by Lele Pons
“Come on, Lele, let’s get you dry.” Alexei grabs his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, while Darcy ushers us out, shooting Yvette dirty looks as we go. The gate slams behind us and I can hear Becca Cartwright saying, “Okay, people, show’s over.”
On the Uber ride home Darcy turns to me and says, “Um, you did kind of look like a sewer rat,” and the three of us burst out laughing.
Darcy has to pee the whole ride home, so when the car drops us off back at my house she darts inside, leaving Alexei and me alone at the front door.
“Hey, thanks for standing up for me,” I say. “That was very . . . gentlemanly.”
“I just couldn’t stand her talking to you like that. I mean, who does she think she is, anyway?”
“I know, right?!”
“You have a great attitude though,” he says. “I admire your positivity. I like it. I mean . . . ” AND THEN IT HAPPENS.
THE MOMENT I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR ALL MY LIFE.
He kisses me.
No.
He doesn’t.
I thought he was going to, but instead he says . . .
“I like you. I like you a lot, Lele.”
I’m sitting there with my lips puckered and it’s all I can do to say, “Yeah, I like you too, I guess.”
So I didn’t get a kiss from Alexei, but it’s okay, all’s well that ends well.
And this night certainly did end well. We film “Sometimes I Feel Invisible” and upload it to Vine, where I receive a very pleasant surprise: Wednesday’s Vine, “That Person Who Always Catches You at Your Worst Moments,” has received over five thousand loops! Take that Yvette Amparo! Take that Miami High!
5
The Problems of Living in Florida / Mama’s Girl
(2,780 Followers)
Oh, Miami, my one true love. Miami, city of crystal beaches, babes, and booze; city of neon and palm trees, white sand, and tropical breezes; city of senior citizens, humidity, and Ray-Ban aviators with reflected lenses. City of 2.6 million people. I can’t believe I have to share this place with so many basic losers! Like any good city, Miami is both elegant and filthy, a juxtaposition of lush history and trashy tourists with fat, exposed bellies and bad sunburns. But I love them as well, since they are part of what makes Miami home.
I wake up early on Saturday, high off my five thousand views on Vine. The sun is out and it’s the perfect day for a nice swim. We have a pool in our backyard, but not the extravagant kind that the evil Amparos have. Ours is modest, a simple rectangle, the floor painted dark blue and the rim lined with dark blue tiles. A warm breeze blows through my hair as I step outside and see that Dad has beat me to it. He’s sprawled out on a towel like a corpse, soaking in the rays.
“Good morning, pumpkin!” he says, not noticing the two baby alligators the size of large lizards, about nine inches each, waddling silently toward him. Miami, also the city of two point six million alligators (okay, maybe not, but there are a ton of them here). I choose not to warn him; it will be more fun this way.
“Morning, Dad. Just going to go for a little swim.”
“Sounds good, sweet pea.” He likes to use as many American terms of endearment as is humanly possible. Oh, my immigrant dad.
I dive in headfirst; the cool, silky water feels amazingly soothing against my sizzling skin. I swim two laps back and forth before I hear the terror.
“Lele!” my dad is screaming. “Lele!!!!!” I pop my head up and see the alligator babies crawling across his bare chest. He’s paralyzed with fear.
“What’s up, Dad?” I chirp.
“Lele, please dear God get these monsters off me!”
“Dad, chill.” I hoist myself up out of the pool. “We’ve gone over this. They’re babies, they’re not going to hurt you.”
“Just get them off, get them off of me!”
“Okay, okay.” I lift them gently; they’re light like puppies. “Why am I the only one in this family who isn’t afraid of these guys? They’re so harmless.”
“Jesus Christ.” He sighs a deep sigh of relief. “That was a close one. This place is a battlefield! No one is safe!”
“Ugh. Everyone is safe. These babies just want to cuddle.” I hold one up to my face and nuzzle it. I must look so cool holding them like they’re my own children. I’m like Daenerys Targaryen, but with alligators instead of dragons. Mental note: turn this into a Vine, because reptiles are a great look for me.
“It’s not the babies I’m worried about, it’s their mother, who is most likely nearby ready to destroy whoever messes with her babies!”
“But we’re not messing with her babies, they’re messing with us.”
“She’s an alligator, Lele, she doesn’t know that.”
“Hm. I see your point, I see your point. But don’t you think if there was an adult-size alligator nearby we would notice it?”
“Not necessarily, they’re very quiet. And surprisingly swift.”
I imagine my dad and me being consumed in mere seconds by an angry mother alligator. Blood and flesh flying everywhere. Yikes. Note to self: when filming Vines with alligators have someone on mother-watch duty. I kiss the babies on the head before returning them to the wild (a cluster of palm trees and pink hibiscus plants just outside our property), then slink back inside before anyone gets the idea to devour me. I haven’t done much meditating on how I intend to die, but I know I’d prefer to avoid death by alligator.
• • •
My mom cooks lunch, which is a very nice and motherly thing to do. (Not as nice and motherly as an alligator that would dismember anyone who tries to mess with her babies, but nice enough). Today it’s pasticho Venezolano, a Venezuelan creamy lasagna, because apparently my parents are trying to fatten me up before sacrificing me to the devil. Or the alligators. Okay, so I can get a little paranoid from time to time, but hey, you would too if the whole world were against you!
Mom sits down at the table, wearing a green face mask and her hair in curlers—that’s the coolest thing about my mom: she doesn’t give a f**k. Dad doesn’t really either, even though he’s a wimp about baby alligators who don’t even have their teeth in yet. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses with reflective green lenses and with no shirt on. Ever since he got that Bowflex he’s been strutting around like he’s real hot stuff, even if he’s in his fifties. What is with Miami men wanting to be topless all the time?
“Ugh, Dad. Put your shirt on, no one wants to see that,” I say. He just scowls at me. I roll my eyes. It’s all very The Breakfast Club (you know, when they’re all with their obnoxious parents in the beginning, before they get to detention . . .).
“Lele, don’t roll your eyes at your father,” Mom says from behind her green mask. She looks like an alien, and not the cute kind.
“Why not?” I say. “You always do.” At this, she laughs and raises her hand for a high five. I swear sometimes I think my parents are about eleven years old.
“Very funny, make fun of your old man, go ahead, I don’t care.” He raises his eyebrows like he’s about to say something really clever. “I’m rubber, you’re glue.” See? Eleven. Years. Old. For sure.
“What’s on the agenda for today, Lele?” Mom asks.
“Well it’s Saturday, so I guess I’ll do nothing by myself while everyone who has friends hangs out on the beach and takes shots out of each other’s belly buttons.”
“People you know do that?” Dad is intrigued.
“You have friends, honey,” Mom says. “What are their names again?”
“Darcy and Alexei. They’re okay. But they’re also traitors.”
“That sounds a little dramatic.”
“Well, it IS dramatic, Mom. They are friendly with my worst enemy.”
“You have an enemy?” Dad is concerned.
“Duh. Yvette Amparo.”
“Impossible,” Mom protests. “How could anyone not love my baby?”
“I don’t know, Mom, I’m just as shocked as you.”
“No
t everyone can handle the Lele magic,” Dad says, ruffling my hair. Oh boy. I grimace, imagining the hours I’ll need to fix the mess he’s created.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I know! You should have a party. Invite anyone you want from your new school,” Mom suggests. “We’ll get out of your way and you can show everyone a good old-fashioned fun time.”
“With belly-button shots!” Dad adds. Grimace, double grimace.
My parents are the most incredible parents any girl could possibly ask for—don’t get me wrong. It’s just that, as of the past few years, they seem to understand me less and less. As I understand it, this is a pretty common phenomenon: as kids grow up, their parents become increasingly intolerable, despite their best intentions. It’s extra weird for me though, because I’m an only child, so my parents have always been basically obsessed with me. And I used to be obsessed with them too (like I said, they are dope parents)! You’ve heard of a daddy’s girl or a mama’s girl? Well, I was both. Trips to the zoo, family movie night, road trips, bedtime cuddles: my childhood was a picture-perfect portrait of baby-makes-three bliss.
6
That One Person Who Is Super Hyper in the Morning
(3,012 Followers)
CUT TO: Monday morning, current day.
“Lele!!!!!!!” Mom’s voice screeches like a fire truck. I’m brushing my teeth, half awake.
“Whaaa????!!!!!” I scream back, mouth full of toothpaste.
“You’re late for school!!!!!”
“Aaagggghhh!!!!!”
“Aaaaaaaaaaggggghhhhhhh!!!!”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhhh!!!!”
At this, she opens the bathroom door and throws a backpack at my head. That shuts me right up.
• • •
Okay, so I started my day by being knocked out by a backpack, big deal. So Alexei hasn’t kissed me yet. So my enemy Yvette Amparo is wearing super fancy jeans from Rag & Bone and a Proenza Schouler handbag while I might as well be wearing a potato sack. None of this matters, because I am Lele Pons and nothing can keep me down. I am invincible! The invincible invisible girl, that’s me.
I bounce into first-period English with a literal spring in my step and a jack-o’-lantern smile plastered across my face. If you want success you have to project an image of success! I read that somewhere. Or saw it in a movie. Or made it up. It doesn’t matter, what matters is that I’m going to dominate this day! I am the queen of this day! I am a Monday Morning Murderer, a Miami High Master! Oooh boy, did I drink too much coffee? Maybe just a tad.
As it turns out, no one is in the mood for my good mood. They’re jealous is what it is—jealous that they can’t get on my level. Even Mr. Contreras is glaring at me like I’m the Antichrist. Has no one here heard of a little place called Starbucks? Look it up. I try to turn down but I can’t! I’m a turnt-up whirlwind of enthusiasm and caffeine!
“Don’t mind me,” I say to the class. “Just gonna sit down over here at my desk and get to work like everyone else. Nothing to see over here. Sorry I have so much energy. I think I had about four and a half cups of coffee. Venezuelans love coffee. That’s where I’m from originally. No one asked me that on my first day, even though you guys asked Alexei where he was from and he only started school one day after me but whatever, that’s okay, I’m over it, I forgive everyone.” Whoa, Lele. Sometimes I get to talking and just can’t stop. If people weren’t staring before they certainly are now. Especially Alexei. Oops.
“Well, uh, anywayyyy,” Mr. Contreras says, “can everyone take out their copies of The Great Gatsby and turn to chapter two?” There is a great shuffle of backpacks and books all around me. The Great Gatsby?! Since when are we reading The Great Gatsby? Did anyone care to tell me this? I mean, I know it was on my homework and supplies list, but I guess I forgot. I may have a daydreaming problem. And a coffee problem. Well, I’m just on a fast track to rehab, aren’t I? Suddenly I’m surrounded by a sea of Great Gatsbys—where does one buy books these days, anyway? I close my eyes and imagine Mr. Contreras ordering everyone to hurl their books at my head. I’m under siege, attacked by hardcover corners and Dr. T. J. Eckleburg’s big looming spectacles (yeah, that’s right, I’ve read the book already, so there).
Note to self: a Vine where teacher orders class to throw books at my head, a punishment for being too hyper. Note to self: nothing wrong with a little daydreaming.
After class I try to slip out undetected as to avoid being bombarded by a mob of angry readers, but Alexei catches me at the door.
“Where were you all weekend?” he asks. “I was hoping we could hang out.” Grrr. Well, you failed to introduce me as your girlfriend, so now you’re dead to me! I am a very temperamental Venezuelan girl! is what I want to say. Instead, I say, “Oh, did you try texting?”
“Yeah.” He’s right, he did. I ignored him as an attempt to seem cool. And it worked! Muahaha.
“Sorry, must have missed it. We’ll hang next weekend!” Super casual.
“That would be great,” he says. “Hey, I’ve been watching some of your Vines. They’re really awesome.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and a lot of people seem to like them, they’re getting pretty popular.”
“I guess.” I shrug modestly. (TEN THOUSAND LOOPS, HELLO!)
“I was thinking I could be in one with you next time? I used to model a little bit back in Belgium, and I’m trying to get my acting career started sort of. I just started my own Vine account, but I thought it would be fun to make one together.” His acting career? I make fun of him in my head for one second, and then move on to being beyond flattered and beyond thrilled.
“Of course, yeah!” I can forgive him for ignoring me at Yvette’s party, and he did stand up for me. The past is the past, right?
“Yeah?”
“It would be totally fun.”
“That’s awesome, I wasn’t sure if you’d be down. I’ll catch up with you later and we can make a plan.”
“Sounds good. Catch up with you later.” Blech, that sounded dumb. So what, he sounded dumb first. Shake it off, Lele, your crush wants to collaborate with you, we are pwning this day.
7
When You’re the Ugly One in the Group
(3,055 Followers)
It’s nice that Alexei wants to work with me, but he obviously doesn’t like me like me, otherwise he would have asked me out by now. Anyway, this just serves as evidence to prove what I always suspected: I’m just not pretty enough.
I’m a pretty girl, no doubt, but I’m not pretty ENOUGH. If you don’t live in girl world, you might not know what that means. You might say, “Pretty enough? If you have blond hair and big boobs you’re pretty enough. Stop making things so complicated, woman!” To which I say, be quiet, you sexist pig, and let me talk. Then I would say here, listen to this:
WHAT IT MEANS TO NOT BE PRETTY ENOUGH, EXPLAINED BY THE ONE AND ONLY LELE PONS
When you’re a girl, you are constantly surrounded by other girls, and are therefore going to notice all the pretty features they have that you just do not have. Boys don’t compare themselves to other boys, because that isn’t how they’re wired. As I’ve said before, boys are programmed to battle out any competition with their fists and aren’t so in their heads about it all. A boy sees another boy with nicer hair or, like, bigger muscles (in the gym, let’s say), and all he thinks is I could beat him up if I wanted to, then moves on. Any emotions or feelings of inferiority are neatly and conveniently suppressed.
Girls are different. We see a girl who has something we think is prettier or better than what we have and instantly interpret that information as evidence that we are lacking in the value department. Writing it out makes me realize how ridiculous it actually is: my smile is less pretty than that girl’s, therefore I am less valuable as a human or less desirable as a girlfriend. It’s not logical. But anyway, even if you’re nice-looking, there are all these girls around you who are going to be prettier, at least in your own opinion,
and you’ll compare yourself to them over and over and realize your beauty is dwarfed by their beauty.
I think this is what it’s like to be a girl, but maybe it’s just what it means to be Lele.
For me, not being pretty enough means that my hair is lovely and my breasts are big and my lips are plump and pouty, but my nose doesn’t match my face and my skin is on a mission to ruin my life. And, in case you didn’t know, nose and skin are pretty bad items on your face to have off point. For example, if your ears are your biggest problem, then you’re in good shape. A bad chin can be easily overcome as well—plenty of girls with butt chins are still perfectly gorgeous. It’s the midface features that really matter, and the very middlest feature that matters most, which is the nose. I came up with that theory this very second and I think it really holds up.
In addition, your skin is the backdrop of your whole face, and if it isn’t smooth and clear and silky how is the rest supposed to look good?! Think of a beautiful painting . . . if the canvas is all bumpy and red, the beauty of that painting is canceled out. My goodness, in this analogy my face is practically a Picasso. A Picasso with braces. Yikes.
My insecurities have been with me for a long time (whoa, getting kinda real right now!). I was a mega-confident kid up until I turned twelve and went to summer camp, which is where I was when my body decided to stop metabolizing calories at the speed of lightning. I kept on my steady “no parents, no rules” diet of 3 Musketeers, Red Vines, and Sprite, not realizing that now food came with consequences. I gained about twenty-five pounds that summer and have never quite recovered from the image I saw in the mirror upon returning home. I exercised, I got taller, and was back to my thin self, but it was too late: the hormones had kicked in and I was anchored in a state of constantly feeling just a little bit bad about myself. (Welcome to girl world, sigh.)
• • •
Anyway, on Tuesday after classes, I finally meet up with some friends from my old school. Lucy, Arianna, and Mara. They’ve all been so busy lately, and their stupid school is on the other side of town and after school I’m just too lazy to travel the distance.