April
POPULAR ATTITUDE:
LOOK PRETTY—BE PRETTY
ARE YOU SHY?
& PERSONALITY
If you want to be a human being, and a popular human being, then you have to stop being an oyster and come out of your shell.
I know I say this every month, but I really don’t think I can do this. All the girdles and skirts are child’s play in comparison to this month’s goal: tearing out my antisocial tendencies by their roots.
When I was four years old, my grandma took me to a park near her house. Now, my dear grandmother is a social butterfly. She makes best friends with the person in front of her in the grocery store line, or with customer service representatives in India. So she couldn’t figure out why her granddaughter had such a hard time meeting new people.
“Maya, go play with those kids over there. They look nice.”
“No,” I’d protest.
“Well, why not?”
“Because, I don’t like the other children.”
That statement has shaped my entire life.
Now Brodie, on the other hand, is his grandmother’s grandson. He has tons of friends. How does he do it? Is it the hazel eyes that match his sandy blond hair? The dimples? Betty Cornell says not.
Being pretty and attractive does help you to be popular, but being pretty and attractive does not and never can guarantee that you will be popular. There is another factor, a very important factor, and that is personality. Personality is that indescribable something that sets you off as a person. It is hard to explain but easy to recognize.
So how do you get that indescribable something? Betty has three chapters about it that I’m going to be following this month. They deal with manners, shyness, and personality.
You see, good looks are not enough. In order to be a success in the world, you have to be pretty as well as look pretty. How do you get to be pretty? By having a pleasant personality. Sounds simple, but it isn’t. For a pleasant personality means that you must be affable, considerate, generous, open hearted and polite, adjectives that add up to good manners.
That’s a lot to accomplish. And there’s more.
The most basic of all the basic fundamentals is getting along with people. You can’t have fun all by yourself. You need to share the pleasure in order to really savor the sensation. That means having friends.
Okay. I’ll try. But there is only one place to meet people. Only one place you can watch the popularity scale in all of its horrific glory. And it’s the most unforgiving, foul smelling, heart-wrenching place on campus.
The cafeteria.
Now I will have to leave the security of my little clan of Social Outcasts and venture out on my own. I have to go out and meet new people.
I’m going to do this by sitting with other groups at different tables every day. I’ll start with people I know, move on to strangers, then finally face . . . the Popular crowd.
I think the most important thing about getting over shyness is to do it by degrees. Start small and work up.
All right, Betty.
Here goes everything.
Monday, April 2
I say “hi” to three people on the bus this morning, but they either ignore me or can’t hear over the sound of their headphones. It’s impossible to compete with Angry Birds.
I’m wearing regular clothes today. It seems more appropriate for the battle ahead.
By the way you look, talk and think you are identified as a modern American teen-ager . . . Just think how many changes have taken place in America since 1900 and how many will take place before 2000. . . . The trick is knowing how to adapt to changes and still maintain your own standards and your own individuality.
I’m still putting on my pearls and makeup each morning, but I’m wearing pants again. Adaptation is good. Survival of the fittest, right?
I meet two seventh graders in the library before school. Morgan and Noah are nice, and I wave to them in the hall on my way to lunch. I guess that’s part of it. To be popular I have to make an effort to maintain a friendship with the people I meet.
For this first day, I sit with my own regular, Social Outcast group during lunch. I listen politely to yet another story about how Kenzie’s mother is stressing her out.
“Look, Kenzie, you know how I’m moving next year?” I say, when she pauses for breath.
“Mhm.”
“Well, I want to meet lots of new people before I go. I’m going to sit at different tables, and say ‘hi’ to everyone. You know, make friends.”
She chokes on her cookie.
“What the hell? You’re going to break the status quo! Ruin the social ladder! Destroy all the things that hold this world together!”
“And?” I protest, pretending to be more confident than I really am.
“And, it’s impossible! . . . Stop it! . . . Shut up!” She turns away from me.
“Kenzie, what have I got to lose?”
She pauses and looks right at me. “Damn girl! You’ve got guts!”
I nod and laugh to myself. “And I want you to come with me.”
“HELL NO!”
I sigh. The hero must face the dragon on her own.
Tuesday, April 3
Today I decide to join another Social Outcast table close to ours. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. I can feel my heartbeat in my neck, and I gulp. This is it. Everything I’ve been working for this year. I can do this. I put my backpack down next to a group of people I sort of know. Adam, Emma, and her boyfriend, Bernardo, tell me they don’t mind me being there, even though they seem a little confused as to why I left my table.
Kenzie informed my own little group of Social Outcasts about my plan to meet new people, and they were about as encouraging as she was.
“What the hell, Maya? Get your sorry ass back here!”
“Maya, don’t do it! You’re not strong enough! Come home!”
“Who the hell are you and what the hell did you do with the real Maya?”
“Please, you’re not well! Come back!”
“Are you insane?!”
It’s good to know that I have such a strong support system.
It turns out that Bernardo knew my name from when we were in the same sixth-grade English class. I have to admit, I didn’t know his. Why didn’t I ever take the time to learn Bernardo’s name?
Wednesday, April 4
After a very convincing pep talk in the mirror, I sit with the Spanish Club at lunch (somewhere between a four and a five on the Popularity Scale). I know one person in the group, and we talk for a while.
Surprisingly, I find out that the other girls know my name, too. We chat for a long time about Georgia and new movies. Soon the language switches to Spanish, so I just smile and nod.
Maya’s Popularity Tip
When there is a language barrier keeping you from communicating with people, make it seem like you know what’s going on. You can also pretend to be greatly absorbed in what you’re eating. Looking busy solves a lot of problems.
Thursday, April 5
During science I find myself daydreaming. Today, I sat with the eighth-grade Choir Geeks during lunch. I had a great time talking about the San Antonio trip. I’d always thought they were mean and judgmental, but I guess I was the one judging before I really got to know them. I liked hanging out with them, and I think they liked me too. I even gave one of them my e-mail address. Maybe I won’t be the last one picked anymore.
Saturday, April 7
I sit down and finally take the time to sort through my very neglected e-mail account. I see that the choir girl who I sat with has sent me a goofy message. Hurray! Popularity in the making!
Then, buried at the bottom of the list under Facebook updates and advertisements, I see an unopened e-mail. I click on it.
Dear Maya,
Outstanding work! I feel very positive about your stories and poetry. It’s obvious that you really put your heart into them, and that is what really matters.
Call me any time and we will talk about your quote, and don’t forget, today is going to be a wonderful day!
Very Sincerely,
Mr. Lawrence
I stare at the screen for a long time before looking at the date. January 30.
I print the e-mail, and curl up with the paper and cry.
Sunday, April 8
It’s Easter morning, and there’s a basket of goodies in my room when I wake up. Even though I know a fluffy, white rabbit didn’t deliver it, chocolate is magical nonetheless.
We have church at nine o’clock, so we all scramble about and get ready. I wear a new floral-print, thrift store dress, my straw boater hat with the white bow around it, my gloves, white clutch purse, and pearls. Betty Cornell would definitely approve.
During Sunday School I sit next to a boy I’ve never talked to before. He’s always been very quiet, but I know his name is Hector.
In the spirit of this month, I decide to break the ice. “So, Hector,” I say, “you don’t talk much.”
“Not to you,” he mumbles, shrinking away.
“Are you scared of me?” I look up at him, pretending to feel confident. Mom told me that’s what you have to do—behave as if you’re self-assured, beautiful, capable, and those feelings just might follow. I also read an article in Oprah magazine about how sitting like a confident person can actually make you feel stronger.
This whole “fake-it-till-you-make-it” mindset is nice and all, but it sure is hard. Especially when you’re the only one willing to make conversation.
“You’re scared of me, aren’t you?” I say, inching my chair closer to him.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t see why,” I say, pretending to be an actress, playing a part in a movie. I smile at the idea of my costume: braces, glasses, pearls, gloves, hat. I have to be the least menacing person on the planet.
“If you got to know me, I’m sure you wouldn’t be so scared. Let’s start with school. My favorite subject is English, what’s yours?”
“History.”
“That’s cool. Do you have a good teacher?”
“Yeah.”
I’m sweating like crazy, but I keep my face animated. “Sometimes you get history teachers that make you read out of the textbook all day. But that’s not too bad. Once, I had an English teacher who didn’t know who Tolkien was.”
“Oh, yeah? My English teacher doesn’t know who Edgar Allan Poe is.”
“No way.”
“It’s true!” He starts to laugh, and suddenly, I’m not so anxious. We talk for a little longer, and then he leaves. I think I can count him as a new friend I met this month.
I’ve talked to lots of people, and I find out that most are actually shyer than I am. Some of them hardly speak back to me. I’d always thought I was alone in my suffering, but tons of other people are shy too.
Shyness is an experience that most of us have had at one time or another. Some of us get over it quickly, like the measles, but others find that it drags on and on like a bad cold.
. . . . . . .
It’s only after I get home that I realize that Ethan wasn’t at church today. It used to be that every time that he was there, I could acutely feel his presence every moment. Now, I’m so busy pretending to be confident that I don’t have time to be distracted by him.
I guess he’s different than he was.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s changed.
Monday, April 9
I stare at the two girls who I’ve carefully observed and decided will be a safe bet for my next lunch adventure.
“Hey, can I sit with you guys today?”
“Um, I guess.”
I plop my backpack down on the bench and pull out my paper bag lunch.
“I’m Maya, by the way. What are your names?”
“I’m Dulce,” says the brunette. She’s about the same height as a sixth grader and smiles continually. “And she,” she points to her slender companion, “is Eleanor.”
“Well it’s nice to meet you. Tell me about yourselves.”
They look at each other and start to giggle. I’m still awfully nervous, even though I’ve been doing this for nine days already. Dulce is sweet and laughs a lot, but Eleanor is guarded and leaves for the band room at the first opportunity she gets.
I realize then that Dulce gets left alone during lunch every day.
Kenzie comes to the table and asks me if I want to go to the library with her.
“Um, well,” I look at Dulce, sitting alone. “I think I’m going to stick around here for a while longer.”
Kenzie is flabbergasted. She knocks on my forehead. “Hello, there. Do you happen to know where my friend Maya went?”
“Oh stop it.” I grin, waving her hand away. “You can join us if you’d like to.”
She slowly narrows her eyes and sinks down on the seat. “You are . . . insane.”
Kenzie ends up staying, and we all talk for the entire lunch period.
I walk Dulce to her class and she smiles at me.
Is it working? Am I actually making friends?
Wednesday, April 11
Yesterday I went to the cafeteria early and sat at an empty table. Even though it’s usually crowded, no one sat down next to me. After a little while two Choir Geeks came over.
“Look, Maya, do you want to come sit at our table? It’s kind of crowded but we don’t want you to sit alone.”
I was touched by their kind gesture. And, having predecided to accept any invitations to other tables, I went willingly. But as nice as it was, I knew everyone there and didn’t get to meet anyone new.
That’s why today I sit with my own Social Outcast family. I really don’t want them to think I’m avoiding them. Anyway, Kenzie is at a band competition so she can’t give me lip about chickening out on my new endeavor and “crawling back to them.”
. . . . . . .
That evening I arrive a little late for a youth activity at church. When I walk in, I see that there’s someone I don’t recognize. She looks sad and out of place, and I feel awful for her. Without hesitation, I walk right up and sit down next to her. I laugh and talk, getting her to come out of her shell. I know how it feels to be alone and friendless.
When I started preschool at four years old, I had no friends. In fact, my closest companion was my mother’s hand puppet called “Meep-Meep.” It wasn’t even an actual puppet, it was just Mom’s fingers opening and closing like a mouth. But her hand became so cramped that she enlisted Dad to put an end to it.
“Where’s Meep-Meep, Daddy?” I asked.
“Meep-Meep went to go live with her sister, Maude. She’s not coming back. Don’t look for her.”
Eventually in elementary school I met a few nice girls. But I struggled to maintain those friendships, so most of the time I was on my own. There were days when I’d sit alone in the freezing snow waiting for the classes to line up, wishing recess would end. I wanted a best friend, but only one. I was terrified of groups. I decided that being alone was better than being trapped by lots of people.
I don’t feel that way anymore.
Thursday, April 12
I see Beto, a boy from my ninth-period class, sitting alone at lunch today. He’s a miscellaneous Social Outcast, like me. I join him. I start with a simple hello and begin eating. He doesn’t talk, so I use the same approach I did with Hector.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” I ask, chewing my sandwich.
He stops eating and looks at me. “I don’t know you.”
“My name is Maya,” I say, smiling.
We sit in silence for a while, my attempts at conversation shut down. I notice frantic gestures from my choir crowd waving me over. I smile and wave back. I appreciate them looking out for me, but if I sat with them every day, I’d never meet anyone new.
I pick up my backpack and am about to leave for the library when suddenly a boy with a mustache sits down across from me. I recognize him as someone with whom I’d been in previous classes.
“Hello, again,” I say to him, frantically searching my memory for his name. I think it started with an A. Yes, that sounds right. “I bet you don’t remember me,” I blurt.
“You’re Maya,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Oh.”
“So, tell me about yourself,” I say, hoping to buy enough time to remember his name.
What’s-his-face leans away from me and says nothing.
“Okay, so since you won’t offer up information, let me ask you questions. Are you in sports?”
“Basketball, soccer, football, and track.”
Wow! A member of the Football Faction! I have unintentionally catapulted myself into sitting with a nine on the Popularity Scale.
“So, now it’s my turn to ask you questions,” he says.
“Shoot.”
“Do you have a phone?”
“Nope,” I reply. “The only person who has a cell in my family is my mom.”
“Like me,” says Beto, looking up from his sketch of a man on fire. Football Guy looks at Beto hard for a second and then speaks.
“Hey, Beto, could you get me . . . a milk?”
“Get it yourself,” Beto hisses. Then he stands up and walks to the cooler anyway.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” His face looks earnest.
“Sure.”
What is his name? Alejandro, Abel, Adan? ADRIANO! That’s it!
I’m so proud of myself for remembering that I hardly hear what he says next:
“Do you want to go out?”
My heart stops beating. My hands go cold.
WHAT?! Did I hear that right? Are you serious? Is this a joke? Did Kenzie put you up to this?
I look down at the table. They’re going to have to haul me out on a stretcher from a shock-induced heart attack. Me, HOBBIT GIRL EXTRAORDINAIRE, getting asked out by someone from the Football Faction!
What do I say?
“Uhh,” is the intelligent response that escapes my lips.
“Okay, Adriano,” yells Beto, coming back. He’s holding a stack of milk cartons. “I didn’t know if you wanted chocolate milk or regular, and if you wanted regular do you want one percent or skim, so I got one of each.” Beto sits down and looks back and forth between us. “Awk-ward!” he sings. “Wow, Maya, you’re really red! Like a tomato!”
My hands fly to my cheeks. Sure enough, they’re burning. “I think it’s because I get red when I laugh! You guys are so funny, ha-ha-ha.”
“You know what, Beto,” says Adriano. “I changed my mind. I just want water.”
Beto throws the milks at Adriano, and goes to get some water.
“So?” Adriano says.
I didn’t remember your name until two minutes ago, and my parents won’t let me date until May of 2000-and-never.
I am so flustered right now that I will probably pass out.
“Let me get to know you a little better first,” is the best I can think of.
Beto comes back and Adriano pretends it never happened. I’m relieved, but isn’t this what every girl dreams of, though, to be asked out by a popular guy? So why am I so nauseous and frightened?
Friday, April 13
Today Dad picks me up at school for a doctor’s appointment. At least that’s what I believe up until the moment we pull into the mall parking lot and Dad starts chuckling. He throws me my purse full of movie goodies.
“You lied.”
“Not really,” he says. “I am a doctor, and technically this is an appointment.”
He laughs and opens the car door for me. That’s one thing I’ve always loved about Dad. He never fails to treat me like a lady. Betty Cornell would approve of his manners, but I don’t think that she’d like the fact that I’m skipping school to go see a movie.
Dad and I walk in and buy tickets. Even though I’m thirteen, I still hold his hand. I think that makes him smile.
We have a really great time. Dad may be a little different, but he is wonderful, funny, and gives good advice.
Betty Cornell says, “Try telling your parents how much you love them. Let them know you appreciate all they do for you.”
“Thanks, Daddy. I love you.”
He smiles. “I love you, too.”
Saturday, April 14
I decide to try out a new tactic at the church bake sale tonight. Betty got me thinking.
It is important to remember that when you are shy it is possible for you to give people the impression that you are rude.
I know this has definitely been true for me. Francisco told me that he was terrified of me until I talked to him, and he realized that I wasn’t menacing. I’m not going to let this happen tonight.
When I arrive, I put forward my best smile. I help out in whatever ways I can. I laugh with the adults. I cut desserts. I carry plates of food around for the potluck. Eventually I don’t even have to feign friendliness anymore.
I sit down next to Hector, the shy boy I befriended on Sunday. I talk for a while about everything from my aching knees to my spot in the regional choir. Then miraculously, he starts responding. His speech is soft at first, but soon he warms up and we laugh. I hear some of the girls my age whispering about us, but I don’t care.
An incredible feeling of liberation settles over me.
For the first time in my life, I think people like me. And I’m seeing that it’s been more than just wearing the pearls or the skirts, or even the hat (although I’ve had several older women come up to me and tell me how darling I look on Sundays with my hat and gloves).
So far this month, I’ve met so many people, and Betty’s lesson is much deeper than I ever expected: I wanted popularity; I wanted other people to like me. But it turns out most people are waiting to be discovered too.
Sunday, April 15
Am I popular yet?
There’s only one way to find out.
I have to ask her the true definition of popularity.
I’m going to find her. I have to tell her that more than sixty years after her book was written, someone is still following her advice. Someone out there is still listening.
I’m going to find Betty Cornell.
Wednesday, April 18
I walk into the lunchroom confident and satisfied. This morning, my orthodontist told me that I would get my braces off in four weeks! Finally!
I sit with the Spanish Club again and am much more verbal this time. After about twenty minutes I excuse myself and go to the library to finish some schoolwork. I also start to Google information about Betty. I find thousands of Betty Cornells all over the United States. How am I ever going to figure out which one is her?
Adriano follows me to the library. I was hoping to avoid him. How do I tell him I don’t want to go out with him?
Adriano comes over and stares at my screen. I can’t get any work done, so instead I put my backpack down on a chair and decide to shelve books. Adriano follows me and picks up a novel.
“So, what would you do if I tried to tickle you?” He nudges my side, playfully.
All right, I am now quite uncomfortable. My neck begins to burn, but I swallow and maintain my calm manner. “Honestly, I’d slap you.”
“Really? . . .” Then, of all things to do, he raises his fingers and tries to tickle me. I tap him over the head with the book I’m holding. Not enough to hurt, but enough for him to get the message.
“Adriano, stop touching her!” Ms. Zaragosa, the assistant librarian says, stepping between him and me. Everyone is quiet. Ms. Zaragosa tells me to get behind the desk. I am embarrassed but incredibly grateful.
“You need to report that boy,” she says, looking at me straight in the eyes. “I can show you how.”
“No,” I answer. “No, really, I’m okay. . . .”
The bell rings and I quickly escape the library and walk to class. Adriano trails behind.
“Boy,” I say. “You nearly got yourself in trouble.”
“How?”
“They want me to report you, but—”
He disappears into a group of friends.
I have a feeling that Adriano won’t be asking me out again anytime soon.
I’m very relieved.
Thursday, April 19
I stand over my old lunch table and say “hi” to the gang.
“Traitor, now you come back,” Francisco murmurs.
“We could compare her to Benedict Arnold, actually,” says Maria, who sits studying U.S. history.
Kenzie sets her stuff down and looks at me. “She’s not a traitor. She’s just . . . experimenting.” She covers her mouth. “Oh, that sounded wrong! You know what I mean. My brain’s not working properly today. I can’t think straight.”
I pat her shoulder and walk over to the end of a table not too far from us. I’ve already covered most of the easy spots: Social Outcasts, Choir Geeks, Library Nerds, and Computer Geeks. Now it’s time to tackle something much more difficult: an all-guy table, consisting of Band Geeks and Rich Gang Members.
As I sit down, everyone scoots away from me. When I try to start a conversation I realize that the group doesn’t speak any English. The only information I get out of them is their names and even that takes forever.
Later Kenzie tells me I’m brave (and crazy) to do what I did. She’s terrified of the people I sat with. She calls them cholos and gangsters and refuses to go near them.
But they weren’t mean, they just seemed a little misunderstood.
Saturday, April 21
Dad drags me out of bed early this morning, telling me he wants to show me something “cool” on the computer. He says it’s important. I mumble and groan but manage to get downstairs even though I can hardly see straight. What can be more important than sleeping in on a Saturday morning?
Dad sets me down next to the computer and scrolls onto the Facebook page of an unfamiliar woman. She’s very pretty, and there are pictures of her family. Finally he pulls up an old black-and-white photo labeled “Mom and me.” It’s of an adorable toddler hugging her elegant mother around the neck.
“Maya, who does she look like?” he asks me, pointing to the woman.
I take a closer look. She has a classic hairdo, dark lipstick, and . . . a strand of pearls.
I let out an earsplitting scream.
“BETTY!”
Sunday, April 22
Dear Mrs. Fadem,
My name is Maya Van Wagenen. I live in Texas; and your mother, Betty Cornell, has changed my life.
I know this sounds strange, but let me explain. Years ago, my father picked up a copy of Betty Cornell’s Teen-Age Popularity Guide at a thrift store. This past summer, it was rediscovered when we were cleaning out a closet. I flipped through the pages, thinking that some of the suggestions were outrageous. But my mother had a brilliant idea. I’ve always struggled socially, especially during my previous middle school years. I’d never even remotely considered myself popular. My mom wondered if any of Betty’s advice from more than fifty years ago could help me. She suggested that for my eighth grade year I should give it a try.
For the past several months I have worn girdles, skirts, panty hose, and a pearl necklace to a middle school with gangs, pregnant teens, and frequent drug arrests. It’s had some remarkable effects. This whole thing has changed the way I look at people and life in general. It’s helped me grow up. It’s made me laugh, cry, and want to throw up all at once.
I’ve been looking for your mother, praying that she is still alive and well. After searching through databases and historical records, my father found you. It is my dream to contact your mother and tell her what she’s meant to me. I hope you consider helping me with this heartfelt request.
Most Sincerely,
Maya Van Wagenen
I add our phone number, hesitate, then click send, and watch the message disappear. I hug my knees. My heart is pounding in my chest. Betty’s family is only an e-mail away.
Within ten minutes, the phone rings. My mom answers. Her eyes go wide and her mouth drops. She hands the receiver to me.
“Hello.” The woman’s voice is sweet with a faint East Coast accent, making her words soft around the edges. “Is this Maya?”
“Yes,” I say. I feel my head spinning.
“This is Mrs. Fadem, and Betty Cornell is indeed my mother.”
Monday, April 23
During lunch, the boy across the table from me is fuming. “Look, I don’t care who you think you are, but this is a boys’ table.”
“I’ll sit wherever I want, thank you. This is, after all, a free country,” I snap back, staring directly into his dark brown eyes. I refuse to take crap from this kid. I straighten my posture and pull out my applesauce.
I’m sitting at the most crowded table in the school. It’s where the less popular half of the Football Faction gather. This is also the general area where all the other guys in the school congregate. Even though I’m nervous, I’m not going to lose my ground. I am, after all, only a few days off from having to face Carlos Sanchez and the most popular people in school.
When things go badly, you must decide not to retreat; you must attack. But you attack in a special way, not by going out and slugging the first person who comes along . . . you attack by working out your displeasure in a determined effort.
“Shut up, David. Leave the girl alone. She can do whatever she wants.”
I give a grateful nod to the guy who defended me. I decide to start with him. “So,” I ask, “what did you think of the exam?”
All this week we’re taking statewide tests. Today it was history. Other than a few obscure questions, I think I fared pretty well. This morning Kenzie and I crammed in the lunchroom, since we aren’t allowed in the library during testing. We sat side by side making up songs to help us remember the Bill of Rights.
“I know for sure that I bombed it,” he says.
“Oh.”
I try to make a little conversation, but they ignore me and play a game that involves guessing the scents in one another’s burps.
Finally I ask the first guy, David, what his last name is.
“Why,” he says, looking panicked. “Are you going to report me?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, like I really go around sitting with people so that I can report the ones I don’t like.”
He stares at me, thinking so hard he starts going cross-eyed. “I was being sarcastic!” I blurt, “It’s a joke!”
“I don’t get it,” David says.
The boy sitting next to him teases, “Look, dude, she doesn’t like you ’cause you’re stupid. . . .”
“I never said that!” I say, but it’s impossible to be heard. They decide to stick their fingers in other people’s food, and try to make themselves fart.
After about ten minutes, Gabriel, a boy from my health class, looks over at me. “So,” he says, “are you enjoying this?”
“The table? Well, this hasn’t been the most positive reaction I’ve gotten.”
He looks down.
“I try to be nice to people,” I say. “But sometimes, they just don’t understand that.”
He raises his gaze and looks me in the eyes. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t listen to what people say.”
I smile genuinely. “Thank you.”
Maya’s Popularity Tip
Not everyone is ready to accept a lone girl at a guys’ table. Recognize and accept this fact, understanding that you may see (and smell) much more than you ever wanted to.
Thursday, April 26
Today, I’m sitting with a couple of Football Faction members along with a few Volleyball Girls. They have decided to completely ignore my existence. I excuse myself and go to ask Kenzie advice.
On the way, Gabriel from another table shouts over to me. “Hey, Maya, aren’t you going to sit with us?”
“I’m booked today.” I find myself smiling, “But don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”
He gives me the funny look that people have started doing whenever they’re around me. I wish I could figure out what it means.
I get to our old table and see that someone’s missing.
“Francisco, where did Kenzie go?”
He fidgets and doesn’t meet my eyes. “She sits with Marissa now. Sorry.”
I turn around to see a crowded booth overflowing with laughter. Kenzie’s voice is, as always, louder than the rest. For some reason it makes me sad. I look down and sigh, realizing now how my friends might have felt when I left.
So I return to the social experiment that has become my life.
I pass by a table I sat at a couple weeks ago. One girl (a Band Geek) grabs my arm. Immediately her name jumps to mind—Lily. “Maya, you can sit with us. It’s just that the people you’re sitting with are mean.”
I am unbelievably touched, but am still determined not to be ignored. “Thank you so much. But I can’t today. Maybe later?”
She nods and the table resumes its conversation about a band trip.
I sit back down with the semi-populars but no matter how hard I try, they disregard my existence. I don’t let it get me down, though. I guess they’re just not willing to take a chance.
The bell rings and I walk to the door. Everyone pushes me against the glass. I’m almost sure to be crushed when 6’2” Gabriel from Monday reaches over the crowd and holds the door open for me. He smiles and I call out a thank you.
I will add him to that ever-growing list of people I’ve met and now consider friends.
. . . . . . .
Thursday, 3:46 p.m. Today, I’m talking to Betty.
The phone rings and I rush to answer it, heart pounding. What if she doesn’t like me? What if I say something wrong?
“Hello?”
“Hi, Maya, this is Mrs. Fadem. I’m going to put my mom on the other end, and then you two can chat. Is it okay if I listen in?”
“Of course,” I say.
There’s a pause, then an older woman’s voice comes on. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Maya.”
“Hello, this is Betty Cornell. I think that what you did is just wonderful. I am very proud of you. So tell me a little about yourself and what you thought of my book.”
I hesitate, then begin. “This past year, I’ve been trying out the suggestions in your book. I think it’s really working.”
I tell her the positive highlights of each chapter. I’m pretty sure my phone etiquette sucks because I know I say “um,” “exactly,” and “like” way too many times.
Maya’s Popularity Tip
When you finally get to talk to your life teacher, mentor, and guru for the first time, try to make a good impression and refrain from squealing with joy.
I avoid telling her about all the bad things that have happened: being called names, being humiliated and mocked, and I sure as anything don’t mention the girdle. Instead, I talk about the pearls.
“Don’t you just love them?” she asks. “They look great on everyone. Go on, tell me more!”
I let her know that I’m sitting at different lunch tables.
“What an amazing opportunity to meet new people! Wasn’t it nice, though? Did you make new friends?”
I think of my experience today. “You know, for the first time, I feel like I’ve got people looking out for me.”
“Oh, how great! So what is coming up next?”
“Next month I’m going to go to the eighth-grade prom. Do you have any advice?”
“Is it a formal?” Mrs. Cornell asks.
“It’s more . . . semiformal.”
“Okay, so don’t overdress. Or wear too much makeup. That’s the problem. Girls try out strange hairdos and clothing that they don’t know how to work with. They don’t look like themselves at all. Let’s see, what’s your favorite color?”
“Blue,” I say.
“Then you should get yourself a nice blue dress.”
I smile. Her voice sounds just like I’d imagined it, gentle and matter-of-fact. I describe my family, leaving out Nat’s autism and our overall strangeness. She listens enthusiastically.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you wrote this book. Even though it was years ago, it still rings true. It still works. It’s changed my life. Suddenly I can make friends.”
“You’ve just made my day. More than that . . . you’ve made my month, my year, everything!”
I am on top of the world.
From now on, I not only get Betty’s advice from the book, but I can also get pearls of wisdom from the mouth of Mrs. Cornell herself.
Friday, April 27
Today is the day. I’ve been working up to this moment all month long. All year, for that matter. Today I sit with the jocks, the most popular people at our school: the highest of the Volleyball Girls and Football Faction all together at one table.
Here goes.
The bell for lunch rings, and I slowly pull myself out of my desk and drag my feet down the hall toward the cafeteria. I can hear the blood pounding against the inside of my skull. My fingers shake as I try to remember everything I’ve learned, what’s truly important in making friends.
I sit down across from a Volleyball Girl.
“Hey, Maya, what’s up?” she asks, smacking her neon-pink chewing gum.
“Hi, Cristine, can I sit here today?”
“I guess.”
“Thanks.”
Carlos Sanchez stumbles in with his buddy Pablo, singing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Badly. An onlooker would describe them as drunk, but they did the same thing during third period, so I’m not surprised.
He glances at me. I freeze and force myself to smile, even though I think I’m going to be sick.
“What’s up, Maya?” He rejoins the song, then jumps back. “Holy crap! Since when do you sit with us?”
I try to stop my voice from shaking.
“I’ve sat with tons of people.” I point to the tables around the lunchroom. The group seems impressed.
A football guy at the end of the table leans forward to see me. “Why?”
I relax a little. “For fun. Anyway, I’m moving to Georgia and—”
“WHAT! YOU’RE MOVING?!” Carlos Sanchez shouts loud enough for the entire cafeteria to hear.
“My dad got a job at a university there.”
“But, you make our school look all smart and stuff. And, and now we’re just gonna look dumb!”
Carlos Sanchez will miss me, too! Am I dreaming?
Some of the boys get into an argument over who will miss me most.
“No, I want to sit next to Maya.”
“Too late, I was here first!”
I’m floating, honest to goodness floating! My head has to be fifty feet above the earth!
Someone from the nearby Choir Geek table hears the commotion, looks up, and sees me sitting at the most popular table at school. Her eyes widen, and she pokes one of her friends. They both gawk. One of them mouths, “What the hell?!”
I smile. Soon all the choir girls are staring at me.
I feel like a princess on a float. So I just smile and wave. The whole Popular Table is talking to me, competing, even, for my attention.
As the bell rings on another successful lunch, I get up. One of the Football Faction members leans over to me.
“Don’t sit at the gangster table. They’re scary.”
I’m shocked at his warning. “I already sat with them. They were really nice. They just don’t speak much English.”
He shakes his head and disappears. When I get into the hall, all the choir girls surround me. “What were you doing?” they ask.
“I’ve sat with everyone. They weren’t too bad.”
“But the jocks are terrifying!”
“Maya, you’re amazing!”
“You are so brave!”
“You’ve got some serious balls, man.”
Wow, I mean . . . Wow. I’ve never been considered brave, or even bold. Now, I have “serious balls.”
I practically soar down the hall to my next class, but a question keeps bringing me back to reality: Why is everyone so scared of one another?
. . . . . . .
Still feeling the high from the cafeteria earlier today, I’m positively glowing when I arrive at a church potluck. I sit down next to Ethan, who is alone.
“Hello there,” I offer.
“Hey,” he murmurs. He doesn’t look at me.
“Are you against being social?” I ask, teasing.
“Yeah,” he remarks, sarcastically. I laugh.
I talk to him for a little while about my day, and ask about his. Then he looks at me, eye contact and everything. “Am I immature?”
“What?” I’m floored.
“Really, am I immature? Some girl told me so today, and I’ve never been made fun of before in my life. So, am I immature?”
I laugh. “You’ve never been made fun of?”
“Nope.”
I pause a moment. “Then I think it’s supposed to be some humbling experience sent by something greater. That, or she likes you.” I smile as he blushes. “I mean it’s obvious you can’t get her out of your head. Sure you can be immature, but so can everyone else. I think it’s good you got called out on it before you left for high school. Middle school is supposed to be a time of growth, a time to realize that you’re not the only person on the planet. Sometimes it’s hard to do that until someone comes along and makes you deeply ponder who you are.”
“Oh. I thought everyone just respected me because I have a girlfriend.”
I take a deep breath, and it’s like the tension is released.
And just like that, I realize that it doesn’t hurt. The crush is gone. I’m free to connect with anyone and everyone. I’m free to give honest advice from my heart.
Glory be, I am free!
“Well maybe you’ve got to think more about re-creating yourself,” I say. “I have.”
“I know. People at my school talk about you all the time. Everyone knows your name. Well, they call you ‘Maya Van Woogen.’” He laughs. “They say mean things, actually: that you dress like a grandma and talk to people who don’t know you. All in all you come off pretty crazy.”
Ethan goes to the elite, expensive private school miles away from mine. I’m not sure how to take this. Four months ago this would’ve crushed me, but now, I’m more intrigued than hurt. Everyone knows my name.
Monday, April 30
Here I am again.
The lunchroom.
This is where my month first started, and this is where I choose to end it. I walk to my own Social Outcast table and sit down.
Betty Cornell says that “Your first dance is obviously reserved for your date, as is the last.” I came with my group, and I intend to leave with them. It’s almost like everything’s back to normal. But not entirely. There are some key differences:
- Kenzie now sits at another table with a new friend. I suppose this is a good thing, but it makes me ache on the inside. She and I ride the bus together, though, so that’s still something we share.
- Adriano deliberately avoids my gaze. I got asked out by a Football Faction member and now he won’t talk to me. But I don’t care.
- I know so many more people. People I never would have spoken to if this whole experiment had never happened. It’s as if there’s a magnetic pull inside me toward all of humanity. It’s a love that I never thought I could feel for the students I go to school with.
But there’s one change that catches me off guard more than anything else. I watch as a girl tugs at her boyfriend’s sleeve. He’s sitting with his friends at an all-guy table, but she wants him to sit with her. It’s a usual sight, but this time it plays out differently.
The boyfriend refuses, and I watch as she lets out a determined sigh. She sets down her tray among all the guys and sits down with them.
The boys look at her funny for a moment, but then just shake their heads and lower their eyes. One glances up at me.
Suddenly, I have the strangest feeling. What I did made a big difference in the smallest of ways. I opened doors. I changed what was socially acceptable, just a little bit.
I’ve never felt quite so powerful.