Confessions of a Hater

by Caprice Crane

  I opened the diary and read a couple passages to them:

  If your boobs dominate 85% of your Facebook photo, all those comments about how “gorgeous” you are have nothing to do with your face. Don’t be pathetic.

  If you’re going to sleep around, everyone is going to know. That’s just how it is. If you genuinely like being a bit of a slut … own it. Don’t pretend to be innocent and don’t get offended when people call you a slut. Just do you. (Apparently everyone else is.)

  That got a laugh from the girls.

  “So, I think maybe we should have some kind of ‘buddy system,’” I said.

  “Like kindergarten?” Emily asked.

  “Exactly like kindergarten,” I said. “And don’t think of that as a bad thing. We are kindergartners in a sense, aren’t we? We’re relearning the basics so we can better function in society.”

  “Kind of like a halfway house for newly released felons,” Anya said, eliciting chuckles.

  “It makes sense, I guess,” Emily said.

  “It makes total sense,” I said. “This diary is going to be invaluable for being less loserish day to day, but we can—and should—also use each other for support. I mean, I’m certainly sick of being humiliated whenever the Bitch Squad is in the mood. I’m sure a few of you wouldn’t mind being spared that indignity.”

  Grace chimed in softly: “I’ve been made fun of since I was in second grade. The idea of walking through the halls and not being called names is like … I don’t even have the words, because I can’t imagine it.”

  It was heartbreaking and invigorating at the same time. This being the first time I’d even met Grace, I could only guess she was teased relentlessly about her weight. Kids are going to be mean. “Haters gonna hate,” as they say all over the Internet. But that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

  We weren’t using Noel’s words for evil. This was about self-preservation, about building confidence; the modifications we were going to make could go beyond school and, potentially, be genuinely life-changing.

  I looked at Grace, her cheeks flush, her big brown eyes hopeful, and then took a look around the whole table—everyone was there because they had been made to feel “less than.” As angry as I had been about being uprooted and having to change schools, for the first time, I felt really glad I did.

  “You know it’s going to get bad soon,” Anya said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Ugh,” said Emily. “That’s right. Spirit Week.”

  “What happens at Spirit Week?” I asked.

  “It’s a ritual,” Anya said. “On the fifth day of every Spirit Week, anyone Skyler’s crew defines as ‘losers’ gets humiliated in some grand fashion.”

  I rolled my eyes at the thought. I could only imagine.

  “You know Skyler,” Anya continued. “It’s like there’s an engine inside her that runs on other people’s tears, anger and embarrassment. She’s found some scary-ass ways to fuel that engine.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen this year—at least not to us,” I said. “I don’t know how much we can accomplish in that window, but we can make sure we’re a long way from being the biggest nerds by the time Spirit Week rolls around. At least that’s a start.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Kura said, flagging down the waitress. “Could I please get another refill on Diet Coke?”

  “Honey,” the waitress said, “that would be your seventh one.”

  “Zero calories,” Kura replied.

  “Yeah, but you’ve had six of ’em.”

  Kura furrowed her brow. “You know what six times zero is?”

  The waitress shrugged. “I never was very good at math.”

  It’s times like these, you learn to live again …

  —FOO FIGHTERS

  “Times Like These”

  CHAPTER

  8

  The fact that summer break is even a thing totally screws us up as far as preparation for adulthood goes. Not that I’m complaining—I’m not, not at all. But it sets up an unrealistic expectation for life. One would be led to believe that as an adult you work for, like, nine or ten months and then you get three months to screw off with your friends. Not so much. My dad never got time off—not even Christmas break. He was always in the office or at a meeting or doing something lawyerly like checking to make sure I completed my homework. Why? Is someone going to sue me if I skip my social studies reading? Honestly, it’s depressing. I mean, I always did all my work, but our first-quarter lesson plan involved comparing the Exxon Valdez spill with the BP spill in the Gulf of Mexico. You can only take so much truth before closing your study materials and pondering if the ecosystem is even going to exist when we grow up. (And those poor oil-covered birds!)

  Anyway, adulthood seems pretty tricky. I guess in my limited experience I’d define it a few ways:

  1) Adulthood is when your friends start getting pregnant … on purpose.

  2) Adulthood is the freedom to eat breakfast for dinner whenever you damn well please.

  3) I reserve the right to add to this list.

  My parents had been acting kind of weird. I caught my mom—who never cries—crying at a commercial. Don’t worry … Tide is gonna get the stain out. Have faith!

  It wasn’t actually a Tide commercial—that would be ridiculous—but it was a commercial, and my mom’s not usually that emotional. (Not even during her time of the month.) Me, on the other hand? Forget it. If I don’t have an arsenal of chocolate and Midol, I will go legit insane. We all have our favorite acronyms for PMS. I’d have to say some of the funniest (and truest) I’ve heard are “Pass My Sweatpants,” “Pardon My Sobbing,” and “Potential Murder Suspect.”

  Dad wasn’t coming home for dinner as much, and that was kind of always our thing. In fact, he was the one who insisted it was super-important to maintain that ritual. He’d say, “Family dinner keeps a family together.” (A little redundant, but it gets the point across.) So what does it say if the person who hammered a saying into your head stops caring about the very thing that inspired it?

  I guess it’s not fair to say he stopped caring, and when I thought about it, it made more sense to me. He must have been busy with work—we did move across the country for this new, very important position, so I had to give him some leeway. But I was in school, making friends, and my dad was at work—not necessarily making friends, but certainly interacting with people—and I did feel a little bad for my mom since she didn’t have an organic place to go and, consequently, people to meet.

  Still, I worried about my mom and asked her if everything was all right.

  “Peachy keen, jelly bean!” she said.

  “You sure? You can talk to me, you know.”

  “Honey, the last thing I want is for you to worry about me.” She brushed my hair out of my face and smiled.

  She seemed okay, thank goodness. “If you could have anything, what would it be?” I asked.

  “Hmm … are we talking genie? Like three amazing wishes? Or something realistic? Like to find my favorite sweater—which I know I packed, but it doesn’t seem to be anywhere.”

  “Genie wishes,” I said.

  She thought for a minute. “I want my daughters to always be healthy and happy.”

  “Don’t be such a mom,” I said.

  “Fine,” she said, paired with a sideways glance. “The first thing I want is a big chocolate cake that I can eat by myself and not gain a single ounce. Better?”

  “No,” I said. “Selfish. You’re not going to share your cake with me? You have magic chocolate cake you can eat and not get fat, and you’re not going to even share it with your daughter?”

  “Get your own genie!” she said. I stuck out my tongue at her and knew she was telling the truth—everything was okay.

  Then, a familiar sound—the chirp of an instant message on my computer. I went to my room to see who was summoning me.

  Lo and behold, it was … Anya. Anya’s great, but I was a tad disap
pointed. More on that later.

  ANYA: u there?

  ME: si senorita

  ANYA: what r u doing tonight?

  ME: gonna work on new comic strip. want it in next week’s paper

  ANYA: well i don’t want to interrupt your brilliance

  ME: you’re not. haven’t started. arguing with mom over imaginary calorie free chocolate cake she won’t share. rude.

  ANYA: totally rude. in other news … Skyler spreading around school that evan birnstein has three balls.

  ME: !!! WHAT?

  ANYA: she got stuck with him in ‘7 mins in heaven’

  ME: and she put her hand down his pants?

  ANYA: he IS on the football team

  ME: but he looks like a mutant!

  ANYA: ANYWAY … she said she couldn’t find his dick and thought he had three balls and then she realized that one of the balls was his dick … just super-tiny

  ME: OMG this is so tragic

  ANYA: so she basically told entire world and now guys on the football team r calling him ‘3ball’

  ME: poor guy! who told u?

  ANYA: i still have moles on the inside. hear stuff now and then. that one’s making the rounds tho. pretty much everyone’s heard by now

  ME: she’s so evil!!!!

  ANYA: all in a day’s work 4 her. the sun rises … skyler plots to destroy

  ME: ugh. ok, i’m going to draw

  ANYA: later sk8er

  I closed the chat window and pondered the Three-Ball situation for a moment. I couldn’t imagine going so far out of my way just to hurt someone, but it seemed Skyler wasn’t just out to hurt other girls … she’d hurt anyone she didn’t deem “worthy.”

  I decided to make the new comic strip about a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven, since it was fresh in my mind. The game hasn’t changed over the years. In middle school it’s your standard fare: seven minutes in a closet, blindfolded, with whoever you’re randomly paired up with. In high school, the only modification is that sometimes seven minutes becomes thirty, and instead of kissing and touching, sometimes people go … well, a whole lot further. What you do in the closet is up to you and your partner. I’ve only played twice in my life.

  The first time I played Seven Minutes in Heaven was actually the first time I french-kissed a boy: Danny O’Connell. He’d just eaten a patty melt, and I was trying to pay attention to the kiss and which way I tilted my head and where our tongues went and not to embarrass myself too badly, but all I could focus on was the fact that he tasted like melted cheese and grilled onions and rye bread and was that a rye seed stuck between his teeth and should I try to help dislodge it or just leave it be? This was a lot to ponder during a first kiss. In fact, I remember none of the kiss and all of his sandwich. I should have just had a sandwich.

  Sadly, the second time I played was only the second time I french-kissed a boy. Sensing a theme? No, I haven’t ever kissed a boy when I wasn’t dared to. But it’s not my fault! Maybe I’m a late bloomer. (Fine. Obviously I’m a late bloomer. No maybes about it.)

  I was hoping my fortunes would improve with the tweaks I’d made thanks to Noel’s (unintentional) help, and indeed things did seem to be looking up. Which is to say, in the school hallways the past week, I’d found myself regularly looking up to see Chris making eye contact with me, often paired with a smile. (Which made me happy. Although the times he wasn’t exactly smiling made me even happier, because it was just kinda hot.)

  It started with a few random chats here and there, e.g., “Isn’t that teacher boring?” directed at our science teacher who was like “human Ambien.” Or, “Can you believe they call that stuff pizza?” regarding the atrocity they served in the cafeteria. (Come on! This is Los Angeles … land of the famous, home of the privileged—why so skimpy with the cheese?!) But as the days passed, our chats became more than an observation-and-agreement exchange, and after we chatted one day for about fifteen minutes on the front lawn after school on a Thursday, it finally happened.

  I was wearing my new “boyfriend jeans” (they’re actually called that—but was it a sign?), a plain white T-shirt and my pseudo army boots (with buckles strategically arranged in three places—none of them actually functional as there’s a zipper on the inside to get in and out). We were talking about Matt McCarthy and how he’d used the word “whorehouse” in class just before the bell rang and how Miss Mercer interrupted his story and suggested that he use the word “brothel.” Classic. How that segued into Chris and I trading information, I’m not even sure, but it happened. We traded emails, instant messaging IDs, Twitter handles, you name it. Then he asked for my phone number. Which was a little scary, coming from a super-cute and super-popular guy who also happened to be Skyler’s ex.

  Not wanting to seem nervous, of course, I made a joke out of it.

  “It’s, um … 555 … 1212.”

  “Okay,” he replied. “Is that 310 area code?”

  Oh God, he didn’t get it?

  “Um, sure,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  “Mine’s 1-800-ASK-GARY,” he said.

  I giggled. “Is that so?”

  He smiled. “Yep. You’re sure your number’s 555-1212?”

  “You know, I might have gotten that wrong,” I said, and then gave him the right number. And he gave me his. And he told me that a huge concert venue outside Tampa had sold its naming rights in 2010, changing from the Ford Amphitheatre to the 1-800-ASK-GARY Amphitheatre, and that was the lamest thing he’d ever heard of in his life, and I agreed, and I couldn’t wait to tell Anya, partly so she could share our disgust for corporate greed but mostly so I could tell her Chris and I traded numbers!

  Noel’s rules of texting started blinking on a neon sign in my brain:

  Never text the boy you like right back until you’re for sure in couple-mode, and even then … make him wait every third time. Keep him on his toes. If he gets an attitude about it, make him wait every other time he texts. He’ll never bitch about it again.

  Chris and I had texted a few times, but that was it so far. I’d followed Noel’s rule as best as I could but come on—it was Chris Roberts! Had it run through my mind that I would like him to be the third guy I french-kissed? You bet. Was I confident that kiss would be patty melt free? Largely.

  But it would have to wait, because I had work to do tonight: the comic strip. How could I incorporate Seven Minutes in Heaven … let’s see … it involves a closet … bingo! There was the answer. I drew the strip.

  In the strip, a popular, stuck-up girl arrives at a party where they’re playing the game. Abby stands against a wall off to the side, watching the proceedings. The popular girl immediately eyes a really cute boy she doesn’t know. He’s wearing a football jersey with the number 12—a quarterback number! She spins the bottle, and—jackpot! It lands on the boy! The popular girl is ecstatic, but then she looks in the closet. The music from the shower scene in Psycho plays as she sees all the clothes in the closet are from last season, some even older! She can’t be seen in a closet with those clothes—no way! She openly insults the outdated wardrobe in front of everyone, then asks the boy if he’d like to go outside. He tells her to go to hell, grabs another girl’s hand and those two go into the closet, slamming the door behind them. Offended, the popular girl wonders aloud to the group, “What’s his problem?”

  From the corner, Abby Invisible replies, “Well, dummy, that’s his twin sister’s closet!”

  It took a while for my comic strip to find its voice, but the path became clear when I realized my daily experiences at this new school were providing me all the material I needed. Satirists have always existed to comment on the absurdity of society, and few things were as absurd as what I’d been witnessing at my school. Anya’s biting views also proved inspirational. The first quarterly paper was coming out soon, and I finished the artwork in time to get my work published, but I wasn’t prepared for the reaction it would get.

  Who run the world? Girls!

  —BEYONCÉ

/>   “Run the World”

  CHAPTER

  9

  Skyler and her sheep were obviously pissed off. I’d shined a light on them—and kids like them—and cut them down to size (at least gauging by the response I’d received from the other Invisibles). How dare I poke fun at Skyler’s royal court?

  Cassidy and Jericha stopped me in the hallway before third period.

  “So, your cartoon wasn’t funny at all,” Cassidy said.

  “Like, what’s the deal?” Jericha asked. “Are you trying to make us hate you even more?”

  “I don’t really care how you feel about me one way or the other.”

  “Yeah, right,” Cassidy said with a roll of her eyes and a smirk.

  “Cassidy,” I said, looking her right in the eye, “I don’t want to be you. I was you—for as long as I could stand it, which obviously wasn’t long. Keep in mind, I wasn’t pushed out; I jumped.”

  Jericha leaned in, speaking in the most serious tone possible for a girl who spends most of her time tweeting Ke$ha lyrics: “Just don’t do it again.”

  “For real,” Cassidy said. “Don’t, like … use us as material.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, pausing for a half second. “Okay, thought about it. Sorry. Can’t guarantee anything.”