by Amy Holder
Aggravated, I groan, "He's not checking me out! He's staring like the rest of the cafeteria at the purple mountain growing out of my face! I'll probably end up going with a complete loser, like ... like ... Delvin McGerk!"
Expressions of hopeful optimism dance on their faces. I can tell what they're thinking, and it makes me nauseous.
"Nope! No way! Not a chance! Don't even think about it! King Stalker McGerk is not an option!" I burst out emphatically.
"Well, at least you know he won't say no," Ashley reasons.
Crossing my arms in defiance, I repeat, "Not an option!"
"He's not that bad. You might be able to mold him into a hottie," Rachel says brightly.
"Nope. Not happening," I retort, becoming more nauseated by the second. "I'd rather not go to the formal at all ... and be called out for lying about having a date."
Melanie directs her bagel at me assertively. "Don't even say that, April! You're going! You have to go! You can't let Britney get away with that!" She redirects her bagel at my swollen eye. "You know she wants to screw up your formal. Actually, she wants to screw up your life! Obviously fake Troy wasn't enough. We need to put our Lipstick Lawbreaker Law back into action."
This reminds me of my conversation with Haley last night. Lee was very adamant about me enforcing Lipstick Lawbreaker sabotage on Britney at the spring formal. Melanie notices that I'm absorbing her counsel. This adds more fuel to her fire.
She continues, "Delvin McGerk isn't even technically a loser. Not enough people know him for him to be classified as a loser."
"Mel, his nickname's King Stalker McGerk of Loserhood for a reason," I say matter-of-factly.
Melanie gets annoyed. "Seriously, April! Stop being so superficial! Isn't that what irks you so much about Britney? My point is, you shouldn't care who you take as long as you go!"
"Yeah, I mean, look at Mel." Ashley giggles. "She's going with a cross-dresser."
Mel lifts her chin rebelliously. "What's wrong with that? He has a great shoe collection."
"Too bad they're all size thirteen," Rachel reminds her.
"Regardless, my spring formal date proves my point. It doesn't matter who you go with. Not to mention," Melanie says, "I'm planning on hanging out with you guys the whole time anyhow. Like I said, dates don't matter."
Ashley's eyes narrow slyly. "Our top priority shouldn't be our dates ... It should be making Britney's night miserable!"
The girls all agree vehemently. They begin to brainstorm sabotage ideas. I tune them out once they mention the movie Carrie and something about pig's blood.
***
Jessica stares at me in Spanish class. Even though we haven't talked since she confronted me about the fake Troy Hoffman incident, I have a feeling she's going to try to talk to me today. My face has been a curiosity sparker all day, and knowing Jessica, she's probably dying to say her two cents about it.
Predictably, she taps me on the shoulder as we're leaving class.
"Sorry about your eye, April," she says, biting her shiny, glossed bottom lip.
"At least I have a second one," I say.
She laughs, soon realizing that I'm not joking. "Oh. Right. Well, I'm supposed to give you a message from Brit."
Just her name sends a shock wave of loathing through my bones. I quiver with hatred and say, "Are you Brit-brat's personal Lipstick slave now?"
Jessica rolls her eyes, flipping her long dark hair back. "Look, I'm just relaying a message for a friend."
"A friend would let you wear the formal dress you want," I respond, referring to the rumor floating around school that Britney has banned her Lipstick Law followers from buying formal dresses nicer than hers. In fact, I heard that she and Jessica had a bit of a falling-out this past weekend over it. Obviously, since Jess is doing Brit's dirty work today, they must have mended things.
Jessica raises an eyebrow suspiciously. "How do you know about that?" She shakes her head and changes the subject, not giving me time to tell her that the whole school knows it. "Anyway, about her message—"
"Isn't my black eye message enough?"
"Yeah, well ... she just wants to let you know that if you hadn't broken the Lipstick Laws, none of this would have happened." She points to my face and scrunches her nose.
I laugh mockingly. "That's her message?"
"Yes." She looks confused.
I purse my lips, straighten my back, and stand tall before speaking. "Do me a favor and thank Britney for her ludicrous Lipstick Laws ... and let her know that I'm happy I broke them."
Jess's dark eyes widen. "You're happy you broke them? But why? "
"Heck yeah, I'm happy!" I say. "I wouldn't have met my three good friends otherwise."
She smiles briefly. "I'll give her the message." Then, she inches closer. "But ... what about Matt Brentwood? You don't care that Britney's going to the spring formal with him?"
I try to hide my envy. "Gosh no, Jess! We're just friends. Besides, someone else asked me a long time ago." I glance at her to see if she believes my outlandish fib. I'm satisfied with her puzzled expression and say, "Well, see ya ... I've gotta get to class."
I walk away and slip into the girls' bathroom before she has time to ask me any more questions. My blood is boiling in the stall. Groaning with anxiety, I grasp that I've just lied for the second time about having a date. And by doing so, I've made my spring formal date quest even more urgent than it already was. I take a few deep breaths to help calm my nerves.
"Just make it through the day, April," I coach myself quietly.
I smooth my curls down and check on my Kleenex cleavage. My humongous eye socket blocks the view out of my left eye. Shutting it tightly, I twinge in pain. I peer down my shirt with my right eye and tuck some escaping tissues back into my boobicle cubicle bra cups before heading to class. I dart down the half-empty hallway, knowing I'm bound to be late.
During seventh-period science, while the teacher is giving a passionate lecture on the myths and facts of global warming, I can only think about two things: Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood going to the formal with Britney ... and me going to the formal alone. I bubble with spite in my seat. How can he like her? Can he not see that she's the Antichrist? And why did I lie about having a date? I could have just said I'm going on vacation that weekend ... or I have a wedding to go to ... or my brother is having a lobotomy. But no, I set myself up to be the laughingstock of the Lipstick Lawlords. What's worse is, I look like a beat-up, one-eyed circus freak now. My chances of finding a date willing to take a Cyclops to the formal are zilch at this point.
Well, on second thought ... as discussed in lunch, there's one person who won't mind going to the formal with a Cyclops, and he approaches me as usual after class.
"Hi, April Bow—"
I cut him off impatiently. "April! Just April, Delvin! No need for last names here!"
He tries to shove his hands in his pant pockets, quickly realizing that his jeans are way too tight to fit a quarter into, let alone a pair of geek hands. He decides instead to fidget with the straps of his huge backpack and says, "That looks like it hurts."
"What, this?" I ask, pointing to the purple speed bump on my face. "Just a little."
I try to hustle down the hallway. Unfortunately, his legs are longer than mine, and he has no problem keeping up with me.
"Got my license last week. My dad's buying me a new Camaro before the spring formal." He glances at me awkwardly out of the corner of his eye, hoping to get my attention.
Half listening, I glance back at him. "Congrats, McGerk, that's cool."
Smiling pitifully, he blurts, "Perfect ride for the formal, don't ya think?"
"Sure," I say, unimpressed.
I stop at the water fountain, hoping he'll keep going past. He doesn't. I grab my thick hair to the side and bend down to take a sip of water.
Delvin leans on the wall with his bony elbow and continues, "So, I was gonna ask you..."
I choke on the cold stream of water, splatter
ing it onto my cheeks. I know what's coming. I stand up, cornered between him and the water fountain. Wiping the excess water from my face, I wait in dread for him to continue talking.
"What d'ya say we go together?"
I stare at him, expressionless.
"To the spring formal," he adds with a cheesy wink.
Even after my friends insisted he's not that bad and that he's a perfectly moldable date, my immediate response is no, of course. However, as I'm pondering how I should decline civilly, I catch a glimpse of Britney Taylor hanging on Matt Brentwood at his locker.
"Bitch," I mutter quietly.
Delvin's shoulders slump and his smile fades. "Excuse me?"
Many thoughts speed through my mind at once:
Matt and Britney dancing closely at the prom.
The Lipstick Lawlords heckling me mercilessly about not having a date.
Getting rejected by potential dates because of my current Cyclops condition.
The beautiful dress Haley gave me collecting dust in my closet.
And ...
Melanie calling me superficial.
Finally, I picture Delvin's semi-hot photo on the Christmas card and think to myself: minus his hair and wardrobe, maybe he's not nerd-boy of the universe. Would it be possible to mold him into a decent formal date?
Grudgingly, I realize that under my current circumstances, he may be the only date I'll find. I peer over angrily at Matt and Brit's flirt festival before looking Delvin in his pleading gray eyes and agreeing bitterly, "Sure, Delvin."
My body floods with regretful repulsion immediately after uttering those two simple words.
It's obvious from Delvin's submissive sulking that he's prepared himself for a denial. He bows his head and puts his hand up to dismiss looming pity, regurgitating his rehearsed rejection speech: "No, I understand. It's okay ... It would have been fun ... but really, I understand. Wait." It takes him a few seconds to process my response. He looks at me in disbelief. "What? Y-You'll go with me?"
I wobble with nausea.
"Under two conditions!" I point at him seriously. "Never say my first and last name together again ... and let me give you a makeover."
"Makeover?" he repeats apprehensively. "But I got rid of my braces and glasses. What else is there to do?"
"Oh, Delvin, Delvin, Delvin..." I slowly point from his tight jeans to his snugly tucked plaid shirt to his horribly parted floppy mop top and sigh fretfully. "There's lots more to do!"
He pauses, genuinely considering my contingencies. Then he looks me in my nonbulging eye and squirms in delight. "Okay ... It's ... it's a deal, April Bow—Um, I mean, April! I'm yours—mold me like Play-Doh!"
He extends his right hand for a let's-seal-the-deal handshake.
Trying to control my gag reflex, I say firmly, "Let's just skip the handshake."
It doesn't take long before I realize the huge mistake I've made. Delvin McGerk is my spring formal date. My life is officially over.
Chapter Nineteen
After committing social suicide by agreeing to go to the spring formal with King Stalker McGerk of Loserhood, I know that much work has to be put into his makeover to ensure that I don't die in a humiliation hurricane. My first step, of course, is to raid Delvin's closet to see if there's anything salvageable in the wreckage. My second step for today is schooling him on acceptable versus unacceptable social skills. If he wants me to go to the formal with him, he needs to look and act normal at school, too!
Mrs. McGerk greets me at the front door. She curiously glances at the cover-up makeup caked on my black eye before bursting, "Come in, April!" She chokes me into submission with her overwhelming perfume and strangling hug. "I just always knew you and Delvin would make the cutest couple!"
"Oh yeah?" I mutter absently, standing motionless in her death grip, smothered against her plump bosom like a bug smashed on a windshield.
"Your mother and I had so much fun in college," she whispers, leaning down. "Probably too much fun ... but we won't tell the misters that."
She walks through the front hallway, motioning for me to follow her. It's like a museum of the evolution of Delvin. His pictures are plastered on every inch of the foyer walls. I stop to inspect a grade school picture of him. Apparently, this is when he became a permanent resident of Loserhood. The poor boy didn't have a chance sporting an oversize polka-dotted bow tie and those green suspenders ... not to mention the same floppy, parted brown hair he's still famous for.
Mrs. McGerk pauses briefly to admire another framed memory. "He's just grown up so quickly!" she gushes, lovingly stroking a horrendous picture of a young Delvin in front of the Magic Kingdom at Disney World. Her eyes gloss with nostalgia. While she's reminiscing, I pray that the bright orange fanny pack he was wearing in this picture has since been donated.
Delvin's mom pats down her overprocessed blond hair like she's stuffing her wistful remembrances back into her head, and smiles.
"I'm sure that you guys will have so much fun together." She nudges me. "Not too much fun, though, if you know what I mean..."
Eww! The thought of whatever she's hinting at nearly makes me lose the caesar salad I ate for lunch. She leads me into their kitchen, where I take a seat on a tall stool at the large kitchen island. Mrs. McGerk saunters to the refrigerator in her tight pants. I guess Delvin isn't the only one with an affinity for Saran Wrap trousers.
She opens the fridge and asks, "Can I get you something to drink, honey?"
"No, thanks," I respond with a polite smile. Mrs. McGerk seems like a nice hostess, but clearly, I'm here to work, not visit over drinks.
Soon after, Delvin enters the kitchen, looking awestruck by my presence. He smiles awkwardly at me.
"Mom," he says, "why are you trying to kidnap my date?"
They laugh, looking at me to share in their amusement. I choke out a chuckle ... which is more like a gurgle that's bubbled up nauseatingly from my stomach at the thought of Delvin calling me his date.
"We were just having some girl talk, Deli. I'll let you two have some time alone now." She winks at me.
Walking into Delvin's room is like a time warp. I feel as though I'm being sucked into his boyhood bedroom by a large, musty vacuum. The baby blue walls and big stenciled airplanes covering the room make me woozy. Other than his mother, I have no doubt that I'm the only girl who's ever entered his juvenile pilot palace.
He points to the walls. "I used to like airplanes. Still do, actually."
"You don't say, Deli," I tease.
"You caught my nickname."
"Yeah. I'd like to order a pastrami sandwich, please."
He stares at me curiously for a second, until he realizes that I'm joking. Then he snorts like an out-of-shape ape trying to run on a treadmill. This indigestible snort is the catalyst that makes me delay the closet raid and head right to my lesson on social skills.
"I made this for you," I say sharply, pulling out a chart from my large tote. "It summarizes how you should act"—I pause, handing it to him sternly—"and how you shouldn't."
Delvin's face becomes red as he studies it.
"No science talk?" he mutters.
"None! Leave that for class."
He continues to read, shaking his head, "No snorting? I don't snort!" He laughs, ending it with a snort.
"Clearly"—I point to him—"you just did."
Reading more of my long list, he argues nervously, "I-I can't help it if I stutter when I'm excited."
I cringe and plead, "Well, maybe you can try."
He reads more and inquires, "You don't want me to let you know when our mothers talk?"
"Delvin, they're friends! Friends talk! This isn't news!" I explain impatiently.
Then his shoulders slump as he reviews the "Do" portion of the chart.
"I don't know anything about sports; how am I supposed to hold an educated conversation about football?"
I say to clarify, "It doesn't have to be educated. Just show an interest in it."
"Well." I'm caught off-guard and begin to feel bad. "That's not true."
Delvin shakes his head, pointing at my social chart. "That's not what this tells me."
"Delvin, it's just a simple guideline," I reason with him. "You told me you're up for a makeover. Are you going to back out on our deal?"
"I-I ... just didn't think you meant a personality makeover, too."
"I'm not trying to change you ... just enhance you," I lie through my teeth.
He doesn't respond.
"You're a formal date in training right now. This is just part of your orientation," I say brightly, thinking this line sounds strangely familiar.
He looks down, still unresponsive.
"It's nothing against you. Don't take it personally." I smile.
Halfheartedly, he mumbles, "I guess."
I start to feel guilty. Even though Delvin's annoying, I'd never want to purposefully hurt his feelings. Maybe I am being a bit harsh. I mean, I listed every annoying thing he does (which happens to be twenty-five tremendously irritating Delvin quirks) in the "Don't" area of the chart ... and I listed all of their opposite actions in the "Do" area. That is a bit of a personal blow, I guess. But ... this is in his best interest, right? Of course it is! I'm not trying to be mean. I'm doing what's best for him. I shouldn't feel bad. I'm helping him out! Some people pay for this kind of a service! He's lucky! He's a big boy and needs to be able to handle constructive criticism!
"Stop pouting, Delvin; I'm not trying to hurt your feelings. I'm just trying to help you. But if you don't want my help—"
"No ... I do!" he says desperately. He scans the social chart again and smiles sheepishly. "It's okay. You're right. I'll try to work on it all."
"There's no harm in trying, right?" I say, feeling a combination of relief and guilt. "Okay, now, on to your closet..."
***
The next day, we go to the mall for a brand-new wardrobe. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing much to save in Delvin's closet. I couldn't very well leave him to create outfits from the sparse couple of T-shirts, one pair of gym pants, swim trunks, and the few pairs of socks that I'm allowing him to keep.