She slowly narrows her eyes and sinks down on the seat. “You are . . . insane.”
Kenzie ends up staying, and we all talk for the entire lunch period.
I walk Dulce to her class and she smiles at me.
Is it working? Am I actually making friends?
Wednesday, April 11
Yesterday I went to the cafeteria early and sat at an empty table. Even though it’s usually crowded, no one sat down next to me. After a little while two Choir Geeks came over.
“Look, Maya, do you want to come sit at our table? It’s kind of crowded but we don’t want you to sit alone.”
I was touched by their kind gesture. And, having predecided to accept any invitations to other tables, I went willingly. But as nice as it was, I knew everyone there and didn’t get to meet anyone new.
That’s why today I sit with my own Social Outcast family. I really don’t want them to think I’m avoiding them. Anyway, Kenzie is at a band competition so she can’t give me lip about chickening out on my new endeavor and “crawling back to them.”
. . . . . . .
That evening I arrive a little late for a youth activity at church. When I walk in, I see that there’s someone I don’t recognize. She looks sad and out of place, and I feel awful for her. Without hesitation, I walk right up and sit down next to her. I laugh and talk, getting her to come out of her shell. I know how it feels to be alone and friendless.
When I started preschool at four years old, I had no friends. In fact, my closest companion was my mother’s hand puppet called “Meep-Meep.” It wasn’t even an actual puppet, it was just Mom’s fingers opening and closing like a mouth. But her hand became so cramped that she enlisted Dad to put an end to it.
“Where’s Meep-Meep, Daddy?” I asked.
“Meep-Meep went to go live with her sister, Maude. She’s not coming back. Don’t look for her.”
Eventually in elementary school I met a few nice girls. But I struggled to maintain those friendships, so most of the time I was on my own. There were days when I’d sit alone in the freezing snow waiting for the classes to line up, wishing recess would end. I wanted a best friend, but only one. I was terrified of groups. I decided that being alone was better than being trapped by lots of people.
I don’t feel that way anymore.
Thursday, April 12
I see Beto, a boy from my ninth-period class, sitting alone at lunch today. He’s a miscellaneous Social Outcast, like me. I join him. I start with a simple hello and begin eating. He doesn’t talk, so I use the same approach I did with Hector.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” I ask, chewing my sandwich.
He stops eating and looks at me. “I don’t know you.”
“My name is Maya,” I say, smiling.
We sit in silence for a while, my attempts at conversation shut down. I notice frantic gestures from my choir crowd waving me over. I smile and wave back. I appreciate them looking out for me, but if I sat with them every day, I’d never meet anyone new.
I pick up my backpack and am about to leave for the library when suddenly a boy with a mustache sits down across from me. I recognize him as someone with whom I’d been in previous classes.
“Hello, again,” I say to him, frantically searching my memory for his name. I think it started with an A. Yes, that sounds right. “I bet you don’t remember me,” I blurt.
“You’re Maya,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Oh.”
“So, tell me about yourself,” I say, hoping to buy enough time to remember his name.
What’s-his-face leans away from me and says nothing.
“Okay, so since you won’t offer up information, let me ask you questions. Are you in sports?”
“Basketball, soccer, football, and track.”
Wow! A member of the Football Faction! I have unintentionally catapulted myself into sitting with a nine on the Popularity Scale.
“So, now it’s my turn to ask you questions,” he says.
“Shoot.”
“Do you have a phone?”
“Nope,” I reply. “The only person who has a cell in my family is my mom.”
“Like me,” says Beto, looking up from his sketch of a man on fire. Football Guy looks at Beto hard for a second and then speaks.
“Hey, Beto, could you get me . . . a milk?”
“Get it yourself,” Beto hisses. Then he stands up and walks to the cooler anyway.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” His face looks earnest.
“Sure.”
What is his name? Alejandro, Abel, Adan? ADRIANO! That’s it!
I’m so proud of myself for remembering that I hardly hear what he says next:
“Do you want to go out?”
My heart stops beating. My hands go cold.
WHAT?! Did I hear that right? Are you serious? Is this a joke? Did Kenzie put you up to this?
I look down at the table. They’re going to have to haul me out on a stretcher from a shock-induced heart attack. Me, HOBBIT GIRL EXTRAORDINAIRE, getting asked out by someone from the Football Faction!
What do I say?
“Uhh,” is the intelligent response that escapes my lips.
“Okay, Adriano,” yells Beto, coming back. He’s holding a stack of milk cartons. “I didn’t know if you wanted chocolate milk or regular, and if you wanted regular do you want one percent or skim, so I got one of each.” Beto sits down and looks back and forth between us. “Awk-ward!” he sings. “Wow, Maya, you’re really red! Like a tomato!”
My hands fly to my cheeks. Sure enough, they’re burning. “I think it’s because I get red when I laugh! You guys are so funny, ha-ha-ha.”
“You know what, Beto,” says Adriano. “I changed my mind. I just want water.”
Beto throws the milks at Adriano, and goes to get some water.
“So?” Adriano says.
I didn’t remember your name until two minutes ago, and my parents won’t let me date until May of 2000-and-never.
I am so flustered right now that I will probably pass out.
“Let me get to know you a little better first,” is the best I can think of.
Beto comes back and Adriano pretends it never happened. I’m relieved, but isn’t this what every girl dreams of, though, to be asked out by a popular guy? So why am I so nauseous and frightened?
Friday, April 13
Today Dad picks me up at school for a doctor’s appointment. At least that’s what I believe up until the moment we pull into the mall parking lot and Dad starts chuckling. He throws me my purse full of movie goodies.
“You lied.”
“Not really,” he says. “I am a doctor, and technically this is an appointment.”
He laughs and opens the car door for me. That’s one thing I’ve always loved about Dad. He never fails to treat me like a lady. Betty Cornell would approve of his manners, but I don’t think that she’d like the fact that I’m skipping school to go see a movie.
Dad and I walk in and buy tickets. Even though I’m thirteen, I still hold his hand. I think that makes him smile.
We have a really great time. Dad may be a little different, but he is wonderful, funny, and gives good advice.
Betty Cornell says, “Try telling your parents how much you love them. Let them know you appreciate all they do for you.”
“Thanks, Daddy. I love you.”
He smiles. “I love you, too.”
Saturday, April 14
I decide to try out a new tactic at the church bake sale tonight. Betty got me thinking.
It is important to remember that when you are shy it is possible for you to give people the impression that you are rude.
I know this has definitely been true for me. Francisco told me that he was terrified of me until I talked to him,
and he realized that I wasn’t menacing. I’m not going to let this happen tonight.
When I arrive, I put forward my best smile. I help out in whatever ways I can. I laugh with the adults. I cut desserts. I carry plates of food around for the potluck. Eventually I don’t even have to feign friendliness anymore.
I sit down next to Hector, the shy boy I befriended on Sunday. I talk for a while about everything from my aching knees to my spot in the regional choir. Then miraculously, he starts responding. His speech is soft at first, but soon he warms up and we laugh. I hear some of the girls my age whispering about us, but I don’t care.
An incredible feeling of liberation settles over me.
For the first time in my life, I think people like me. And I’m seeing that it’s been more than just wearing the pearls or the skirts, or even the hat (although I’ve had several older women come up to me and tell me how darling I look on Sundays with my hat and gloves).
So far this month, I’ve met so many people, and Betty’s lesson is much deeper than I ever expected: I wanted popularity; I wanted other people to like me. But it turns out most people are waiting to be discovered too.
Sunday, April 15
Am I popular yet?
There’s only one way to find out.
I have to ask her the true definition of popularity.
I’m going to find her. I have to tell her that more than sixty years after her book was written, someone is still following her advice. Someone out there is still listening.
I’m going to find Betty Cornell.
Wednesday, April 18
I walk into the lunchroom confident and satisfied. This morning, my orthodontist told me that I would get my braces off in four weeks! Finally!
I sit with the Spanish Club again and am much more verbal this time. After about twenty minutes I excuse myself and go to the library to finish some schoolwork. I also start to Google information about Betty. I find thousands of Betty Cornells all over the United States. How am I ever going to figure out which one is her?
Adriano follows me to the library. I was hoping to avoid him. How do I tell him I don’t want to go out with him?
Adriano comes over and stares at my screen. I can’t get any work done, so instead I put my backpack down on a chair and decide to shelve books. Adriano follows me and picks up a novel.
“So, what would you do if I tried to tickle you?” He nudges my side, playfully.
All right, I am now quite uncomfortable. My neck begins to burn, but I swallow and maintain my calm manner. “Honestly, I’d slap you.”
“Really? . . .” Then, of all things to do, he raises his fingers and tries to tickle me. I tap him over the head with the book I’m holding. Not enough to hurt, but enough for him to get the message.
“Adriano, stop touching her!” Ms. Zaragosa, the assistant librarian says, stepping between him and me. Everyone is quiet. Ms. Zaragosa tells me to get behind the desk. I am embarrassed but incredibly grateful.
“You need to report that boy,” she says, looking at me straight in the eyes. “I can show you how.”
“No,” I answer. “No, really, I’m okay. . . .”
The bell rings and I quickly escape the library and walk to class. Adriano trails behind.
“Boy,” I say. “You nearly got yourself in trouble.”
“How?”
“They want me to report you, but—”
He disappears into a group of friends.
I have a feeling that Adriano won’t be asking me out again anytime soon.
I’m very relieved.
Thursday, April 19
I stand over my old lunch table and say “hi” to the gang.
“Traitor, now you come back,” Francisco murmurs.
“We could compare her to Benedict Arnold, actually,” says Maria, who sits studying U.S. history.
Kenzie sets her stuff down and looks at me. “She’s not a traitor. She’s just . . . experimenting.” She covers her mouth. “Oh, that sounded wrong! You know what I mean. My brain’s not working properly today. I can’t think straight.”
I pat her shoulder and walk over to the end of a table not too far from us. I’ve already covered most of the easy spots: Social Outcasts, Choir Geeks, Library Nerds, and Computer Geeks. Now it’s time to tackle something much more difficult: an all-guy table, consisting of Band Geeks and Rich Gang Members.
As I sit down, everyone scoots away from me. When I try to start a conversation I realize that the group doesn’t speak any English. The only information I get out of them is their names and even that takes forever.
Later Kenzie tells me I’m brave (and crazy) to do what I did. She’s terrified of the people I sat with. She calls them cholos and gangsters and refuses to go near them.
But they weren’t mean, they just seemed a little misunderstood.
Saturday, April 21
Dad drags me out of bed early this morning, telling me he wants to show me something “cool” on the computer. He says it’s important. I mumble and groan but manage to get downstairs even though I can hardly see straight. What can be more important than sleeping in on a Saturday morning?
Dad sets me down next to the computer and scrolls onto the Facebook page of an unfamiliar woman. She’s very pretty, and there are pictures of her family. Finally he pulls up an old black-and-white photo labeled “Mom and me.” It’s of an adorable toddler hugging her elegant mother around the neck.
“Maya, who does she look like?” he asks me, pointing to the woman.
I take a closer look. She has a classic hairdo, dark lipstick, and . . . a strand of pearls.
I let out an earsplitting scream.
“BETTY!”
Sunday, April 22
Dear Mrs. Fadem,
My name is Maya Van Wagenen. I live in Texas; and your mother, Betty Cornell, has changed my life.
I know this sounds strange, but let me explain. Years ago, my father picked up a copy of Betty Cornell’s Teen-Age Popularity Guide at a thrift store. This past summer, it was rediscovered when we were cleaning out a closet. I flipped through the pages, thinking that some of the suggestions were outrageous. But my mother had a brilliant idea. I’ve always struggled socially, especially during my previous middle school years. I’d never even remotely considered myself popular. My mom wondered if any of Betty’s advice from more than fifty years ago could help me. She suggested that for my eighth grade year I should give it a try.
For the past several months I have worn girdles, skirts, panty hose, and a pearl necklace to a middle school with gangs, pregnant teens, and frequent drug arrests. It’s had some remarkable effects. This whole thing has changed the way I look at people and life in general. It’s helped me grow up. It’s made me laugh, cry, and want to throw up all at once.
I’ve been looking for your mother, praying that she is still alive and well. After searching through databases and historical records, my father found you. It is my dream to contact your mother and tell her what she’s meant to me. I hope you consider helping me with this heartfelt request.
Most Sincerely,
Maya Van Wagenen
I add our phone number, hesitate, then click send, and watch the message disappear. I hug my knees. My heart is pounding in my chest. Betty’s family is only an e-mail away.
Within ten minutes, the phone rings. My mom answers. Her eyes go wide and her mouth drops. She hands the receiver to me.
“Hello.” The woman’s voice is sweet with a faint East Coast accent, making her words soft around the edges. “Is this Maya?”
“Yes,” I say. I feel my head spinning.
“This is Mrs. Fadem, and Betty Cornell is indeed my mother.”
Monday, April 23
During lunch, the boy across the table from me is fuming. “Look, I don’t care who you think you are, but this is
a boys’ table.”
“I’ll sit wherever I want, thank you. This is, after all, a free country,” I snap back, staring directly into his dark brown eyes. I refuse to take crap from this kid. I straighten my posture and pull out my applesauce.
I’m sitting at the most crowded table in the school. It’s where the less popular half of the Football Faction gather. This is also the general area where all the other guys in the school congregate. Even though I’m nervous, I’m not going to lose my ground. I am, after all, only a few days off from having to face Carlos Sanchez and the most popular people in school.
When things go badly, you must decide not to retreat; you must attack. But you attack in a special way, not by going out and slugging the first person who comes along . . . you attack by working out your displeasure in a determined effort.
“Shut up, David. Leave the girl alone. She can do whatever she wants.”
I give a grateful nod to the guy who defended me. I decide to start with him. “So,” I ask, “what did you think of the exam?”
All this week we’re taking statewide tests. Today it was history. Other than a few obscure questions, I think I fared pretty well. This morning Kenzie and I crammed in the lunchroom, since we aren’t allowed in the library during testing. We sat side by side making up songs to help us remember the Bill of Rights.
“I know for sure that I bombed it,” he says.
“Oh.”
I try to make a little conversation, but they ignore me and play a game that involves guessing the scents in one another’s burps.
Finally I ask the first guy, David, what his last name is.
“Why,” he says, looking panicked. “Are you going to report me?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, like I really go around sitting with people so that I can report the ones I don’t like.”
He stares at me, thinking so hard he starts going cross-eyed. “I was being sarcastic!” I blurt, “It’s a joke!”
“I don’t get it,” David says.
The boy sitting next to him teases, “Look, dude, she doesn’t like you ’cause you’re stupid. . . .”
“I never said that!” I say, but it’s impossible to be heard. They decide to stick their fingers in other people’s food, and try to make themselves fart.
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