The way that she looked at me made me realize that as far as she was concerned, that was a perfectly viable option.
“But I have a weak lower back. My doctor says I’m prone to herniated disks,” I said.
“And I’m a young girl wearing a tank top who can’t walk, lying on the side of a road,” she shot back. “I mean, hello? How would I defend myself if a serial killer stopped?”
After two minutes of hanging out with her, any serial killer with half a brain would realize that having to listen to Dylan was more trouble than it was worth and would go in search of a different victim.
“And, you know, if my dad found out about this, I don’t think he’d be too thrilled . . . ” she added.
I thought about it. His daughter was a pain in the butt, but Mr. Schoenfield was paying for the documentary. Taking a deep breath, I hoisted her up into my arms like a groom about to carry a bride over a threshold and began to trudge toward the gas station.
“I don’t want to be a pain and ask you to stop so I can get my sunglasses out of my bag, so do you think you could move a little so that the sun isn’t directly in my eyes?”
I did what she asked, but I didn’t even try and hide my sigh.
“Thank you,” she said.
I walked a few more yards.
“And do you think you could move your left hand up about two inches? It’s jamming into my spine and it feels like I’m about to be paralyzed.”
Again, I did what she asked, not really caring if I dropped her in the process.
“Thanks.”
We—or rather, I—walked a little farther. “I feel like I’m in The African Queen or something like that,” I said.
She looked around. “Um, sorry, but from what I’ve seen on TV, L.A. looks nothing like Africa.”
“It’s a movie,” I explained.
“Who’s in it?”
“Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn.”
“Never heard of them.”
Of course she hadn’t. I bet Amy Loubalu had seen The African Queen. Okay, maybe she hadn’t because it was from 1951, but I bet she had at least heard of it. Or, if we were dating and I suggested we watch it on a Friday night with a big bowl of popcorn with Tabasco sauce, she would’ve gotten into it.
“So I’m curious—what were you thinking driving around with so little gas?” she asked. “I mean, it’s one thing if, you know, it’s just you in the car, but don’t you think it’s a little selfish to put another person’s life in jeopardy like that?”
I stopped walking. “Wait a second—you’re calling me selfish?”
“Yeah, I guess I am. Which, frankly, is a little disappointing. I mean, just yesterday Lola and Hannah were saying how they thought you were actually a pretty decent guy, and they basically had me convinced, but now? Not so much.”
Luckily we had gotten to a part of Sunset that had sidewalks, so I didn’t feel so bad when I set her down. It wasn’t like I dumped her next to a guardrail or something, but from the look on her face, you would’ve thought I dumped her in a pig’s trough or something. But I had had it. Forget about the documentary—there was no way I could put up with her for the next four weeks. “And if you ask me, demanding that someone put aside whatever plans they may have had and drive across town just so someone else can go to a stupid exercise class because they want to look good for a stupid dance isn’t a little selfish—it’s a lot selfish.”
“I can’t believe you just called me selfish!” she said. I wondered if she was considering becoming an actress, because the wounded look on her face was beyond believable. “I’m really sorry to have to say this, but I don’t think this is going to work out, Josh.”
“Yeah, I agree,” I agreed.
“I mean, up until today I thought you were harmless, but to now see this other side of you that’s so . . . cruel . . . Wait—what did you say?”
“I said that I agree,” I snapped. “I’ll e-mail the USC people and tell them that an emergency came up and I won’t be able to do the documentary.” Out of habit I went to reach for my inhaler, but I realized I didn’t need it. Instead of being freaked out about this turn of events, I actually felt empowered. Who knew standing up for yourself could feel so good?
“Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s probably best,” she replied. Were my glasses smudged, or did she look a little disappointed? Not that I gave a rat’s butt. From now on, I didn’t care what Dylan Schoenfield looked or felt like. I was finally free.
I started walking toward the gas station.
“Wait—what about my foot?!” she yelled after me. “Aren’t you going to carry me the rest of the way?”
Even with the roar of the traffic that was whizzing by, I bet they could hear my laugh all the way across town at USC.
“You’re amazing, you know that? From the moment I got your dumb bag out of the fountain, you’ve acted like I owed you something,” I said. “I have no idea how you got to be so popular, but I’ll tell you this much—it’s definitely not because of your winning personality. You’ve insulted me, you’ve insulted my friends, and guess what? I’m not going to take it anymore! I’d rather be a geek than a selfish, self-centered, materialistic . . . mean girl.”
For once in her life, Dylan Schoenfield had nothing to say. She just stood there with her mouth open so wide you could’ve fit a bus in there.
I wish I could say I just kept walking and never talked to Dylan again, but because I’m Jewish, the guilt of leaving her there—especially if her foot was screwed up—would’ve been too much to handle. That being said, I wasn’t a complete doormat: I refused to carry her. Instead I let her lean her hand on my shoulder like a crutch while she hopped on one foot, so it took us twice as long to go those last few yards to the gas station.
But that was as far as I went. It’s not like I talked to her or anything. While I waited for the gas-station guy to fill up a container with gas for me to take back to my car, she dialed her phone.
“Asher? Hey, babe, it’s me.” She turned her back to me. “Listen, I have a huge favor to ask . . . Asher? Asher, are you there? . . . Well, do you think you can turn the TV down for a second?”
Before starting the documentary, I had always thought Asher was an idiot. But after spending time with Dylan, I knew he was an even bigger idiot for dating her.
“That’s much better,” she went on. “So I was wondering whether you could come pick me up at the Mobil station at the corner of Sunset and Barrington . . . it’s a long story, but”—she whipped around and gave me a dirty look—“basically Geek Boy almost had us killed . . . so can you come get me?” Her face fell. “Oh . . . yeah, I understand . . . no, I know how tired you get after eating Mexican food . . . I’ll just call you when I get home, then . . . bye.” She turned to me. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s in the middle of something very important,” she explained.
I could think of lots of important things to do rather than help her out. Like, say, clipping my toenails.
After the gas-station attendant handed me the container of gas, I turned to her. “Well, I’m going now.”
“Fine. Have a nice life,” she snapped.
“You, too,” I replied.
I was feeling pretty good about myself by the time I got back to the car. “Raymond’s right,” I said out loud after I filled the tank and got into the Neilmobile. “If I’m going to be an A-list director, I need to stay true to my artistic vision.” I was a creative guy—I’d have no problem coming up with an equally good idea for another documentary. Maybe I’d take Hannah’s advice and do one on the unpopular crowd. That could work. It would be like Judd Apatow’s classic television series Freaks and Geeks, but just the “geeks” part. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a much better idea than focusing on the popular crowd. The whole popular thing had been done to death anyway.
When I got home, there was an e-mail waiting for me.
Dear Josh:
Thank you for your recent appl
ication to the USC School of Cinematic Arts. I’m not in the habit of e-mailing prospective students, but I felt compelled to let you know that I applaud your innovation in being so proactive in tiday’s competitive admission process by going above and beyond the usual application process. This year we’ve had more early-admissions candidates like yourself than ever before, setting the bar for admissions even higher. To that end, we on the admissions committee find the notion of popularity a subject of worthy exploration. It’s not like anyone would be intersted in watching a documentary about unpopular people, now, would they?
We very much look forward to seeing your finished documentary. Without making any promises, it’s my feeling that someone as proactive as yourself might also deserve a scholarship. USC is proud to have cultivated many forward-thinking, aspiring filmmakers over the years, and I have a feeling someone of your caliber would be a fine addition to the family.
Best regards,
Murray Sheingold
Admissions Director
I couldn’t believe it—I had received an e-mail from the admissions director of USC even though he was not—and I quote—in the habit of doing things like that. As far as I was concerned, I was basically in! But there was a slight problem: I had just told Dylan Schoenfield, the most popular girl at Castle Heights, off. And called off the very documentary about popularity that USC was very much looking forward to seeing.
Other than rigging the voting and assuring her I’d make it so that she won that stupid Leaf Queen crown she wanted, how on earth was I going to convince her to let me keep doing the documentary?
With a sigh, I sat back in my chair and did the only thing I could think of to stop myself from jumping out of my second-floor bedroom window.
I reached for my inhaler.
chapter five: dylan
This is the thing about geeks: they may look all innocent and goofy—like raccoons or squirrels—but once you get close to them you realize they’re super dangerous, to the point where they can give you rabies or something equally disgusting.
“I cannot believe I was dumb enough to let my dad force me into this thing in the first place.” I was sitting with Lola at Pinkberry after she came to get me at the gas station. I inhaled my green-tea yogurt with mango and coconut. It was bad enough that I had been insulted the way I had, but the fact that Josh had upset me to the point that I was stress eating like this was even worse.
“Did he really call you selfish to your face?” Lola asked as I dug my spoon into her yogurt as well.
“Um, yeah. Can you believe that anyone would say something so viciously untrue like that?” I replied. “I’m telling you, I knew something was wrong that very first day when he brought up that question about whether there was a time when I wasn’t popular.”
I’m one of those people who tries really hard to stay in the moment rather than live in the past. So because I try to live in the now, I don’t find it necessary to bring up the fact that when I started at Curtis Middle School in fifth grade I was a dead ringer for a Jewish Ugly Betty and spent every lunch period for the first month hiding out in the girls’ bathroom.
Lola shrugged. “I don’t know—I think the from-unpopular-to-popular angle is good. It makes it like one of those from-rags-to-riches stories that my mom used to read me when I was little about Chinese people so I wouldn’t feel ashamed of where I came from.”
“Okay, so maybe I know what it’s like to spend recess inside reading a Judy Blume book instead of playing kick-ball with the other kids,” I admitted as I dug in my wallet for some money so I could get another yogurt. This is why I didn’t like talking about the past—more stress eating. “But all that was so long ago, why bring it up? It would be like if he had asked you on camera about those few months in eighth grade when your mother made you wear those satin embroidered shirts every day so you’d feel more connected to your heritage.”
Lola cringed. “I guess you’re right.”
“And I’m certainly not giving Amy Loubalu credit for my popularity on camera,” I announced.
Lola shrugged. “I know you hate her, but she did help you out a lot.”
“Are you kidding? How so?”
“Let’s see—inviting you to sit with us at lunch,” she replied. “Taking you to the Beverly Center and telling you what to buy so you stopped looking like the poster child for What Not to Wear If You’d Like to Have a Social Life.”
“Okay, fine, maybe that was kind of nice of her,” I said, “but it was me who spent all those hours reading books like 101 Ways to Become Popular! and Up the Social Ladder in Ten Easy Steps! And I think anyone with half a brain would agree that the way she then stabbed me in the back with an ice pick by stealing Michael Rosenberg away from me in eighth grade cancels out all of that. Especially since, as my best best friend, she knew full well how madly in love with him I was.”
Lola looked hurt. “I thought I’ve always been your best best friend.”
“You are,” I quickly said. “I mean, you were. You were and are.” With everything I had just gone through, I didn’t need to risk having someone else turn on me. I stood up, hopping on my good foot. “I’ll be right back. I need more yogurt.”
As I waited for the girl with the pierced eyebrow and lip behind the counter (did Pinkberry not care about the image they were giving off to potential customers? Talk about an appetite suppressant) to add the real chocolate chips to my large cup of yogurt, instead of the yogurt ones, I thought about how tough it was to be me. No matter how nice I was to people, there was always going to be someone looking to take me down just because I was good-looking and had great fashion sense and a really hot boyfriend, even if he wasn’t as available during crises as I’d like him to be.
I was glad that Josh had agreed with me that we should call the documentary off. That way Daddy couldn’t accuse me of reneging on the deal. And even if Josh hadn’t agreed with me, I’m sure Daddy would’ve understood once I explained to him what happened. I mean, to put someone’s life in jeopardy by driving around with no gas and then almost leave them by the side of the road with a semisprained ankle, which meant that it would have been next to impossible for them to get away from a psychopathic killer? That, as far as I was concerned, was beyond unacceptable.
Not to mention then saying I was selfish and self-centered.
Like I could ever trust someone like that.
“Hey, Josh,” Hannah said with a smile the next day during lunch as I was in the middle of trying to convince her and Lola that, yes, I did need the cane I had been using all day because, yes, my foot was swollen even if they couldn’t see it. I don’t know what she was putting in her Red Bulls, but somehow she had gotten it into her head that Josh was a nice guy and that I was being too hard on him about the running-out-of-gas thing.
I turned around to see Mr. Irresponsible Driver himself standing behind me looking as nervous as ever. “Hey, guys,” he said. He pointed to my foot. “How is it?”
“Like you care,” I sniffed.
“I do care. I left you a few voice mails and texts last night to check on you.”
A few? Try like ten. First he had insulted me—now he was stalking me. Asher should’ve been the one checking in on me, but when I texted him to tell him about how mean Josh had been to me, he didn’t even respond. I know some people would think that was rude, but I’m sure it’s just because he was really worried about the geometry midterm he had coming up the following week, seeing that he had already failed the class twice. Being the only senior in a class of sophomores couldn’t have been easy, especially when you’re as sensitive as Asher is.
“It’s fine,” said Lola. “It’s not even swollen.”
I shot her a dirty look. It was exactly this kind of traitorlike behavior that explained why Amy had had best-best-friend status over her back in the day. “It is, too,” I insisted.
“Well, like I said in my messages,” Josh said, “I’m really sorry, and if there’s anything I can do—”
; “I think you’ve done enough,” I snapped.
He took a deep breath. “Um, do you think I could talk to you alone for a second?”
Hannah stood up. “Come on, Lola—let’s go look at that ‘Twenty Years of Fall Fling Fashion’ photo exhibit they just put up outside of the auditorium.” Even though Hannah was definitely the sweeter one, and I could usually count on her to be a lot more understanding than Lola, when I told her what had happened with Josh and how he had called me selfish and self-centered, all she had said was “Wow. He really had the nerve to say that to your face?”
After they walked away, Josh sat down and took out his inhaler. Honestly, he was going to end up in Inhalers Anonymous if he didn’t watch out. “I know that yesterday I got a little upset, but the truth is—” He stopped for a second and looked down at the crowd. “I still can’t get over how undramatic the view is from up here.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just because we’re popular doesn’t mean we live on another planet, Josh.”
“I guess,” he agreed. “Anyway, so as I was saying, the truth is that I’ve been thinking a lot about the documentary and I know I said that I agreed with you that we should just forget about it, but the more I think about it, the more I feel it can really . . . help people.”
“Me? Help people? But I’m so self-centered,” I said sarcastically.
“Like I said in my e-mail, I don’t know what came over me yesterday,” Josh said. He held up his inhaler. “I think maybe the inhaler I was using yesterday was past its expiration date or something and I had some sort of psychotic reaction that made me start spouting lies.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I may not get as good grades as you, but I’m not a total idiot, Josh. Don’t think you can talk yourself out of the damage you’ve done.”
He held up his hand. “Just hear me out,” he said. “You know how sometimes girls who are really popular get a bad rap for being snotty or stuck-up?”
I glared at him. “Of course. That’s the story of my life.”
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