Chapter 2
“Whr RU?” I texted Bridge on my cell phone. My parental unit had given me this phone to use only in “emergencies.” But when the emergencies of my daily life became too excessive (in their opinion), they read me my rights and decided it was time to come to some type of arrangement.
They told me that if I wanted to keep my phone I would have to find a way to make the extra money to pay for it. This was really a bummer at first, because I hate babysitting and I’m only fifteen and so my job ops are, like, limited.
But thank God for science! I made extra cash by tutoring, and for an extra nominal fee, I helped kids rock their gadgets with their wardrobe. I called it my Gamma Glamma “Geek Chic” calling.
“am hre. OPN SZ ME:)” Bridge hit me back. She was outside my bedroom door. I didn’t hear her come up, because I was sitting on my bed hooked up to my iPod trying to find out if the song I was listening to was really worth the ninety-nine cents. Bridge came up from behind me and pulled one of my ear buds out. She was wearing her light blue Adidas tennis skirt with a matching shirt. In classic Joiner style, she had also matched her pale blue Havaianas with her eyeshadow. She flipped her low-hanging ponytail out of the way as she set down her backpack and duffel bag.
“Hey, what’s up?” I said, detaching myself from my iPod.
“We’re on the list!” Bridge twirled around with a crumpled paper in her hand. “Adam snatched me a copy of all the nominees.”
“I know, Bridge. I was with you when we nominated each other. Remember?”
“Yeah, but did you know that they cut off nominations today because the Student Council didn’t want to have to deal with too many people?”
“And ...”
“Well, right now there are only fourteen girls and fourteen boys in our category.”
Bridge said “category” because she didn’t really like saying “freshmen.” Secretly, she felt it was beneath her. I love her like a sister, but she does have a tendency to visit Snobville a lot. Whatever.
“So, I just wanted to let you know that our probability of becoming two of the five girl finalists and winning has just increased immensely. Isn’t that exciting?” Bridge continued.
I had to admit that the logical probabilities were exciting, but I also had to admit that now we were going to have tons of work to do.
“So, are you ready to start some hard-core planning?” I asked.
“Planning what?” Bridge asked as she pulled out her books and Tupperware of study snacks.
“Everything. From what are we going to wear to how we can get the rest of our peers to vote for us? And how I’m going to get out of this science contest.”
There was too much to think about. I jumped off my bed and sat on my beanbag to do some serious brainstorming.
“Yeah, I wonder if I can create a serum to accelerate the growth of my nails in time for the dance? Because you know the press-on nails look so low rent,” Bridge said as she gazed at her short-nailed hands.
“I told you, I already have a formula for a shampoo to make hair grow faster, so nails shouldn’t be that hard to figure out. Can you spend the night tonight?” I asked, ready to get to work on the formulas in my own personal laboratory—the one that also doubled as my bedroom.
“You want to start tonight?”
“Exactamente!”
“Okay ... but what are we going to do about dates?”
Bridge’s eyes drifted across my poster-covered wall of movie star hotties, waiting for them to magically reconfigure their DNA molecules and jump down.
“Dates? Oh, I forgot about that part. Not.”
There was only one crush at Gamma High who secretly made me melt and sizzle away like sitting in a hot tub of hydrochloric acid, and that was Eric Swenson.
At school, everyone just called him Swen, and he was just so ... chemical. That’s the only way I can describe it. When I get like ten feet from him mi corazón starts racing from the large amounts of adrenaline pumping through my body. Then my eyes start rolling to the back of my head and I think I’m about to faint due to the lack of oxygen to my brain, because he takes my breath away. Literally. Fortunately, with the counterweight of my Chica Speakas, I don’t tip over from my upright position.
“Oh, what? Are you waiting for Swen to buy you a corsage?” Bridge asked.
“It could happen,” I said, believing in my own fantasies.
“Yeah, but why would you want it to?”
“Bridge!”
“Just kidding! I mean, I know he’s your dream luva and all, but c’mon, you guys are like polar opposites. He doesn’t even look like he’s into science or anything.”
“That’s probably because he doesn’t have time since he’s an amazing writer who works for the paper and annual staff.” I felt my face heat up.
“Okay, Defensive. What about his clothes?” Bridge quizzed.
“Well, I guess I could tamper with that a bit,” I said, looking at the posters of hotties who were all lacking wardrobe. I mean, they weren’t naked, they were wearing swim trunks!
Basically speaking, Swen dressed, like, really subdued—I mean, really. He wore a pair of old Levis, a button-down white shirt untucked with the sleeves rolled up, and then set if off with an old skool pair of white Adidas. And that was it.
He wore white. I wore black. He was Mr. Clean Jeans and I thought distressed was best. I love metal and gadgets and his daily uniform was really vanilla compared to mine and what all the other candy sprinkles of Gamma High wear.
First, there were the superjocks, who wear kicks in every color imaginable and probably costing more than some folks’ cars. I’m talking big bank.
Next came the drama freaks (aka the Dramaticas), and if you don’t wear the mandatory “back in black” uniform then you were guaranteed to be stuck as an extra on the next production of The Crucible.
And finally, there were the techie science folk, which was my tribe. Most of them were a bit Bill Gatesish and could totally stand makeovers, except (a) they don’t think they need one and (b) they wouldn’t see the point of it.
Despite their poor fashion sense I still love them, because they’re my peeps and they’re brilliant. To me, they totally feel like bad familia. You know you couldn’t really stand them on a day-to-day basis, but for, like, holidays—and, in my case, midterms—they’re okay.
Bridge butted back in. “And what about that he’s a sophomore and doesn’t even know your DNA exists?”
“Simmer down, Factoid. Just for the record, we’ve smiled a few times at each other.”
“Yeah? Exactly how many times?”
I started chipping the deep purple orchid polish off my nails. “Okay, maybe only twice. But the first smile lasted half a second and the second one lasted a second and a half. I know this because I timed the second one. But anyway, he’s the only one I want to take me to Homecoming.”
Bridge just let me enjoy my fantasy a little longer as she continued to look at the potential suitors on my wall.
Maybe he was just a fantasy. And I’m not even sure we have anything in common. But when I’m near him, he’s like a tall glass of agua. No, strike that. I hate water. He’s a fudge brownie. Not that he’s thick, dark, or nutty. To the contrary, he’s slender, blonde, and smart. But really, he is muy delicioso.
He also has the most amazing blue-gray eyes. To be more specific, they’re actually blue with a speck of yellow. And he’s not really tall but he’s not shrimpy either. He’s just so right. And his arms are vascular and sinewy (I borrowed those words from Adam), and I find that so cool, because most guys who aren’t into sports are usually pretty mushy.
He’s not. I think he runs or something. And he has strong-looking manos. I love a man with strong hands (unlike Adam, who has softer hands than mine—ew).
When I just think about Swen I can feel all my DNA molecules unravel and wind back up. Like I said, it’s totally chemical. I get it and I dig it.
However, Bridge and Adam do not. Bridge thinks he’s too vanilla for my punk Gwen Stefani flava. And Adam is just totally jealous of Swen’s talent and power.
“And who do you want to go to the dance with?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Brad Walker.”
“Well, he’s hardly the carbon copy of you, Miss Joiner.”
Brad Walker, aka “B-Dawg,” like Swen, was also a unique specimen. As a sophomore, he was known as being an extremely outrageous student who not only was the captain of the wrestling team but also played the cello—and he played it extremely well. He was definitely everything that Miss Bridget Joiner was not—which was white and stocky with blue eyes.
Again, Bridge and I decided this was simply chemical. There was no other rational explanation. It all went back to this science experiment that had a hundred women sniff a T-shirt that various men had been wearing. Time after time, the scent that each woman preferred was one that was directly opposite of her DNA chemistry. Scientists say that this little gift is engineered in our systems so that we can produce the healthiest offspring and not have any inklings to date our siblings. Ew. I know, but thank goodness for smart DNA.
So, the fact that a Latina like myself who digs science could totally crush on a blonde, blue-eyed, Nordic-god writer makes as much sense as my BFF, bite-size Beyonce, uber-preppy, Petri-dish scientific sidekick princessa falling head over heels for a wild, wrestling cellist. It was chemically reactive romance.
Now, all Bridge and I had to figure out was how to get these cute little chains of reaction to ask us out, especially when they hadn’t discovered our existence.
“Mmmmmmm.” My nose hollered at me after smelling something delicious. Bridge had popped open her Tupperware.
“What did you bake for me today, Igor?” I said, ready to devour anything that Bridge brought over.
She may be a li’l science whiz in school, but at home, my girl can throw down a mean and amazingly lean (read: low-fat, low-sugar) biscuit, biscotti, or even cupcake. She’s a micro Martha, I swear.
Well, today her latest cupcake creations not only were fat free and contained no sugar or dairy, but were megacute with little smiley faces. As we ate and did our homework, I couldn’t get over how adorable and tasty these little morsels were.
“They are cute, aren’t they?” said Bridge as she bit off the eyes of one.
“Yes, I totally am in love with them and want to marry them,” I said in midbite, spewing crumbs.
“Have you thought about what you are going to tell Dr. Hamrock?” Bridge asked, with her mouth full of not-so-natural blue frosting.
As the nutritionally correct complex carbs rushed to my cabeza, I could feel the electrons in my brain just bouncing around. Then it came to me—the perfect idea for a science experiment, or rather, the perfect idea to ruin it.
“I’ve got it. I’m going to propose an idea so hideous that Dr. Hamrock will have no choice but to annihilate it.”
“Yeah, but you know he’s going to ask you to come up with something else,” said Bridge.
“Yeah, I know. But if I stall enough before I present him with some crazy idea and then he kills it, then I won’t have time to come up with another hypothesis and test it out, especially with my freshman load of homework. You know?” I smiled at my own brilliance.
“Well, what happens if you miscalculate Dr. Hamrock’s reaction or he’s desperate and he makes you do it anyway?”
“Good question.”
“I know, that’s why I asked.” Bridge smiled, now enjoying her own brilliance.
“Even if I had to do it, then surely it wouldn’t pass Gamma High’s own science competition, which I’d have to enter and win before moving on to Regionals,” I said, trying to be practical.
“Okay, so what kind of invention are you thinking about?”
“It’s more of a reinvention than invention,” I said, jumping up from my beanbag as if I’d discovered some wild scientific breakthrough like electricity.
“Do what?” Bridge asked as she systematically pulled out her highlighters and pens in order to get down to the business of the project.
“You know how you transformed those cupcakes and made them better, cuter, and healthier? I’m gonna do the same thing for Dr. Hamrock.”
“Are you going to cook for him or poison him?”
“I’m going to present an experiment where I take something—or better yet, someone—and make them extraordinary,” I said, seeing the word extraordinary in flashing Hollywood lights.
“Now you’re sounding a bit freakish.” Bridge made a scrunchy face like something stunk in my room.
“That’s great!” I felt the thrill of my own genius. “If you hate it, then surely Dr. Hamrock will too.”
“Yeah, he will.” Bridge rolled her eyes.
“My plan,” I informed Bridge, “is to take three subjects, uh, students, and transform them by simply adjusting their appearance, their voice, even their scent.”
“That sounds kinda infantile,” Bridge remarked, as if it were one of those hideous science ideas like Styrofoam balls attached to a papier-mâché sun.
I sank back in my beanbag. I had to agree with her at first. But when she said that, my competitive streak kicked in and then I kinda wanted to do the experiment and make it successful.
But reality set in again to remind me that I needed to have some kind of theory that would be demonstrated and grounded in science. It was very important that when I talked with Dr. Hamrock my experiment didn’t sound like I’d just farted it out.
“How about this?” I said confidently as I stood back up from my beanbag chair. “Okay, take, let’s say, three students, and basically we’re performing makeovers.”
Bridge nodded. She was with me so far.
“Anthropologically, we would term this an ‘alteration in their self-presentation, ’ and the resulting social dynamic would be to elevate their position in their given social group. That way I’ll prove that the social order (in this case the high school food chain) is established on the basis of perception and can be manipulated easily through superficial changes.” With that mouthful, I felt proud of myself again (or at least less like a loser).
“But what’s the point of the experiment?”
“My point, which matches the one on the top of your pointy head, is this: if we can promote an understanding of how to quickly change the factors that determine acceptance by our peers, we can help the less fortunate members of our student body get through high school with less trauma.” I hoped she would now begin to understand my brilliance.
Bridge rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Trying to use science to trick people to like unpopular people sounds like herding sheep to slaughter.”
“It’s not. It’s science with a conscience.”
“Well, I just love science with a conscience,” Bridge said, opening up her history book, ready to move on.
“Good, then you’ll let me put you down as one of my subjects.” I patted her on the head.
“What? Do you think I’m that much of a loser?” Bridge jumped up from my bed and walked to the mirror to gaze at her reflection. I followed her.
“No, Bridge, just listen. I just want Dr. Hamrock to think that I have given this project a great deal of thought and that I have people already involved in it. Then, when he wants me to change my project, it will be too late and, voila, I can finally go to the dance and double-date with you and B-Dawg.”
As I waited for Bridge to finally grasp my scientific grand scheme, she sucked in her stomach and patted her imaginary tummy as she continued to stare into the mirror. Since it was taking her a while for her to chew on this idea, I decided to hand her another one of her smiling cupcakes.
“Bridge, it’s just for pretend. It’s a stupid science experiment. You said it yourself,” I said, trying to calm her down as I sat back down on my purple shaggy rug.
“Okay, but who else are you going to say is in the experiment?” She fixed a level gaze on me as she sat down. Now I had to put my thinking cap on.
“Well, you and ... well, probably Mase,” I said, feeling my neck muscles clinch.
Mase just came to the top of my head because he wouldn’t turn me down. He might make an angry painting or drawing but he wouldn’t physically say no.
“You should really make it more believable, Luz, and find someone who really, really needs a transformation,” Bridge insisted as she licked the frosting off her next victim.
That was Bridge’s way of saying I needed to find a big fat loser. Aye caramba! Did I just say that? I mean somebody who has a lot of challenges.
Okay, honestly, I needed a big fat loser. And I needed to try to find someone like a freshman, because no upperclassman would go through with this ridiculous experiment even if it was for pretend.
I decided I should find a girl, because we chicas love makeovers of any kind. And unless you live under a rock, it’s not hard to find a magazine that has a section on some makeover. Bedroom makeovers. Hair makeovers. Boyfriend makeovers.
So, this would just be one more makeover but one that’s done for a school project, that’s all. It would be easy. Bridge and I started to go through a short list of names of possible candidates. I stared at the ceiling as Bridge searched the floor for answers.
“How about Nuria Chopra?” Bridge offered up.
“Naw. She’s an exchange student and I think things would get lost in translation.”
Bridge paused for a brief moment to check to see if there was a hair or something on her cupcake. “How about Traci?”
“Armstrong? Traci would totally beat me up just for talking to her,” I confirmed.
Traci Armstrong was cute but a totally standoffish blonde who didn’t hang within the confines of any one clique. She was also an Angelina Jolie in training, and already had her black belt in stuff I couldn’t pronounce. Girls. Girls. Girls.
As I gazed around my room (which totally needed its own makeover, but that wouldn’t happen this year with all my allowance and tutoring income already going toward my cell bill).
Then Bridge’s squinting eyes met mine as if we were sending telepathic messages to each other. We both screamed in unison, “Jabba!”
Jabba’s real name was Susan Seamus (pronounced “shame us”; I know, what a shame, right?). Susan had made the move from Jr. High to Gamma High based on her well-honed talent with the French horn. But regardless of this thankless talent, Susan was considered a fashion nightmare and total high school prey. Her hair was stringy, always a bit greasy and, unfortunately, it wasn’t like greasy cool in a TIGI Bed Head fashion model kind of way.
On good days, Susan’s complexion was ruddy. On bad days, her acne was so bad that it was her only companion at lunch. Pobre gordita. To make matters worse, she was a bit on the heavy side (thus the name Jabba, aka Jabba the Hutt, from the retro Star Wars movies) and had outdated everything—clothes, glasses, and bags.
There were rumors that Susan came from a really rich family, but given her outer appearance, it didn’t make any sense that she came from blue blood. And when she spoke, she kind of had an irritated tone, like she had a sticker in her foot or something.
The only positive thing I could say about Jabba (and I hate even saying that name, but after being around her for years, it just sticks like a bad piece of food in your teeth) was that she draws these really fantastic imaginary characters on her lunch sacks. It wasn’t a lot but it was still pretty cool.
So, as my head swirled with the essence that defined Jabba/Susan, Bridge broke the silence.
“Omigod, she’s on the list.”
“What list?” And then it sunk in to which list she was referring. “How in a million years ... ?”
“Hey, you don’t think Dr. Hamrock will make you actually do this experiment?”
“Por favor, Bridge, don’t be mental about this. He’d never go through with something that crazy. What do you want to start on first? Your nail growth serum or my hair harnesser shampoo?” I was getting a strange, uneasy feeling about Dr. Hamrock and this scientific makeover so I had to change the subject.
“And if you want, I can finally get started on your camera purse tonight.”
For fun, I had promised Bridge that I would make her an itsy-bitsy purse that would house either a Polaroid sticker camera or her digital camera so that we could record the memories of our lives or cute crushes.
But I still felt a crushing feeling of “what if.” What if Dr. Hamrock did like my pretend experiment and made me do it for real? Surely that couldn’t be possible. Could it?