Surviving High School

by Lele Pons

  25

  Yeah, Yeah, Happy Valentine’s Day

  (3,780,888 Followers)

  Let me tell you the story of my first Valentine’s Day as a pseudo celebrity. Hint: it was equally dismal as all the other Valentine’s Days before it and probably all the ones after it as well.

  I wake up at seven in the morning because dear God Valentine’s Day is on a school day this year. The universe truly shows me no mercy. In my white pj’s speckled with pink hearts (intended to attract Cupid, or whoever the hell is supposed to take care of your needs on this stupid day), I sleepily stroll out into the kitchen and, to my surprise, find a wicker basket the size of a small boat resting on the counter.

  OhmyGod ohmyGod, candy and presents for me? I’m sorry for all the mean things I’ve said about you, Mr. Valentine, you are truly a saint. After unwrapping the yards of cellophane around the basket, I pluck out a box of Godiva chocolates and get to work devouring them.

  The way I (and anyone who isn’t a total psycho) eat a box of chocolates is like this:

  1. First, I throw away the cheat sheet. I don’t like a piece of paper ruining the mystery for me.

  2. Then I bite into them one by one to see what’s inside. That’s right, I honestly don’t care how many chocolates are in the box, I will taste-test each of them before making my pick. If I bite into one and it turns out to have coconut or almonds inside, I leave them be (these flavors are for psychos). If I bite into one and it turns out to be caramel, toffee, truffle, vanilla ganache, raspberry ganache, coffee, praline, peanut, cinnamon, white chocolate, hazelnut, mint, raspberry cordial, or solid milk chocolate, then I eat that one right away. As you can imagine, this means I eat many in a row.

  3. When I’m finished with those, I go back to the almond and coconut ones and eat the chocolate shell around it, leaving just bits and shreds behind.

  4. However, if the outside chocolate shell is dark chocolate, then, yeah right, I would never eat that, I’m not a psycho.

  5. By the end, what used to be a box of twenty-two artisan chocolates looks like a brutal massacre. As far as I’m concerned this is the correct and proper way to eat chocolate.

  So, I’m in full-on chocolaty heaven, singing to myself as I lick my fingers. I’m singing, “Somebody loves me, somebody loves me, la di da di da . . .” when I stop to wonder who the basket is actually from. There’s an envelope. I go to open it, telling myself to be realistic. Lele, I know how much you want this to be from Alexei, but it is not going to be from Alexei.

  DO NOT EXPECT IT TO BE FROM ALEXEI, YOU HOPELESSLY ROMANTIC LUNATIC.

  And I’m right, it’s not from Alexei.

  To my utter, total, horrified dismay the card reads: Happy Valentine’s Day, Lele! Love, Dad. UGGHHHHHHH! Just then, my dad pops up from under the center island, where he has been apparently snacking in secret this whole time.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, pumpkin!” He wraps his arms around me and squeezes me until I think I can feel my intestines. I swat at him but he just squeezes tighter. Jesus H. Christ, is there no mercy? I mean, I love my parents, and I am so grateful to have a dad who cares about me (I’ve seen what happens to girls who don’t have that), but does being a minor internet celebrity mean nothing these days?

  What is the point of having fans if they don’t send me Valentine’s Day presents?! And what about all those creepy guys who comment telling me to get naked and wear lower-cut shirts etc., did none of those ever translate into stalkers? Not even the nice kind of stalker who sends flowers once a year? Jerks.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say to my dad. “Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.”

  “What did you get me?!” Dad asks, mock-horrified.

  “Ugghhh,” I say, shuddering.

  • • •

  The day drags on. I’m surrounded by a disgusting jungle of pink Mylar balloons and teddy bears holding satin hearts. They’re everywhere; it is a total nightmare, a parade designed to remind me that I’m going to die alone.

  Over three million followers on Vine but not one suitor.

  No one to love. I’m basically just like Marilyn Monroe. Or Lucky from that one song “Lucky” by Britney Spears.

  During sixth-period Spanish I’m too deep in a sugar coma to even pretend to understand what Señora Castillo is talking about. The room is a blur of heat and disappointment. How much candy did I actually eat today? Let’s say I had ten pieces per class, that’s ten times six plus the strawberry milkshake I had at lunch with Yvette. Whoa. I probably gained a billion pounds today, which is totally fine seeing as I am going to die alone, so no big deal. I put my head down on the table and try to fall asleep, block out the cruel world for a while. Just then, my phone buzzes. It’s Alexei:

  ALEXEI: Hey, wanna make a Vine later tonight?

  ME: Sure. Don’t you have plans?

  ALEXEI: Yeah, I’m taking Nina to dinner. But I mean after that I can come over.

  ME: I’m fine with that if Nina’s fine with it.

  ALEXEI: Oh yeah, she’s totally fine with it. She’s super chill.

  ME: The chilliest.

  ALEXEI: Was that sarcasm?

  ME: Hm?

  ALEXEI: Oh, Lele.

  ME: Oh, Alexei. Do you have anything in mind to film?

  ALEXEI: Not sure, but was thinking it could be titled “Valen-vine.”

  ME: Alexei, I’m not going to lie, that was the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.

  ALEXEI: You love it.

  Okay, so I don’t have a Valentine this year, but I have a friend and a collaborator, a partner in crime, dare I say a valen-vine? And that counts for something, right?

  26

  What You Feel Like Doing Versus What You Do When Your Crush Just Ended a Relationship

  (3,789,900 Followers)

  To be quite honest, it’s not so terrible being single on Valentine’s Day. Mom and Dad are out at a nauseatingly romantic dinner, so I have the entire house to myself—in other words, I am the queen of the Pons residence. I put on a pink wig to get in the spirit and some of my parents’ old disco clothes from back in the seventies, when they thought they were cool. I cannot believe they used to wear this clown attire—and not just them, it was everyone! In thirty years are we going to look back at our clothes and think they were ridiculous? Are our children going to taunt us mercilessly? And if so, what will the clothes be like then? I remember in 2001 I thought by 2011 we’d be wearing plastic blow-up clothes, but obviously I was wrong about that, so who knows? Then, of course, in 1968 they thought by 2001 we would be deep into space travel, so there’s really no way to predict what will be going on in the future.

  Anyway, so I’m wearing a hot pink wig (sort of like Natalie Portman’s in Closer except even more stripper-y), black sparkly bell-bottoms, and a turquoise halter top. I crank up Gloria Gaynor on the sound system and put on a highly elaborate show for myself using a spoon for a microphone.

  “ ‘At first I was afraid, I was petrified . . .’ ” I sing into the mirror, hand to the mirror, hand to my face. I hop up onto a kitchen chair, bump one shoulder up and down, power-step up onto the table, head bounce, head bounce, arms and face up to the heavens, singing “I Will Survive.”

  “Uh, Lele?” Record scratch, the party’s over.

  It’s Alexei, standing in the open doorway, looking like someone just punched him in the stomach, but also sort of like I just made his day.

  “Oh my God, you didn’t see this.”

  “I kept ringing the doorbell. I called your name a few times . . .” He starts to laugh. “I have honestly never seen anything like that in my life.”

  “You didn’t see anything!” I shriek à la “you can’t sit with us!” and jump off the table, hoping I make it look sleek and graceful like Catwoman.

  “It’s not embarrassing, it was adorable.”

  “Fine. I mean, thanks. So, what’s up? I thought you were on a date.”

  “Nina and I broke up.”

  WHAT? I want so badly to jump back up on
the table and get down to Soulja Boy. I want to dance on the roof of a car driving around town so everyone can see me. I want to run across the beach, arms flailing, singing, “I believe I can fly.” R. Kelly was a perv, but that song, come on. I beeelieve I can fly!

  “Lele, did you hear me?”

  “Huh? Oh, yes, of course I heard you.” I shake myself out of it. “I’m so sorry, Alexei. What happened?”

  “We’re both just becoming different people since we came to Florida. We’re moving in different directions. And she got pretty upset when I told her how much you and I have been hanging out. She asked me to not be your friend anymore, and I just couldn’t do that.”

  “Awww!! I mean, oh, Alexei, I’m so sorry.” I give him my best sad look and wrap my arms around his neck. When he can’t see my face I grin like a maniac fresh out of the asylum.

  27

  When People Tell You to Calm Down

  (4,000,000 Followers)

  I spend a few days wondering if Alexei is going to ask me out now that he’s single, but then I get distracted by the topic of my burgeoning career. See, when you’re a social media figure, there isn’t a lot of time for boys. JUST KIDDING. Can you imagine if I were really that obnoxious? Celebrities are always going on about how they don’t have enough time for love because they’re so busy working all the time, and when they’re not working, they’re partying and it’s all just so time-consuming!

  If I’m going to be very real with you, a good chunk of my waking hours are spent sitting on the couch on my phone scrolling through Instagram and Twitter feeling utterly inadequate. On Instagram, there are four types of people who feel the need to constantly show you how superior their lives are compared to yours. They are:

  The Fitness Model

  Okay, I get it, you do yoga and you eat super “clean” foods (whatever the hell that means). It’s awesome for you that you have a dope body and are proud of it, really, but dear God I don’t want to see it in a bikini on a regular basis paired with captions like “I’ve never felt better in my whole life #YogaBabes #GirlsWhoWorkOut #Fitness.” #EffYou #GetOutOfMyInstagram #WhyAmIFollowingYouAnyway

  The Party Animal

  This person goes out a lot and wants you to know all about it. He or she has tons of friends, and it’s very important you know all about their #SquadGoals. Here’s a group selfie of us on the roof at the W, here’s a group selfie of us drinking fancy drinks by a pool . . . it’s endless. This person also often is guilty of the “fancy lifestyle” posts: a limo, a private jet, a newly popped bottle of Moët & Chandon. Please get over yourself before I have to go to your house to tell you how deluded you are. You’re seventeen, you don’t have a private jet!

  The Happily Ever After

  Newly engaged or just basic, bottom line in love, this person (let’s be real, it’s normally a girl) posts pictures of Bae playing beach volleyball or Bae holding a puppy or Bae grilling up some burgers, and the caption is always something like “I love this man more than anything in the whole world #Blessed #LuckyInLove.” These people are the cruelest brand of human. I wonder if they realize they are basically just telling you how unlovable you are and will always be. EVIL.

  Working Girl (or Guy):

  Welp, you’ve got your dream job and you have never been happier or more proud of yourself. It wouldn’t be good enough to just enjoy your success day to day, you have to post pictures of yourself in the fleekest work clothes or beaming with your “dream” coworkers. Captions are normally along the lines of: “Can’t believe I get paid to do this! #LivingTheDream #Blessed.” #GetOffMyInstagram #WhyAmIFollowingYouAnyway

  In reality, there are actually more like one hundred different types of Instagram show-offs, especially if you consider all the subcategories within the four categories I just outlined. (Should we call it Instagram InstaShowOff? Note to self.) And maybe it’s all a lie, maybe they have really lame lives and are just trying to make everyone think otherwise, but I fall for it every time!

  I sit on the couch with my sweatpants and my pint of Ben & Jerry’s wondering how everyone could be doing something cool with their lives except for me. So why don’t I just unfollow these people if they make me feel so bad about myself? If you even have to ask, then you obviously don’t have Instagram. The thing is addictive, and when you unfollow people with fabulous lives, the FOMO just gets worse.

  • • •

  Darcy comes over so at least I’m not sitting on the couch alone. We’re in it together, watching SpongeBob because neither of us can muster the energy to change the channel. OKAY FINE YOU GOT ME! I LIKE SPONGEBOB! HE IS EASILY, HANDS DOWN, THE BEST SPONGE THERE EVER WAS AND EVER WILL BE. Am I right or am I right? It’s Sunday and we’re both feeling pretty lazy—there’s a canister of Pringles open between us and every now and then Darcy will start to doze off. Then SpongeBob does something to make me laugh and it wakes her right up.

  It’s a regular day, a day like any other day, until out of nowhere it takes a dark and regretful turn. Here’s what goes down:

  A very tiny sliver of Pringle gets stuck in my throat, so I cough, trying to get it to move, bitch, get out tha way.

  “Whoa, calm down,” Darcy says.

  “What? I am calm. I just had a Pringle in my throat.”

  “You were coughing like a lunatic, I thought you were gonna die.”

  “You thought I was gonna die so you told me to CALM DOWN?”

  “Lele, it’s gonna be okay, just breathe.”

  “What are you talking about? I am totally fine.”

  “Try to calm down. Let’s breathe together.”

  “Are you frickin’ joking me right now? I AM calm! I HAD A PRINGLE IN MY THROAT AND NOW IT’S GONE AND I’M FINE.”

  “You don’t sound fine. Here, let me help.” She puts her hands on my shoulders and starts massaging them. I push her off.

  “DARCY, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? I AM TOTALLY FINE AND CALM AND GOOD.”

  “You’re obviously not!”

  “I. AM. CALM!” I roar like King Kong and just lose it completely. I tear up the couch, throwing pillows and kicking at the wall. I pull my hair until wispy blond strands start floating around the room.

  “Hey, Alexei, it’s Darcy.” Darcy has grabbed my phone and is speaking into it. “Lele is sort of freaking out, I need backup.” Uh-oh, the stress of existing in the public eye may be starting to get to me.

  • • •

  Alexei shows up like he’s frickin’ Hercules here to save the day. I’m half mad and half dreamy-eyed that he felt I needed rescuing. They lie me down on the couch and Alexei gets an ice pack for my head. My very own personal nurses!

  “You’re overwhelmed, Lele,” Alexei says. “You’re cranking out Vines every day, I think maybe you’ve been under a lot of pressure. You should try taking it easy, maybe take some days off.” He’s not always the brightest crayon in the box but he’s sooooo sweet. And hot, have I mentioned that he’s hot?

  “That’s nice of you to worry but—wait a second, are you wearing a headband?” I don’t know why I didn’t notice before, but Alexei is wearing a red terry-cloth band around his head. Not pushing his hair back, the way girls wear them, but actually around the circumference of his head like he’s a tennis player. But he isn’t a tennis player, which can only mean one thing: he’s doing this in the name of style.

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “It looks weird.”

  “Steve Tao was wearing one, you didn’t think he looked weird.”

  “Um, yes I did. He always looks weird, that’s part of his thing.”

  “Well, I like it.”

  “It’s kind of bro-y,” Darcy says.

  “It is,” I agree. “Like, you’re wearing a plaid button-down shirt, it doesn’t go with a headband at all. A headband is something you wear with like a jersey or something like that. Something really bro-y.”

  “So, what you’re saying is the headband is a bro item of clothing and the shirt is not?”

  “C
orrect. The shirt is more hipster,” Darcy says.

  “OH MY GOD!” It hits me. “Are you transforming into a bripster?”

  “What’s a bripster?”

  “It’s a combination of a bro and a hipster. You were kind of being one at the Steve Tao show but I didn’t think anything of it. Now you’ve got this headband and—”

  “Hold on, hold on, I am neither a bro nor a hipster.” He’s from Belgium. He’s a Belge-bripster? Heh.

  “Maybe not today, but you’re on your way to being both. A hybrid. It’s a dangerous breed of human. And by dangerous I simply mean despicable.”

  “What’s so bad about it? I don’t get what’s going on right now.” He’s cute when he’s confused.

  “Look, Alexei. Respectable girls don’t like bros, and they don’t like hipsters. Now, if you’re like a little bit into sports that doesn’t mean you’re a bro and if you’re a little bit into J. D. Salinger that doesn’t make you a full-blown hipster, it’s when you’ve really embraced a certain lifestyle that you become one or the other. Then, there’s this new trend, where a bro type will start taking on certain hipster qualities, and the two start blending into each other. Like, a true bro would never read a book, but once he’s crossing over he’ll probably start reading some Hemingway or Chuck Palahniuk—”

  “Oh, totally,” Darcy adds. “Bripsters love Fight Club.”

  “Exactly. That’s a crossover point. There are hipster things and there are bro things, and then there are the crossover points that point to the hipster bro. Or, the bripster, as I said before.”

  “And you’re saying a headband is one of these crossover points?”

  “Yes. And that plaid shirt.”

  “Jesus. Seems complicated.”

  “Not really. If you love beer pong, you’re a bro. If you love shopping at Amoeba Music, then you’re a hipster. If you play your records on a Crosley turntable specifically as a seduction tactic, then you’re a bripster.”