Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek

by Maya Van Wagenen

  It’s kind of scary using tampons for the first time, but Mom has always been very open with her information. She tells me everything that she had to find out by herself, because her family didn’t talk about these kinds of things.

  “When using a pad, place it in the middle,” she’d told me when I started using them. “And for goodness sakes, put the adhesive side down.”

  “Don’t ever flush pads down the toilet.”

  “And I can’t stress this enough: after you put a tampon in, take the applicator out!”

  Growing up listening to horror stories can really mess with your head, but it’s better to know than to have to learn the hard way.

  Poor Mom.

  Wednesday, November 16

  At church, I sit with my friend Liliana, with whom I’ve been close since we moved to Brownsville a little over two years ago. She was my first best friend, before Kenzie. She is the kind of person who works so hard to do the right thing, will watch out for you, and keep you company if you’re feeling lonely. Since we don’t go to the same school, we’d spend as much time as we could together at church, laughing and swapping secrets. But we’ve drifted apart as so many friends do. This doesn’t stop me from wanting to be near her, though.

  We sit together and sort through canned goods for a food drive. Ethan, my dashing, darling crush, walks over. My heart almost stops.

  He smiles at Liliana.

  He laughs and makes jokes—for her.

  I try to tell him about my school, but it comes out like nonsense. I make a joke, and he doesn’t laugh. Liliana says the same thing, and he’s practically rolling on the ground.

  I sit staring at the floor. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happening.

  At first all I feel is numbness. Then hurt. Loads and loads of hurt.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asks when I get in the car.

  “I think Ethan likes Liliana.”

  She winces and nods. We’re silent until we get home. Dad is sitting in the living room. “Maya’s having boy troubles,” she blurts. I shoot her a warning look and she gets quiet.

  “It’s no big deal. He’s a thirteen-year-old boy.” I try to make it seem like it’s nothing, but make an excuse to run to my room as soon as I can.

  A few minutes later Dad comes upstairs and sits on the side of my bed. He tries to make me feel better by telling me “when-I-was-a-kid” stories. I keep my voice light and laugh at all his jokes. I can see that he’s relieved so I kiss him good night.

  But when he walks out the door, I cry myself to sleep. The word crush is not ironic. It’s the truth.

  Maya’s Popularity Tip

  When the guy you’ve adored for two years likes someone else . . . well, I’m not sure on this one . . .

  Thursday, November 17

  I do my best to hold my head high as I walk to the bus stop. (“It may seem like a little thing, but an ungainly walk can be the ruin of even the most attractive girl,” says Betty). Since I am definitely not the most attractive, I guess I’ll just have to work extra hard on my posture. I don’t have much else going for me. It turns out I’m not the only one having love problems.

  “Mornin’,” I say to Kenzie as I sit behind her.

  She raises her eyebrows and looks up from her paranormal romance novel. “Okay.”

  “So, how’s your new boyfriend?”

  She snaps her raspberry gum, “We broke up yesterday.”

  “Oh.” I make a sympathetic face, but actually I’m relieved. I missed the old Kenzie.

  “He wants me back, though.”

  “He has a mustache.”

  “I know! What the hell was I thinking going out with him?”

  We giggle for a while then get down to our usual discussion about whether or not swear words from the Bible can be used in school assignments. It’s fantastic to have her back again.

  . . . . . . .

  It’s the A-Honor-Roll Party during ninth period. It sounds cool because we get to miss class, but it’s just a bunch of nerds who sit around and eat junk food. I pick up a slice of pizza and walk around the room for a little while, unsure of where to sit, reminded yet again that I don’t belong anywhere.

  “Yo, Maya, you can sit with us if you really want to,” a choir girl says. Surprised, I join her group. I don’t understand their inside jokes or know the people they are referring to, so I sit quietly and stare down at my plate.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see another girl, alone. Everyone else nearby has scooted away, leaving her with nearly half an empty table. She doesn’t seem to mind though, and eats quietly.

  I want to sit with her.

  Suddenly, my heart won’t be still. Will I offend the girls I’m with by walking away to sit with someone who’s obviously ranked lower than them on the Popularity Scale?

  I take a deep breath.

  A deep breath will show you how much you can bring your whole chest area up into the air.

  Not what I meant, Betty.

  I walk over to her. “Hi there!” I say before I can talk myself out of it. “What’s your name?” The words ring with a confidence that surprises me.

  She looks up. “Donna,” she says, as if she’s unsure.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Donna.” I smile, waiting for her to ask my name, but she seems kind of shocked. I sit down across from her. “What grade are you in this year?”

  “Sixth.”

  “That’s cool, how do you like it so far?” I continue. “It’s quite a change from elementary to middle school. But you seem to be coping with it well.”

  “Okay.”

  “So what’s your favorite subject, Donna?”

  She doesn’t pause to think. “English. I love to write.”

  “No way, that’s my favorite subject! I love writing, too!”

  Her eyes light up as she tells me about her favorite author and recent short stories she’s written. The bell rings and she and I get up.

  “What’s your name?” she finally asks, looking up at me.

  “Maya,” I say.

  She repeats it as if she wants to remember it.

  “It was really cool meeting you, Donna,” I say. “See you later!”

  I leave for choir practice and watch her disappear in the opposite direction. I think I see her smile.

  Monday, November 28

  It’s Monday and it’s back to the early-morning routine. I’m forced to wake up, brush my hair, and correct my posture (which has actually gotten pretty good). When we get to school, Kenzie and I head to the library.

  “Hey, Maya. Why are you walking funny?”

  “I’m not walking funny.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “This is how people should walk.”

  “No . . .” A look of realization dawns on her face. “I get it! You’re trying to make your boobs look bigger!”

  “Am not!”

  She does a quick imitation of me with boobs thrust forward and laughs. “Bigger boobs, bigger boobs.”

  I sigh. This is what having good posture can do to you.

  Tuesday, November 29

  Apparently Mom tried to have “The Talk” with Brodie today. He was really upset by something he heard at school, so rather than wait until Dad came home, she took the lead. This rare rite of passage is usually reserved for father/son camping trips, but Dad’s hardly ever home these days. He works crazy hours in his office to finish his next book and hopefully open an escape hatch for our family, one that will get us away from FBI drug busts in the school parking lot.

  Mom: Do you have any questions about anything?

  Brodie: Am I in trouble?

  Mom: No, it’s just that I want to talk to you about life and stuff . . .

  Brodie: (plugging ears) I don’t want to know! I don’t want
to know! (Bolts from the couch and hides in the bathroom)

  Maybe we should just drop the boy off at a farm for a week or two. He’ll learn everything he needs to know.

  Wednesday, November 30

  Natalia has a horseback riding lesson today. She’s had a few and loves them, despite the fact that when we point to a horse she says, “Cow. Moo.” I decide to tag along.

  As we drive out to the ranch, I think over this past month and Betty Cornell’s modeling tips. Here’s the summation of my findings:

  Nobody at school cares about posture.

  I got very few comments about my walk (other than from Kenzie and Carlos Sanchez).

  I don’t feel any more popular this month.

  Therefore, maybe sitting up straight doesn’t really matter?

  Mom pulls into the gate and I unbuckle Natalia, who’s bursting with excitement. She’s flapping her hands so hard I’m afraid she might take flight. She smiles her biggest and asks, “Ride? Ride?”

  I hug her and she runs in her rose-colored cowboy boots to the stable where she goes to brush the horse, Simon, before putting on her pink helmet. Simon is the color of old socks that have been washed several thousand times. He drools, has no teeth, but he’s gentle with Nat, and that’s what matters.

  Natalia and Simon

  Mom and the trainer, Miss Stacy, help Natalia lead the horse into the enclosed riding area. I sit outside on one of the rusted lawn chairs and think sad thoughts. I can’t believe this posture thing has amounted to nothing. I’m so distracted that I almost don’t hear the conversation going on next to me.

  Miss Stacy is telling Mom about the horse shows where her students compete.

  “You know, the reason that kids don’t win,” she says, “is because they’re lazy.”

  “How so?” Mom asks.

  “They slouch. I’m constantly telling them that they have to sit up straight to win, but they don’t listen.” She watches my little sister circle around the ring. “Natalia has a fantastic stance.”

  She’s right. Natalia always stands tall. I watch as she raises her arms and squeals with joy. She sits straight, head held high, showing the world how fantastic she is.

  “Posture is everything,” I hear Miss Stacy say.

  I smile, and in spite of my dreary attitude, I draw myself up, tummy tucked in, and show off my bosom.

  Keep your muscles in trim and your body in line so you need never fear how you look.

  Maybe posture isn’t such a waste of time after all.

  December

  SKIN PROBLEMS & MAKEUP

  No teenager is ever stuck with the face she was born with, in view of the ways she has to make up her features to their best advantage . . .

  I’ve only worn makeup in plays or ballet recitals, but dragonfly and flower costumes don’t really give you a feel for how the world of “big girl” makeup works. Of course I’ve experimented. When I was six my aunt bought me a whole set of makeup that included orange and purple lipsticks and mountains of glitter. But every time I wore it I’d end up looking like the prostitutes who hang out on 14th Street in downtown Brownsville.

  Mom, who is naturally gorgeous, rarely wears makeup. Once a year, she goes all out for a wedding or some other special occasion. But other than that—nothing.

  So you can understand why I’m sweating as I stand with Mom in the grocery store makeup aisle, leaning over a MATCH YOUR SKIN TONE poster, trying to figure out what color powder matches my undertones.

  “There’s no way you’re porcelain,” my brown-skinned mother says, holding my hand under the plastic guide. “There are a lot of people lighter than you.”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to get it then,” she concedes, tossing it into the grocery cart. “What else do we need?”

  I think back to Betty Cornell’s list:

  Powder

  Mild face lotion that serves as a powder base

  Lipstick (“clear reds and strong pinks are good colors to work with”)

  Lipstick brush

  Nail polish that harmonizes with lipstick

  Nail base

  Clear nail polish

  Emery board

  Skin cleanser

  Cotton powder puffs

  Cuticle stick

  My head is swirling with information.

  I recite the list to Mom who finds a tube of red lipstick. “Are you sure you don’t need rouge?”

  “Betty Cornell says that I don’t.”

  Few teen-agers need to add color, for their skins have a glowing light of their own derived from an active outdoor life.

  I’m counting on PE to provide this.

  After we finish shopping, Mom and I get into the car. She looks at me really hard and smiles. “Wow, Maya. You are seriously ballsy.”

  “Thanks . . . I guess.”

  “I mean it. When I was in middle school, I never would’ve dreamed of doing a fraction of what you’re willing to do.”

  I smile. Growing up, I was the quiet girl who no one talked to. I was the one who would blend in until the teacher called on me. And if I volunteered answers too often, the class would go silent, drawing an even larger barrier between us.

  And now, look at me. I’m sitting in a minivan with new makeup on my lap, trying to earn the approval, the trust, and the admiration of those who I’d gone out of my way to avoid all my life.

  Saturday, December 3

  “Come on out, Maya, show us your makeup!” Dad’s voice drifts in from the living room, where he sits waiting with the rest of the family.

  “No.”

  “Come on! We haven’t got all day!”

  They have to get bored sometime. Maybe if I just stay in the bathroom with the door locked they’ll forget about me.

  “Hurry!” Brodie shouts.

  I hear Mom walk to the door. “Maya, it’s okay. Come on out.”

  “I look like a clown-whore.” I whimper.

  Even through the wood, I hear her stifle a laugh. “I’m sure you don’t look like a clown-whore, baby.”

  I look in the mirror and shudder. I followed Betty Cornell’s advice exactly. How did it go so wrong?

  Finally, I unlock the door and walk outside.

  Mom looks at me. She bites her lip. My cheeks go red, but she probably can’t tell.

  “Honey, you have powder streaks all over your face. The goal is for it to be subtle.”

  “Oh.”

  She helps me fix it and pushes me into the living room to show the rest of the family. Brodie looks up at me and whistles before proceeding to make pigeon noises in Natalia’s face. Dad smiles. “You look very nice.” He’s just saying that because he feels obligated to. Or Mom is behind me whispering threats.

  Kenzie will think I’ve gone nuts!

  Monday, December 5

  I wake up this morning a dithering, sweaty mess. My hand shakes as I apply my new red lipstick (with a new lipstick brush so that I can shape my mouth into “the most enticing one possible”). Soon, I force myself out the door. The red and yellow lights of the school bus pull around the corner. When the door screeches open, my heart stops. Slowly I climb the steps to my doom.

  Keeping my face down, I sit behind Kenzie. It’s rather dark outside, so after a while I think she just doesn’t notice. Then her forehead wrinkles.

  “Are you wearing . . . lip . . . stick?” Her voice is dangerously calm.

  “Um, yeah?”

  “Why?”

  “Uh,” I stammer. Finally, I think of a response. “It’s for fun!”

  She watches me carefully. “Are you wearing . . . eye shadow?” On the last word, her voice comes out as a high-pitched shriek.

  I look around nervously, but no one’s paying atten
tion. Everyone on the bus is either passed out or on their phones. Betty Cornell makes it very clear that we shouldn’t use eye makeup at our young age:

  As to making up your eyes, don’t. Young eyes need no enhancement. They have their own sparkle and flashes of fire, so why bury them under gobs of goo? Mascara and eyebrow pencil . . . are artifices best left to others. Teen-agers who come to school with colored blobs above each eyelid look plain silly. If you are going somewhere extra special . . . and you feel that you just have to look glamorous, then try a little Vaseline or cream on each eyelid. Just this little touch will bring out all you need to give your eyes a triumphant twinkle.

  “Actually, it’s Vaseline.” I smile innocently, even though my heart is pounding out of my chest. I giggle nervously.

  Kenzie’s lip begins to twitch . . . literally. “So, you’re wearing Vaseline . . . on your eyelids.” It’s not a question. She’s just working through it.

  She stares at me for a long time and finally just shakes her head. “You’re cute,” she says, and turns around.

  From the way she glowers, I can tell it’s not a compliment.

  Tuesday, December 6

  I have zits. Quite a few of them. It’s not a medical condition like that poor girl in my science class (her name changed from Diane Acbey to Diane Acne overnight), but I still have tons of clogged pores.

  Betty Cornell says washing my face is the best thing to do for zits. I have some super-fancy facial soap, but it doesn’t really work unless I use it, which I often forget to do. I’ll have to be better this month. I mean seriously, I spent the entire summer with a fiery red zit in the middle of my forehead. It looked like a bindi.

  Betty Cornell says that I should wash my face with hot water to open my pores and then scrub it with soap, applying it in upward strokes (because “pulling down on the facial tissues will, after a period of time, tend to make the muscles go slack”). Then, I rinse with cold water. Twice a week I’m supposed to use ice cubes to fully close my pores.

  Betty Cornell doesn’t use the word zit, though. She calls them “hickies.” This makes me chuckle every time I read it, because I doubt that modern “hickies” and 1950s “hickies” are the same thing. If they were, it could put a whole new spin on this chapter.