Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek

by Maya Van Wagenen

  Is this all that my experiment has amounted to—people pretending to be my friends then being cruel when I need them most? Why did I believe I was anything but an inside joke? Carlos Sanchez was right. Kenzie was right. I’m not special, I’m just a crazy girl in Grandma shoes. I don’t have balls at all.

  I’m sorry, Betty Cornell. I tried.

  Popularity isn’t real.

  I’m done.

  Friday, May 18

  Tuesday night as I lay in bed, I swore to myself that I’d given up on this whole popularity thing. When I dragged myself back to school the last few days, the choir girls whispered. In algebra, Nicolas asked to sit somewhere else. At lunch I didn’t get invites to other tables. I just sat with my own Social Outcast group (who have now become distant). My hair was disheveled, my clothing was rumpled, and my pearls seemed out of place. Everything just hurt.

  I promised I’d never write another entry.

  And then it came.

  Another envelope arrived in the mail this afternoon. It was from Mrs. Cornell’s daughter, Betsy. In it were family photographs.

  Seeing Betty as a grandmother is remarkable. Believe it or not, she looks a lot like she did in the 1940s. Her smile and bright eyes are exactly the same. In the photos, Betty is with her husband, her three children, their spouses, and nine beautiful grandkids. They look so happy.

  Seeing the pictures and the neatly written letter makes me realize that I’m not alone. I’ve got Betty Cornell and her daughter on my side. That has to count for something.

  Can I just give this all up? I’ve come too far, worked too hard. I guess by having everything fall apart, I forgot about all the good things that happened too.

  But I don’t know where to go from here.

  All my confidence and inner strength—how do I find it again?

  Saturday, May 19

  I wake up to see the sun streaming through the window, as if it’s trying to convince the occupants of our house that things will get better. It’s not doing a very good job.

  I finally drag my body out of bed and sit at the kitchen table trying to figure out what to do next. Since I’m not hosting my party tonight, I suppose I should deal with getting a date.

  I yank a sheet of paper from the desk and absently write in big letters:

  WHO TO ASK TO THE PROM

  DANTE

  Dante is a close guy friend. Like an older brother, he teases me and looks out for me, but he’s got someone else he adores. That leads me to the next guy.

  FRANCISCO

  Francisco would be fun too. But he hates school functions with a passion. I wince as I write the next name.

  ADRIANO

  Ugh. I scratch his name off the list.

  LEON

  He probably would be too shy to go. I’m afraid everyone would stand around and make fun of him for being on a date. Who am I to ask him to do that?

  NICOLAS

  My hand pauses as I write his name.

  He’s the most mature boy I know.

  And sweet.

  But he has a girlfriend.

  I tear up the list, and lay my head on the table. My party and the prom were supposed to be the culmination of everything I’ve learned this year. Why is it all falling apart?

  Suddenly I get that “there’s-something-very-wrong-here” vibe.

  Images of the last nine months play like a story through my head.

  When was I closest to popularity? It wasn’t when I lost weight. It wasn’t when I changed my hairstyle daily. It wasn’t when I stood up straight or tried new makeup or wore a skirt. It wasn’t when looking at the imprints of the girdle on my thighs or when I earned money.

  It was when I was talking to people. It was when I opened up my introverted circle and allowed everyone I met in. It was when I included everyone. And that’s exactly what a party and a prom date do not do.

  Catalina said “everybody” was invited to Allison’s party.

  Well, “everybody” is not accurate. Allison didn’t invite me. And that hurt—a lot. By going to the prom with one person or hosting a party, that’s exactly what I would be doing. It wouldn’t be inclusive at all, because I’d always be excluding somebody.

  Like a bolt of lightning, I see that there’s another way.

  My heart beats loudly in my ears and I feel like running. No. Flying.

  I know what I have to do!

  Betty Cornell, I’ve found my grand finale.

  Monday, May 21

  “Kenzie, I’ve had the most brilliant idea for us. If we can manage it, it will be amazing. But the only way it will work is if our hearts are really in it. Will you do this for me?”

  She lifts her gaze from her phone and sighs. “Aw, this is going to be bad, isn’t it?”

  “No, but you have to promise to be in this with me, thick and thin.”

  “Whatever,” she says, but as far as noncommittal phrases go, I’m glad to hear it. It’s her way of consenting. I remember the day when she held me in the hallway after Mr. Lawrence died. It’s impossible to think that she won’t come through for me.

  “Kenzie,” I say, taking her by the shoulders. “I’m going to invite all the people that don’t have dates to the prom on Friday to come with me.” I look her straight in the eyes. “With us. Together we’ll form this big, amazing group. Like the end of one of those cheesy eighties movies.”

  She closes her eyes and groans. She rubs her temples as if my ignorance is causing her head to ache.

  “Look, Kenzie, imagine what we could do! We can change the school!” I’m practically pleading now. “You know that no one goes to the prom without a date. We can change that!”

  Kenzie gasps and shakes her head. “Maya, our little hierarchy is what keeps our school from collapsing in on itself!” She lifts her hands in the air. “Those cliques are what maintain our fragile sense of order. Imagine what our lives would be like without them! It would be utter hell! If we were united, one bad person could be our downfall. I can picture it now, some kid decides to smoke pot and soon everyone follows. The groups are a means of self-preservation, dividing us from the cholos and gangsters. You are treading on thin ice, my friend, and believe me, these rules run deep. We are all in our right orders. Be careful what you start!”

  I sigh. “Kenzie, you’re such a drama queen.”

  She pushes her oboe case into my hands so she can smooth back her ponytail, which became disheveled in her passionate monologue.

  “Let’s try, at least.” I look at her, pleading. “I’m moving . . .” I hate to have to pull the whiny card, but sometimes it’s the only thing that works. “I love these people . . .”

  She snorts.

  “It’s true!” I think back to the choir girls, and I realize I’m not angry anymore. I smile at Kenzie. “There are so many kind and wonderful people out there, and I need you to watch out for them, okay? Be there for them. Show them how much you care. This is the best way to do it! We can accomplish anything!”

  She mulls it over, taking her oboe case back. “Fine, just don’t use my name.”

  “Deal. . . . So, Kenzie, will you be one of my dates to the prom?”

  She pretends to gag herself. I can’t stop myself from hugging her. She wipes it off.

  “You rock,” I say.

  “Whatever.”

  . . . . . . .

  People who I’ve asked to go with me to the prom today and their responses:

  My entire Social Outcast group. Francisco took some convincing. I reminded him that I was moving and he said he might go.

  Two Goth Art Chicks. One said she wasn’t going, but after I made eye contact and begged and talked it up she said she’d think about it.

  A Volleyball Girl said no, but I told her I’d wear my hair down and curl it, so she grudgingly agreed.

/>   One boy at Gabriel’s table said no. Maybe he’ll change his mind.

  A girl in English who promised to come for me.

  Beto went from “No way!” to “Possibly . . .”

  I think I got three more Choir Geeks to come, but they weren’t sure.

  A girl who sits next to me in reading said no at first, but her friend and I ganged up on her, and now she has agreed.

  I asked one boy who’s in choir, and he said he’d go and be part of my group.

  After school, I see Leon in the library. “Are you going to the prom?” I ask. He shakes his head.

  “I don’t go to dances.”

  “You should come,” I say. “You can hang out with my group of friends, it’ll be a lot of fun!”

  He nods and smiles. “Thank you so much, Maya.”

  That’s one more to add to my list.

  I practically skip home.

  This may seem like quite a few people, but it’s still not enough. I’ve got to really step it up tomorrow. And somehow I’ve got to get Kenzie excited about it too.

  Tuesday, May 22

  Once again I find myself shopping at the thrift store with Mom. Only this time it’s not for Betty clothes or skirts and sweaters. This time it’s for something I’ve never owned before.

  A grown-up dress.

  I’ve decided to follow Mrs. Cornell’s advice and buy a blue dress. This ends up being much more of a challenge when Mom and I walk in and see the intimidating rows of gowns.

  We begin digging through the seemingly endless racks, but everything either screams denim-clad grandma or sequined stripper. I can’t seem to find any middle ground.

  I run my fingers over hundreds of outfits before I see it.

  When I try it on in the dressing room before the mirror, I hardly recognize my reflection. Mom knocks on the door and I let her in. Her eyebrows raise and she smiles. “Is this the one you want?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say.

  Wednesday, May 23

  “Maya, I think I’m gonna pee myself.”

  “I’ve got you,” I say, reaching for Kenzie’s hand, which is clammy and shaking. “I love all of them dearly, and I’ll teach you how to as well. But first, you have to stop being scared. They can’t hurt you if you don’t let them.”

  “I can’t do this . . . how did I let myself get roped in with you?” She tries to pull away and sit back down at our safe little Social Outcast table, but I give her arm a tug and drag her forward.

  “You promised, one hundred percent.” By now we’re rapidly approaching the first table. “Come on, it’s just like we practiced.”

  “Maya,” she says, dragging her feet as she walks, “I want something in return for this.”

  “Okay,” I say, readying myself for some deep philosophical request.

  She gulps and asks, “You know that elastic beading floss? Do you have some?”

  I laugh. “Yes, Kenzie, you can have my stretchy string.”

  She nods her head. “All right, I’ll do it.”

  The lunchroom is crowded, but I stopped being intimidated by all the cliques weeks ago. I sit down in the middle of the Spanish Club. Kenzie stands awkwardly off to the side, rocking from one foot to the other.

  “Hey, guys, are you going to the prom? Because Kenzie and I would love it if you’d come with us and be part of our group.”

  They stop chewing and look up from their sandwiches. Kenzie does a strange little wave, and tries to smile. You gotta love her.

  They look at each other, flabbergasted. Finally, one of them speaks.

  “We’ll think about it. . . .”

  We go to all the other tables in the cafeteria. People can’t quite comprehend what we’re doing. They ask if we’re desperate. They ask if we’re stalkers. But we (at least I) shake off the comments and continue on. Kenzie starts out looking nauseous but after five or six tables, she warms up. Soon she’s talking about our plan without prompting.

  As the bell rings, I smile at her. “You did it.”

  “I almost threw up . . . twice!”

  “Look at you, Kenzie,” I laugh. “You’re passing on my legacy.”

  She groans, but doesn’t deny it as we walk off to class. Halfway down the hall she stops me. “Maya,” she says, “I don’t think I can come to the dance.”

  “What?!”

  The floor falls out from under my feet.

  “I just, well, um, I have a church thing.”

  I shake my head, trying to figure out what she’s saying. “Kenzie, at the beginning of the year, you decided you were an atheist.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Kenzie, I . . . ” I try to find the words. “I need you. I even bought a dress, granted it was at a thrift store, but still . . . I need you!”

  “You’ll do just fine on your own.” She walks off to class.

  How can she just abandon me?

  But before my thoughts can head down that familiar dark and scary road, I pull them back. I’ve done everything on this project by myself so far. I will be okay, no matter what happens.

  Thursday, May 24

  This morning during algebra I open my notebook. I look down and see a page titled “Meanings of Popularity.” I gasp. With all of the recent drama, I’d forgotten my quest for the real definition of that mysterious and powerful word. My heart sinks.

  Then I remember. It’s the eighth-grade field trip to the bowling alley today. There’s still time. I pull out a pen and start asking people in my class what their definition of popularity is. We are dismissed to the buses where I continue my survey. My notebook begins to fill up.

  “To have to be the center of attention. To always put on a show.”

  “Being different or out of the ordinary.”

  “To fit in.”

  “Being nice to people and a good student. You have friends. That’s the good way, at least. The bad way is when you get popular because you pretend to be someone you’re not. That’s never the answer.”

  “You feel comfortable in every setting.”

  “People like you and everyone wants to be around you. You’re looked up to and respected.”

  “Everyone likes you. Everyone considers you a friend.”

  I then ask everyone a second question: Do you think anyone can become popular? Surprisingly, no one thinks it’s impossible. I follow up with one final question: Do you consider yourself popular?

  Everyone has the same answer. “No.”

  “Thanks,” I say, to the people I interview. “Remember to come to the prom, okay? You can be part of my group.”

  We are all ushered into the bowling alley, the brightly painted building that witnessed the horror of one of my more painful personal faux pas: Kenzie’s birthday party. While my peers are busy choosing lanes and bowling balls, I wander between tables inviting everyone to the prom and asking for their perspectives on popularity.

  I start with the “unpopular” crowd.

  After about an hour, I look around the bowling alley and see that I’ve talked to everyone except the popular people—the Volleyball Girls and Football Faction. I’ve received a lot of answers already, and amazingly, they all seem to be about the same. I wonder, do popular people, those who perch at the top of the social ladder, define this word the same way as those of us who are down below them looking up?

  I have to find out.

  Carlos Sanchez is absent, but his buddy Pablo is here, along with six others. I ask them my questions. They laugh and burst into an animated discussion on the subject.

  “Having a cool and sophisticated walk. You’ve got to be confident and sure of yourself. Never shy.”

  “You hang out with the ‘right’ crowd.”

  “Be cool.”

  “So,” I pry, “do you guys think a
nyone can become popular?”

  “Sure. Anyone can do it.”

  “But you shouldn’t worry about it, Maya. You’re super popular. Everybody knows who you are.”

  OH! MY! GOSH! They just used the “P” word to describe me! The most popular kids at my school just included me in the same exalted category as themselves!

  I smile appreciatively, but internally my heart does a stage dive off my rib cage. I steady myself then ask my final question.

  “So, do you consider yourselves the most popular people at school?”

  This question seems to make them uncomfortable.

  “Well, um, not the most.”

  “Up toward the top, but not the best.”

  “No, not really.”

  What?

  In this moment it feels like the entire social ladder comes tumbling down. Had I been giving it power by believing in it so strongly? “Popular” was just a word. “Popular” did nothing to sum up all the wonderful, interesting, and amazing people I’d met.

  All at once I realize that there is no ladder.

  We are all the same.

  As I say good-bye and leave their table, I notice that they’re still talking about the subject, sharing their views on what it would take to make someone known.

  I find Nicolas, my latest disappointing crush, sitting alone at a table and I join him, exhausted. Around me, I keep hearing that word. Everybody’s talking about it: popularity. It fills the already blasting bowling alley, and lines every set of lips.

  “So, did anybody answer ‘yes’ to that last question?” he asks.

  I look up at Nicolas and find myself smiling. I’d noticed that he’d been paying attention to my interviews. “No. Unbelievable, right?”

  “You know,” he ponders, “I’d never even thought about this stuff until you came and talked to me about it. I realize now that it’s more of a mindset than I’d imagined.”

  A boy sits down across from us. I can’t help but ask him my questions too.

  “I guess,” he says after a moment of thought, “the only way to be popular is to do something dangerous . . . and scary. Something that no one else is willing to do.”

  That statement completely describes my life. That is exactly what I’ve been doing since September!