Surviving High School

by Lele Pons

  Two young girls, maybe ten or eleven, approach me for my autograph, which I totally don’t mind because they’re so young and cute. If anyone, these are the people I’ve been making Vines for, young girls who need someone to relate to, to tell them everything’s going to be okay because life is actually really funny and not as scary as it seems.

  “You are like seriously the best Viner,” one says. “We totally love you.” She’s wearing a shirt that reads ANGEL in pink plasticky letters that look like they’d be partially sticky to touch.

  “Girls! That is so sweet. Do you guys Vine?” I’m signing napkins for them, as if this will be worth anything ever. Do I have to start carrying around pictures of myself? Or is that their job? Like, if you want an autograph you gotta supply the photo. Are there hard rules for this? Is there a famous person’s guidebook I can refer to?

  “No, we’re not allowed to have our own social media accounts until we’re fourteen,” the other one says. She has streaks of glitter in her hair and green gel barrettes.

  “That’s probably smart. Be kids for now, you have your whole lives to be slaves to the internet.”

  “Do you think the internet is a bad thing?” Plastic Letters Girl seems confused.

  “No, no, it’s just a complicated thing. You can end up spending too much time on it and not spending enough time doing real things . . . or, like, also for example, there are some dangerous people on the Web who you have to be careful of.”

  “Like killers?” Green Barrettes seems concerned. No, agh, I didn’t mean to scare them. I have to backtrack.

  “Well, sure, but you don’t have to be worried about them. You just have to be smart. I didn’t start using social media until I was fifteen actually.” The girls nod their heads, wanting to hear more. What the hell is going on? Am I a mentor now? I can barely get my own life together, how am I supposed to be a voice of wisdom for young girls? I’m too weird to be a role model! What if I can’t handle the responsibility?

  “What about that hot guy, Alexei, is he your boyfriend?”

  Ah, finally a question I know the answer to. “No.”

  “Why not? He’s cute.”

  “Yes, he is cute. But listen, there is a lot in life that is more important than boys. Find something you love doing and focus on that instead. The right boy will come to you.” I don’t know where that came from, but it sounded great! And the girls look like I just fed them a big dose of wisdom! Maybe I can be a role model after all.

  • • •

  On the drive home I’m feeling a little tense, so I stop at a Starbucks drive-through for a caramel Frappuccino. There’s not a lot in this world that can’t be fixed with a Frappuccino, I always say. Driving away with my deliciously blended beverage, I pump up the jams (“Pursuit of Happiness” by Kid Cudi), and come to a stop sign, where I make a complete stop, LIKE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DO. However, the bozo behind me feels that my coming to a complete stop at a stop sign is an inconvenience to him, so he lays on his horn for an inappropriately long amount of time. And, as you know, horns in real life don’t sound like beep beep (have they ever?). No, it’s much more like bwwaaaahhhhgghhhhhh. So obnoxious.

  Now, my nerves are on edge already, what with the perverts and the impressionable admirers and all, so when Mr. BMW honks at me, I just can’t take it anymore. I put my car in park, remove the air horn from my glove compartment (a present from Dad for if I’m ever being attacked), walk calmly up to his car, and tap on the window. When he rolls it down, agitated and huffy, I lean over, smile, and blow the horn directly in his entitled face. That’s right, the world can’t mess with Lele Pons.

  Lele: 1, World: 0.

  20

  Girls Will Be Girls

  (1,655,236 Followers)

  After a week of ignoring texts from Alexei, he shows up at my house with a bag of marshmallows and a Hershey’s bar.

  “What is this for?”

  “I thought we could make s’mores, isn’t that what you call them?” he says. “But I forgot the graham crackers at checkout.”

  Awwww.

  “You also forgot the campfire.”

  “We can use the stove. I do it all the time.” Suddenly Mr. Belgium does s’mores all the time? Well then!

  “Hm.”

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  “Now isn’t really a good time. I’m uh . . . I’m . . .” I look back into the house for a clue. “I’m organizing the pantry.”

  “You’re organizing the pantry?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, can you organize it later?”

  “No, it needs to be organized immediately.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You don’t make sense!” Oops.

  “Lele. Why are you mad at me? I thought I was imagining it but you’ve ignored my texts for like ten days and now you’re being . . . extremely weird. So what’s up?”

  “You brought a girl to Yvette’s party. Ugh, I don’t know, it’s totally stupid, but you told me you liked me a million years ago and I thought something could happen between us but it never did and Yvette said it’s just because you’re shy but obviously you’re not that shy if you can make out with some random girl in front of everyone so I guess this whole thing has been in my head—but no, it wasn’t all in my head because you did say you liked me didn’t you? I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at myself for thinking it was more than it was—no, actually, I am mad at you because you never bothered to tell me you have a girlfriend. This whole time! You never thought to mention it?”

  “We should talk.” He sighs. “Can I please come in?”

  “Fine. I guess the pantry can wait.”

  • • •

  “Okay, look,” he says, sitting on the corner of my bed. I sit on the other end of the room so that he doesn’t get too comfortable and think everything’s fine. “When I first met you I thought you were amazing, and I knew I liked you right away. As more than a friend. But the truth is, I had a girlfriend back in Belgium, and she moved out here with her family. I knew when I moved that they were considering moving too. Our parents have always been friends, so we sort of grew up being close. Her name is Nina . . . she goes to Cour D’Elaine, that private school in Lake Buena Vista . . . I guess what I’m trying to say is I thought you and I could be something, but when Nina showed up I knew I couldn’t break things off with her. I just didn’t know how to tell you.” His cheeks are flushed and his words come out flustered and breathy. He seems genuinely distressed about all of this, and a little frantic. I find myself feeling sympathetic.

  “Whoa. That is a lot of information.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I really am. But I’ve told Nina all about you and she’s fine with us being friends. I want to be your friend, Lele, even if we can’t be together right now. I hope you want to be my friend too.”

  “You know what? Yeah, I do. I think we’re good as friends. And that’s obviously what was meant to be, so yeah, I’m in.”

  “Really? That’s so great. I would hate to lose you.”

  “Same!”

  “Awesome.” He comes over to hug me. He’s a good hugger . . . so warm and snug and— No, Lele, don’t even think about it. “Friends forever?”

  “Friends forever? Yikes, Alexei, that’s a pretty girly look for you and I don’t know if it works.”

  “No? BFFs? Homies? Bros?”

  “Are you having a stroke?”

  “Maybe!” We laugh and he punches me lightly in the arm. I punch him back, full force, and he topples like a skinny flamingo.

  Alexei asks if I want to play video games at his place, or would I rather organize my pantry?

  “Fine,” I say. “You called my bluff. I don’t have to organize my pantry; I never had to organize my pantry. Who am I, my mom?”

  “Knew it.”

  We head over to his place and he tries to explain to me how to play this ludicrously elaborate game called Destiny, but I can’t figure out the controls. How are you supp
osed to remember which button to press at what time? Every time I want to make my character jump I accidentally make him walk backward, and all the motion on the screen is making me dizzy, so I keep dying over and over again and eventually Alexei gets bored of playing such an amateur. Why can’t I do this? I mean, the general demographic of video game players are mostly boys who are not all that bright, and yet they seem to figure this out just fine. Ugh.

  “I’m over it,” I announce after watching myself get blown up for the fifteenth time. “Let’s make those s’mores.” We picked up some graham crackers on the way over.

  “Finally! I thought you’d never ask.”

  Watching a marshmallow melt might be one of my favorite things of all time. The shift from white to gold to brown, the way it starts to bubble before going black and turning to goo on the inside, it’s basically magical. I like mine burned to a crisp on the outside, molten on the inside. Alexei likes his to have just a touch of golden color to it, nothing more. He says it’s because marshmallows are so pretty and he hates to see them get destroyed. I tell him he’s a wimp.

  He laughs and then gets serious. “You know,” he says, “it really means so much to me that . . .”

  Okay, I have to be totally honest, this is where I lose my willpower and let myself drift into a fantasy daydream. In my mind, Alexei is slowly taking off his clothes—he unbuttons his shirt, unbuckles his belt, and soon he’s down to his black boxer briefs and—

  “Lele, are you even listening to me?” Snap back to reality, a sad, sad, sad reality where Alexei is fully clothed.

  “What? Oh, uh, yeah, what’s up?” I say, trying not to blush.

  “You weren’t listening to me! Look, your marshmallow is ruined.” He turns off the flame.

  “No I like it like this. Mmmm, nice and uh, charcoal-y. I dih dis om purpose,” I mumble, mouth full. “I wah listenin’, I pwomis.”

  “You’re such a liar!” Alexei laughs. “I was telling you how much you mean to me and you were totally checked out!”

  “Aw man, I’m sorry I missed that.”

  “You should be, jerk.”

  “You’re a jerk!” I pluck a marshmallow from the bag and throw it at him.

  “No you didn’t!” He throws one back at me and next thing you know we’re engaged in a full-on marshmallow fight.

  • • •

  CUT TO: Alexei and I exhausted on the couch, the living room filled with a flurry of wayward marshmallows. His parents are sure to love me.

  21

  So This Is What Popular Is Like

  (1,900,552 Followers)

  Almost two million followers on Vine. They just keep coming. And the more followers I get the more obligated I feel to provide them with entertainment. Filming Vines has become almost like a full-time job, and I hardly have time for schoolwork anymore. Even when I do have time it’s the last thing I would want to do—thirty-seven calculus equations, who needs that? Who needs anything when you have the wonderful world of Vine?

  Sigh, if only that were true.

  All of Miami High is following me on Instagram but still no one really knows me. I mean, no one really knows anyone in this life, but the difference is everyone at school thinks they know me. They think I’ve given them some highly intimate peek into my life; they think they can become my friend just by watching a few of my Vines. But that’s not the truth. The truth is I keep a lot of my life private just like anyone else and I wish people would take the time to get to know me, just like anyone else. Long story short, blowing up on Vine hasn’t helped me to discover my truest self or feel any less alone.

  But don’t get me wrong, my life is dope and I do dope things. People think I’m cool and want to be around me; I attract crowds like moths to a flame, I am in demand. I can’t begin to explain how strange all of this is: I had no idea Lele 2.0 could possibly turn into Lele 8.0, which is essentially what has happened.

  • • •

  Steve Tao, one of my favorite DJs of all time (Okay, fine, so he’s the only DJ I’ve ever heard of. So I’m not Miss In-the-Know, what are you gonna do, sue me?), is hosting a gigantic event downtown and has asked me to do a set! Meaning, he wants me to choose some songs and hang out onstage looking cute. I’ve never done anything even remotely like this, and I’m super nervous—I just know I’m going to fall on my face or my boobs are going to accidentally pop out. I take Alexei, Darcy, and Yvette along for moral support, and none of them are complaining. This is the coolest thing that’s happened to any of us, and I made it happen. As far as anyone is concerned, I am a straight-up queen.

  “The girls are seriously so jealous,” Yvette gushes as we walk around to the back VIP entrance, following the directions Steve texted me. “I thought Cynthia was going to die. She has such a crush on Steve, I’m pretty sure she’d have his babies on the spot.”

  “That’s disgusting,” I say, and Yvette laughs. That’s the other thing: no matter what I say, people laugh at it, whether or not I’m trying to be funny. Everyone assumes what I’m saying is funny and laugh just so they’re not the only ones missing the joke. Cynthia and Maddie and Becca and Emily follow me around, hanging on my every word like I’m some sort of prophet, meanwhile just last month they scoffed at me, treated me like a freak. They’re a bunch of shallow bitches and no way am I taking them with me on my rise to stardom, if that’s even what this is (I mean, two million is a lot of followers). You might think Yvette is just as shallow as they are, and in a way you’re totally right. The difference is, Cynthia, Maddie, Becca, and Emily are followers, parasites, while Yvette and I are natural-born leaders, which is mostly where we relate. And besides, there’s something oddly comforting about her—when she’s at my side I know she’s got my back. I suspect she’s not your average fair-weather friend popular girl, and that she’s actually fiercely loyal. She’s ride-or-die, and I admire that.

  I give the bodyguard my name and he checks me off on a fairly short guest list: Lele Pons + 3. He wraps purple paper bands around our wrists, so delicately and ceremoniously that I almost feel the four of us are marrying him. He points and says, “Down the hall and up those stairs right there. Steve is just at the top, you’ll see him.” I put my palms together and give him a sort of Japanese-style thank-you bow, then head down the hall with my crew trailing behind me like baby ducklings. I remember not so long ago when Yvette led the march, now it’s me in my high-waisted jean shorts and a crushed-velvet bare-backed halter top. Holler.

  “Lele! Thanks for coming!” Steve is sitting on a blue velvet armchair surrounded by carafes of vodka and cranberry juice. Either I’m hallucinating or he’s wearing a hot pink polo and a matching headband. Is this real life? Guys and girls in distractingly neon outfits flutter around the gutted-out side-stage area, smoking cigarettes, taking selfies.

  “Yeah, of course, wouldn’t miss it. Thanks for the invite!” I say, grinning.

  “It’s great to finally meet you. I feel like I’ve known you forever just from watching your wacky little videos. I love them, by the way, very spot-on. Super topical.”

  “Ha, yeah. Well, thanks so much. Thanks for watching. This is Alexei and Darcy and Yvette. Guys, this is Steve.”

  “We know who Steve is.” Darcy smiles, shaking his hand. “Great to meet you.”

  “Pleasure,” Yvette says with a quick twinkle in her eye, before turning away like she has somewhere better to be, someone better to text. Steve watches her ass as she swivels. Clever girl.

  “Dude, this is so dope.” Alexei has taken on a strange hipster-bro hybrid voice that is neither attractive nor endearing. “Great venue. Really sweet.” He holds one hand above his eyes like a visor to look out past the stage and onto the industrial-chic room where an audience will soon gather—exposed pipe, smooth concrete floors.

  “Thanks, man. Here, everyone, grab a drink.” He pushes the tray of liquor toward us and gestures to a stack of plastic cups. My three musketeers flock around the alcohol, pouring and mixing like they have no shame. I po
ur myself a glass of cranberry juice and pretend to go for the vodka but set it down as soon as Steve looks away. What the hell was that, Lele? Afraid he won’t think you’re cool because you don’t like to drink? Afraid to be yourself all of a sudden? Get it together.

  By the time Steve’s set starts, Yvette and Darcy are legitimately drunk, giggling and bouncing around, bumping into things, flirting with anything they come across. So far, this is the first time in my life I’m not feeling like the foolish baboon of the group. I’m standing to Steve’s right while he mixes his tracks with one hand, easy and relaxed like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The crowd is overwhelming, they roar and holler, they break glow sticks and pour the chemicals over their bodies, girls climb up onto guys’ shoulders and take their shirts off, guys down their beers and throw the cups onstage. A network of laser lights crisscrosses over the crowd, shifting and spiraling—I get a touch of vertigo.

  “Thank you, Miami!” Steve calls out, switching records. “This is my new friend Lele Pons, she’s gonna take over for a hot second. And if you like what she does you can check her out on Vine. She’s a big star. Here’s Lele!”

  I step out to midstage and wave awkwardly at the crowd.

  “You’re hot!” someone calls out.

  “Take off your shirt!” says another. Animals.

  I tune them out and focus on the computer screen Steve has laid out for me. He showed me how to choose tracks and blend them into each other, how to adjust the rhythm and the beat, but in the heat of the moment all of that goes out the window. Luckily, as it turns out, clicking around aimlessly and acting like I know what I’m doing does the trick! So, crisis averted on that front. Note to self: always open with “Paper Planes” by M.I.A. Instant crowd-pleaser.

  The roaring and hollering continue and escalate, so I know I must be at least doing a little bit okay. Steve comes back out and brings my crew along with him, who at this point are so wasted they can’t stand straight and somehow Yvette’s tongue has been dyed blue.