I’m totally anxious to get home and whip out my cell phone. My dad has lectured me way too many times about the law in California that prohibits anyone from using a cell phone while driving, unless it’s with a headset. But if you’re under eighteen, you can’t even do that. And not wanting to risk losing my cell phone or my driving privileges, I always wait—rather impatiently, I might add—until I get to my destination before making or taking any calls. This can get really annoying with Angie’s habit of calling repeatedly until I pick up.
I press the first speed-dial button and wait for Mason to answer. It goes straight to voice mail. Oh, right. I forgot he’s still at soccer practice.
I am tempted to drive over to the soccer field and wait for him to finish practice so I can show him the article, but I know that my history book is waiting for me upstairs, and I cannot fail this test tomorrow. I need to keep my GPA up if I am ever going to be accepted to Amherst with Mason.
So I drag myself into the house, up the stairs, and into my bedroom. As I settle back into more reading about the French’s love of the guillotine and the forming of the National Assembly, my phone rings again. This time it’s Jade, and I answer it using the justification that the French Revolution happened like hundreds of years ago and all this stuff is happening right now. And isn’t everyone always telling us to live in the now?
“Omigod,” she says breathlessly as soon as I answer. “I just realized what this whole magazine article thing means.”
“What?”
“It means we’ll finally be able to get into the Loft.” She pronounces the word Loft in a loud whisper, as if it’s the location of a top secret CIA drop point where confidential information is going to be exchanged at 0900 hours.
“You think? All because of this?” I ask, feeling skeptical.
“Of course!” Jade yells in my ear. “Hello? Mason is going to be like the most popular guy in school after this. And since you’re his girlfriend and we’re your friends, we’ll totally get in.”
The infamous “Loft” that Jade is referring to is actually a condo in downtown San Francisco that Spencer Cooper’s parents own but rarely use because they’re constantly traveling to much more glamorous places around the world. Apparently our little town just northeast of San Fran isn’t exciting enough for them to stay put for longer than two weeks at a time. This means that Spencer is often left alone with his brand-new BMW, a credit card with no limit, and most important, the keys to the Loft. Spencer Cooper is infamous for two things: being the richest kid in school and also being the most stuck-up. I’ve never actually had a conversation with him (and honestly, I’m not sure if I’d ever want to), but from what I’ve heard, he’s totally one of those guys who thinks he’s better than everyone else because his parents have money. In seventh grade, it was rumored he paid his English teacher fifteen thousand dollars to change his grade from a C to a B. Honestly, I think that’s just bad business sense. If you’re going to pay someone that much money to change your grade, at least make it an A.
Anyway, Spencer began hosting parties at the Loft at the beginning of last year, and it quickly became the place to be and be seen for Colonial High. Everyone who’s anyone is at the Loft parties. People like Heather Campbell, the most popular girl at our high school; her best friend, Jenna LeRoux, who also happens to be Spencer’s current girlfriend; and anyone that Heather and Jenna deem worthy to hang out with them.
Up until now, my friends and I have never gone. We’ve only heard about how fabulous it is. Because it’s not the kind of party you can just show up to. There’s a list somewhere that indicates who is allowed in. Everyone else is turned away at the door. Unfortunately, we have yet to make it on that list.
I’m not exactly sure who controls or maintains this list, but its existence is undeniable. And I know this because we tried to attend this notorious party at the end of last year, after Mason won the election for senior class president, but we were harshly denied entry. It was a blow to the ego that I’d just as soon forget. Jade had insisted that Mason’s victory and my association with that victory as not only his girlfriend but also his campaign manager would assure us entrance. But apparently school politics don’t play a huge role in the popularity game at our school.
JFK probably wouldn’t have gotten into the Loft either.
“I don’t know,” I tell Jade hesitantly. “If they don’t let us in, I really don’t want to go through that humiliation again.”
“Impossible,” she insists. “As long as Mason is invited, which he totally will be once word of this article spreads, we’re golden.”
When I hang up the phone and try to refocus on my history book, my mind can’t help but drift back to what Jade just said. Could we really get into the Loft party just because of a stupid magazine article?
Maybe my fantasy wasn’t that far off after all. Maybe this one little article would make us the most popular couple in school. Maybe Heather Campbell would eventually start calling me up for advice about the new spring fashions and where she should go to get her nails done and how to snag a boyfriend as wonderful as Mason. I really wouldn’t blame her. I mean, I’m pretty much a published magazine writer now. Who wouldn’t want advice from someone whose words are in Contempo Girl magazine?
Suddenly, the French Revolution seems trivial compared to my own rise to the throne, and I abandon my textbook and wander into my closet, determined to pick out the trendiest looking outfit I own for tomorrow.
THE HEATHER CAMPBELL OF COLONIAL HIGH
All my life I’ve wanted to be popular.
I don’t know where the obsession came from, but from the time I was a little girl, the life of the high school “it” crowd always seemed more glamorous than anything else I could ever imagine.
Then in the sixth grade, I met Heather Campbell, and from the moment I saw her, I knew I wanted to be like her. Her hair and teeth were perfectly straight, her makeup looked like she’d just walked away from the M.A.C counter after a full-on demonstration, and her clothes were something straight out of a fashion magazine. She was just beautiful, in every sense of the word.
Over the years, I’ve come to realize that in every single high school, in every single state in the country, there is always a Heather Campbell. The girl who is simply born with the popular gene . . . and jeans, for that matter.
My mom often tries to comfort me by saying that girls like Heather Campbell tend to peak early in life and then quickly fade. That’s why she looks so much better than everyone now. But by the time I go to my ten-year reunion, I’ll be way prettier than she is. To which I always reply with the same statement, “I don’t want to be pretty in ten years. I want to be pretty now.”
Because what good is it to me now that I might or might not be drop-dead gorgeous when I’m twenty-seven? It’s not like I can go to school every day with a big cardboard sign around my neck that says, “Trust me, in ten years, I’ll look like this.” And then an arrow pointing to a picture of a supermodel.
Heather Campbell is simply a goddess, and I can’t imagine her being anything less . . . at any age. She has silky, long amber-brown hair and perfectly bronzed skin. Like her mother gave birth to her inside a tanning bed or something.
And I’m pretty sure she’s not a virgin. Not by at least a couple times over.
I, on the other hand, am still a virgin. I know, I’ve been dating Mason for two years, so what on earth am I waiting for, right? Well, I’m not exactly sure what I’m waiting for. I guess for it to just feel “right.” And up until now, it really hasn’t. Maybe I’ll feel different once we get to Amherst next year and I know there’s not a parental figure sitting in the next room.
In fact, Angie is the only one in our group who actually has lost her virginity. Jade came close last year, with her then boyfriend, Seth, but ever since the awful thing he did to her afterward, we try not to talk about it too often.
My friends don’t approve of my obsession with Heather. They think it’s juvenile and immat
ure. Angie says Heather’s a bimbo and a waste of good skin cells. Jade says I should just be my own, unique beautiful self and not worry what other people are wearing or doing or who they’re having sex with. And Mason says my energy would be better spent elsewhere since he doubts Heather has ever had one intelligent thing to say in her entire life. Which is completely untrue. I mean, she may not be a straight-A student, but I’m more than confident she has plenty of fascinating things to say.
For example, one time in ninth grade, Heather and Jenna were standing in front of me in the cafeteria line and I overheard Heather tell Jenna that she thought Mr. Langley, the biology teacher, looked like Mr. Potato Head with all the pieces in the wrong place. I thought it was hilarious. And incredibly brilliant. Because he did kinda look like that.
None of my friends laughed when I repeated the story. But it was probably just because I didn’t tell it with that same unmistakable Heather flare.
There’s a definite buzz going around Colonial High the next morning. I can feel it from the moment I walk through the front doors with Mason. There are a hundred pairs of eyes on us as we walk down the hallway. People are looking at us! At us! I don’t think anyone has ever taken notice of my entrance into school for as long as . . . well, I’ve been going to school. It has to be the magazine. What else would it be about?
I whisper to Mason, “People know.”
But he simply shakes his head at me. “No one even cares.”
Mason tends to downplay things like this. Yesterday I spent an hour on the phone trying to convince him that the article would make a difference in our social status, but he strongly disagreed. I think it’s just that he’s not very realistic when it comes to the students at our school. Or teenagers in general, for that matter. I mean, he thinks the reason people voted him class president was that he promised to instate a summer work-study program with a local college. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the real reason he was voted class president was that, at the last minute, I made him announce a proposal for a lunch delivery program with the local fast-food restaurants.
“Trust me,” I tell him assuredly. “They care.”
During first period alone, three people come up to me and ask if the Mason Brooks in Contempo Girl this month is really the same Mason Brooks that goes to this school, and I feel like one of those spokespeople for celebrities. I can almost see some hotshot E! News correspondent reporting, “Representatives from the Mason Brooks camp have recently confirmed the rumor that he is gracing the pages of the teen version of the ever-popular Contemporary magazine. Apparently, his girlfriend of two years, Madison Kasparkova, submitted the picture and the story to the publication’s monthly ‘Meet My Boyfriend’ competition, where editors sift through thousands of entries in search of the top five boyfriends from around the country. The man of the hour, Mason Brooks himself, is denying that this article has any connection to his recent rise up the Colonial High social ladder.”
At lunch, Leslie Gellar, the head cheerleader, comes up to the table where Jade, Angie, and I are eating and tells me that she loved my quote in the magazine. I thank her as modestly as I can, trying to take on that ever-so-gracious thanks-for-your-support, celebrity-like attitude.
“This is so cool,” Jade gushes to me as soon as Leslie is out of earshot. “It’s totally spreading.”
“I know!” I whisper, biting down on a potato chip. “Mason’s like a movie star or something.”
“Whatever,” Angie interjects, tucking a strand of her dark, chin-length hair behind her ear. “I give it a week before the buzz wears off and everyone forgets about him again.”
I’m not surprised at Angie’s bitterness. She’s never really shared my obsession with being popular or hanging out with anyone who is. In fact, she pretty much has the exact opposite sentiment toward the whole “high school popularity rat race,” as she calls it. Although I’ve never shared this theory with anyone, I’m pretty sure Angie’s resentment has a lot to do with the fact that, up until the sixth grade, she and Heather Campbell actually used to be best friends. Before popular cliques separated out the “cool” from the “unworthy,” and everyone was kind of just friends with everyone. But then we graduated to middle school and Heather started dating an eighth grader, suddenly became überpopular, and stopped talking to Angie completely, as though Heather quickly deemed Angie a liability in the quest for greatness and cast her aside like it was nothing. So it’s easy to see why Angie would naturally frown upon my thirst for popularity.
And I know that Leslie Gellar commenting on my quote in the magazine only makes things worse because Leslie just happens to be the current girlfriend of Angie’s ex-boyfriend, Ryan Feldman.
“Hey!” I say defensively. “No one will forget about him. He’s class president. If anyone has the ability to stay in the public eye, it’s Mason.”
“Public eye?” Angie shoots me an incredulous look. “He’s not a senator, Maddy, he’s on page thirty-five of a teen magazine. Let’s take it down a notch here.”
“Well, I think it’s exciting.” Jade sticks up for me. “And when you get to Amherst next year, you’ll have something to brag about.”
“If,” I correct her, taking a sip of my soda. “If I get accepted.”
Ever since December, when I sent in my college applications, getting into Amherst College has been pretty much the only thing I can think about. Well, besides Mason. But he’s part of the obsession. Three generations of Mason’s family graduated from Amherst, so it was really no surprise when they offered him early admission. In fact, he didn’t even have to apply anywhere else. While I was busy stressing over college applications and essays last month, Mason was sitting pretty in my room watching TV.
“Oh, please,” Jade says. “If Mason can get in, so can you. Your GPA is totally higher than his.”
“Yes, but he got a 2350 on his SATs and my score was nowhere near that,” I remind her. “I still think I should have taken it again like he did. His score improved so much the second time around because he took that Kaplan class and studied his butt off.”
“Yeah, but I still don’t understand why he had to take it at some random school in the city. What? Do they have softer chairs there or something?” Angie snidely remarks, taking a bite of her tuna fish sandwich and wiping her mouth with a paper towel.
I sigh loudly. “I told you already. He didn’t want to take the test around his friends because he thought he’d be distracted. He was just thinking ahead. He’s responsible like that.”
Angie opens her mouth to retaliate, but Jade quickly chimes in with “Um, you might want to drop it ’cause Mason is on his way over.”
I look up to see my boyfriend making his way to our table. He seems to be completely oblivious to the fact that people have actually stopped their conversations to watch him.
“Do you believe me now?” I ask as soon as he sits down next to me.
“Believe what?” Mason says, pulling a sandwich out of his lunch bag.
“What do you mean, what?” I exclaim. “Everyone is staring at you! They know about the article.”
Mason laughs off the idea and pops open a can of root beer. “They’re just excited because I convinced the administration that we need new textbooks for next year.”
Jade practically snorts. “Sorry, Mason. But no one here cares about new textbooks—especially not the seniors—or anything the administration has to say, for that matter.”
He takes a sip from his soda. “They’ll care when they crack open that new algebra book and discover that every single page is not covered in graffiti.”
Jade and Mason go on like this for a few moments, but I’m hardly paying attention to their little discussion because I’m far too focused on something else entirely. Heather Campbell is walking directly toward our table.
“Oh my God,” I say under my breath. “Look who’s coming over here.”
On cue, Jade, Angie, and Mason all turn their heads.
“Don’t look at the sam
e time!” I screech.
Angie shakes her head. “You are ridiculous. In fact, I don’t think I even want to hang around here long enough to hear whatever airhead thing she has to say.” And with that, she gets up, tosses her lunch bag into the nearest trash can, and heads for the door, making an obvious point to bump roughly against Heather’s shoulder as she passes. Heather is completely unfazed by this dismissal and continues her unaltered course toward us.
And that’s when I realize that I’m blatantly staring. But no matter how hard I try, I simply can’t manage to pull my eyes away. Heather is wearing the most amazing pair of jeans, which hug her hips as perfectly as if they were personally designed for her body. Her hair is actually glistening under the fluorescent lights of the cafeteria. I didn’t think that was even possible with this dreadful lighting.
She approaches us, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and leans forward with her hand on the table. “Hi, Mason. Hi, Madison,” she says, pronouncing my full name with a clear intonation on every syllable. No one really calls me anything but Maddy, except a few teachers and my senile grandmother, on the rare days that she actually remembers my name at all.
Mason smiles politely and offers back a very politically correct “Hi, Heather.”
I try hard to stay calm. “Hi, Heather,” I manage to repeat in a rather squeaky voice. I immediately clear my throat.
“Great picture in the magazine, Mase,” she says with a slight purse of her lips.
“Thanks,” he replies lightly, still holding true to his flawless presidential charm. “Maddy picked it out, though.”
I nod eagerly. “That’s right. I picked it out.”
What are you doing? I scold myself silently. Stop repeating everything he says!
“Well, it was a good choice,” Heather says with absolute poise. Like she just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel or something.
“Thanks,” I sputter before looking over at Jade. I can’t help feeling the slightest bit sorry for her. Heather hasn’t even acknowledged her existence. But I’m sure it’s because Heather doesn’t know Jade’s name and doesn’t want to be rude by asking. There are over four hundred people in our class; it’s not like she’s expected to memorize every name in the yearbook just because she’s popular.
The Karma Club Page 2