIATELY.

  8

  When Your Friend Wears Your Clothing Better Than You

  (3,827 Followers)

  Darcy’s house is my new favorite house. It’s charming and warm, with an old-fashioned beach house vibe, decorated with seashells that look actually from the ocean and not from Pottery Barn. I’m very into the authenticity, it reflects well on Darcy and her fam. I asked her mom if I could move in but she said no. Typical.

  “I’m turning over a new leaf,” I tell Darcy. We’re reading Seventeen on her bed, the ceiling fan whirring above us.

  “Oh yeah? What kind of leaf?”

  “I’ve decided to stop feeling bad for myself. I’m going to get a makeover and prove to everyone that I can be the cool girl. BUT, I’m not going to stop being myself.”

  “But you’re going to stop looking like yourself.”

  “No, I’m still going to look like myself, but now I’m going to be a better version. Lele 2.0, if you will.”

  “All right, so what’s going to change?”

  “Well, to start with, I’m getting my braces off next week!”

  “Oh my God, you’re going to be so much happier without those. When I got mine off, I’m telling you, it was like being reborn.” She flashes her impeccable teeth at me like she’s in a frickin’ Trident commercial.

  “Yes, Darcy, you’re very attractive. But back to me now, this is my life transformation story.”

  She rolls her eyes but gestures for me to go on. Darcy has her shortcomings, like everyone in this world, but she’s a great friend. I think she really gets me. She gets that I have a heart of gold despite being a bit difficult as a human being.

  “I’m thinking I’ll get a haircut, something with shape, maybe even some highlights,” I say.

  “What color highlights? Your hair is already extremely blond.”

  “Like extra blond-platinum highlights, just to add a sense of complexity and sophistication.”

  “It sounds like you really know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s good, but I don’t. I’m making this all up on the spot.”

  “You’re really something else, Lele.”

  “Merci, mon ami,” I say, thinking maybe little spots of French will be a part of Lele 2.0. “I’ve also lost, like, five pounds over the stress of being a fundamentally unlovable social outcast, which is very exciting for my new look.”

  “You’re not fundamentally unlovable, you weirdo. Put that outfit on that you bought today.”

  “Oooh! Fashion show!”

  I find the shopping bag and remove a black crop top and gray shorts covered in an abstract snakeskin print. Yes! Complexity and sophistication, this is exactly what I was talking about.

  I hop up and slip into the outfit, check myself out in the full-length mirror. I’m not going to lie, I look amazing.

  “Soooooo pretty, Lele.” Darcy smiles. “You look amazing.”

  “Thank you! I kind of do, don’t I?”

  “Mhm. Can I try it?”

  “Yeah, why not?” I shrug. I take it off and hand it over, then get back into my mundane, pedestrian attire. Not complex or sophisticated at all.

  Darcy puts on the outfit and I can practically hear “Get Busy” by Sean Paul start playing. “Shake that thing, Miss Kana Kana / Shake that thing, Miss Annabella . . .” Aggh seventh grade post-traumatic stress flashbacks! What I’m saying is, she looks gooooooood. Better-than-me kind of good. I had no idea she was in such great shape—her legs and abs are the perfect amount of defined, and her mocha skin is smooth and even-colored
all over. Her hair, newly blown out, shimmers as it cascades off her shoulders. She’s like a mermaid, a complex and sophisticated mermaid. Dammit. I think my mouth might be hanging open.

  “Do you like it?” she asks.

  “Nah.” I shake my head and quickly divert my eyes back to Seventeen. Great, tons of hot babes in here too, they’re everywhere I look!

  “Come on, Lele, don’t be like that,” she says. “It looks great on you too.”

  “It looks so much better on you, you have no idea. You should wear it. I never knew you worked out!”

  “I don’t.”

  Grrrr.

  “You evil, sexy sorcerer of black magic!”

  “Racist,” Darcy jokes.

  I push her into the closet. “Get out of here.”

  “Listen to me, Lele. You’re almost there, you just need to try a little bit harder and you can be the hottest girl in school, if you cared about that sort of thing. Well, one of the hottest girls in school.” She flips her hair and winks.

  I try to wink back but fail epically. I probably look like I’m having a seizure.

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m almost to my dream goal of hotness and popularity, maybe the end of social outcast-hood is just within reach. Does this mean I have to start wearing makeup? Does this mean I have to start working out? Oh my God, does this mean I have to stop eating chocolate?! I’ll die, I’ll just die. Get it together, Lele, one must make sacrifices when planning to take over the world. Cue evil laughter.

  9

  When You Go to Get a New Haircut

  (3,998 Followers)

  Mom lets me get a haircut because she is the best. Well, I may have told her that if she didn’t give me her blessing and a couple of Benjamins then I would be forced to take matters (and scissors) into my own hands.

  “Baby, but your hair is so beautiful.” She winces and then presses my cheeks together between her hands.

  “Calm down, calm down.” I manage to wriggle out of her clutches. “It’s just a minor cut and some highlights. The change will be subtle, I swear.”

  “Ay, fine, I’ll take you to Juan.”

  “Who is Juan?”

  “My stylist. I’ve been going to him for years.”

  “But you don’t do anything to your hair.”

  She laughs, half snorts. Charming.

  “If I didn’t do anything to my hair it’d be gray as a bat,” Mom says.

  “Is that an expression? I thought bats were black?”

  “I dunno.” She shrugs, runs one hand through her ink-black locks. How did I turn out blond? Maybe I’m adopted.

  She drives me to Gianini’s, a hair salon on Española Way. I can’t believe my mom has been coming here for years and hasn’t been taking me! It’s basically heaven in hair salon form. Big porcelain tubs and polished granite floors, the soothing smells of lavender and honeysuckle drifting through the air. White cherub figurines pose with their heads resting on pedestals. I think I could live here.

  “Hola, hola!” A tall, effeminate man with a flawless, slicked-back head of hair struts out from behind a black curtain, wearing an apron equipped with every hair-cutting tool you could possibly imagine, all silver and resplendent. This must be Juan.

  “Juan, darling!” Mom says, as he pulls her in for double-cheek kisses.

  “So good to see you, Anna. And who is this?”

  “This is my daughter, Lele. She’s looking for a new, updated look. I told her she had to go to Juan, of course.”

  “Well of course, who else is there?” They laugh like old friends. “Lele, tell me, what are you thinking? What’s the look you’re going for?”

  “Complex and sophisticated,” I mumble. He gasps, claps his hands together.

  “Say no more! I’ve got it!”

  He whisks me into a chair and gets to work. I relax into his care as he washes and snips and foils, ease into a Zen-like trance knowing I will soon be Lele 2.0.

  “Okay, what do you think?” he asks after what seems like only seconds. He spins me around to look in the mirror and to my profound, bloodcurdling horror, I am bald.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggggggggggggggggggggg!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

  I wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding like a stampede of frightened wildlife.

  Oh my God, it was just a dream. I touch my face, pat down my blankets, clutch my long, luscious hair. Is this real? Okay, this is real; we’re safe now. What a nightmare!

  “Poor babies!” I cry, and bring my strands of hair to my lips so I can kiss them.

  • • •

  Hmm, maybe I don’t need a haircut. Wouldn’t want to risk actually going bald! But I’m going to change, I’m going to show everyone that I can be charming, I can be pretty, I can be popular. I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does. Am I right, Morrissey, or am I right?

  Neon green numbers on my nightstand flash 3:00 a.m. Typical. I hate 3:00 a.m., it is my least favorite time. Of all the twenty-four hours, it is by far the worst, which is normally all right because normally you sleep right through it. Tonight, no such luck. In ninth grade we read Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury, and there was this one line that says something like three in the morning is the time when your body has slowed down so much that it is as close to death as it ever will be while you’re alive. I’m probably messing it up majorly, but the point is, that info really traumatized me. Now, 3:00 a.m. seems like a twisted, haunted hour that no one should have to deal with. The shadows and total stillness, it all just gives me the creeps.

  Note to self: from now on, don’t ever be awake at 3:00 a.m.

  To distract myself from the creepiness of 3:00 a.m. and the sheer horror of going bald, I get up and start doing sit-ups on my floor. Oh man, if I could have abs as flat as Darcy’s I would be one happy Lele 2.0. Okay, let’s start with some basic crunches. One, two, three, four, five, oh boy this burns, six, seven, eight, dear Lord I’m on fire, nine, and ten agggghhhhhhhhhhhh never again, never again. Too. Hard. Too. Tired. To. Keep. Going. I lift my shirt and check to see if I’ve made any progress.

  None.

  Okay, so this is going to be like a process or whatever, I get it.

  I force myself to do two more sets of these torture crunches and then spend the next two hours browsing the internet for new makeup. It turns out there are all these YouTube videos of girls—Bethany Mota and Ingrid Nilsen are particularly helpful—showing you how to apply makeup properly.

  This is exactly what I need! I spend the next hour learning about cat eyes and smoky eyes and pouty lips and how to create the illusion of high cheekbones, and then use my mom’s credit card numbers (memorized) to order everything I need for Operation Makeover. Do not try this at home.

  By the time the sun comes up my eyelids are heavy as a zombie’s and I’m mumbling “Maybe it’s Maybelline” over and over, unable to stop myself. In other words, I am delirious.

  • • •

  “Whoa, bad night?” Alexei says when he sees me in English that morning. I check my compact mirror and see that I have massive dark circles under my eyes and my cheeks are all puffy. The release of Lele 2.0 is going to have to be postponed for some time after I’ve had my beauty rest.

  “I had a nightmare.”

  “Oh no! I hate that.”

  “Mmmnnnnnnn,” is all I can manage to say. I want to let my head fall onto the desk and block out the world. I’m too tired to care that Alexei is looking at me with this concerned and vaguely nervous glance.

  “So anyway,” he says, “did you see that last Vine you did got twenty thousand loops?”

  “Twenty thousand?!” I’m jolted awake.

  “Yeah. ‘When
Your Friend Wears Your Clothing Better Than You.’ Twenty thousand loops.”

  “Whaaaaaaa?” I’m speechless. I stare into the empty space behind Alexei’s beautiful blond head, too tired and now shocked to organize my thoughts.

  Alexei laughs. “You look like you’re having a stroke.”

  “Yes,” I say. “That is very normal for me.”

  “I meant what I said before, about wanting to do it with you.”

  “I’m sorry, do what with me?” Did he just say he wants to “do it with me”!? Wow, European guys are really forward!

  “To be in a Vine with you? Remember?” he says, so innocently.

  Right. A Vine. Not it. Okay then! I can do that! “Ohhhh, yes. Yes, I remember. I’ll think of some ideas and then I’ll let you know.”

  “Perfect! Thanks, Lele, that’s really cool of you.”

  I just nod along, smile lazily. After first period I walk out onto the track field and fall asleep behind a tree. Ahh, the good life.

  10

  Parents’ Idea of “Cool”

  (4,004 Followers)

  I’ve taken my mom up on her offer to let me have a party. So far Alexei and Darcy are my only Miami High friends, but I spent Friday inviting anyone who seemed like a particularly nice person, and I told Darcy to do the same. We even made invitations out of some Lisa Frank stationery I found under my bed—technicolor dolphins frolicking through a flurry of hearts in a neon rainbow ocean. Lisa Frank stuff is timeless, in my humble opinion, don’t you think?

  • • •

  It’s Saturday night and I’m applying cat-eye makeup step-by-step, following the instructions from a YouTube tutorial by a girl whose voice has the poise of a British accent and the mangled intonations of an Australian one. She sounds like a kangaroo that is trying to seduce me, and it’s honestly pretty confusing. Of course I turn out looking more like a badger than a cat—good thing it’s only 5:00 p.m., which gives me plenty of time to reapply.