May

IT’S A DATE
& BE A HOSTESS

Here we are. The last month of this social experiment that came to be all because of a sixty-year-old book at the back of a closet.

I am a changed person. As I walk through the halls today, I notice how people look at me. Like I’m actually a human being, a friend even. But the biggest difference is the way I see them. I’m not scared of everybody else. For the first time in my life, I feel happy and safe at school.

But it isn’t over yet. There are still two more chapters to cover in the stained pages of Betty’s book: “It’s a Date” and “Be a Hostess.” What better way to end this year than the two hardest tasks in the book?

While we’re on the subject of dating, let’s discuss the history of my crushes:

My first crush was Tyler, my neighbor when my dad was in graduate school. We walked together to first grade every day. One time, he invited me over, and we played a board game in his basement.

“You’re my friend, right?” he asked me.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I don’t want to be your friend anymore. The only way I’ll talk to you ever again is if you kiss me.”

I didn’t want to make any hasty decisions. So, I went home and told my parents. From that day forward, Tyler had an irrational (or perhaps rational) fear of my father. Sometimes I’d throw a basketball over the fence, just so he’d throw it back. That crush lasted until third grade, when he moved away.

My next heartthrob was Blake. He was the smartest kid in the class, working on his own advanced math packets while we were still learning multiplication tables. I daydreamed about him until he started bragging to everyone that he was “so much” smarter than they were. Even back then I didn’t find that attractive.

Then came Jason. Jason was in love with Vanessa, the girl who was my first encounter with real popularity. He was the most sought-after guy in our grade. Jason had a big smile, wavy brown hair, and he was picked first in every sport. I spoke to Jason one last time before we moved to Brownsville when I told him I was leaving for good. He shrugged and said, “Good-bye, Mia.” He almost remembered my name. I was so happy!

My most recent and longest crush was, of course, Ethan.

I’ve always wondered how it must feel to like someone and have them like you back just as much. It’s never happened to me (except for kiss-happy Tyler, which doesn’t count). But this month the school is hosting an eighth-grade prom, and my goal is to go. With a boy. And not just any boy—someone nice. Not an Adriano.

And hopefully once I accomplish this task, I’ll move into the “Be a Hostess” chapter. I have never hosted a party, but seeing that we’re moving soon, it seems appropriate.

Responsibility is the secret of any hostess’ success. By that I mean thinking ahead and planning. A party just doesn’t run itself. It has to have refreshments and some sort of general scheme. And it has to have people.

I’m going to use the fifty dollars I made during my financial month along with other money I’ve saved up to pay for the party. I can do refreshments. I can create a scheme. Maybe, just maybe, I can get people there, too.

Wednesday, May 2

I get moved next to a shy boy in algebra today. His name is Nicolas. He kind of looks like an extremely awkward Clark Kent: big square glasses, black hair, and beautiful brown eyes.

I smile at him as I drop my backpack and sit down. He lifts the corners of his mouth then turns around and begins talking to a friend. He has a very quiet voice and always looks faintly surprised when he’s speaking.

On the way out of class, he does something few guys ever do anymore. He holds the door open and lets me pass in front of him.

There it is again, the effervescent burbling of a crush, rising to the surface. I glide to second period.

That is, until I almost crash into a couple making out.

No one wants to go to the movies and observe the antics of a loving couple in the row ahead. No one wants to go to a diner and eat a hamburger seasoned with the simpering goings-on of two moonstruck youth. The minute you go beyond holding hands in public you have gone too far. Embraces and kisses which are carried on for all the world to see are in poor taste.

I laugh. Oh, Betty, if you only knew then what the future would hold.

Thursday, May 3

“All right, boys and girls! Welcome to your first day of sex education. Today we will be going over the male and female reproductive systems. I don’t want any of you to shy away from the proper anatomical terms. After that we’ll watch a video on STDs. Trust me, you’ll never be the same.”

Kenzie and I exchange glances. For months, Ms. Welch has mentioned sex, but it’s always been broken up with food pyramid drawings and excited discussions about marijuana. Not anymore. We’ve been silently praying that this day would never come, and yet, here it is. Actual Sex Education with Ms. Welch.

Ms. Welch enlists a student to pass out diagrams of male and female genitalia.

“Fill in whatcha know, then we’ll go over the rest.”

I label all of the female anatomy just fine, but I can’t figure out the other one.

“Ma’am, what’s number twelve?” asks one boy in the back.

“Really? You don’t know where your testicles are?” Ms. Welch chuckles.

I hide my face. Even I figured out that one.

Ms. Welch moves on and pushes play on the remote control.

I will not describe to you what went on in the twenty minutes following. I will, however, tell you that the film was shot in the 1980s. There were scary hairstyles, inaccurate information about AIDS, and an awful background song. It went something like this:

Abstinence, it means love and it means trust.

Abstinence, with STDs it is a must!

Why is everyone expecting me to grow up so fast?

Why am I the only one who thinks relationships are meant to last?

Ms. Welch turns off the TV.

“So, class, did you see that pus and infection? And the genital warts? That’s what happens. Don’t have sex. So, who wants to get me my lunch?”

I lean over to Kenzie, who has covered her eyes with her sweatshirt. “Kenzie, I think I’m going to join a convent.”

“Have fun, future nun.”

Friday, May 4

When I wake up and look at the calendar, I don’t think about the prom, or the party, or boys, or the fact that I’m going to have to face another day of sex education.

My sister would have been eight years old today.

The realization is like a punch in the gut, leaving me gasping and holding back tears. My little sister, Ariana, would be dancing around, wanting presents and cake. Every year I wait for this anniversary to stop hurting.

I am slowly realizing that it never will.

For me, her birthdays hurt worse than her death days. Birthdays remind me of everything that will never be.

Monday, May 7

Dear Mrs. Cornell,

I was so excited to talk to you on the telephone a while back. This whole year I’ve dreamed of hearing what you’d say about what I’m doing.

This last month, themed “Popular Attitude,” was definitely a success. I have never forced myself to do anything as hard as talking to strangers. It has always been impossible for me to make new friends and fit into a group. Now, I know and talk to more people than I ever thought possible.

I’ve learned that lots of people are afraid to make the first move in a conversation. Many are simply waiting for you to talk first. So many of them have wonderful stories and personalities.

I’d love your advice for this month. After much consideration I have decided to host a party. What kinds of things should I prepare? Do you know any fun games or have any ideas? What did you enjoy doing when you went to casual parties? Also, I would love to learn more about your middle school years. What were you like in eighth grade?

Your Friend,

Maya Van Wagenen

P S. Thank you so much for the modeling pictures that you sent me! They are beautiful, and I was so thrilled to get them in the mail! You have such a gift; your eyes and expressions are so bright! I can tell that you loved what you were doing. As soon as we get to our new house in Georgia this summer, I will frame them and put them on my walls!

Tuesday, May 8

This evening, the school holds an awards ceremony for students who made all As or had perfect attendance throughout the school year. I do my makeup in the car and try to get fluff off my slacks. Mom, Brodie, and Natalia choose a spot at the back of the auditorium. Dad has to teach, so he can’t be there.

Up front, the eighth graders have a “Reserved” section. I sit next to a less popular Volleyball Girl. She stares at me.

Shifting, under her gaze, I decide to say, “Hi.” We start chatting.

“You know,” she confides, “I never respected you until I saw you sitting there, right in the middle of all those boys just chillin’. You were amazing. You just seemed so calm.”

“Thanks.”

She smiles at me—a genuine “I-accept-your-existence-as-a-human-being” smile.

It is the most beautiful feeling.

I turn around to look for Mom and see Dad there too. He waves. He rushed to get here between classes, just to see me. I’m incredibly touched.

After the ceremony is over I talk to Dante and then rush up to give Kenzie a big hug. Ironically, we’re the only two girls wearing pants. Great minds think alike.

I can’t believe the school year is almost over. But there is still so much left to do. I’m almost there, Betty.

Wednesday, May 9

Popular.

The definition was always sort of fuzzy in my head. I knew what it didn’t mean. It didn’t mean being picked last. It didn’t mean being made fun of or having no one to sit with. It didn’t mean being alone. But that isn’t enough anymore. I need real opinions—am I really becoming popular thanks to Betty? It’s time to start asking my peers what popularity means to them. I start with Gabriel (the tall one who rescued me from being trampled) and his table of all guys, who have been much nicer to me recently.

“Hi there,” I chirp.

“You again!” says Sergio, leaning over to give me a high five.

“Yep.”

Gabriel smiles. I sit across from him and pull out my lunch.

One kid, Luis, scoots as far away from me as he can.

“What’s wrong,” asks Gabriel. “Scared of a girl?”

“Um, well, I , you see, I never know what to say around, um female types, so I, like, get nervous, and er, then I break out into hives.” He shrugs and looks at me. “Sorry.”

“Nice to know,” I say.

They talk about girlfriends, video games, and movies. Finally I pluck up enough courage to ask, “Hey, Gabriel, I’m doing a report on popularity. What do you think it means?”

He scrunches up his forehead. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Everybody, deep down is exactly the same.”

I write that down in a notebook with a star next to it.

Very interesting.

“So who do you think are the most popular people in school?” I ask.

Luis motions over to Carlos Sanchez’s table. “Like, the jocks. They’re um, like a bunch of bastards.”

“I sat with them last week,” I say casually. “They were nice to me.”

His jaw drops. “You sat with them? Really? What do they talk about?”

The other guys lean in to listen.

“The same things that you guys talk about.”

“No way!”

“That’s impossible!”

“You’re crazy!”

“It’s true,” I say. “You should try sitting with them sometime.”

They laugh.

Thursday, May 10

I stay after school for choir practice. We’re learning some choreography for our next concert. We take a break and I sit next to Eva, one of my seventh-grade buddies from the trip.

“Hi, Maya! I’m going to make up a rhyme for your name!”

“Okay,” I say, laughing.

She scrunches up her nose. “Um . . . There goes Maya Van Wagenen . . . rocking my socks . . . again!”

I laugh, and Ms. Charles, the choir director, pulls out a microphone. “Okay,” she says. “Who’s going to audition for the solo in the song?”

Eva grabs my hand and lifts it up, “Maya will!”

I feel my face go red. I’m okay at singing, but I definitely have more of a “group voice.”

“Eva, if I audition will you be happy?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, grabbing the microphone and pressing it into my shaking hands.

I sing the verse, and Ms. Charles shrugs. “I’ll give it to you because it was good and it’s your last year here.”

“CONGRATULATIONS!” Eva yells. I blush.

The clock strikes four, and Ms. Charles tells us all to go home and rest our voices. The concert is on Tuesday and she wants us all to be healthy.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder. It really is a very sad sight. We are required to use mesh backpacks to discourage us from carrying weapons and drugs. The mesh is always tearing, leaving gaping holes in the bottom. This is my third backpack this year. My sewing kit is already stowed away in the moving boxes so I shoved quilting material in the bottom to keep my books from falling out. People snicker as I walk by, but I don’t really care. I guess Betty helped me learn how to laugh at myself.

Sunday, May 13

Natalia wanders in at seven this morning and yells, “Beep, beep, beep!”

My sister—the human alarm clock. I sit up and glare at her. She grins widely at me and says, “Good-bye, Natalia!” She skips out and closes the door.

At least she’s more courteous than she used to be.

This morning I make two invitations for the party I have planned (with Betty’s prodding) for this weekend. Betty says, “Whether you mail or telephone them, invitations should be sent out to every person you wish to include.”

I’d like to have Ethan and Hector there, which means I have to give them their invitations at church today. This is what the cards say:

BON VOYAGE!

I’m moving this summer!
You’re invited to my farewell party!
Saturday, May 19
6:00 p.m.–9:00 p.m.
My house
Pizza & drinks will be served
RSVP

At church I hand one to Hector, and he looks at it for a while.

“I’m hosting a party on Saturday,” I say. “You and Ethan would be the only guys from church, but it would be great if you could come.”

“I can’t,” he says. “I have a choir trip.”

“Oh,” I say. I feel Ethan’s invitation burning in my pocket, but I know that I won’t give it to him. Ethan wouldn’t come if he was the only one not from my school. What’s the use?

Hector apologizes and walks away.

Monday, May 14

I’m trapped in health class, once again listening to a middle-age woman describe sex—it’s something I wish I could delete from my memory. I close my eyes and try to keep the walls from closing in. Suddenly, someone knocks at the door, and I’m confident that it’s an angel who has come to take me away from this horror.

“Morning, ma’am. I’ve come to check the students for drug possession.”

“Fine by me,” Ms. Welch says, smiling sweetly at the police officer.

“Empty all your pockets and leave sweaters and purses on the desks where they can be seen and easily accessed,” he orders.

The officer/God-sent-creature-of-mercy leads us out of the classroom and into the hallway where a huge drug dog is waiting. He nonchalantly walks the canine down the row of students eyeing each of us carefully, then takes the dog into the room.

We’re told later that two students in my grade got arrested today. Hope it’s not anyone I know.

 . . . . . . .

I stay up until 11:00 making the rest of the invitations for my party. I have to admit, it isn’t actually putting together the invites that takes me so long, it’s coming up with the guest list. After everything that’s happened, it feels strange not to include everyone. For hours I sat mulling over who I considered “most important,” and it hurt. Betty says the following about those you invite:

A point to remember here is to be generous. Don’t boycott friends you happen to be peeved with. Don’t keep your list down to just the same old circle. Vary your guests.

The list is about 70 percent choir girls, but there are the Goth Art Chicks, Nicolas (my new algebra crush, whom I plan to ask to prom), Carlos Sanchez, Kenzie, all the Social Outcasts, Dante, etc. Every time I think I’m done, I realize I’ve forgotten someone. I’ve prepared twenty-seven invitations, but I could add ten more guests in a heartbeat.

How do people host parties? It’s so gut-wrenching to decide who comes and who doesn’t that I feel physically ill. In light of everything I’ve learned so far, this kind of exclusivity just feels . . . wrong. But alas, it’s something else that I must push through.

Tuesday, May 15

Twenty-seven invitations are hidden in my backpack. I’m no longer feeling down. Instead, I’ve decided to just enjoy everything. Kenzie doesn’t ride the bus this morning, but that’s okay. I’m on top of the world! I’m also looking forward to getting my braces off during my orthodontist appointment today. Everything’s finally happening! I’m feeling invincible!

I see Catalina from choir leaning against a wall in the hallway before school starts.

“Hey there, Catalina,” I say. “How are you doing?”

“Good, I guess.”

“Awesome. So, I’m hosting a party this weekend and would love for you to be there.” I give her an invitation.

She opens the envelope and reads.

“It sounds like a lot of fun,” she says. “I’d love to come to your farewell party, Maya, but I can’t.”

“Why?” I ask. This definitely catches me off guard.

“Allison, you know the one in our choir? She’s having her birthday party that same night.” She places it back into my hands. “I can’t come to yours. Sorry.”

My heart begins to sink, as I force the next question. “Who else is going?”

“Everybody,” she says. Quickly she realizes her oversight. The fact that I wasn’t invited. “I mean, everybody except . . . some people.”

“It’s okay, Catalina,” I whisper. She makes an excuse and runs off. I shuffle through the stack of invitations in my hand, the majority of which are choir girls, all of whom will go to Allison’s party. On the top envelope, written in big hopeful letters, is Allison.

I look away, trying not to cry.

I trudge through the hallway, struggling to stay optimistic. I’m not even sure if the party is going to happen, so I think about the prom. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nicolas. My heart leaps into my throat. He’s talking with a pretty Band Geek. He’s laughing as he drapes his sweatshirt around her tiny shoulders. She smiles and bats her eyelashes. They hug and walk off to class together. Their hands hang at their sides, almost touching.

I shove the envelopes angrily in my mesh backpack, the quilting spilling out the sides, like the guts from a wounded animal.

My heart aches. I thought things were going to be different. I guess I’ve been fooling myself all along.

 . . . . . . .

After poking various instruments in my mouth, my orthodontist determines that I will be keeping my braces on for another five weeks. I won’t get them off before school ends.

 . . . . . . .

The choir concert is tonight.

I hug my knees and imagine that I’m somewhere else, someone else. I now wish I’d never auditioned for the stupid solo. Who am I kidding? With my luck I’ll probably fall off the stage.

Song after song is performed until it’s our turn to sing our finale, “It’s a Beautiful Day.” If this isn’t irony, what is? I remember most of my choreography, but when it’s my turn to sing, my feet are like lead. Somehow I manage to walk to the microphone. I hear the CD play my introduction. I start to sing.

I try to appear happy and interested in what I’m saying, but my tongue is dry leather.

I look out into the audience. There’s Dad filming the concert, Natalia with her ears covered, Brodie with a vacant expression on his face, and Mom looking hopeful.

I close my eyes and try to focus on the lyrics, but I stumble and miss a phrase. It feels as if a brick has hit my chest and it’s impossible to breathe. I manage to recover enough to finish, but for me, the damage is done.

Choking on my solo

When the concert is over one of my choir friends tugs my arm. “You did super good.” She snorts. “Well, at least until you messed up. The look on your face was so dumb. You messed up, like, a lot!”

“Thanks, Claire . . .” I say, looking down. A few seats away I can hear girls mocking me, singing my solo, and pretending to choke.

All of their names are written on the envelopes in my backpack.

I hold myself together until we get into the car.

“Oh, honey,” Mom says. “It wasn’t that bad!”

I cradle my head in my hands as hot tears run down my face.

It’s not just Claire’s comment that hurts. When I was in fourth grade I was an iris in the school play, Alice in Wonderland. I had a handful of lines. I pretended it was real, and I got into the character. People would laugh when they saw me, but I assumed it was because I was good.

On the day before the performance, I came in late to rehearsal. All the other flowers were sitting in a circle talking about something.

“And then she says her lines so stupidly! If only Maya realized that she looks like an idiot every time she opens her mouth,” said the Daisy. “She’s so bad at acting. . . .” Then she looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. She sneered and said my lines, exactly like I’d say them. All the other flowers laughed.

I hid in the bathroom, crying all over my sweatpants.

And now, when I look at my life, all I can see is the joke it has become. The Daisy’s laughter still echoes through my head.

Is this all that my experiment has amounted to—people pretending to be my friends then being cruel when I need them most? Why did I believe I was anything but an inside joke? Carlos Sanchez was right. Kenzie was right. I’m not special, I’m just a crazy girl in Grandma shoes. I don’t have balls at all.

I’m sorry, Betty Cornell. I tried.

Popularity isn’t real.

I’m done.

Friday, May 18

Tuesday night as I lay in bed, I swore to myself that I’d given up on this whole popularity thing. When I dragged myself back to school the last few days, the choir girls whispered. In algebra, Nicolas asked to sit somewhere else. At lunch I didn’t get invites to other tables. I just sat with my own Social Outcast group (who have now become distant). My hair was disheveled, my clothing was rumpled, and my pearls seemed out of place. Everything just hurt.

I promised I’d never write another entry.

And then it came.

Another envelope arrived in the mail this afternoon. It was from Mrs. Cornell’s daughter, Betsy. In it were family photographs.

Seeing Betty as a grandmother is remarkable. Believe it or not, she looks a lot like she did in the 1940s. Her smile and bright eyes are exactly the same. In the photos, Betty is with her husband, her three children, their spouses, and nine beautiful grandkids. They look so happy.

Seeing the pictures and the neatly written letter makes me realize that I’m not alone. I’ve got Betty Cornell and her daughter on my side. That has to count for something.

Can I just give this all up? I’ve come too far, worked too hard. I guess by having everything fall apart, I forgot about all the good things that happened too.

But I don’t know where to go from here.

All my confidence and inner strength—how do I find it again?

Saturday, May 19

I wake up to see the sun streaming through the window, as if it’s trying to convince the occupants of our house that things will get better. It’s not doing a very good job.

I finally drag my body out of bed and sit at the kitchen table trying to figure out what to do next. Since I’m not hosting my party tonight, I suppose I should deal with getting a date.

I yank a sheet of paper from the desk and absently write in big letters:

WHO TO ASK TO THE PROM

DANTE

Dante is a close guy friend. Like an older brother, he teases me and looks out for me, but he’s got someone else he adores. That leads me to the next guy.

FRANCISCO

Francisco would be fun too. But he hates school functions with a passion. I wince as I write the next name.

ADRIANO

Ugh. I scratch his name off the list.

LEON

He probably would be too shy to go. I’m afraid everyone would stand around and make fun of him for being on a date. Who am I to ask him to do that?

NICOLAS

My hand pauses as I write his name.

He’s the most mature boy I know.

And sweet.

But he has a girlfriend.

I tear up the list, and lay my head on the table. My party and the prom were supposed to be the culmination of everything I’ve learned this year. Why is it all falling apart?

Suddenly I get that “there’s-something-very-wrong-here” vibe.

Images of the last nine months play like a story through my head.

When was I closest to popularity? It wasn’t when I lost weight. It wasn’t when I changed my hairstyle daily. It wasn’t when I stood up straight or tried new makeup or wore a skirt. It wasn’t when looking at the imprints of the girdle on my thighs or when I earned money.

It was when I was talking to people. It was when I opened up my introverted circle and allowed everyone I met in. It was when I included everyone. And that’s exactly what a party and a prom date do not do.

Catalina said “everybody” was invited to Allison’s party.

Well, “everybody” is not accurate. Allison didn’t invite me. And that hurt—a lot. By going to the prom with one person or hosting a party, that’s exactly what I would be doing. It wouldn’t be inclusive at all, because I’d always be excluding somebody.

Like a bolt of lightning, I see that there’s another way.

My heart beats loudly in my ears and I feel like running. No. Flying.

I know what I have to do!

Betty Cornell, I’ve found my grand finale.

Monday, May 21

“Kenzie, I’ve had the most brilliant idea for us. If we can manage it, it will be amazing. But the only way it will work is if our hearts are really in it. Will you do this for me?”

She lifts her gaze from her phone and sighs. “Aw, this is going to be bad, isn’t it?”

“No, but you have to promise to be in this with me, thick and thin.”

“Whatever,” she says, but as far as noncommittal phrases go, I’m glad to hear it. It’s her way of consenting. I remember the day when she held me in the hallway after Mr. Lawrence died. It’s impossible to think that she won’t come through for me.

“Kenzie,” I say, taking her by the shoulders. “I’m going to invite all the people that don’t have dates to the prom on Friday to come with me.” I look her straight in the eyes. “With us. Together we’ll form this big, amazing group. Like the end of one of those cheesy eighties movies.”

She closes her eyes and groans. She rubs her temples as if my ignorance is causing her head to ache.

“Look, Kenzie, imagine what we could do! We can change the school!” I’m practically pleading now. “You know that no one goes to the prom without a date. We can change that!”

Kenzie gasps and shakes her head. “Maya, our little hierarchy is what keeps our school from collapsing in on itself!” She lifts her hands in the air. “Those cliques are what maintain our fragile sense of order. Imagine what our lives would be like without them! It would be utter hell! If we were united, one bad person could be our downfall. I can picture it now, some kid decides to smoke pot and soon everyone follows. The groups are a means of self-preservation, dividing us from the cholos and gangsters. You are treading on thin ice, my friend, and believe me, these rules run deep. We are all in our right orders. Be careful what you start!”

I sigh. “Kenzie, you’re such a drama queen.”

She pushes her oboe case into my hands so she can smooth back her ponytail, which became disheveled in her passionate monologue.

“Let’s try, at least.” I look at her, pleading. “I’m moving . . .” I hate to have to pull the whiny card, but sometimes it’s the only thing that works. “I love these people . . .”

She snorts.

“It’s true!” I think back to the choir girls, and I realize I’m not angry anymore. I smile at Kenzie. “There are so many kind and wonderful people out there, and I need you to watch out for them, okay? Be there for them. Show them how much you care. This is the best way to do it! We can accomplish anything!”

She mulls it over, taking her oboe case back. “Fine, just don’t use my name.”

“Deal. . . . So, Kenzie, will you be one of my dates to the prom?”

She pretends to gag herself. I can’t stop myself from hugging her. She wipes it off.

“You rock,” I say.

“Whatever.”

 . . . . . . .

People who I’ve asked to go with me to the prom today and their responses:

After school, I see Leon in the library. “Are you going to the prom?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“I don’t go to dances.”

“You should come,” I say. “You can hang out with my group of friends, it’ll be a lot of fun!”

He nods and smiles. “Thank you so much, Maya.”

That’s one more to add to my list.

I practically skip home.

This may seem like quite a few people, but it’s still not enough. I’ve got to really step it up tomorrow. And somehow I’ve got to get Kenzie excited about it too.

Tuesday, May 22

Once again I find myself shopping at the thrift store with Mom. Only this time it’s not for Betty clothes or skirts and sweaters. This time it’s for something I’ve never owned before.

A grown-up dress.

I’ve decided to follow Mrs. Cornell’s advice and buy a blue dress. This ends up being much more of a challenge when Mom and I walk in and see the intimidating rows of gowns.

We begin digging through the seemingly endless racks, but everything either screams denim-clad grandma or sequined stripper. I can’t seem to find any middle ground.

I run my fingers over hundreds of outfits before I see it.

When I try it on in the dressing room before the mirror, I hardly recognize my reflection. Mom knocks on the door and I let her in. Her eyebrows raise and she smiles. “Is this the one you want?”

“Oh yeah,” I say.

Wednesday, May 23

“Maya, I think I’m gonna pee myself.”

“I’ve got you,” I say, reaching for Kenzie’s hand, which is clammy and shaking. “I love all of them dearly, and I’ll teach you how to as well. But first, you have to stop being scared. They can’t hurt you if you don’t let them.”

“I can’t do this . . . how did I let myself get roped in with you?” She tries to pull away and sit back down at our safe little Social Outcast table, but I give her arm a tug and drag her forward.

“You promised, one hundred percent.” By now we’re rapidly approaching the first table. “Come on, it’s just like we practiced.”

“Maya,” she says, dragging her feet as she walks, “I want something in return for this.”

“Okay,” I say, readying myself for some deep philosophical request.

She gulps and asks, “You know that elastic beading floss? Do you have some?”

I laugh. “Yes, Kenzie, you can have my stretchy string.”

She nods her head. “All right, I’ll do it.”

The lunchroom is crowded, but I stopped being intimidated by all the cliques weeks ago. I sit down in the middle of the Spanish Club. Kenzie stands awkwardly off to the side, rocking from one foot to the other.

“Hey, guys, are you going to the prom? Because Kenzie and I would love it if you’d come with us and be part of our group.”

They stop chewing and look up from their sandwiches. Kenzie does a strange little wave, and tries to smile. You gotta love her.

They look at each other, flabbergasted. Finally, one of them speaks.

“We’ll think about it. . . .”

We go to all the other tables in the cafeteria. People can’t quite comprehend what we’re doing. They ask if we’re desperate. They ask if we’re stalkers. But we (at least I) shake off the comments and continue on. Kenzie starts out looking nauseous but after five or six tables, she warms up. Soon she’s talking about our plan without prompting.

As the bell rings, I smile at her. “You did it.”

“I almost threw up . . . twice!”

“Look at you, Kenzie,” I laugh. “You’re passing on my legacy.”

She groans, but doesn’t deny it as we walk off to class. Halfway down the hall she stops me. “Maya,” she says, “I don’t think I can come to the dance.”

“What?!”

The floor falls out from under my feet.

“I just, well, um, I have a church thing.”

I shake my head, trying to figure out what she’s saying. “Kenzie, at the beginning of the year, you decided you were an atheist.”

“I’m not going.”

“Kenzie, I . . . ” I try to find the words. “I need you. I even bought a dress, granted it was at a thrift store, but still . . . I need you!”

“You’ll do just fine on your own.” She walks off to class.

How can she just abandon me?

But before my thoughts can head down that familiar dark and scary road, I pull them back. I’ve done everything on this project by myself so far. I will be okay, no matter what happens.

Thursday, May 24

This morning during algebra I open my notebook. I look down and see a page titled “Meanings of Popularity.” I gasp. With all of the recent drama, I’d forgotten my quest for the real definition of that mysterious and powerful word. My heart sinks.

Then I remember. It’s the eighth-grade field trip to the bowling alley today. There’s still time. I pull out a pen and start asking people in my class what their definition of popularity is. We are dismissed to the buses where I continue my survey. My notebook begins to fill up.

I then ask everyone a second question: Do you think anyone can become popular? Surprisingly, no one thinks it’s impossible. I follow up with one final question: Do you consider yourself popular?

Everyone has the same answer. “No.”

“Thanks,” I say, to the people I interview. “Remember to come to the prom, okay? You can be part of my group.”

We are all ushered into the bowling alley, the brightly painted building that witnessed the horror of one of my more painful personal faux pas: Kenzie’s birthday party. While my peers are busy choosing lanes and bowling balls, I wander between tables inviting everyone to the prom and asking for their perspectives on popularity.

I start with the “unpopular” crowd.

After about an hour, I look around the bowling alley and see that I’ve talked to everyone except the popular people—the Volleyball Girls and Football Faction. I’ve received a lot of answers already, and amazingly, they all seem to be about the same. I wonder, do popular people, those who perch at the top of the social ladder, define this word the same way as those of us who are down below them looking up?

I have to find out.

Carlos Sanchez is absent, but his buddy Pablo is here, along with six others. I ask them my questions. They laugh and burst into an animated discussion on the subject.

“So,” I pry, “do you guys think anyone can become popular?”

“Sure. Anyone can do it.”

“But you shouldn’t worry about it, Maya. You’re super popular. Everybody knows who you are.”

OH! MY! GOSH! They just used the “P” word to describe me! The most popular kids at my school just included me in the same exalted category as themselves!

I smile appreciatively, but internally my heart does a stage dive off my rib cage. I steady myself then ask my final question.

“So, do you consider yourselves the most popular people at school?”

This question seems to make them uncomfortable.

“Well, um, not the most.”

“Up toward the top, but not the best.”

“No, not really.”

What?

In this moment it feels like the entire social ladder comes tumbling down. Had I been giving it power by believing in it so strongly? “Popular” was just a word. “Popular” did nothing to sum up all the wonderful, interesting, and amazing people I’d met.

All at once I realize that there is no ladder.

We are all the same.

As I say good-bye and leave their table, I notice that they’re still talking about the subject, sharing their views on what it would take to make someone known.

I find Nicolas, my latest disappointing crush, sitting alone at a table and I join him, exhausted. Around me, I keep hearing that word. Everybody’s talking about it: popularity. It fills the already blasting bowling alley, and lines every set of lips.

“So, did anybody answer ‘yes’ to that last question?” he asks.

I look up at Nicolas and find myself smiling. I’d noticed that he’d been paying attention to my interviews. “No. Unbelievable, right?”

“You know,” he ponders, “I’d never even thought about this stuff until you came and talked to me about it. I realize now that it’s more of a mindset than I’d imagined.”

A boy sits down across from us. I can’t help but ask him my questions too.

“I guess,” he says after a moment of thought, “the only way to be popular is to do something dangerous . . . and scary. Something that no one else is willing to do.”

That statement completely describes my life. That is exactly what I’ve been doing since September!

Just then one of the teachers calls out and tells us that it’s time to go. Nicolas looks at me and we walk out toward the bus.

When we get back to school, he holds the door open for me. I smile.

“Hey, Nicolas, are you going to the prom?” I ask, feeling the hope in my voice rise. “You could always come and hang out with me.”

“Who are you going with?” he questions.

I’m about to say nobody, but then I realize that it’s not the truth at all. “Everyone,” I confess, and I mean it.

He looks down at the ground and pushes his glasses up his nose. “I can’t,” he says, and walks quickly away, staring down at the ground.

There’s nothing left to say.

 . . . . . . .

If you dance very badly, take lessons. A girl who must constantly excuse herself for treading on her partner’s toes will not be asked to dance often. Boys are pretty fussy about such things. Though they may dance badly themselves, they expect a girl to dance well. It may be unfair, but it’s true.

Due to my lack of coordination, I’ve decided that this is advice I really need to take. Mom is an amazing dancer, so I ask her to help me.

“I’d be glad to, Maya.” She smiles and starts some moves she learned from her Zumba class at the gym. I avert my eyes until I’m positive she’s stopped.

“I don’t think that you honestly want me to dance like that in front of people. I’m pretty sure Dad would kill me.”

She instructs me on how to step in time to fast songs. “You have to listen to the beat.” Brodie watches, holding his latest LEGO creation, but he’s so hyper that it’s almost impossible to teach him. He’s far too busy jumping around to notice that each song has its own tempo. His dancing is very innovative, though. I’ll give him that. Mom shows me how to not only move my feet, but my arms also. “Stay loose, feel the music.” I don’t feel anything but the awkwardness. We practice for a few more songs when she decides to change tactics.

“All right, now I’m going to teach you how to slow dance. Brodie, put your right hand on her waist . . . no, your other right. There you go!”

“Mom! He’s eye level with my boobs! You have no idea how embarrassing this is.”

“Maya,” Mom sighs with her hands on her hips, “you may have to dance with shorter boys sometimes in your life. It’s good to start young.”

I groan, but then realize that I should be breaking in the (already broken in) strappy white heels I bought at the thrift store. I rush to my room and put them on. They make it kind of hard to walk, but are still nice. I strut back and forth down the hall until I’m confident I won’t fall and kill myself. I hear the front door open and realize that Dad’s home.

When I get back to my parents’ room, Mom, Brodie, Dad, and a buck-naked Natalia (don’t ask), are all dancing around in a circle singing “Single Ladies.”

Friday, May 25

A pretty dress . . . tiny slippers, a sparkling jewel, tidy white gloves, all these laid out on the bed are a sure sign that there’s a big dance in the offing. There’s excitement in the air and the rustle of tissue paper. The bathroom is damp with steam—you’ve never been cleaner in your life. It’s hard to believe that after waiting so long, the evening has come at last.

Betty Cornell’s words from so many years ago still sum it up beautifully.

My dress, now hung over the counter in the bathroom, feels almost intimidating. I scrub my hair and avoid looking at it. I do two rounds of shampoo, just like many months ago. I scrub and scrub until my locks lose their greasy appearance and become soft and smooth. I rinse and ignore the growling of my stomach. I’ve been following the diet again, which means I haven’t touched a between-meal snack or dessert all week.

Mom curls my hair so that it falls in waves down my shoulders. She makes jokes about my quiet mood, and tells me how pretty I look. I smile, but secretly my heart is pounding. It’s hard to keep the doubts from worming into my mind. Why didn’t I do the party? It’s going to be ten times harder to go to the prom by myself and ask people to “groove” with me. And what if no one I invited comes? What if I’m the only one there without a date?

I wash my face and close the pores with ice. Then I add powder. Mom begs to do my eye makeup, so I let her. But just a little, because of Betty’s advice. I apply some shiny lip gloss and brush the soft curls away from my face.

This is it.

Carefully I pull my dress over my shoulders. Then I look in the mirror.

I don’t recognize myself.

Leaving for the dance

My legs seem to be ten times longer and leaner in my rounded, white heels. My shoulders and arms don’t feel hairy or ugly, only willowy and graceful. And the dress! It’s a light, sleeveless shift with a low neckline in a shimmery, powder blue. It ends right above my knees, and makes me feel like I’m wearing a waterfall. Fluid and powerful. My reflection is slender, yet has curves. My hair falls around my shoulders in sophisticated waves.

I smile and notice my eyes. There seems to be a hint of something different in them but I can’t quite put my finger on it. . . .

Brodie comes running up the stairs with a package in his arms, screaming nonsense at the top of his lungs.

“Ma, ya, she [gasp] she, wrote [gasp] envelope, Betty [gasp]!”

I snatch it out of his hands and tear through the tape like a ravenous beast. It is, indeed, a message from Betty Cornell.

Dear Maya,

I received your letter and your picture. You look just as I imagined you from your writing. . . .

My middle school years . . . I was just like you and your friends, with fears of entering a new world with new rules, new teachers, and so many new students and not knowing so many of them. Like you, I made myself speak to new students, joined different clubs. . . .

You are to be commended for helping other girls come out of their shells. These girls will remember your kindness. Keep up your great work. I am anxious to hear about your party and your pearls.

Sincerely,
Betty Cornell

I hold the letter to my chest and suddenly I don’t feel so scared. I’m not alone. Betty Cornell, the woman who changed my life, will be with me in spirit, even if nobody else shows up.

Brodie reappears, standing in the doorway. I notice he’s dripping wet.

“What happened?” I ask, still clinging to the letter.

“Dad and I are washing the car so that you get to go to your dance in style.”

I find myself smiling. “You are wonderful.”

“It was Dad’s idea.” He looks me up and down and whistles. “You look nice. It’s like Betty Cornell blessed you herself.”

“Thanks, Brodie. For everything.”

He grins and runs back down the stairs.

I reach for my glasses, but then stop. I can see well enough without them. Besides, I don’t need any excuse to hide.

I clasp my string of pearls at my throat and drape the thin white shawl around my shoulders. I take one last look in the mirror and for the first time in my entire life, I feel . . . beautiful.

Mom takes some pictures and wraps me up in a big hug. I can feel I’m quite a bit taller than she is, especially in my new shoes.

“I love you, Maya. Whatever happens, I’m so proud of you.”

She walks me out to the sparkling Chevy Malibu, and Dad opens the car door for me. In five minutes I am there, in front of the school. Dad is smiling at me, asking if I want him to walk me in.

“If only I’d had time to change, then maybe . . .” He looks down at his baggy shirt and exercise shorts. “I just feel like I’m one step behind, you know.”

I love his awkward mannerisms so dearly.

“Daddy, you washed the car for me.”

“I know, but still . . . if we’d waited just a little bit longer I could come in with you.”

“I love you so much, but I’ve got to do this on my own.”

He nods. “Okay. My parents dropped me off at my first dance too. Granted I was so nervous that I threw up on the way over and my breath smelled like puke. I don’t think you’ll have the same experience, though.”

Feeling nauseous I change the subject. “Maybe I should’ve hosted a big party. It would’ve been easier than this. I’m going to have to include everyone, and I’m so scared.”

“You’re growing up so fast.” He smiles. “You look beautiful, Maya. This was the right thing to do.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek.

I hug him so tight it hurts. Then, I close the door.

I walk to the cafeteria to face my destiny.

 . . . . . . .

Flashing red and green lights from the stage are the only things I can make out in the dark room until my eyes adjust. The music is deafening, and I stumble about in my heels, not quite sure where I am. All of a sudden a cluster of girls I’d convinced to come as part of my group rush up to me. It’s the Goth Art Chicks.

“I didn’t even recognize you,” one says. “You look amazing!”

I laugh, thrilled that they actually came.

I smile and return their compliments. I am now able to see a completely clear floor. No one is dancing.

I talk with the girls for a while before I ask them to dance with me.

“No way! We’ll go when everyone else does.”

“I’m too scared!”

Then a crowd of people abducts me from behind. I’m greeted with several customary kisses on the cheek.

It takes a minute to realize it’s the Volleyball Girls, who’ve abandoned their dates in the corner.

“Wow, Maya, you look great!”

“You too,” I say. “Do any of you guys want to dance?”

“NO! We’ll go when there are more people out there.”

“Oh,” I say. There are only about twenty people here so far. I go around asking them to dance with me, with or without their dates. Everyone declines my offer. I continue to make the rounds until I’m back with the group of Goth Art Chicks.

That’s when I notice, one girl is standing by herself, tapping her foot, and mouthing the words to the song. I don’t know her, but I recognize her as one of the many strangers I invited to come with me.

I take her hand and drag her to the dance floor. She blushes, but smiles. We’re the first and only people dancing. I start swaying side to side, moving my arms like Mom taught me. The girl and I twirl around a little, laughing. Tentatively, all the other girls I invited join us and we create a giggling circle. I leave the group to grab more people and bring them out to be with us. At first they shake their heads, but eventually they comply. A few guys see me dancing with their dates and come to join us too. A steady stream of people follows.

I feel blisters starting to form on my toes, but I ignore them. I focus only on being inclusive, savoring the moment.

Then I notice a boy sitting alone, staring at the ground. I tie my shawl around my shoulders and think of all those people’s responses to my questions.

“To be popular you’ve got to talk to everybody,” one girl had said. I know what it’s like to be left out. I don’t want his experience tonight to be the same.

“Hey!” I shout, the only way to be heard. “Do you want to dance with me?”

He shrugs and halfheartedly shakes his head.

“Come on,” I say, and take his hand. He pushes me away.

“No.”

I step back, “All right.” I suppose not everyone’s ready for it.

After getting the same reaction from three or four other guys, I walk back to the floor. I dance with some more girls, bringing them out from the shadows and into the flashing neon lights. They laugh and joke. I get more compliments than I can count.

I find my way back to the group of Goth Art Chicks. Now girls grab my hands and invite me to dance. I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“You know, I wonder why my date is dancing with other people.”

“KENZIE!” I shout, and hug her so hard that she stumbles back. We giggle. “You came!”

“Yeah, you kind of made me,” she says, straightening the black wrap over her bare shoulders. “You look so pretty,” I say. She steps back and looks at me, her head cocked to one side. “Damn girl, you need to get me the name of that thrift store.”

I smile so big it hurts. Then I grab her hands.

“What are you doing?” she protests. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“Do you think I do?”

“No.”

“Do you think I care?”

“All right,” she says, and we shake our shoulders dancing right in front of the speakers. I’m positive I’ll go deaf.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I see the shyest girl in school has arrived. Olivia, one of the members of our Social Outcast table, is standing alone at the edge of the dance floor. I rush to greet her. In spite of my invitation to join me tonight, I didn’t think she’d actually come.

“Olivia,” I say when I reach her. “Will you dance with me?”

She ducks her head down and stares at the floor. Then she nods. I smile and take her hands in mine and we twirl and spin and laugh like nobody is watching.

In my head I hear Mrs. Cornell’s words from my letter: You are to be commended for helping other girls come out of their shells. These girls will remember your kindness. Keep up your great work.

A great work. As I see Olivia smile and laugh I begin to believe it.

Olivia, Kenzie, and I dance and dance until the music stops mid-song.

The principal grabs a microphone. “Well, it’s seven o’clock everybody. It’s time for you to go home. Have a great summer and a great life. We won’t be seeing you next year.”

Slowly, as if waking up from a dream, we all walk out into the fading sunlight. I remember Betty’s words, “On saying good night to your date, tell him what fun you’ve had. Make him feel that you’ve really, truly enjoyed yourself. . . . Let him know you’re appreciative.”

Kenzie gives me a hug. “Thanks so much for coming,” I say. “It meant everything to me.”

As Mom and I drive away, she asks, “How was it?”

I think about everyone I danced with. All the guys and girls I pulled out onto the floor, making them part of one big group.

“Fun . . .” I say.

But then I remember all the people I invited who never showed up. I find myself missing them, wishing they’d shared in the magic.

“. . . And sad.” I look out the window at the passing cars.

When I get home, I brush out my curls and take off my makeup. Surprisingly, I still feel pretty. Not enchanting, but pretty.

I’m about to turn off the bathroom light, when suddenly I catch sight of my eyes in the mirror. A few hours ago, I had no idea what it was that made them look different. Now it’s undeniable. Deep within their dark brown depths I see something I never have before—strength, bravery, confidence . . . and fire.

No matter what happens from here on out, there will be no more fear.

Thursday, May 31

It’s the afternoon of the last day of school. I sit next to Kenzie as we ride the bus home together one final time. The heat and humidity are almost unbearable.

She smiles at me, but I can see there are tears in her eyes. I speak the words on both our minds: “Gosh, it’s gone by fast.”

She laughs humorlessly and bites her lip. “Hey,” she says. “Let me see what everyone wrote in your yearbook.”

I open it up. There are signatures on every page, crammed for space in the margins. Kenzie whistles, impressed.

“Kenzie, do you ever feel like you’ll be forgotten?” I ask. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking, hoping that I did more than just survive middle school, but somehow left a mark.”

Her eyes open quickly. “You got a pen?”

“Yeah,” I say, pulling one from my backpack. She snatches it from my hands and leans over the seat in front of us. I watch her, openmouthed.

“Look away, Maya, stop making it so obvious!” She purses her lips and concentrates. “There!” She sits back, admiring her handiwork. “I’m done. . . .”

I lean over and see what she’s written.

M. V. & K. H.
BFFL

I laugh. “You’re not the only one who wrote on school property.”

She raises her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I wrote on the wall in the girls’ bathroom. In one of the stalls. My message is somewhere above ‘Screw You, Britney.’”

“Nice. What did you say exactly?”

“Something I hope is worth remembering.”

Kenzie rests her head on my shoulder as we look out the window at the cars going by. We both smile.

“We did it,” she says.

“Yes, we did,” I whisper, thinking back to the message I left in the bathroom stall—small and insignificant, yet the summation of the lessons I learned this year:

Real popularity is taking the time to love others, reaching out, and never being afraid to be the first one dancing.

REMEMBER THE GIRL IN PEARLS

Maya’s Final Popularity Tip

Popularity is more than looks. It’s not clothes, hair, or even possessions. When we let go of these labels, we see how flimsy and relative they actually are. Real popularity is kindness and acceptance. It is about who you are, and how you treat others.

What began as a quirky social experiment taught me more than I ever thought possible.

All the times that I felt popular were because I had reached out to other people. I remember helping Isabella on the choir trip, Valentine’s Day, sitting at all the different lunch tables, and the prom. If we forget that connection, we forget what it truly means to be popular.

Do I think anyone can do it? Absolutely.

But it’s not easy. You have to be strong. You have to love people for who they are. After you move beyond the girdle, the white gloves, and pearls, Betty Cornell really understood this principle.

Maybe you ask, what has this all got to do with popularity? The answer is that popularity depends on your ability to get along with people, all kinds of people, and the better you learn to adjust to each situation the more easily you will make friends. You will find that you can make those adjustments more successfully if you have yourself well in hand. And the only way to get yourself in hand is to know yourself, to analyze yourself, to turn yourself inside and out as you would an old pocketbook—shake out the dust and tidy up the contents.

We can bring about a lot of change on this planet (and in our s

chools) by digging deep, finding our best selves, and shining that light of compassion. If we become afraid of what may happen or worry what others may think, it’s easy to forget what’s most important.

The world is a very big place that needs more caring. Imagine what would happen if we were all truly popular. If we all truly loved.

This year I was laughed at, I was praised. I was ridiculed, I was complimented. I was left out, I was included. But through it all, I was fortunate enough to learn and experience the real definition of that all-elusive word.

I, Maya Van Wagenen, became popular.