Class Favorite (14 page)

“Sara, if something's going on at school, you should talk to your principal about it. Defacing school property is a crime.” She dried her hands on a clean towel, then dropped it on the counter. I couldn't believe she didn't get anything I'd been saying. Just a month ago she was paying too much attention to me—now she wasn't even listening.

“Mom, someone put a bunch of
tampons
on my locker—the
outside
of my locker.” Suddenly I didn't have to try to force the tears—they came freely and fast. “And the whole school saw it. Do you know why someone did this to my locker? Because everyone knows about the period roses that
you
humiliated me with. The worst part is my own best friend did it to me. Now the only person who will talk to me is Kirstie, and you won't let me do even that. I just want to get out of here—can't you understand?”
I turned on my heel and ran to my room, but careful not to slam my door—God forbid she tacks on another two weeks of groundation.

I did a belly flop onto my bed, buried my face in my pillow, and cried. Mom came to my door and knocked softly, gently calling my name. I didn't answer, and she left me alone. I could tell by the tone of her voice she was sorry, but I didn't care—she
should
feel bad.

I knew crying wasn't going to get me anywhere. If I wanted to make changes in my life, I would have to make them myself—I couldn't rely on Kirstie to take me to Aspen or on my mom to let me go. Sitting around and waiting for my name to magically appear on the Class Favorite ballot wouldn't work. It was all on my shoulders, and I had to figure a way to make things right. After too much time wasted, I got down to work.

With the theme music to
Rocky
playing in my head, I sprang out of bed and gathered up all my magazines, old and new, even the ones under my bed from almost a year ago. I got my Class Favorite Qualities list out of my messenger bag and smoothed it on my desk. I pulled my yearbooks from the last two years off my bookshelf. I opened up my spiral notebook, the magazines and yearbooks, and spread them all before me on the carpet.

I got a pair of scissors and some blank paper, and started flipping through the magazines. I cut out articles like “Love
Your Beautiful Self . . . Now!” for advice on confidence and ones titled “Find Your Foxy Physique in Five Fast Fitness Fixes” for help on my outward appearance. Then I went to the back of the magazines, where I knew all the fashion pages were, and cut out looks and outfits I thought I needed. I cut out pictures of Haden Prescott from the tabloids and taped them to my wall. I had one picture of her at the Oscars, and another shot of her from
Demon's Lover
. I pasted them side-by-side to keep reminding myself that anything was possible.

In addition to all the qualities on the Class Favorite list I had made with Kirstie, I knew there was one thing I needed to accomplish: I had to get them to come to me. I could talk to all the popular people I wanted—and I intended to approach them often—but they'd never see me as worthy until they actually liked me. Once they started talking to me in the halls, calling me on the phone and inviting me to their parties, I'd know I'd made it. So, I decided I needed to concentrate on three things: I had to look good, act confident, and be more social. These were the basics of any nominee, I realized—both Academy Award and Class Favorite. You had to put yourself out there and make people notice you. You had to charm them. And I intended to do just that.

Next, while Mom was at the grocery store, I took my yearbooks to Jim's Grocery, a small convenience store near our house, and made copies of pages with former Class Favorite
nominees and winners, then pasted their pictures above my desk. I wrote below them certain vitals:

ROSEMARY VICKERS

HAIR
: THICK;
MAKEUP
: MINIMAL;
CLOTHES
: CHIC;

DEMEANOR
: COMPOSED

DATING HISTORY
: ERIC GREENE (ABOUT 4 MONTHS), JEREMY DAHL (TWO MONTHS?)

NICE
?: ALWAYS!

FRIENDS
: TONS! WHO DOESN'T LIKE HER?!

HOTNESS
: 9.5

X FACTOR
: SHE'S UNDERSTATED? (ACK!)

 

Then, after pasting pictures of great outfits from magazines onto blank pages and taping them next to the CF photos, I went to my closet and dumped just about everything onto my bed, shoes onto the floor. I picked through salvageable items, and put the rest into a huge Goodwill pile.

I stood back and looked at the mess I had made, then I inspected myself in the mirror: my hair (straight, thin, dirt brown, and a boring, nonexistent cut); my clothes (jeans with a denim shirt—could I be any more generic?); my body (okay for now, but was my belly starting to stick out too much?). I shook my head at my reflection, disappointed. I thought about the kinds of girls who could get boyfriends in a heartbeat:
Rosemary, with her thick, wavy hair the color of exotic fruit; Kayla, her perfect little body and so-confident attitude. I looked at the Class Favorite pictures and stats I had made: grades, beauty, friends. Glancing at myself in the mirror again, I noticed that my arms looked a little flabby. I quickly knelt down to the floor and did eight pushups, the most I could do. I stood up, looked at my reflection again, and sighed.

I had a long way to go.

11

Find Your Inner Flirt

You're finally ready to—subtly—let Lucas know you think he's totally hot. While you're both in the lunch line, you:

a) wink at him, smile, and walk away.

b) briefly make eye contact before grabbing a Snapple and bolting to your table.

c) get behind him in line, tell him you like his jeans, and ask him, with a hint of coy, why the two of you haven't hooked up yet.

 

I stepped through the front doors of Bowie on the first day after spring break feeling nervous but excited. My hope was that the entire school had forgotten about the incident with my locker, and the flowers. Surely they'd created better memories in Cancún or wherever. So I didn't have great travel tales to dazzle everyone with. I had done something more important over the break: I had laid out my war plan, and now I intended to execute it.

I was finally taking my goal of getting on the Class Favorite ballot seriously. It was the only way to rise above the misery that had become my life—Sara, Plain and Hysterical—and I had just over a month to do it. Also, with Arlene out of my life and Kirstie out of state, I'd been really lonely, so working on my plan at least gave me something to do. The only person to talk to was Mom, who had tried her best to make the grounding up to me after Elisabeth told her just how bad the locker incident had been (I had confessed it all to Elisabeth late one night). Mom said she had thought I was overreacting just to get her to let me go skiing. When she found out the truth, she felt terrible and even made cupcakes with pink icing like when I was five years old. They tasted unusually good, maybe because period number two of the Life of Sara Thurman was creeping up. Welcome to my spring break.

Other than indulging in the occasional sweet treat, I obsessed over my goal of becoming a Class Favorite by telling myself I was a confident, mature woman who could win any award I put my mind to. And if that didn't work, I also came up with looks and outfits to show people like Jason how spectacularly . . . er . . . spectacular I was on the outside. Still, it wasn't the only thing I thought about. There was the little fact that Arlene and I hadn't spoken for weeks now.

I sort of missed her. Okay, I
really
missed her, even if I was furious with her. Why, why, why did she have to do this to me? Had
her softball friends convinced her I was a loser hanger-on, and that was her way of getting rid of me? Couldn't she have come up with something a little less . . . public, if that was the case?

On the first day back, I wore one of the new outfits I had begged Mom to buy me. I made my case for new clothes by (only slightly!) fibbing that I had outgrown a lot of my stuff. She finally gave me a small allowance, but insisted on giving Elisabeth the same amount of money
and
made her go shopping with me. Elisabeth only gave me a smirk as a sign of her appreciation.

Of course, it wasn't much money—we're not rich—so Elisabeth and I had decided to go to Clothestime since they're cheap and were having a sale.

“You better swear not to tell anyone we came here,” Elisabeth had said as she cut the engine on Mom's Civic. “This is just as bad as being caught at Kmart.”

“Please. You're not the only one with a reputation, you know,” I had said.

I wore a red-and-black plaid skirt that came farther above my knee than the school dress code allowed and a cap-sleeve top that was tighter than my mom would allow. When I left the house that morning, I wore my new yellow button-up sweater over the tight top; once I got to school I tied it around my waist. I also had on a pair of knee-high fake leather boots, just like the ones Rosemary Vickers had (except hers were probably real
leather). The only thing that wasn't perfect was the red Rudolph Christmas socks complete with plastic eyes I had to wear since the laundry needed to be done, but they were safely tucked into my boots. The whole outfit made me look smart, but hot. I was sure of it—Haden Prescott would highly approve.

I felt great walking through the halls, full of confidence. It was like everyone was looking at me differently, I could just feel it. I walked regally, with my head high, barely noticing people as I passed. I wanted to be elusive, just like in an article titled “Six Sly Ways to Push His Hot Buttons” I read in
Cosmo
.

Things started off well—Coach Eckels caught up with me in the halls before I even hit first period.

“Thurman!” he hollered as I closed my locker and started toward English. “Come here a second. I want to talk to you.”

At first I thought,
Great. What'd I do now?
Was it my too-mini skirt?

“Yes, sir?”

“Listen, I'm in a bind and need some help. What are you doing after school today?”

“Nothing, I guess. I mean,” I quickly added, thinking of my scholarly Class Favorite qualities, “probably some homework.”

“The boys got a basketball game after school against Sam Houston. I need someone to take stats for the game. There's only a couple more games left in the season, but we'll need someone for those, too. I'd need you there for the warm-up before the
game and to help put equipment away afterward. You'd be in charge of keeping all the stats for the boys so we know who does good and who's not pulling his weight. You interested?”

I couldn't believe it. Had my sister finally pulled through a favor for me? And it was all happening on the day I was wearing my best new outfit. As a stat girl in this outfit, people—especially Jason—were going to notice me.

Then someone came up behind me and knocked the backs of my knees, making me almost crumple to the ground right there in front of Coach Eckels. Before I could turn and see who it was, Coach bellowed, “Camry! What in the hell are you doing?”

When I turned around, I saw a clearly mortified Shiner frozen in his imitation-Timberland boots.

“Apologize to this lady right now,” Coach demanded, with a stiff finger pointed at me.

“Oh . . . uh, sorry, Thurman,” he said, looking down at the floor.

“Camry, I swear,” Coach muttered. “Get on to class, now, boy.” Coach Eckels sighed, shaking his head. Then he turned back to me. “So, you want the job?”

“Yeah, sure. Yes, sir,” I corrected. “What time you want me to be there?”

 

Normally I would have run and told Arlene first thing. Instead, I did my best not to get too down about her, because
after talking to Coach Eckels, I felt great. Not only would I get closer to Jason, but it just seemed like heaven—being around all the guys, sitting on the bench, flirting with them in my knee-high boots. This was going to be a huge turning point for me. I mean, this was paradise.