by Lele Pons
“Especially now that you’re so goddamn sexy!” she says again and I fake-swoon; we laugh like long-lost sisters. The other girls sulk, Darcy included.
• • •
In fifth-period marine biology I wouldn’t be able to pay attention to what Mr. White is saying if you paid me a million dollars. Something about a hundred different species of fish and their scientific names. For example, the shortnose sturgeon is actually called Acipenser brevirostrum. It sounds more like a spell you learn at Hogwarts than a fish, which I guess is pretty fascinating if you think about it . . . but I can’t think about it! All I can think about is how crazy this day was and the six hundred thousand followers I have on Vine. Life is changing fast and I have visions upon visions swirling around my mind, so many ideas to turn into Vines! I jot them all down while Mr. White chatters on in the background:
• Boys whistle at girls, girls throw Diet Coke in their faces.
• Girl-on-girl jealousy.
• Boys vs. men (alternative title: boys are so confused).
• During marine biology, girl uses Potter-esque spell to turn teacher into a shortnose sturgeon.
• Instant makeover.
Instant makeover. I write it out over and over. Is that what happened to me? No, I put effort into my new look, I worked hard, I suffered for this body! But wouldn’t it be great? A makeover as instant as instant coffee. Just add water. Extremely nerdy girl waves at friends—braces, glasses, bad skin. Suddenly, she’s hit by a book called Puberty and is automatically a beauty queen. CUT TO: her friends all hit themselves with the Puberty book trying for the same effect. Sadly, the magic doesn’t work on them.
Marine biology flies by like this, and by the time the bell rings I have three pages of new Vine material. Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.
17
How to Recover from a Bad High Five
(600,102 Followers)
“So, today was . . . different.” Darcy catches me at my locker after class, still chewing the straw from her Diet Coke.
“I know! What a trip. Can I be honest with you though? I am so hungry I could eat your face.”
“Me too! What’s up with the no-lunch thing? No wonder they’re so skinny.”
“Right? Yvette wants us to go off campus with them again tomorrow, so I guess we’ll have to bring our own snacks to fill up on beforehand.”
“Are you serious? We’re hanging with them again? Oh man, Lele, do you know what this means?”
“Ermmm . . . ”
“You’re popular now. We’re popular. This is insane.”
“Hollerrrrr!” I put up my hand for a high five. Darcy goes in for the kill but misses my hand and we both topple from the momentum of failure.
“That was embarrassing.” She grimaces.
“Yeah, we’re gonna have to work on that.”
In my room we binge on curly fries and spend the next three hours coordinating the dopest secret handshake you’ve ever seen. By the time we have it perfected we look like Lindsay Lohan and her butler in The Parent Trap. They were cool, right?
18
You Belong with . . . Her?
(600,552 Followers)
Amazing news. Yvette is throwing a party with the sole purpose of getting me and Alexei together!
“What, why?” I ask. She’s pulled me under a staircase in the language building and is stroking my hair like I’m a sad cat as she speaks. How is she this comfortable with being so touchy? Isn’t she worried I’ll think she’s a big lesbian? No, she isn’t, because Yvette doesn’t worry about anything, she is too cool for worry. Maybe she’s a cyborg? One of those Austin Powers Fembots? I wouldn’t be surprised.
“Because, silly, I know he likes you and you’re obviously head over heels for him! You don’t strike me as the shy type, but something is keeping you two from making it happen and I, for one, am getting impatient. You’re my friend now, and I like Alexei just fine . . . this is what I do for people I like.”
“Okay, Cupid. If you say so.”
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeee! Yay. So excited. Friday at my house, spread the word. Kisses!” She saunters off, bouncing up the stairs. This girl is a roller coaster, whenever she’s around I feel like I have to hold on to something.
• • •
So now here we are, Yvette and the Roller Coasters and me, blasting Beyoncé in the Amparo mansion, drinking virgin piña coladas. Well, mine is virgin, they’re really going for it with the rum. Don’t get me wrong, I get it, but I don’t feel the need mostly because I find that I act plenty drunk without adding alcohol to the mix. People drink to keep up with me! Plus, since I turned sixteen and got my driver’s license I’ve been the designated driver—and that gives me all the power, muahahaha!
“I’m not kidding, it was like THIS big.” Becca holds her hands apart to demonstrate the size of what looks like a Subway sandwich. “I was shocked. I mean, shocked.” The others squeal and flap their hands in disbelief. They look and sound like a flock of gulls.
“So what did you do?!” Yvette gulps her colada.
“At first I was like, ‘Oh my God, Jackson, no way. There’s no way that’s going to fit.’ But he was like, ‘Trust me, I can make it work.’ But I said, ‘No! It’s going to hurt!’ And he said he would make sure it didn’t hurt, so then I let him go down on me for basically a million years.”
“And . . . ?”
“And he was right. It fit. And it didn’t hurt. Only a little bit in the beginning.”
More squealing, more hand flapping.
“I cannot believe you lost your virginity to Jackson Clark!” Yvette approves. “Becca, he is so hot.”
“So much better than my first,” Cynthia says. “Remember Eric McCullough?”
“Wasn’t he only at Miami High for like one semester in ninth grade?”
“Mmm-hmm!”
“Ewww, Cynthia.”
“I know. He was so creepy. But I was really bored at Jessie Jacobs’s party, so I figured why not? And it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, the kid was good with his hands.”
“Oh my God, stop talking, you’re going to make me throw up.” Yvette puts a hand up to Cynthia and then turns to me. “What about you, Lele? Who’d you lose it to?”
“Oh, um . . . well, funny story, I uh . . .”
“Have you never done it?!” Yvette asks me this as if she’s never heard of a tragedy so great.
“Yeah. I mean no, I haven’t.”
“Shut up!” She drops her jaw for dramatic effect. The way she’s staring at me you’d think I just told her I’m a martian spy. “What the hell are you waiting for?”
“I don’t know . . . I’m not necessarily waiting, it’s just never happened. I’ve never had a real boyfriend and—”
“Boyfriend shmoyfriend,” Maddie says. “Just pick a guy, someone with experience, and get it over with.”
“Nonsense!” Yvette interjects. “She’s obviously going to lose it to Alexei. Maybe even tonight. Oooh, this is so meant to be!”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“I do, definitely. But I want it to be . . . I don’t think I want it to happen at a party.”
“Uhh . . .” She looks at me like I’ve just descended from a UFO. “Why not?”
“A party is a public place! I’ll only get to lose my virginity once, it should be . . . special.” I feel my cheeks get hot and wish we could change the subject.
“Lele, losing your virginity is not something you ‘get to do,’ it’s something you get out of the way so you can start enjoying sex. And it’s not going to be special . . . it takes like five or six times before it’s special.”
“I know it’s not going to be like fireworks bursting in the air the first time or whatever, I’m just saying I want it to be . . . thoughtful. I want to look back on it and not wanna puke. You know? I at least want . . . somewhat fond memories. And unless it’s on Brangelina’s yacht after the Oscars, a party isn’t the best e
nvironment for that.”
“Ugh, fine,” Yvette says. “Be a romantic. But we’ll see how you feel once he shows up wearing a hoodie zipped open with no shirt underneath!”
• • •
And we do see how I feel once he shows up: absolutely miserable. Rock-bottom miserable. No good, very bad miserable. Why? He’s shown up with ANOTHER GIRL.
Oh, and they’re KISSING.
I’m walking down Yvette’s notorious carpeted spiral staircase in a skintight pink-floral dress, hot as hell (but in a classy way) when I see him by the Amparo bar, pouring a drink for a little pixie girl with dyed pink hair and a lip ring. My heart stops and thoughts race in triple speed: What the . . . okay, stay calm, deep breath. Wow, she’s pretty, and very unique-looking; does he think she’s cooler than I am? It’s probably nothing to worry about, she’s probably like his cousin or sister or just some girl he doesn’t even know . . .
Just as I’m thinking this they clink their glasses together and he leans in for a kiss. Not just any old kiss, but a passionate one. A slow, passionate, unnecessarily long kiss. With tongues. Disgusting. Alexei looks up and sees me standing there, frozen on the staircase, no doubt with a look of sheer horror plastered onto my face.
“Oh hey, Lele!” He waves enthusiastically, as if he hasn’t just ruined my life. I try to wave back but I can’t—my arms feel heavy as lead, I couldn’t lift them if my life depended on it. I can’t feel my face and the whole room seems to have entered a slow-motion time warp; all I can do is turn and run back up the stairs.
So there goes Yvette’s great plan, there go my future hopes and dreams of being Mrs. Alexei Kuyper. That’s it, game over. Imagine a pixilated video-game Lele appearing on the screen, X’s over her eyes.
“Okay, so there’s a tiny glitch in my plan.” Yvette tries to calm me down while I try to not hyperventilate in the bathroom. “We just have to rework it a little, that’s all. Do you know how easy it is to break people up these days? I bet they’re not even that serious. Lele, please take a deep breath, you’re scaring me.”
“Me? Oh, I’m fine.” I sigh, realize I’ve been holding my breath so long my face is turning slightly blue in the mirror.
“Yes, you’re more than fine. You’re a knockout in this dress, seriously. Just go downstairs and enjoy the party like the goddess rock star you are and let him eat his heart out. You just be you and by the end of the night he’ll forget all about what’s-her-face. Okay?”
“Yvette, I don’t want to be rude, I know this is going to be a great party, but I don’t think I can do it. I think I need to be alone. I’m just not in a party mood.” I brace myself, certain she’s going to either launch into a vengeful tirade or give me the cold shoulder. I fear the return of evil Yvette.
“Oh, babe, I totally get it. This sucks, I’ve been there before, trust me. Will you do one thing for me?”
“Sure, I think.”
“Go home and be super good to yourself, because you deserve it. Take a bubble bath, pour yourself a glass of champagne, do some frivolous internet shopping. Like honestly, watch some Real Housewives if you have to.”
Whoa. Not what I was expecting. I guess this party has been filled with surprises, the good, the bad, and the ugly.
• • •
Back at home I try to summon the energy to get into the bath, but I can’t, so I lie in bed staring up at my ceiling imagining big red letters that read “REJECTED” stamped across my forehead. Alexei has a girlfriend. I honestly didn’t see this coming. I could see him not being interested in me, but I couldn’t see him choosing someone else instead. And maybe Yvette’s right, maybe I could win him over, but I don’t want to be that girl who steals someone’s boyfriend. Also known as a boyfriend stealer. It’s not right.
I’m not much of a writer, but I feel the need to channel my pain in some way that doesn’t involve getting out of bed. I grab a pen and paper and get to work, boosting my self-esteem by telling myself I’m a regular F. Scott Fitzgerald. Anyone worth their salt has been rejected, after all. Although, I think that’s just something people say to make you feel better, because, really, anyone who is alive has been rejected at one point or another, it has nothing to do with greatness. Anyway, here’s the short story I end up writing when I should be losing my virginity to Alexei in Yvette’s parents’ hot tub. Okay, fine, maybe I would lose it at a party after all. Hot tubs are romantic, right? I’ve seen The Bachelor. (Note: All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.)
You know when you have a really hot next-door neighbor boy whose second-story bedroom window is aligned perfectly with your second-story bedroom window? Oh, you don’t? Sucks for you. You’ve never seen the “You Belong With Me” video by T-Swift? I, like Tay-Tay, have perfect visual access to the often-shirtless hottie next door, and in a mere two days of his moving in, I found myself completely in LOVE. That’s right, bitches, it wasn’t just a crush and it wasn’t just hormones, it was TRUE LOVE. I loved his blue eyes bright as the Miami sky; loved his swishy blond hair, so impeccably groomed it would put prepubescent-era Bieber to shame; loved his tan, hairless chest; loved those muscle lines by his hip bones that trailed diagonally down leading to his— Wait, what were we talking about!?! Oh, right, it was true love. True, silent love, expressed solely through words written in Sharpie on notebook paper, held up to windows. Swoon.
There was just one problem: our love was star-crossed. Not so much because our families were long-time arch enemies who spilled each other’s blood for sport, but more because he had this hot girlfriend who, YOU GUESSED IT, was a cheerleader at our school: the high heels to my sneakers, short skirts to my T-shirts. Do I really have to spell it out for you? She was a freakin’ beauty queen, okay? Then there’s me: tall, long blond hair, big boobs. Ugh. It was so unfair. But I wasn’t going to let my ugly-duckling looks get in the way of winning the man of my dreams. And you know what? He wasn’t exactly uninterested in me. Sometimes he would just sit on his bed holding up signs with clever little messages on them like “Hey” or “What’s up?” and I would hold up a sign in response with something like “NM, U?” and we’d laugh and bat our eyelashes at each other like two . . . like two . . . I don’t know, what bats its eyelashes? Humans? That’s it: we’d laugh and bat our eyelashes at each other like two humans. So I devised a plan to win him over: I’d wear my cutest T-shirt with the least amount of holes in it, sit cross-legged on my bed, and use my red Sharpie to write out the words I’ve always wanted to write to a man and show him from a safe distance: I Love U.
As fate would have it, the moment I held up my sign was the exact moment that Hot Cheerleader Girlfriend decided to show up—appearing from nowhere as if teleported from the Parallel Universe of Preppy Perfection—to stand right next to him with her arms crossed, looking like she was going to straight-up murder me. And that is what happened: she murdered me. She took out her slingshot and before I knew what was happening, my life was cut short by a rock the size of my fist. The worst part? She wasn’t even mad at him. She blamed the whole thing on me and THEY lived happily ever after. Now they’re married with two children and live on a cul-de-sac and he’s always like, “Honey, I’m home!” and there are picket fences EVERYWHERE. The best part: now that I’m dead I just haunt them all the time. So I guess in a way even I lived (or, died, actually) happily ever after.
The end.
See? Not much of a writer. But I get about a million points for imagination, if I do say so myself, and quite frankly, in this situation, my opinion is the only one that matters.
#GIRLONVINE
January to April
19
When People Honk at Me for No Reason
(1,650,000 Followers)
It’s hard to stay sad about Alexei and No Name Girl when I’m blowing up on Vine! I don’t know what I’m doing right (besides just being myself), but I have another million followers now and ten million loops! Boy, if I had a doll
ar for every loop I’d . . . well, I’d clone Alexei and make five of him and never be lonely again. Anyway, I guess people think I’m funny, or pretty, or funny and pretty . . . that or they just really like watching me get punched in the face.
Either way, all these followers are translating into endorsement deals and party invitations—it’s not quite true love but it will do for now! I even got invited to Coachella (plus all the super-dope parties) to hang out in the celebrity tent, which is um, a very big deal. That’s not until April, but I am counting the days.
In a way, I’ve always wanted to be famous. When I was seven I figured out how to record myself singing and burned it onto a CD. Then I burned that CD until I had about ten of them that I tried to sell to kids at school for twenty dollars each. Sadly, no one at school bought it. The album was called Lucky Penny and sold a total of one copy, which went to my dad. This is how a seven-year-old works the music industry. I cried all night in my room until my mom came in and gave me a very classic motivational speech about practice and determination and how fame doesn’t happen overnight and blah blah blah. It didn’t cheer me up, but I pretended that it did so she’d leave me alone and I could go to sleep.
I’ve always wanted to be famous but I never knew I would be. I guess in the back of my mind I always knew. The funny thing is, my mom was wrong about fame not happening overnight. Yesterday nobody knew who I was, today I’m walking down Lincoln Road and nobody will leave me alone. I gotta be honest: I’m not sure I like it.
The more I walk the more tense I get, worrying that I’m going to do something stupid and everyone will see. This is undeniably an insane concern, as any fame I have right now I got specifically from making a fool out of myself and broadcasting it to the world. So what if I mess up in real life? Somehow it feels different, like my space is being invaded, like the right to go about my day has been taken away from me. Out in the real world I haven’t invited anyone to stare at me, but they are.
