Surviving High School

by Lele Pons

  There’s a knock on my door. It’s Mom and Dad. I say yeah, fine, they can come in.

  “Are you excited for your party?” Mom asks, as if I’m six years old and Barney is on his way.

  “I guess.”

  “We just want to make sure we’re all on the same page with the rules for tonight,” says Mom.

  I just stare, blinking.

  “All we ask is that you keep the music at a reasonable volume,” says Dad.

  “You know, for the neighbors,” says Mom.

  “And make sure no one drinks alcohol,” says Dad.

  “But if they do, make sure you have their keys,” says Mom.

  “We’d much rather have kids sleeping here than driving home drunk,” says Dad.

  “But if people do sleep here, make sure they know they’re not allowed to have s-e-x.”

  “Ugh. Gross, Mom.”

  “Okay, so do you agree to the rules?” Dad asks, crossing his arms.

  “Sure, whatever, sounds fine. But you guys need to act cool, okay? The point of this party is to help my social life, not irreparably destroy it.”

  “Oh, we can be cool,” Mom says, almost ominously.

  “The coolest of the cool,” Dad adds. I grimace and tell them very politely to please GET OUT OF MY ROOM.

  After my second attempt at cat eyes, I have one eye angled up and one eye angled down, and a bunch of black smudges leftover from the first attempt. I may not be party ready, but I’m all set to rob a bank. Perfect!

  I go down into the kitchen to get a soda and that’s where I see the horror of all horrors: it’s Mom and Dad dressed in full hip-hop attire, wigs and gold chains included, dancing to eighties disco.

  “Cool, right?!” Dad calls out to me over the music.

  Taxi!

  Taxi driver: Where to, miss?

  Me: Anywhere but here.

  Hey, a girl can dream.

  • • •

  Darcy and Alexei come over around eight and help me corral the wild animals (parents) into the safety of their bedroom. We put on Iggy Azalea and throw confetti all around the living room to make it sparkle. Darcy says we need a beer pong table, so I reluctantly help her set one up.

  “What even is beer pong?” I ask. “You just throw balls into beer cups and then drink them? Seems like a good way to catch germs. If you want to get drunk, why not just drink the beer? Why does it have to be a game?”

  “It’s more fun this way. The idea is you’re trying to get the other team drunk faster than you’re getting drunk,” Alexei tries to explain to me.

  “Why? So you can take advantage of them for the rest of the night? Seems creepy. How about everyone is just responsible for deciding how much alcohol they personally consume?”

  “Chill, Lele, it’s not as serious as all that. It’s just a silly game that people have fun playing at parties. You don’t have to make it dramatic,” Darcy says. “Try to be a little more easygoing.”

  Story of my life. If I had a penny for every time someone told me to stop being so dramatic I could buy all of Miami and then everyone would be obligated to like me.

  “Fine, everyone can play beer pong till the cows come home, see if I care.”

  “That’s the spirit,” says Alexei, who, being from Belgium, has probably never played beer pong. I consider throwing a Ping-Pong ball at his head.

  • • •

  It’s nine thirty and none of the twenty-three Miami High students with Lisa Frank invitations have shown up. Darcy, Alexei, and I sit on the couch blowing into party horns and staring dejectedly out the window.

  “It’s only nine thirty,” Alexei says. “People will be here.”

  “They were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago!” I am not hopeful.

  “People are always fashionably late. That’s just party etiquette.”

  “Who did we invite?”

  “Everyone,” Darcy says. “I invited everyone I know, like you told me to.”

  “Yikes. In retrospect that seems like a lot of people.”

  “Then it’s a good thing none of them seem to be showing up.” Darcy blows into her horn. It unravels, filled with air, and then coils back up, deflated.

  • • •

  Ten thirty and still no guests.

  “Fine,” I say. “So nobody wants to come to my party. So I’m a loser. Big deal. I have you guys. And my parents.” I hang my head and pretend to cry. Being dramatic isn’t all bad: it can be a great way to entertain yourself during hard times.

  “Are you sure you invited people?” Alexei asks me and Darcy.

  “Yep,” we say in unison.

  “Well, it’s hard to have a party last-minute on a Saturday, a lot of people already have plans they’ve made in advance.” Oh, sweet Alexei, trying to spare my feelings.

  “That’s okay, Alexei, you don’t have to try to cheer me up. Worse things have happened in the history of the world than throwing a sad and lonely party that no one shows up to.”

  “You say it but you don’t believe it,” says Darcy.

  “It’s true, you know me so well!” I wrap my arms around Darcy’s neck. “What is worse than this? Tell me one thing that is worse than this!”

  “The Holocaust,” Darcy deadpans.

  “Yep, good answer, Darcy,” I say, snapping out of my hissy fit and laughing. “Gooood answer.”

  • • •

  At ten forty-five Lucy and Arianna and Mara arrive.

  “Oh thank God,” I moan in relief: at least my true friends still like me.

  “Are we . . . early?” Arianna asks, almost nervously. The three of them look so cute in their bright, unpretentious party dresses, I just want to jump up and kiss them. So I do.

  “No! You’re not early!”

  “Are we late? We really wanted to be fashionably late so your new friends wouldn’t think we’re losers, but we didn’t mean to miss the party entirely.”

  “You’re not early and you’re not late, it’s just that no one showed up!”

  “Oh, Lele, I’m sorry.” Mara strokes my hair.

  “No, it’s totally okay, because now look! My old BFFs can meet my new BFFs and everyone I love is here under one roof!” I introduce everyone to each other and am feeling a bit manic, bursting with love for my loyal friends while also actively battling off the disappointment of no one else showing up.

  “I’m sorry it’s kind of a lame night, but I’d love it if you guys hung around,” I say. “Anyone can sleep over.”

  “Yeah!” says Lucy. “We can get fake drunk on root beer floats!”

  “Umm, that sounds amazing.” Darcy is thrilled at the idea. So we go to town on soda and ice cream until we’re dizzy with sugar, making a game of throwing darts at the balloons, watching them pop one by one. It’s a wonderfully good time and an epic bonding session, until I throw a dart and it goes point-first into Arianna’s forehead. Oops. No real damage, but blood trickling down the front of someone’s face does tend to put a damper on the festivities.

  • • •

  I can’t get anything right, I am a walking disaster. It’s been that way for my whole life, or as long as I can remember. When I was three years old I put one of my grandma’s Valium up my nose. I mean, not on purpose or anything, I wasn’t trying to get it up there. I honestly don’t know how it happened, but next thing I knew it was lodged in deep and wouldn’t come out—my mom had to rush me to the hospital before the Valium could get to my little baby brain. But maybe it did anyway and maybe that’s why it takes a miracle for me to do anything right.

  Another nightmare: The bell rings and school is out for summer. I rush out into the hallway where my friends—old school and new school—are gathered around my locker. They’re ecstatic to see me, as they should be.

  “Where have you been, Lele?” they cry. “We’ve missed you so much!”

  “I was just in class,” I say. “I’m here now!” I have to keep them at arm’s length like fangirls while I open my locker. But that’s when t
hings take an ugly turn: my locker pops open and an endless pile of books topples out, flooding into the hallway. Dammit, I have to clean these up fast before I get in trouble, or worse, people start to drown.

  “Could you guys just wait one second?” I ask. “I’ll clean this up really fast, I swear.” I frantically gather the books but whenever I put a stack back in my locker another dozen ooze out, now in liquid form, thick and black like molasses, spilling all over my shoes, which in this dream, are Louboutins and therefore very expensive.

  When I look up from my tragically ruined shoes, I see my so-called friends strolling away, already on the far side of the hallway, laughing with their backs to me, everything in slow motion because, hello, this is a nightmare after all.

  And, because this is not real life, I am able to steal a bus just in time to meet them at the school entrance. Of course they want a ride, they beg for a ride, but I just stick my tongue out at them and drive away. I can be very mature when I want to be. Serves them right. As it turns out, stealing the bus wasn’t such a good idea, because soon after I get my revenge on those losers I go soaring off a bridge (an old-timey bridge that looks like it might have a troll living under it) and start to sink in the ink-black ice-cold water. Down, down, down, down.

  That’s when I wake up, only this time I’m not screaming. This time, a hellish nightmare is nothing to freak out over, now it’s just the norm.

  “Yep,” I say, blinking my eyes open, “seems about right.” These are dark times, my friends, dark times.

  I want to pour myself a stiff drink, but because I don’t have alcohol (and am still waaayyyy underage), I pour myself into my art instead.

  Yes, that’s right, I just referred to my Vines as my art. And I’ll do it again! Art is self-expression in the form of something presentable as a way to cope with being a miserable outcast—I’m prrrreeetttyyy sure that’s how it’s been since the beginning of time. So, if I have to be an outcast I might as well document my misadventures and heartbreaks—maybe that way all the other outcasts out there won’t feel so alone. A life without purpose is a life not worth living . . . is that a thing people say?

  I get out my notepad and start brainstorming. If Alexei wants to be in a Vine with me, I’m going to have to make sure it’s something good. Something impressive. In the light of the moon I scribble: A girl abandoned by friends seeks revenge by stealing a school bus . . . How I act when my friends don’t wait for me . . .

  Uh oh, it’s 2:45 a.m., I have to get to sleep before three, otherwise . . . otherwise what? Otherwise I’ll feel spooked, that’s what. Taking over the world one Vine at a time is hard work, and a girl’s gotta get some sleep.

  11

  Sometimes You Have to Prepare Yourself for the Hard Things in Life

  (4,661 Followers)

  Today is Sunday, but it’s not just any Sunday, it is a very important Sunday. You might even say it’s the most important Sunday of all time. Well, you probably wouldn’t say that, but I would, because today is the Sunday I will call Alexei and make a plan to Vine with him.

  I know, I know, what do I have to be nervous about? He likes me, I know that, and what’s more, it was his idea to collaborate together. But you have to understand, this is my first real crush—I’ve never felt so unbearably butterfly-y about someone before. Sure there was that one kid Harry, who I dreamed would ask me to the fifth-grade dance (and then never did), but this is different! This time I have hormones and stuff or whatever.

  So now I am programmed to second-guess myself, to experience an attack of insecurity and self-doubt every time his name enters my mind. Is it okay for a girl to call a guy—am I supposed to be waiting for him to call me? No, it was his idea to make a Vine together, right? So the ball is in my court, just where it belongs. Or, would I prefer the ball be in his court? When we talk about balls being in courts do we want them in our court or our opponent’s court? I don’t know—I’m not much of a sports person. Where was I? Oh right, should I be waiting for Alexei to call me?

  I practically work myself into a panic attack trying to figure this out. Luckily, there are plenty of ways to procrastinate, and that is one thing I am flawlessly awesome at. I decide to kill two birds with one stone: I’ll use the procrastination time to build up the courage I need to call. Now, if only I knew how to do that. . . .

  There’s one way to successfully distract yourself from discomfort, and that is to inflict a different kind of discomfort upon yourself. So, I decide to go on a run! I put on my Lululemon gear and set off for a jog around the block. I’m actually a surprisingly good runner. I say surprisingly because I’m basically the laziest person alive, but the truth is I have long legs and a lot of nervous energy to burn off.

  After one lap, the endorphins and adrenaline really start to kick in. I’m alive and ready for more. Push-ups! Pull-ups! Sit-ups! Jumping jacks! I even sneak into my dad’s downstairs gym to lift some fivers (I’m not frickin’ Arnold Schwarzenegger after all). All right, all right, I think to myself, I am a strong and independent lady, and if I wanna call Alexei I should just call him. But no, I’m not ready.

  Sweaty and panting, I rip out a piece of yellow lined paper from a legal pad that’s been wedged under the treadmill and write out a sort of script for myself:

  Hey Alexei, it’s Lele. Just calling to see what you’re up to today and if you maybe wanted to come over and film a Vine, like we talked about?

  Simple enough. Okay, so it’s not exactly Shakespeare, but I’m trying to make this as quick and painless as possible, and Lord knows Shakespeare more or less had the exact opposite goal. What if he doesn’t answer? Do I leave a message? If I leave a message, should I basically say the same thing? What if I leave a message but he doesn’t get it because he never checks his voice mail or something like that, do I call again? Or, what if he does get the message but chooses not to call me back. I do have a tendency to overthink things from time to time. I chew on the end of the pen until my lip turns blue. Cute, Lele, really cute.

  Uh-oh, it’s almost noon. If I don’t call now, I might miss my chance completely. It’s now or never. With great effort and willpower I pick up the phone and find his contact information. Remember when we used to have to actually dial someone’s number? I don’t, I think that went out of style entirely when I was about five. Shhh, it’s ringing.

  “Hello?” he answers, his voice husky and dreary.

  “Hey, um, it’s Lele, did I wake you? I hope not, I’m sorry if I did, but it’s almost noon, so I figured you’d probably be awake. Not to say you’re lazy for sleeping in, I mean it’s Saturday, I actually wish I had slept in a little more. I just keep having these nightmares, so I wake up pretty early and can’t go back to sleep. I mean . . .” Way to stick to the script. Jesus.

  “It’s okay.” He laughs. “You didn’t wake me up. I’ve been up for a while. Do I sound tired?”

  “A little. I mean, in a cute way, I mean—no, forget that. Never mind. Listen.” I shake it off, literally. “I’m calling to see if you want to come over and work on a Vine again, I think I have some ideas.”

  “Oh yeah? That would be super cool. I told my little sister I’d take her to the mall, so how about after, around three?”

  “Three is perfect!” Okay, “perfect” might be a little overboard. Reel it in, Lele.

  “You should come over to my place, my parents are out so we’ll have the whole space to ourselves.” Um, whaaaatttt? Did he just make this a date? Did he? Seriously, tell me, I don’t know how to speak Boy.

  “Cool, okay. Just text me your address and I’ll come by around three.”

  “Awesome, talk soon.” He hangs up. I hang up, feeling my fingertips go numb. Well, this should be interesting.

  12

  When You Get Caught Bae Watching

  (4,997 Followers)

  Well, it’s noon now, which means I have almost three hours to get ready. I start with outfits. I want to look hot and adorable/irresistible but also practical and like I’m no
t trying too hard. I try on five to ten outfits and land on jean shorts and a white tank top (low-cut, obvs), trusty white Converse to match and add a sporty, approachable vibe. If this outfit could talk it would say, “Hey, I’m easygoing but also classy and elegant, I’m everything you could want in a girlfriend!” At least I hope it would say that, but you honestly never know when your clothes are going to betray you.

  As much as I would love to just head on over without fussing with my hair, I know this monster needs to be tamed if today is going to even have a chance at going smoothly. My inner artist/creator takes over and makes the executive decision to put it back in French braids so that it doesn’t get in the way of my filming process. I’ve been giving myself French braids since I was in the womb, so this process is impressively quick (if I do say so myself) and goes off without a hitch. Sigh, if only the world was as easy to master as the French braid, my life would be so majorly under control it wouldn’t even be funny.

  In my tight jean shorts and hair braided back I think I look like Lara Croft from Tomb Raider. Or rather, the negative of Lara Croft, the Lara Croft of a parallel universe where brown is blond and black is white. But that’s not the point, the point is that I look powerful. I even feel a little bit powerful after all that exercise. Note to self: maybe work out a little more often. Or, like, work out once in a while. Yeah, that’s better.

  By the time I’ve done my makeup (you know, where you put on pounds of foundation and lip gloss just to achieve the “natural” look), it’s almost showtime. It takes me twenty minutes to walk to Alexei’s house, and by the time I get there I am covered in a fine layer of sweat. What would Lara Croft do? I ask myself. She wouldn’t care about some sweat, she would go right in there and be a total boss. I mean, I think that’s what she would do. To be quite honest I have never seen the Tomb Raider movies, I’ve just seen Angelina Jolie on the posters in all her badass big-breasted glory. But from the looks of it, she wouldn’t let a little bit of sweat get her down.

  Alexei’s house is one story but definitely, definitely not small. It stretches out across an emerald lawn like a cruise ship on a glowing green ocean. It’s actually more like a museum of modern art, all geometrical and spacious. I know, I know, you don’t care what his house looks like, but sometimes it’s just nice to paint the scene a little, sheesh.