The (Totally Not) Guaranteed Guide to Popularity, Prettiness & Perfection

by Megan Mccafferty

  “Oh! I have to get home, anyway,” Bridget said as she scooped up her backpack.

  Bridget flashed a particularly tinny grin and waved at my parents through the open window. Honestly, she’s always as happy to see them as they are to see her.

  “Today’s such an important day!” she shouted to my parents.

  “It is an important day!” Mom called out in agreement. “So much to do!”

  “The last day before seventh grade,” Dad announced unnecessarily, the way dads who don’t know how to talk to kids tend to do.

  I watched Bridget skip back across the street to her house. She seemed oddly carefree for someone who was so stressed out just moments before. I guess I’m pretty good at being the supportive friend after all.

  “Help your mother with the groceries, Notso!”

  Notso is what my dad calls me, as in Jessica “Notso” Darling. Ha-ha. I pretend to hate it, but it kind of suits me, to tell you the truth. Darling really is a tough name to live up to, more than ever since Bethany shared the IT List. Never before had I been so tempted to change it to something a little less cutesy: Jessica Disappointing. Jessica Duh. Jessica Dork.

  “Come on,” Mom coaxed. “Most of this stuff is for you.”

  I was actually grateful for an excuse not to obsess over the IT List. But I dragged my feet just long enough to make my parents think that helping them was, like, the hugest inconvenience of my life. You can’t let parents think they can bother you to do stuff whenever they want or they’ll start bothering you to do stuff whenever they want.

  Which they already do anyway, now that I think of it.

  Chapter Four

  For someone who makes a point not to eat very much, Mom was very excited about all the back-to-school food.

  “I didn’t get the chocolate chip cookies you asked for, but I did get these wonderful cranberry granola bars. And I didn’t get the sugary cereal you asked for, but I did get these delightful Flax Flakes. And I didn’t get the soda you asked for, but I did get this flavorful seltzer.…”

  The rest of the unpacking went exactly like that: “ful” of crappy food I didn’t ask for and didn’t want.

  “You just missed Bethany this morning,” I said, wincing at the stinky Brie that must have been a substitute for the Cheddary-product-in-a-can I’d requested.

  My mother almost dropped an economy box of organic green tea bags on her tennis shoes.

  “Bethany was here? Didn’t her classes begin weeks ago? Shouldn’t she be in class? Where’s she getting the money to pay for gas to cruise around town without a care in the world? Why wouldn’t she tell me or your father? Why didn’t she stay?”

  Gee, Mom. I have no idea why she wouldn’t want to stick around for one of your classic interrogations.

  Dad entered the kitchen with the last of the groceries.

  “Dar!” That’s what she calls my dad. It’s short for Darling, obviously, but to me it sounds like the name for a caveman. “Dar! Bethany was here this morning!”

  My father almost dropped a bag of produce on his cycling shoes.

  “Bethany was here? Didn’t she start classes a few weeks ago? Shouldn’t she be in class? Where’s she getting the gas money to go on joyrides? Why wouldn’t she tell us? Why didn’t she stay?”

  Say what you want about my parents. Call them dorky and uptight, clueless and pushy. (I do.) But they are meant for each other.

  They both turned to me for answers. For a split second I was tempted to mention how she’d spied through the mail, but I thought better of it. My sister’s business was none of my business.

  “She came to see me. To offer me, you know, big sisterly life-changing advice before starting school.”

  My dad barked a laugh and muttered, “Maybe you should offer her little-sisterly life-changing advice about finishing school.”

  My mom got a wounded look and swatted him on the shoulder with a supermarket circular.

  “She changed her major, Dar. You can’t expect her to graduate in four years if she changed her major.”

  My mom always defends Bethany. Fortunately, my dad usually sides with me. I think these allegiances are based on appearances.

  Mom and Bethany are both blond and blue-eyed, petite yet curvy in the way that looks just right to me, but they are always complaining is too fat. Mom says she has to look good because her picture appears on real estate signs in front yards all over Ocean County. She says it’s an “occupational hazard,” but that doesn’t explain why Bethany worries about her looks even more than Mom does, because my sister doesn’t have a job. If my mom and my sister are any indication, it seems to me that the prettier you are, the more you worry about how pretty you are, which doesn’t make any sense at all.

  Maybe that’s because I look more like my dad. We’re dark-haired (or what’s left of my dad’s hair is, anyway) and brown-eyed, with skinny arms and legs attached at awkward angles to our gangly bodies. Prettiness is not something I spend a lot of time thinking about because I’m too busy thinking about other things. Thinking about things is my primary hobby. As hobbies go, it’s kind of a weird one. Thinking about things isn’t like taking dance classes or playing soccer or crafting or something normal like that. People can go to a performance or cheer at a game or ooh and ahh over a birdhouse made of Popsicle sticks or whatever. But when thinking about things is your hobby, there’s nothing to show for it. No “Hey, take a look at all the stuff going on inside my brain!” So whenever someone asks what I like to do in my free time—and that someone is usually a grown-up because it’s exactly the kind of question grown-ups love to ask—it’s just way easier to say that I like to read because I can direct them to all the books on my shelves.

  Obviously, this is something I’ve thought about. A lot.

  So what other kinds of things do I think about? It’s hard to say. I think about whatever pops into my head and it’s very hard to stop thinking about it as soon as it does. There are two categories of thinking: Deep Stuff and Dumb Stuff.

  Like, the other morning I woke up wondering about all the background people who are in my dreams. I’m talking about the people I don’t know or recognize from real life. Am I making those people up or do they really exist somewhere? Are they people I might have seen one time in my life, like, at the mall, but my brain captured their images and held on to them just to use them later as extras in my dreams? Or are they people who exist somewhere in the world who I haven’t ever seen or met, but we’re connected through some deeper human consciousness?

  That’s a pretty good example of Deep Stuff.

  And then there’s the Dumb Stuff, like when I spent an hour ranking my favorite ice-cream flavors (#1: Cookie dough).

  My dad is a thinker, too. Stress sweat was just starting to shine on his balding head.

  “Did Bethany have to wait until second semester of her junior year to change her major? And from Public Relations to Image Marketing and Management? I don’t get the difference. You’re good with words, Notso. Do you understand the difference between Public Relations and Image Marketing and Management?”

  I did NOT understand the difference between Public Relations and Image Marketing and Management, which is why I immediately excused myself to the privacy of my bedroom to figure it out.

  And by that, I mean I called Bethany.

  Chapter Five

  I knew my sister had asked me not to seek deeper clarification of her life-changing advice because I had been specifically instructed that the struggle was part of the process. But at least ninety minutes had passed since we’d last spoken, so I figured she wouldn’t think I was pestering her unnecessarily.

  I was wrong.

  “Please do not tell me that you are already seeking deeper clarification on my life-changing advice when I specifically instructed you that the struggle was part of the process,” she said instead of saying hello.

  “Uh,” I stammered. “It’s just that, well, I’m already kind of confused about the first one, you know,
about wearing something different.…”

  She sighed so loud that I bet I could have heard her clear across the state of New Jersey even without the phone.

  “I am a very busy girl,” she began. “It’s so hard juggling an active social life, an active love life, an active philanthropic life as part of the sorority sisterhood…”

  “And your academic life?” I added. “Your classes?”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” she said breezily. “Anyhoo, you’ll figure out how to use the IT List to your greatest advantage. Trust yourself.”

  Trust myself. Yikes. I thought I could trust how to handle myself in junior high UNTIL SHE TOTALLY MESSED WITH MY HEAD.

  “More important, trust me.”

  Trust her. If I can’t trust my own sister, who can I trust? It’s never been my ambition in life to be popular, but at the very least I can try to uphold my sister’s legacy by not being a total dork. Bethany of all people wouldn’t encourage me to do anything to dorkify the Darling name, right?

  RIGHT?

  “I’ll check in with you at appropriate intervals,” she promised. “Until then, consult my closet for inspiration. Oh! And tell Mom and Dad they need to deposit more money in my checking account to buy, uh, books and stuff. Okaythanksbye!”

  With that, my big sister left fate up to me.

  And her closet.

  Her closet! Which is in her bedroom!

  Bethany’s bedroom is right next to mine, but it might as well be on the other side of the planet. Bethany has always been very particular about protecting her privacy. My whole life I was warned NEVER TO SET FOOT IN HER ROOM. When she was my age, she actually paid a neighborhood nerd to design and install a baby booby trap involving a laundry basket, bungee cords, and a talking teddy bear. By the time I was a toddler I knew well enough to KEEP OUT OR DIE. This rule stands even now that she’s away at college, not that she still openly threatens me or anything. It’s just habit. Or survival instinct.

  Being granted permission to access her closet was, like, totally unprecedented. This made me all queasy with excitement and trepidation because it spoke to the magnitude of importance Bethany placed on starting off junior high the right way and my strict obedience to the IT List in particular. Even so, I was, perhaps, overly cautious about opening the door to Bethany’s room. I hesitated with my hand hovering over the doorknob because, okay, I was paranoid Bethany was testing me somehow and that her room might be rigged with an invisible magnetic fence system like the kind that prevents your dog from peeing on the flower beds.

  I might still be wimping out in the hallway if my parents hadn’t unintentionally intervened.

  “Help your mother with the laundry, Notso!”

  “Most of this stuff is for you!”

  Bethany’s room was the last place they’d think to look for me. I grabbed the knob, flung open the door, and slipped inside. I was safe from sorting whites from darks for the time being.

  Bethany’s room was decorated with a lot of pictures of… Bethany. Bethany in her CHEER TEAM!!! uniform, Bethany as Homecoming queen, Bethany chugging out of a big red plastic cup, Bethany in a sorority sweatshirt. There were other girls and boys surrounding her in the pictures, too, but the focal point of every photo was always Bethany, Bethany, and more Bethany.

  Bethany is very pretty. Have I mentioned that? And the pictures with all her many male and female friends indicate that she is also popular. And therefore—according to the indisputable experts on yearbook committees—perfect.

  Even though she hadn’t slept here in a week the room still smelled like her—a powdery, flowery perfume mixed with something chemical. Maybe her Bombshell Blond hair dye? (“Highlights!” she’d protest.) I wondered if my room had a signature scent. If it did, it probably smelled like contraband chocolate chip cookies, Cap’n Crunch, and Coke.

  Anyway, Bethany’s room was otherwise beige and very boring. It was a huge letdown, really, like waiting in line for two hours for a roller-coaster ride that lasts ten seconds and sucks for nine of them.

  I had to stay focused.

  Consult my closet for inspiration.

  The closet! I’d learn everything I needed to know about dressing the right way for junior high by looking inside this closet.

  I opened the closet doors and…

  COLORS! SO MANY! TOO MANY! COLORS! BLINDING! COLORS! And MORE COLORS! And PATTERNS! PLAIDS! FLOWERS! STRIPES! POLKA DOTS! SQUIGGLY THINGIES I THINK ARE CALLED PAISLEY!

  Bethany’s closet was about a bazillion times crazier than the rest of her blah bedroom. Consult my closet for inspiration. Inspiration? Ha! I’d need anti-nausea medication.

  I took a deep breath and struggled to push the clothes-heavy hangers from one side to the other, hoping that one item—a purple satin tuxedo jacket, a rainbow-striped maxi dress—would finally present itself as the perfectly “different” thing for me to wear on my first day of seventh grade. I slowly made my way from front to back, left to right. After more than an hour of searching, I couldn’t possibly imagine myself wearing any of it! I slumped to the floor of the closet in fatigue and frustration.

  “Why won’t you just tell me what to do?!” I shouted at a photo of Bethany dressed as a slinky kitty for Halloween.

  I might even have banged my head against the wall in despair. Just a little. But it was enough to cause an avalanche inside the closet. The next thing I knew, a huge pile of T-shirts had come tumbling down from the top shelf into my lap. The first shirt stuck its tongue out at me: nyeh-nyeh boo-boo.

  I turned it over. Aha! The Rolling Stones.

  The second T-shirt screamed for “HELP!”

  The Beatles.

  Okay, so some of these geezer bands on the T-shirts were familiar because my dad loves to humiliate me (and himself) by blasting classic rock in the car and playing air guitar at stoplights. Others I only sorta recognized, like the Velvet Underground, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin, but it didn’t really matter because the shirts were cool in an authentic and ancient kind of way. Best yet, they’re not from the mall and were guaranteed NOT to be seen on anyone else at school! I could definitely wear something different every day and I wouldn’t have to wear some crazy purple tuxedo jacket to do it! Woo-hoo!

  With these shirts, I could totally cross off #1 on the IT List. As I gathered up the stack, I couldn’t help but think that my big sister would be oh so proud of how ready I was to rock seventh grade.

  Chapter Six

  My first day of junior high! And what a day it was. Where to start?

  I guess I should begin at the beginning with my parents’ extra-special wake-up call. This basically consisted of Mom “dancing” around my bed while Dad played air guitar and sang a made-up song.

  “Oh-oh-oh! Notso not-so-little no mo’. Oh-oh-oh!”

  This had to be the most alarming morning alarm EVER. Bridget would have loved it. She would have sung and danced along. But I’m not Bridget. I shooed them away so they could channel their hyperness into more important efforts such as making me an extra-special first-day-of-school breakfast of blueberry pancakes and bacon.

  Once they were out of the room, I slipped on my lucky jeans and put on what I thought was the coolest of the old T-shirts that had fallen into my lap. It was for a band called the Who, but that didn’t mean much to me. What I really liked about it was the red, white, and blue bull’s-eye surrounding the band’s logo. Pineville Junior High’s colors are red, white, and blue so I thought that was a pretty clever way to show my school spirit without being a total brownnoser about it.

  I washed my face, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and pulled it back into a high ponytail. Mom won’t let me wear anything bolder than tinted lip balm before I’m thirteen. I complain about how totally unfair this is but, in truth, it’s fine by me because no make-upping means I’ll do maybe five minutes of primping, max. I get to sleep in while girls like Bridget wake before sunrise to put their school faces on.

  Speaking of, I was at the kitchen counter polishi
ng off my third pancake when I heard the front door open. It was 7:20 a.m. on the dot—our appointed meeting time. I knew it was Bridget even before I heard my mom’s squeal of delight.

  “Bridget! What a lovely haircut!” Mom exclaimed.

  I hastily wiped syrup off my chin with the back of my hand and met them in the foyer to investigate. It was true! Bridget had cut off her hair! It was much, much shorter now, about shoulder length. And white-blond bangs edged her blue eyes like the perfect picture frame. I’d hardly had time to react to the new hair when I noticed she wasn’t wearing the outfit she’d settled on the day before. She’d traded the tee, capris, and slip-ons for a more sophisticated look: embroidered tank, swingy skirt, and strappy sandals. The overall effect was, like, whoa.

  Mom was more articulate when she said, “It’s like you grew up overnight!”

  This compliment made Bridget smile from ear to ear, which revealed the most dramatic change of all: teeth! I was seeing Bridget’s teeth for the first time in two and a half years!

  “Bridget! You got your braces off!!! When???”

  “Surprise!!! I know! Yesterday!!!”

  Now that Bridget was smiling it was like she was physically incapable of not smiling. And I could hardly blame her. This makeover must have given her the confidence boost she needed because she wasn’t at all red-faced and fidgety about our first day anymore. She had strapped on her backpack and was ready to take Pineville Junior High by storm!

  “Photo op!”