My Awesome/Awful Popularity Plan (8 page)

I COULD NOW DIVIDE MY
life into pre- and post-membership in Cool U. Everything was suddenly different. I had English right after lunch. Usually I sit at my desk before the bell rings, quickly reading Playbill.com on my phone to see the latest Broadway update. Today, however, I hung out with Oscar and Ted (!) and talked about the upcoming game (!!). Unfortunately, I don’t know anything about sports, so I wasn’t sure if the so-called upcoming game was baseball, football, or from what few terms I half understood, some version of polo played on an ice rink that’s melted. Regardless, I nodded a lot and pretended to laugh when they made fun of Chase. When I got nervous they were going to ask me a question I couldn’t answer about the sport, I did an imitation of Chuck dancing around and saying, “Look, everyone! I blocked a goal!” I don’t know if they laughed because there’s no goal in the game they were
talking about or because Chuck isn’t the blocker, but, regardless, I got a laugh and the bell rang.

Once class began, it was hard for me to concentrate because faking that conversation took so much energy. But I got my energy back walking through the hallway after class—it was exciting having
so
many people say hi to me. I was actually late for my next class because Savannah stopped to tell me some gossip about Julianne Taylor. Turns out, Julianne wasn’t really dating that guy she met on a teen tour—she’s never even been
on
a teen tour! Savannah wanted to plan how we could trip her up at her own game tomorrow at lunch. I was shocked at first because I thought Savannah and Julianne were great friends, but then I remembered Oscar and Ted making fun of Chase before English class. I guess all the cool kids are friends when they’re together, but when someone isn’t there they get talked about. I’m as dishy as the next (out-of-shape) fifteen-year-old, but the cool kids seemed to go further than I do.

I wondered why I’d want to eat at Cool U if it meant all those kids were going to say mean things about me when I wasn’t around, but I quickly dismissed that thought as Spencer-think and put it out of my head. Spencer believes that even light gossip is “bad for your chi” ever since he started “working on himself” this year. His newest thing is claiming he’d never say anything behind someone’s back he wouldn’t say to his or her face, but that seems waaaay too general for me. I see the effort it takes for him not to join in when I make
fun of how Pamela Austin sounds on her chorus solo. For the winter concert, we’re singing a medley of old American folk songs, and for some reason Pamela uses a crazy pseudo-Cockney accent on her solo. She’s constantly singing, “Oh, I come from Alabamer with a banjo on
me
knee.” Our conductor has corrected her so many times, but when Pamela gets into the music, she forgets and lets loose with her crazy accent. I do an amazing imitation of her and I can tell Spencer wants to laugh, but he just shakes his head instead. Lately he reminds me of my grandfather, who always shakes his head and has the same comment about every story in the news: “It’s different now. It’s all different.”

Speaking of Spencer, right after school, I texted him to see if I could come over. He wrote that he had a planning meeting for a rally against Walmart but he’d be home by four-thirty. Ever since I’ve known him, he’s been protesting against big corporations that don’t treat their workers fairly. When we were in sixth grade, he missed graduation so he could go to a “day of outrage” against Sam’s Club. I’ve always begged him to focus more on protesting things that I could benefit from. Like husky jeans. Why do I want the label on my jeans to reiterate what people are already seeing? They get it; I’m overweight. Why can’t they be renamed “thin jeans” so people can at least question whether they should believe their own eyes?

Regardless, after the final bell rang, I ran home to practice my violin. My mom was, of course, sitting in front of her computer when I came in.

“Hi, honey,” she said as she waved me over. “Look!” She pointed proudly to the screen. An enormous A in twenty-four-point font was on top of the “paper” she had emailed in last week for her American history course.

“Congratulations, Mom!” I gave her a peck on the cheek. I stood back so I could drop my bomb. “Actually, I have big news, too.”

She looked at me expectantly.

“I’m dating Becky Phillips!” I smiled broadly and waited, knowing she would need time to figure out how to react.

She kept looking at me with the same expression, waiting for the follow-up. I hated that I had to go through this charade with her, but I felt I had to tell her in case she ran into Becky’s dad. If he brought it up and my parents didn’t know anything, it would make her dad suspicious. But I couldn’t tell her about my crush on Chuck because she’d ruin any chance of something really happening. Here’s why:

Even though I’ve never officially told her that I’m gay, I’m pretty sure that both she and my dad know. I’ve just been too scared to tell them. I don’t think they’ll judge me for being gay (they’re good friends with a lesbian couple they’ve known since college, and my dad works with plenty of gay doctors), but I’ve kept my trap shut because it’s impossible to predict what situation they’ll turn into an opportunity to “help out.”

Some parents go on date nights or take samba classes; my mom and dad love to team up and “fix” problems.
Unfortunately, it always ends with them feeling fantastic, contrasted with the mortification of the person they’re helping. I’ve never spoken to my dad’s colleagues or friends directly about it, but I’ve seen it in action. One time, my dad overheard (aka eavesdropped on—where do you think
I
learned it from?) a nurse in the hospital cafeteria complaining to one of the physical therapists that she hadn’t had a birthday party since she was a kid. That night, he and my mom decided to plan an elaborate surprise party for her. For weeks, I could hear them giggling in the kitchen as they mapped it all out. My dad was able to get his hands on the nurse’s cell phone when she was on her rounds, and he invited friends from her contact list. That specific move wound up completely backfiring, but it led to a great acting lesson for me. When the nurse unwittingly walked into the party, I was able to study what two versions of surprise looked like: The jarringly shocked/vaguely happy surprise she wore on her face when people shouted “Happy Birthday” and the horrified/​trapped/​furious surprise when she saw her ex-boyfriend in the room.

The party wound up being fun for me because the food was great, but the nurse only got to enjoy one scoopful of hummus because she immediately fled when her ex-boyfriend started crying and begging her to give him “one more chance, baby.”

And, typical of my parents, they spun their failure into a success by congratulating each other for the next week and saying that “almost everyone had a
wonderful
time.”

Except the actual person who was supposed to have a wonderful time!

I, too, have been a victim of my parents’ horrible hobby. A few years ago, I made the mistake of telling my mom that I was sad Jeremiah Lavin hadn’t invited me to his birthday bowling party. She said she’d “help cheer me up” by taking me bowling on the day of his party, but she wound up purposefully choosing the same bowling alley as the party. When we got there, she walked right up to Jeremiah and said, in a singsong voice, “Oh, Jeremiah. I think you forgot to invite someone.” I didn’t have time to hide before she pointed at me. Jeremiah just stared at me blankly. She gave me a hug, handed me a wrapped present, and whispered, “I’ll come back to pick you up after the party. Have fun!” She winked at me and left. I wound up sitting by myself next to the rack of bowling shoes for the entire party and playing the electronic Uno game she had bought for me to give him.

My point is, if I told her anything about being gay, she’d want to know who I had a crush on; then she and my dad would pull one of their signature “helping out/scarring me for life” schemes.

“Becky?” she finally asked. “The girl?”

“Yes,” I said, and offered nothing else. I figured the less information, the better. Let her and my dad hash out whether I was going through a phase. I went up to my room and tuned my violin.

After I squeaked my way through the Mendelssohn E
minor concerto (my favorite), I hightailed it to Spencer’s house. I was so excited to tell him everything that had happened! Right when I turned onto his block, my phone vibrated.

I looked and I had an email from … CHUCK!

I couldn’t believe he was already asking me out! I opened the email and, not surprisingly, he wasn’t. BUT, he did write that he and Becky wanted to have dinner together and we should all meet at seven at the Japanese place in the mall.

Must. Control. Panting.

I’d never spent more than forty-five minutes (the length of a period at school) with him. This time, instead of being surrounded by other kids like we were at lunch today, it would be just him and me. (And Becky.) AH! This day was turning out to be the best of my life! I rang Spencer’s doorbell, and as soon as he opened it, I got the apology out of the way.

“Spencer, I’m sorry I didn’t sit with you and Mary Ann at lunch today.”

He smiled and said, “That’s OK.”

I then stood back and waited for the “How did you get invited to sit at Cool U?” barrage of questions. Instead I got: “I’m going to make us something to drink,” and he went into the kitchen.

Son of a—!

I was left in the foyer with an amazing story to tell and no audience! Where was the curiosity that had to have been consuming him all day? I walked into the kitchen with a hurt look and saw him making some chamomile tea.

“Oh, Justin, take off the sad face. I’m going to give you a chance to tell me how you got to sit with the so-called cool kids. I just felt I needed to be drinking something soothing while I listened.” He brought our mugs to the kitchen table and took a deep breath. “Go.”

I immediately launched into the whole story, and he was silent throughout it all. Hmm. I chose to believe that was because he was giving me his full attention and not because he was completely judging my conniving ways. Unfortunately, it was the latter.

“Justin,” he said with a sigh after I finished my story and he finished his tea, “you have to know that this will never work out. A life manipulated is a life
something something
. Trying to force something to happen is like
blah blah blah
. The universe has a natural rhythm that
jibber jabber …
”

I successfully tuned out the bulk of what he was saying because I was not interested in him raining on my parade, even if that is my favorite song from
Funny Girl
(not the movie or
Glee
version—the original Broadway recording).

He then did what I knew he was going to do: He suggested that I skip meeting Chuck and Becky and instead do a meditation DVD with him. Oy! If it wasn’t a DVD he was trying to get me to sit through, it was a book he wanted me to take home to read/do the exercises. FYI, any DVD that has a cover featuring a man with a white beard or any book that comes with a workbook should be avoided.

He saw my expression and tried to convince me.
“Meditation could be the key to finding out if you’re following your true path.”

He didn’t get it! “I don’t want to meditate, Spencer. I want to medi-
date …
Chuck!”

“Ow!” Spencer covered his ears. “That wasn’t even a pun.” I looked away, ashamed. “You see, Justin, even your amazing sense of humor is out of alignment because you’re trying to alter nature’s course.”

That
was
a clunker, but I felt flattered he called my sense of humor amazing.

He looked at me intently. I thought about his reservations. No matter what, it was true that this Chuck/Becky charade
was
going to be life-altering. The only problem was, it could change my life for the better or, if Spencer was right, screw everything up because the universe doesn’t like tricksters. Even though Spencer’s New Age babbling often gave me a headache, I knew he had my best interests at heart. Maybe meditating on it would help me arrive at the right way to proceed. As well as give my face the attractive “at peace” look that Spencer often gets after an hour of chanting.

I sighed. “Put on the DVD.” I figured I could watch the whole thing and still make the dinner date with Chuck. (And Becky.)

Spencer jumped up and turned on the brand-new TV he’d won in a raffle for the World Wildlife Fund.

I vowed to myself that this meditation DVD watching would be different. Normally, what would happen is this:
Spencer would talk me into watching a New Age DVD with him, I’d tell him to pause it for “just one minute” so I could tell him a quick story, and soon he’d forget about the DVD and wind up being my audience as my “quick story” segued into me lip-synching along with a Broadway CD. We sat cross-legged on his vegan rug, Spencer pushed PLAY, and the yogi began instructing us to breathe and clear our minds. After thirty seconds, I resisted the urge to tell Spencer who I think should host the Tony Awards this June (every Tony winner from the last ten years—how cool would that be?) and tried instead to focus on the yogi’s instructions.

Clear my mind. Clear my mind.…

Pouting mouth, white-as-snow teeth …

AH! Clear my mind. Clear my mind.…

Piercing blue eyes, straight nose …

Clear it!

Sandy-blond longer-than-average hair …

Forget it. It was no use. I kept clearing, but Chuck kept infiltrating … and, quite frankly, I liked it! I didn’t want to clear Chuck out of my mind. I wanted him there in residence. After ten minutes, I opened my eyes and caught a glimpse of myself in the glass of the cabinet that held the DVD player. Yowtch! I was decidedly unimpressed by what today’s nervous sweat had done to my hair. I made an emergency decision to tiptoe out so I could sneak into the bathroom and use some of Spencer’s mom’s grooming supplies. I wanted to get my hair looking less ’fro before my Chuck encounter.

Let’s see … open eyes, look slightly to left … now turn head … and … yes! Spencer looked to be completely out of it. Perfect.