October

HAIR

Beautiful hair is about the most important thing a girl has. . . . pretty hair can always overcome the handicap of a not-so-pretty face. . . . Your hair can make you or break you.

My straight, dark brown hair is thick and grows very quickly. I’ve never had bangs because of the extremely bad ancestral cowlicks that run so deeply in my DNA. Although I’m not picky about how my locks are styled, I can’t stand it when they’re down and touching my neck or face. That’s a challenge I need to face this month. I usually have long hair that reaches down my back, but over the summer Mom took me to get it cut by someone a friend knew instead of the usual cheap chain salon (Dad noticed they didn’t sterilize their equipment). Anyway, the woman only spoke Spanish and Mom struggled to explain the length I wanted. Needless to say, I came home with much shorter hair than I’d intended. Now it’s about shoulder length and my ponytail is only five inches. I don’t mind it, though. It makes for less effort in the styling department.

My fashion statement for the last two years has been a low, messy ponytail with pencils jabbed through it. Volleyball Girls and members of the Football Faction have been known to steal them without my knowledge.

I know. It’s sad.

Betty Cornell says, “If you keep your hair healthy, if you change the style often enough, you can count on it that you will be known as a girl with beautiful hair.”

I’m shaking like a leaf, I’m so nervous. I sure hope she’s right.

Saturday, October 1

This is the first meeting of the NJHS (National Junior Honor Society, a service group that I joined because it will look good on my college application), and Mom is driving me.

“You look so cute,” she says.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“No, really, you’re adorable!”

“Shut it,” I beg.

Mom smiles at me and I glare a hole through the dashboard. We’re stuck behind an old woman with Mexico license plates who’s going twenty miles under the speed limit.

“GO!” Mom yells. She has this funny way of shouting at people so that no one outside the car can tell that she’s angry. She grins at them and speaks without moving her mouth. I personally think that she’d make an amazing ventriloquist.

Finally, we pull up to the public library where the meeting is being held. She kisses me on the top of my parted head. “Have fun!” she says, and drives away in her minivan. I walk toward the double doors and see some NJHS members are waiting outside for their friends to arrive.

“Wow, Maya. Pigtails. Wow.” A girl with her hair perfectly rolling down her shoulders stifles a laugh.

Don’t let yourself become a fuddy-duddy about fashion. Don’t stick to a pompadour when it has gone out of style. Don’t keep on wearing your hair the same old way, when the passé styles make you look old hat.

I wince as she starts giggling and pulling on the two stubby growths sticking out the sides of my head.

Maya’s Popularity Tip

When you’re wearing an embarrassing hairstyle and people have started to notice, it’s always safest to have a sudden, urgent, need to pee.

I immediately make a beeline toward the bathroom, and from there escape to the children’s section of the library where the other students are waiting. We’re helping with Hispanic Heritage Month activities. I recognize Catalina from choir and walk toward her. She’s trying to make an 1840s Mexican soldier hat, but the black construction paper contraption more closely resembles an upside-down ice-cream cone.

“I like your pigtails, Maya.”

“Thanks.”

“Wanna go outside and try to convince people to come in and make hats and crafts and stuff?”

I nod and make my own hat. It’s a lot harder than it looks. I finally get it to hold together but find that it won’t fit over my head because of my pigtails. Aw man, I guess I’ve got to take one for the team. I gleefully pull down my carefully planned hairstyle and slide my hat on. Catalina and I walk outside.

“Nice dunce caps,” an old man shouts as he walks through the door.

I won’t even try to contradict this statement. Maybe it’s because my dunce cap has slipped down over my eyes and I am momentarily blinded.

Monday, October 3

“Well, it seems that after years of being Maya, you’ve finally dropped the stupid ponytail.” The girl behind me in algebra sneers. “Just look at you with your hair down.”

I guess this girl proves Betty Cornell’s statement true, “Hair . . . is what we remember most about a person.”

At my school, most girls wear their hair down; boys use gel and style a small ridge toward the front of their heads (it’s actually quite comical). How your hair looks is generally a good indicator of your place on the popularity scale. Those with the messiest hair are at the bottom. Those who spend hours on the appearance of their “do” are at the top. I think the longest I’ve ever spent on my hair is five minutes, if that tells you anything. When someone puts more effort into their hairstyle, it automatically shows that they are looking to increase their status. This feeble plea for recognition seldom goes unnoticed. In fact, most people overflow with compliments until the new hairstyle gradually becomes part of their identity.

I smile and nod at the girl behind me, whose comment I decide to take as a flattering remark. It’s hard to focus, though, because I’m about ready to explode. I can hardly stand the tickle of hair on the back of my neck. I try to listen to the teacher.

“Now, class, we’re going to be called into an assembly about student conduct.”

The girl behind me continues playing with my hair, patronizingly petting me like some mange-ridden hamster.

“So, will all people with the last names N–Z kindly walk to the auditorium?”

I get up with all the Nuñezes, Sanchezes, and Vasquezes. We shuffle to the cafeteria, which the teachers all call the auditorium because it sounds a lot fancier than “the big, funny-smelling room with ugly green-and-white tile and strange food spots all over.” I look for somewhere to sit and I see Catalina. As I walk over to her, a member of the Football Faction crashes into me, and I lose my balance. I stumble onto the bench next to Catalina only to fall over backward. Fortunately my foot-and-a-half thick backpack breaks my fall. And Mom says that I should stop carrying so much.

“Oh my GOSH! Maya are you okay?”

I smile from my spot on the ground and murmur, “Just fine.” I heave myself up, already knowing I’m going to be bruised.

But by this time, Catalina has moved on and is talking with some of her other friends.

I smooth down my hair. There’s no way I can be popular with hair like a wild woman. Ooh, that sounds like Betty Cornell. Maybe I’m starting to channel her essence in my day-to-day life. I run my fingers through it and I notice there’s a dried-up chunk of food nestled there. Ewww.

The assistant principal waves his arms, signaling for us to quiet down so that he can start. He lumbers to the front of the room and begins his slide presentation in a monotone voice. He goes on and on about our uniforms: a yellow polo shirt with a white undershirt (any other color might promote gang violence). Then he changes to a slide titled “Hair.”

HAIR

He goes on: “No body piercings will be allowed, other than on your ears. Because they promote gang violence.”

“What if they’re on parts of your body that no one sees?” Carlos Sanchez yells out. I hide my face. Really? But he looks like he’s actually serious.

The assistant principal just shakes his head and clicks to the next slide.

HORSEPLAY

“Sir! Sir! What if it’s not on school property?” Carlos Sanchez yells, jumping up and down.

“Like I said, we can’t really do anything about that.”

Carlos Sanchez stands on the table and pumps his fist in the air, “Woo-hoo! Raspa stand after school! Raspa stand after school!”

There is a chorus of boneheads who all shout in agreement. The teachers don’t even try to reign in the chaos, but instead just wait the remaining few minutes until the bell rings and dismiss us to our classes.

Tuesday, October 4

In an attempt to boost school spirit, it’s “Crazy Hair Day” today, but I’ve decided to just wear my hair in low pigtails instead of something outrageous. I wouldn’t want to promote gang violence.

After the bell for third period rings, I escape to the library. Two students are sitting at a table. They look like troll dolls with their blue-and-orange hair standing up in the air. They are talking about someone from our campus who’s recently been “relocated” to the alternative school for “troubled kids.” In my computer class last year I sat next to a new kid who’d transferred from there. He was rough looking with short, uneven hair, like the barber who trimmed it was drunk. His name was Miguel, but I secretly called him “Motormouth” because he never stopped talking. He told me that he’d been arrested three times, that his life was pretty much a boring waste of time, and that the best place to hide marijuana was in the heel of high-top sneakers. He was sent back to the alternative school one week later.

After he left, the police came to school with drug dogs. They had our class (fourth-period Technology) leave our stuff in the room and line up against the wall in the hallway. The dogs were directed to smell each one of us and our bags.

Coincidence? There’s no such thing.

Maya’s Popularity Tip

When the boy sitting next to you in class kindly informs you that the best place to hide pot is in the heel of high-top shoes, you might want to think twice about wearing that style. You don’t want to give people the wrong impression.

Thursday, October 6

When it comes to shampooing your own hair, plan to save at least one night a week for the job. Most teens prefer Thursday night because it puts their hair in shape for the week-end.

It’s Thursday so I grab shampoo and conditioner out of the bathroom cabinet. They’re called Strawberry-Tangerine Smoothie. I personally don’t want my hair to smell like dessert, but it’s the only thing I can find.

Begin your shampoo by brushing your hair thoroughly. Then tub your head well in water, apply the shampoo, and scrub. Work up a good lather and make sure that it penetrates every square inch. Now rinse out the first lather and start afresh. With the second lathering you should have removed all the dirt. Then rinse your hair three times. With the third rinsing, you should hear the hair squeak as it runs through your fingers.

When I finish, Mom helps me by putting my hair in rag curlers, which Betty recommends for long hair, because they “will not split the ends, and they are lots more comfortable to sleep on.”

“Wow, your hair isn’t greasy at all,” she says, wrapping my squeaky-clean tresses in the curlers.

“I would hope not,” I say. She smiles.

I lean my head against her knee. She has to sit on a chair to do my hair because I’m as tall as she is now. Growing up is strange. When I was little, I couldn’t wait to get older. Now I’m not so sure. It’s hard realizing that your hand is larger than your mother’s. It makes me sad.

“You look just like those girls on Little House on the Prairie with your hair like that. You’re so adorable.”

I groan. Adorable isn’t popular. Adorable is what you call a Chihuahua that gets carried around in a purse.

I tell Mom this. She laughs, gives me a hug, and assures me that I don’t look like a handbag dog. She always knows what to say.

My rag curlers

Friday, October 7

I wake up early so I can take the curlers out of my hair.

I slowly unroll them, twenty-four in all, and see that they’ve made little ringlets all over my head.

OH NO! I LOOK LIKE A BROWN-ISH SHIRLEY TEMPLE!

I can’t go to school today, I just can’t.

 . . . . . . .

At school.

With little curlicues all around my head.

Looking like a lollipop-licking five-year-old.

Or a poodle.

Fortunately Kenzie isn’t here today, so I don’t have to face her judgmental gaze.

“So, Maya, what’s up with your hair?” someone behind me asks. “It’s super-cute. What’s the special occasion? Boyfriend?” She’s a Band Geek, a seven on the Popularity Scale.

“Maya, with a boyfriend? Don’t be stupid,” her friend whispers.

I think of my beloved crush Ethan who hardly notices me, even with my new outrageous hairstyles. Who am I kidding? This girl is right.

Carlos Sanchez just looks at me, raises his eyebrows, and doesn’t say anything.

That itself is criticism enough.

Later I find out that next Friday is picture day! I have to see what Betty Cornell says about how to prepare for such an event. This could end up being a very big factor in my rise to popularity. My hair’s going frizzy just thinking about it.

Tuesday, October 11

Brodie and I are doing impressions of ranchera singers. We swish our hair back and forth to the radio. We even write a song using all the Spanish words we know. It’s sung to the tune of “Suddenly Seymour” from the musical Little Shop of Horrors.

El Casa Burrito

El Taco y Queso

La Mamá, El Papá

Soy papas con huevos

ROUGH TRANSLATION:

The House of Burrito

Taco and Cheese

Mom, Dad

I am potatoes with eggs (or testicles)

It’s obvious my Spanish is lacking.

Mom wanders into my room and lies down next to me. We talk and laugh for a while. I sing her our freshly composed song in Spanish.

“You almost got the el’s and la’s right.” She laughs.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, everything in Spanish is either masculine or feminine. I explained this to Brodie just this morning when we were waiting for his bus.”

“You gave my little brother the masculine/feminine talk while waiting for the bus?!”

“Yah, we had a spare moment. So I told him about how it all works.”

I’m a little horrified. This can’t be what I think it is, can it? “We aren’t talking about the same masculine/feminine thing, are we? Brodie still thinks girls pee standing up.”

Mom realizes what I mean and smacks me with a pillow. I laugh.

“Brodie, get in here!” Brodie comes in, red-faced and embarrassed, obviously aware of what we’ve been discussing. “Tell me, do girls pee standing up?” I ask.

“I don’t think that I should hear this,” he mumbles after a few seconds of silence.

Mom shudders. She and Dad have been putting off “The Talk” with Brodie for the past forever. “Look, kiddo,” she says after it’s clear he’s confused. “Guys have outdoor plumbing, girls have indoor. If we tried to pee standing up, it would just dribble down our legs.”

I laugh so hard at the expression on Brodie’s face that I fall off my bed.

Wednesday, October 12

Brushing is essential for beautiful hair. Not just lackadaisical brushing, but good stiff get-in-there-and-dig brushing. . . . To be adequately brushed, hair should be stroked at least one hundred times each night.

After I can no longer feel my arm and my hair is smooth as silk, I curl up under my covers. Dad comes into my bedroom. He kisses me good night and his hair falls all over my face. My dad has been growing out his hair for the last two years. Mom’s not crazy about the style, but understands that he’s doing it not only for his war re-enacting gig, but also because he wants to fully revel in his hair while he still has it. A last hurrah. He says that his students used to come to him for advice because he was always dressed properly in a tie with hair trimmed short. He seemed like a father figure.

Now, he tells me, they come to admit their wrongdoings. I think it’s because, with his hair grown out to his shoulders all curly and his unshaven sympathetic face, he kind of looks like Jesus.

Thursday, October 13

Kenzie and I are walking to our first-period classes. She pauses and takes a long look at me. “Okay, dude, what the hell is up with your hair? Seriously, I mean this is weird, even for you!”

This morning Mom helped me put my hair in two tiny buns on either side of my head. It looks like mushrooms are sprouting out of my skull. “I was going for the Princess Leia look,” I mutter.

“Who the hell is that?” Kenzie asks.

I roll my eyes. Kenzie has never watched Star Wars. Or eaten applesauce. Or seen Sesame Street. A deprived childhood if I’ve ever seen one.

I walk into algebra and sit down. Anna looks over at me and smiles. “I like your buns, Maya.”

The guy next to her lets out a really loud, obnoxious laugh.

She goes red and looks down, mortified.

 . . . . . . .

By sixth period my hair has started to fall out of the buns, so it looks as if my mushrooms are growing fur. I go into the bathroom to see what I can do about it, but every single sink has three or four girls (all fours on My School’s Popularity Scale—Less-Popular Girls Who Dress Seductively) trying to see their reflections. Their jeans look as if they cut off the circulation to their legs, and their glowing red bras (visible beneath their yellow polo shirts) match their thickly applied blush. I wait a few minutes in the vain hope that someone will leave, but when one girl starts curling her eyelashes and plucking her eyebrows, I know that’s not going to happen. I head to class, fuzzy fungi and all.

All of our Thirteen Colonies map assignments are on a table outside the door to history. Carlos Sanchez is playing with mine, pretending it’s a spaceship.

“Don’t touch Maya’s project,” says one boy.

Carlos Sanchez looks down at me. “This is your project?” he asks. I nod. “It looks delicious,” he continues. “I wish that I could get inside it, if you know what I mean.” He raises his eyebrows. I assume he thinks he’s sexy, but in reality, it makes him look like he has a forehead twitch.

“Do you have the answers (twitch, twitch) for the homework?” he asks me.

“I’m not giving you the answers.”

“Dumbass,” he says, tossing my project down on the table.

That seems just a little ironic.

 . . . . . . .

Picture day tomorrow! I am so excited!

One of the most-looked-at pictures any teen has taken is the picture for her school yearbook. This picture need not ever cause any qualms if you give some thought to it. . . . To a photography appointment wear a white tailored blouse . . . Wear no jewelry, except perhaps a strand of pearls.

Mom bought me a pretty white blouse at the thrift store earlier today. But as far as the necklace goes, I don’t know where to look. I decide to check out Mom’s discarded 1980s jewelry box. She’s bound to have something.

Yep. I find the pearls within ten seconds of looking. I’ve never been forced to view so many pairs of giant, abstract earrings before. I’m a little worried about the horrible mental scars that may afflict me later in life. My personal favorite is a bulky, puce-colored, plastic bracelet that opens with a hinge. Mom got it in Paris. Of all the things to buy in Europe. There are no excuses.

I wash my hair and carefully set out my clothes for tomorrow. Mom helps me put my locks in curlers (looser this time) and even lends me some shiny lip gloss.

I think that tomorrow will be amazing.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Maya’s Popularity Tip

Make your yearbook picture memorable because, as my science teacher says, “Your grandkids have to laugh at something.”

Friday, October 14

My friend Dante straightened his curly black hair this morning, but apparently it was a catastrophe. So during lunch he sprayed it with water and now it’s back to normal. I could have warned him about that.

When taking school pictures, Betty Cornell advises the following: “Above all, do not change your hairstyle before your appointment—such experiments may turn out too disastrously, and you don’t want to go down in history looking like a freak.”

During science, we go to the gym where the photographers are waiting. Most of the boys take their pictures with mug shot–serious expressions and refuse to smile. I wait anxiously, practicing how Betty said to stand: my shoulders twisted slightly, a three-quarter view of my face, keeping in mind that whatever is closest to the camera will appear largest (which is why I try to get my left side closer, because of some lopsidedness in the booby department).

Absently, I turn to Dante and ask him if I look okay.

“To tell you the truth, Maya, you’ve always reminded me of a murderer in a horror film. In fact, that’s the reason I don’t argue with you. I’m afraid you may eat my face off.”

Well, that’s a fantastic thing to say to a self-conscious girl right before she is about to have her image preserved in the most permanent of ways.

“Van, Van, Wag, Wajen, Vagin, Wogen.” A large guy with a handlebar mustache reads off a clipboard.

I step forward, not even bothering to correct him. I’m used to people slaughtering my Dutch surname.

I position my body correctly and give a big smile. I see a flash and my vision goes black.

I hear, “Uh . . . let’s try that again . . . Without the glasses.”

I swipe the lenses off my face, still dazed. The flash catches me off guard. I’m sure I look hideous.

“I, I wasn’t ready. . . .” I stammer, but I’m shuffled over to the side by mustache-guy. I feel defeated and frustrated, but I hold my head high. I’m pretty sure that’s what Betty would want me to do.

Monday, October 17

Mom has gotten up early every day to help me change my hair. She’s totally awesome. Today she teased it into a really high side ponytail, but not a single person at school has said anything! At church yesterday, Ethan didn’t notice my hair, either. But that’s not surprising, seeing as how he seldom looks my way. I wonder if I will ever see the day when a boy likes me the same way I like him.

I contemplate this situation while shelving books in the library during lunch. Leon comes in like he does every day, lifting my spirits.

“Hi, Maya.”

“Hi, Leon.”

“You look beautiful today.”

“Thank you.”

He goes off to find a book on wolves. Ms. Corbeil catches my eye and motions me over.

“Maya, you know how Leon comes in every day and tells you that you look beautiful?”

I nod.

“I just want to make sure it doesn’t make you uncomfortable. I know that because of his autism he says things. You know a lot about autism because of your sister and well . . . if it embarrasses you or makes you uncomfortable, please tell me. I will talk to him about not being so . . . devoted.” She smiles sadly. “It’s obvious that he has a thing for you. So if he ever says anything inappropriate, let me know.”

I stand there looking at her and then at the mirror on the wall. I see a little girl with a side ponytail holding a stack of books close to her. I know Leon has autism. And I’m grateful that Ms. Corbeil is so protective of all of her students in her library. But suddenly I feel my stomach drop.

I walk back to the shelves. Leon looks up at me. “Hi, Maya.”

“Hi, Leon,” I say.

“You look fabulous,” he says. “You look gorgeous. You look beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

I close my eyes. I realize why it hurts. I was too blind to consider that maybe the only reason he thinks I am beautiful is because of his autism.

Wednesday, October 19

During after-school choir practice all of the Volleyball Girls are crying. Their normally perfect hair looks disheveled and their makeup is smudged. The teacher announces that Julina, one of their own, was called home during eighth period because her dad had died suddenly of a heart attack.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” one sobs.

“He was like my dad,” whispers the girl who’s crying the hardest. “He was one of my favorite people.”

I stand there, feeling out of place. Without doing anything, Julina has a new identity. She is the girl with the dead father. I understand because much of my life I’ve been the girl with the dead sister. Ariana died when I was six, on the ninety-ninth day of her life.

Two-year-old Brodie and I stayed at our neighbor’s house while Mom and Dad rushed Ariana to the hospital. I swear I knew the exact moment when her damaged heart stopped beating. I was jumping on their trampoline when in midair, time froze. I could feel it. She was gone. That was the moment I went from being a bold, confident first grader to the anxious and fearful introvert that I am today.

At school as everyone whispers and sobs around me, I wonder how this moment will define Julina.

Brodie, Ariana, and me

Thursday, October 27

In the spirit of the Halloween season, I feel it appropriate to share some very odd observations about my neighborhood:

  • We can see the smoke from Matamoros, Mexico, as it burns in the drug war.
  • I’m pretty sure our neighbor buried a body in his front yard. He’s always watering the same patch of green lawn.
  • My little brother has a groupie next door. She follows him from the bus and stands outside our house, even when no one’s home. The kid’s only five years old.
  • I suspect there’s a drug dealer also; there are way too many expensive cars and late-night visitors. For my own safety I dare not say who or where.
  • There are dogs that bark all night long. Except during earsplitting ranchera karaoke parties. It’s a lose–lose situation.
  • A week ago, I saw a life-size nutcracker in our neighbor’s garage. I still have nightmares.
  • Spandex. A lot of Spandex.
  • “Speed bumps” here are known as “humps.” Our house is right behind a “hump” sign.
  • Every night a loud burst of static-filled music is heard. But there’s no need to be alarmed because it’s just the corn-in-a-cup man trying to sell you something to eat.
  • A free-roaming chicken wanders the streets all day. I’ve named him Little Sandoval.

Friday, October 28

“So, you’re really doing this?” I ask Mom from my perch on her bathroom sink. She’s just put on an oversized T-shirt that she got way back in her previous life (before kids) when she and Dad were dirt-poor documentary filmmakers who traveled the world. She brushes out her graying hair so that it hangs around her shoulders.

“Oh yeah.” She speaks with confidence, but I notice how her voice shakes just a little bit. She’s never dyed her hair before. But it’s Halloween, so if it goes badly (bleached or bald), she can simply make it part of a costume. “Thousands of women dye their hair,” she says for the third time in fifteen minutes. “It can’t be too bad.” She takes a deep breath and reads aloud, “CAUTION: DO NOT USE THIS PRODUCT TO COLOR EYELASHES OR EYEBROWS. WILL CAUSE BLINDNESS.”

Yikes.

Thirty minutes later Mom is looking at herself in the foggy mirror.

“Uh-oh,” she says. “I think I dyed my ears.”

“That’s just fantastic,” I say.

She plays with different hairstyles, obviously pleased. She digs around in one of the drawers until she finds a stubby brown makeup pencil. “I’m going to be Frida Kahlo for Halloween,” she says, drawing a unibrow on her forehead.

“What about the mustache, Mom? Frida Kahlo had a mustache.”

“You’re right.” she laughs, sketching hairs on her upper lip.

“AHHH! You look like a MAN! This is so wrong!” I yell. “Make it stop!”

She chuckles in a deep voice.

I bury my face in my hands.

I hear the sound of the front door opening. Dad calls a cheerful hello, and right away, I can tell he’s up to something. He clomps up the stairs and appears in the bathroom with a wicked smile on his face.

His hair is tied back behind his head.

Mom has facial hair like a dude, and Dad has a ponytail like a chick.

Dad stares at Mom, and she looks back at him. They run to each other and kiss. I flee the room. It’s all so disorienting. There are just some things you shouldn’t see your parents do.

Monday, October 31

For Halloween this year I’m going to be Betty. Not Betty Cornell, but a very different, yet also influential, Betty. Betty Suarez, aka “Ugly Betty,” is a brilliant, confident, braces-wearing Latina, with a unique style and powerful sense of self. Mom and I watched all four seasons of the show together over the summer. We’re big fans.

We found a frilly purple blouse, a pink flowered skirt, hideous crocodile-print flats, green butterfly socks, and some red-rimmed glasses at the thrift store. At my last orthodontist appointment I even changed the rubber bands on my braces to blue. Brodie is going as Harry Potter, dressed in Mom’s old graduation gown. He smiles, showing off his dimples. His light brown hair is almost as long as Dad’s, but more California surfer dude. Goodness gracious, he’s adorable.

By Brownsville standards, we live in a nice subdivision, so it’s a good place to go trick-or-treating. Our neighbors consist of full-time nurses, teachers, FBI agents, suspected drug dealers (as previously mentioned), and at least one registered sex offender (inspiring the relocation of our bus stop). Tonight should be interesting.

It’s quickly getting dark as Brodie and I trick-or-treat. He holds my hand as we walk up to the next house. I catch a glimpse of myself in a car window. It looks like my head is being swallowed by an ugly brown alley cat. I ratted and teased my hair out for my costume. I suppose it’s fitting that my coifed curtain call is the largest configuration yet.

Overall, the evening turns out rather well. Brodie and I collect loads of candy and see some of his friends decked out in pink curly wigs. I even get leered at by some incredibly drunk neighbors. That’s never happened to me before. I guess being noticed is the first step to becoming popular, even if it’s by inebriates.

“One of the most important things for any teen to realize is that she is always on display,” says Betty Cornell. I may have to watch myself though. If I keep following in her footsteps, maybe someday I’ll become so popular that everyone, sober or not, will have to stop and stare. But for now, I’m moving on to bigger and Betty-er things!

My family’s Halloween