Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek

by Maya Van Wagenen

  Just then one of the teachers calls out and tells us that it’s time to go. Nicolas looks at me and we walk out toward the bus.

  When we get back to school, he holds the door open for me. I smile.

  “Hey, Nicolas, are you going to the prom?” I ask, feeling the hope in my voice rise. “You could always come and hang out with me.”

  “Who are you going with?” he questions.

  I’m about to say nobody, but then I realize that it’s not the truth at all. “Everyone,” I confess, and I mean it.

  He looks down at the ground and pushes his glasses up his nose. “I can’t,” he says, and walks quickly away, staring down at the ground.

  There’s nothing left to say.

  . . . . . . .

  If you dance very badly, take lessons. A girl who must constantly excuse herself for treading on her partner’s toes will not be asked to dance often. Boys are pretty fussy about such things. Though they may dance badly themselves, they expect a girl to dance well. It may be unfair, but it’s true.

  Due to my lack of coordination, I’ve decided that this is advice I really need to take. Mom is an amazing dancer, so I ask her to help me.

  “I’d be glad to, Maya.” She smiles and starts some moves she learned from her Zumba class at the gym. I avert my eyes until I’m positive she’s stopped.

  “I don’t think that you honestly want me to dance like that in front of people. I’m pretty sure Dad would kill me.”

  She instructs me on how to step in time to fast songs. “You have to listen to the beat.” Brodie watches, holding his latest LEGO creation, but he’s so hyper that it’s almost impossible to teach him. He’s far too busy jumping around to notice that each song has its own tempo. His dancing is very innovative, though. I’ll give him that. Mom shows me how to not only move my feet, but my arms also. “Stay loose, feel the music.” I don’t feel anything but the awkwardness. We practice for a few more songs when she decides to change tactics.

  “All right, now I’m going to teach you how to slow dance. Brodie, put your right hand on her waist . . . no, your other right. There you go!”

  “Mom! He’s eye level with my boobs! You have no idea how embarrassing this is.”

  “Maya,” Mom sighs with her hands on her hips, “you may have to dance with shorter boys sometimes in your life. It’s good to start young.”

  I groan, but then realize that I should be breaking in the (already broken in) strappy white heels I bought at the thrift store. I rush to my room and put them on. They make it kind of hard to walk, but are still nice. I strut back and forth down the hall until I’m confident I won’t fall and kill myself. I hear the front door open and realize that Dad’s home.

  When I get back to my parents’ room, Mom, Brodie, Dad, and a buck-naked Natalia (don’t ask), are all dancing around in a circle singing “Single Ladies.”

  Friday, May 25

  A pretty dress . . . tiny slippers, a sparkling jewel, tidy white gloves, all these laid out on the bed are a sure sign that there’s a big dance in the offing. There’s excitement in the air and the rustle of tissue paper. The bathroom is damp with steam—you’ve never been cleaner in your life. It’s hard to believe that after waiting so long, the evening has come at last.

  Betty Cornell’s words from so many years ago still sum it up beautifully.

  My dress, now hung over the counter in the bathroom, feels almost intimidating. I scrub my hair and avoid looking at it. I do two rounds of shampoo, just like many months ago. I scrub and scrub until my locks lose their greasy appearance and become soft and smooth. I rinse and ignore the growling of my stomach. I’ve been following the diet again, which means I haven’t touched a between-meal snack or dessert all week.

  Mom curls my hair so that it falls in waves down my shoulders. She makes jokes about my quiet mood, and tells me how pretty I look. I smile, but secretly my heart is pounding. It’s hard to keep the doubts from worming into my mind. Why didn’t I do the party? It’s going to be ten times harder to go to the prom by myself and ask people to “groove” with me. And what if no one I invited comes? What if I’m the only one there without a date?

  I wash my face and close the pores with ice. Then I add powder. Mom begs to do my eye makeup, so I let her. But just a little, because of Betty’s advice. I apply some shiny lip gloss and brush the soft curls away from my face.

  This is it.

  Carefully I pull my dress over my shoulders. Then I look in the mirror.

  I don’t recognize myself.

  Leaving for the dance

  My legs seem to be ten times longer and leaner in my rounded, white heels. My shoulders and arms don’t feel hairy or ugly, only willowy and graceful. And the dress! It’s a light, sleeveless shift with a low neckline in a shimmery, powder blue. It ends right above my knees, and makes me feel like I’m wearing a waterfall. Fluid and powerful. My reflection is slender, yet has curves. My hair falls around my shoulders in sophisticated waves.

  I smile and notice my eyes. There seems to be a hint of something different in them but I can’t quite put my finger on it. . . .

  Brodie comes running up the stairs with a package in his arms, screaming nonsense at the top of his lungs.

  “Ma, ya, she [gasp] she, wrote [gasp] envelope, Betty [gasp]!”

  I snatch it out of his hands and tear through the tape like a ravenous beast. It is, indeed, a message from Betty Cornell.

  Dear Maya,

  I received your letter and your picture. You look just as I imagined you from your writing. . . .

  My middle school years . . . I was just like you and your friends, with fears of entering a new world with new rules, new teachers, and so many new students and not knowing so many of them. Like you, I made myself speak to new students, joined different clubs. . . .

  You are to be commended for helping other girls come out of their shells. These girls will remember your kindness. Keep up your great work. I am anxious to hear about your party and your pearls.

  Sincerely,

  Betty Cornell

  I hold the letter to my chest and suddenly I don’t feel so scared. I’m not alone. Betty Cornell, the woman who changed my life, will be with me in spirit, even if nobody else shows up.

  Brodie reappears, standing in the doorway. I notice he’s dripping wet.

  “What happened?” I ask, still clinging to the letter.

  “Dad and I are washing the car so that you get to go to your dance in style.”

  I find myself smiling. “You are wonderful.”

  “It was Dad’s idea.” He looks me up and down and whistles. “You look nice. It’s like Betty Cornell blessed you herself.”

  “Thanks, Brodie. For everything.”

  He grins and runs back down the stairs.

  I reach for my glasses, but then stop. I can see well enough without them. Besides, I don’t need any excuse to hide.

  I clasp my string of pearls at my throat and drape the thin white shawl around my shoulders. I take one last look in the mirror and for the first time in my entire life, I feel . . . beautiful.

  Mom takes some pictures and wraps me up in a big hug. I can feel I’m quite a bit taller than she is, especially in my new shoes.

  “I love you, Maya. Whatever happens, I’m so proud of you.”

  She walks me out to the sparkling Chevy Malibu, and Dad opens the car door for me. In five minutes I am there, in front of the school. Dad is smiling at me, asking if I want him to walk me in.

  “If only I’d had time to change, then maybe . . .” He looks down at his baggy shirt and exercise shorts. “I just feel like I’m one step behind, you know.”

  I love his awkward mannerisms so dearly.

  “Daddy, you washed the car for me.”

  “I know, but still . . . if we’d waited just a little bit longer I could come in w
ith you.”

  “I love you so much, but I’ve got to do this on my own.”

  He nods. “Okay. My parents dropped me off at my first dance too. Granted I was so nervous that I threw up on the way over and my breath smelled like puke. I don’t think you’ll have the same experience, though.”

  Feeling nauseous I change the subject. “Maybe I should’ve hosted a big party. It would’ve been easier than this. I’m going to have to include everyone, and I’m so scared.”

  “You’re growing up so fast.” He smiles. “You look beautiful, Maya. This was the right thing to do.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  I hug him so tight it hurts. Then, I close the door.

  I walk to the cafeteria to face my destiny.

  . . . . . . .

  Flashing red and green lights from the stage are the only things I can make out in the dark room until my eyes adjust. The music is deafening, and I stumble about in my heels, not quite sure where I am. All of a sudden a cluster of girls I’d convinced to come as part of my group rush up to me. It’s the Goth Art Chicks.

  “I didn’t even recognize you,” one says. “You look amazing!”

  I laugh, thrilled that they actually came.

  I smile and return their compliments. I am now able to see a completely clear floor. No one is dancing.

  I talk with the girls for a while before I ask them to dance with me.

  “No way! We’ll go when everyone else does.”

  “I’m too scared!”

  Then a crowd of people abducts me from behind. I’m greeted with several customary kisses on the cheek.

  It takes a minute to realize it’s the Volleyball Girls, who’ve abandoned their dates in the corner.

  “Wow, Maya, you look great!”

  “You too,” I say. “Do any of you guys want to dance?”

  “NO! We’ll go when there are more people out there.”

  “Oh,” I say. There are only about twenty people here so far. I go around asking them to dance with me, with or without their dates. Everyone declines my offer. I continue to make the rounds until I’m back with the group of Goth Art Chicks.

  That’s when I notice, one girl is standing by herself, tapping her foot, and mouthing the words to the song. I don’t know her, but I recognize her as one of the many strangers I invited to come with me.

  I take her hand and drag her to the dance floor. She blushes, but smiles. We’re the first and only people dancing. I start swaying side to side, moving my arms like Mom taught me. The girl and I twirl around a little, laughing. Tentatively, all the other girls I invited join us and we create a giggling circle. I leave the group to grab more people and bring them out to be with us. At first they shake their heads, but eventually they comply. A few guys see me dancing with their dates and come to join us too. A steady stream of people follows.

  I feel blisters starting to form on my toes, but I ignore them. I focus only on being inclusive, savoring the moment.

  Then I notice a boy sitting alone, staring at the ground. I tie my shawl around my shoulders and think of all those people’s responses to my questions.

  “To be popular you’ve got to talk to everybody,” one girl had said. I know what it’s like to be left out. I don’t want his experience tonight to be the same.

  “Hey!” I shout, the only way to be heard. “Do you want to dance with me?”

  He shrugs and halfheartedly shakes his head.

  “Come on,” I say, and take his hand. He pushes me away.

  “No.”

  I step back, “All right.” I suppose not everyone’s ready for it.

  After getting the same reaction from three or four other guys, I walk back to the floor. I dance with some more girls, bringing them out from the shadows and into the flashing neon lights. They laugh and joke. I get more compliments than I can count.

  I find my way back to the group of Goth Art Chicks. Now girls grab my hands and invite me to dance. I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “You know, I wonder why my date is dancing with other people.”

  “KENZIE!” I shout, and hug her so hard that she stumbles back. We giggle. “You came!”

  “Yeah, you kind of made me,” she says, straightening the black wrap over her bare shoulders. “You look so pretty,” I say. She steps back and looks at me, her head cocked to one side. “Damn girl, you need to get me the name of that thrift store.”

  I smile so big it hurts. Then I grab her hands.

  “What are you doing?” she protests. “I don’t know how to dance.”

  “Do you think I do?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think I care?”

  “All right,” she says, and we shake our shoulders dancing right in front of the speakers. I’m positive I’ll go deaf.

  Then out of the corner of my eye, I see the shyest girl in school has arrived. Olivia, one of the members of our Social Outcast table, is standing alone at the edge of the dance floor. I rush to greet her. In spite of my invitation to join me tonight, I didn’t think she’d actually come.

  “Olivia,” I say when I reach her. “Will you dance with me?”

  She ducks her head down and stares at the floor. Then she nods. I smile and take her hands in mine and we twirl and spin and laugh like nobody is watching.

  In my head I hear Mrs. Cornell’s words from my letter: You are to be commended for helping other girls come out of their shells. These girls will remember your kindness. Keep up your great work.

  A great work. As I see Olivia smile and laugh I begin to believe it.

  Olivia, Kenzie, and I dance and dance until the music stops mid-song.

  The principal grabs a microphone. “Well, it’s seven o’clock everybody. It’s time for you to go home. Have a great summer and a great life. We won’t be seeing you next year.”

  Slowly, as if waking up from a dream, we all walk out into the fading sunlight. I remember Betty’s words, “On saying good night to your date, tell him what fun you’ve had. Make him feel that you’ve really, truly enjoyed yourself. . . . Let him know you’re appreciative.”

  Kenzie gives me a hug. “Thanks so much for coming,” I say. “It meant everything to me.”

  As Mom and I drive away, she asks, “How was it?”

  I think about everyone I danced with. All the guys and girls I pulled out onto the floor, making them part of one big group.

  “Fun . . .” I say.

  But then I remember all the people I invited who never showed up. I find myself missing them, wishing they’d shared in the magic.

  “. . . And sad.” I look out the window at the passing cars.

  When I get home, I brush out my curls and take off my makeup. Surprisingly, I still feel pretty. Not enchanting, but pretty.

  I’m about to turn off the bathroom light, when suddenly I catch sight of my eyes in the mirror. A few hours ago, I had no idea what it was that made them look different. Now it’s undeniable. Deep within their dark brown depths I see something I never have before—strength, bravery, confidence . . . and fire.

  No matter what happens from here on out, there will be no more fear.

  Thursday, May 31

  It’s the afternoon of the last day of school. I sit next to Kenzie as we ride the bus home together one final time. The heat and humidity are almost unbearable.

  She smiles at me, but I can see there are tears in her eyes. I speak the words on both our minds: “Gosh, it’s gone by fast.”

  She laughs humorlessly and bites her lip. “Hey,” she says. “Let me see what everyone wrote in your yearbook.”

  I open it up. There are signatures on every page, crammed for space in the margins. Kenzie whistles, impressed.

  “Kenzie, do you ever feel like you’ll be forgotten?” I ask. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking, hoping that I did mor
e than just survive middle school, but somehow left a mark.”

  Her eyes open quickly. “You got a pen?”

  “Yeah,” I say, pulling one from my backpack. She snatches it from my hands and leans over the seat in front of us. I watch her, openmouthed.

  “Look away, Maya, stop making it so obvious!” She purses her lips and concentrates. “There!” She sits back, admiring her handiwork. “I’m done. . . .”

  I lean over and see what she’s written.

  M. V. & K. H.

  BFFL

  I laugh. “You’re not the only one who wrote on school property.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I wrote on the wall in the girls’ bathroom. In one of the stalls. My message is somewhere above ‘Screw You, Britney.’”

  “Nice. What did you say exactly?”

  “Something I hope is worth remembering.”

  Kenzie rests her head on my shoulder as we look out the window at the cars going by. We both smile.

  “We did it,” she says.

  “Yes, we did,” I whisper, thinking back to the message I left in the bathroom stall—small and insignificant, yet the summation of the lessons I learned this year:

  Real popularity is taking the time to love others, reaching out, and never being afraid to be the first one dancing.

  REMEMBER THE GIRL IN PEARLS

  Maya’s Final Popularity Tip

  Popularity is more than looks. It’s not clothes, hair, or even possessions. When we let go of these labels, we see how flimsy and relative they actually are. Real popularity is kindness and acceptance. It is about who you are, and how you treat others.

  What began as a quirky social experiment taught me more than I ever thought possible.

  All the times that I felt popular were because I had reached out to other people. I remember helping Isabella on the choir trip, Valentine’s Day, sitting at all the different lunch tables, and the prom. If we forget that connection, we forget what it truly means to be popular.

  Do I think anyone can do it? Absolutely.

  But it’s not easy. You have to be strong. You have to love people for who they are. After you move beyond the girdle, the white gloves, and pearls, Betty Cornell really understood this principle.