My Awesome/Awful Popularity Plan (9 page)

I got up quietly and started sneaking toward the master bathroom.

Suddenly, I heard a voice that was not the yogi’s.

“Justin, I know you’re leaving.”

Busted. I turned around.

He continued. “Just because I’m relaxed doesn’t mean I’m in a coma.” He had on his disappointed-grandfather face. “Listen.” He got up and walked over to the TV and turned it off. “I wouldn’t feel so strongly if I hadn’t gone through the same thing with Mr. DelVecchio.”

That
again?

Mr. D, as everyone called him, was our ninth-grade English teacher. He was everyone’s favorite teacher, but Spencer loved him in a “You’re my teacher/​father/​best friend” sort of way. Mr. D had just graduated college and was
so
different from all the other teachers in school. He ate only locally grown food, played six-string guitar in a band, and was an actual pagan. Instead of assigning us written reports, he encouraged us to do videos, or PowerPoint presentations, or, in my case, musical numbers.

Mr. D was always willing to stay after school to talk about problems you were having in class or with other kids. It was great to have a teacher who was like a friend, but I think Spencer thought they actually
were
friends. It’s not like Spencer had
a crush on him; I just think he was a little needy because his dad had recently moved out. It must be hard having your parents not living together, and even though I tried to be supportive of what Spencer was going through, I couldn’t really identify with him because my parents were happily married in a creepy sort of way (I actually once saw them kiss with tongue). Mr. D’s parents were divorced or, as he said, “My old man split when I was ten,” so Spencer liked talking with him.

Spencer joined the debate team that fall, even though it meant he had to quit his favorite after-school club, the math team. (Please don’t get me started on how depressing it is that the math team is his favorite. It goes with my theory that every amazing person has one horrible, tragic flaw—for instance, Chuck hates the Twilight movies.) Spencer didn’t like debating, but it meant he got to spend time with Mr. D after school.

One weekend in December, there was a big debate competition between our school and Chaminade Academy, which was two hours away. Spencer’s dad was supposed to drive him, but he wound up having to stay home because his girlfriend’s kid was sick, so Spencer’s mom took him instead. When Spencer finally got to the tournament, Mr. D wasn’t there. Spencer asked around and no one knew what had happened to him. Spencer didn’t want to do the debate if Mr. D wasn’t in the audience, but his mom had to go into work and wasn’t coming back until the end of the day, so Spencer spent the whole tournament sitting in the boys’ room of Chaminade, sending
Mr. D Facebook messages. Mr. D never wrote back, and on Monday we had a sub for English. Finally, that afternoon, Spencer found out that Mr. D’s band got an offer to open for the Velvet Slashers and he had gone on tour. All the kids missed him, but Spencer was really upset. He was absent until that Thursday and didn’t answer his cell phone whenever I called. It was actually the only time we went three days without talking.

“What does Mr. D flaking and going out on tour have to do with me and Chuck?”

“Because you’re making the kind of mistake I made.” I looked at him, confused. He went on. “I wanted to be Mr. D’s friend so badly that I quit the math team.”

“Yeah, the most amazing decision you ever made.”

He shook his head, grandpa-style, and said, “The math team was me. Instead, I wound up being on the debate team and hating it and, after a few months, not even having Mr. D to coach me.”

I looked at him and thought,
And????

He sounded exasperated. “You’re obsessed with Chuck. When someone wants something that badly, they make the wrong choices and it never works out.”

He was so extreme. “What’s wrong with wanting something a lot? It’s called having a goal.”

Spencer put on his “I’m going to teach you about life” face. “Justin, the Buddhist religion teaches us to renounce all worldly things.”

“Chuck’s not a worldly thing. He’s a person.” I then added, “And I’m not a Buddhist. I’m Jewish.”

He shrugged. “One can be any religion, yet still practice the teachings of the Buddha.”

All right. I’d had it. Enough already with his spirituality. I had a boyfriend to get.

“Listen, Spencer. I know you think I’m setting myself up for a big fat fall but
I
don’t!” He looked like he was about to start listing how everything could blow up in my face, so I cut him off at the pass. “Let’s make a deal.…”

I thought for a minute and continued. “I need around six months for my plan to come to fruition, so April will be the cutoff month.”

Spencer nodded skeptically. “OK …”

“The deal is … we stay friends, but don’t discuss the Chuck/Becky situation. If I’m not one of the happiest kids in school come April, I’ll do a public dare.”

Spencer and I are always making bets like this. Last year he’d had it with my Broadway babbling and (stupidly) bet me that I couldn’t name all the Tony Award–winning best musicals for the last twenty years and, of course, I won. I made him do a public dare of trying out for the cheerleading squad. There was no gender specification on the posters announcing tryouts, but I knew he’d be the only guy in a sea of night-brace-wearing fourteen-year-old girls.

I was right, but unfortunately it backfired on me. The cheerleading coach thought Spencer was so good that the
school has now formed an all-male squad and Spencer is the captain! Of course I’m dying to join, but I’m too angry to admit that my dare boomeranged in my face.

If Spencer lost this one, my public dare for him would have to be foolproof.

“Justin, how will I know if you’re one of the happiest kids in school?”

Argh! Why must he always ask obvious questions? “My plan is to become one of the most popular kids. In the spring, you can ask the kids at school if they like me. If a majority of them say yes, I’m popular. Popular equals happy.”

Spencer shook his head and started to speak, but I spoke first. “If I’m not on top of the world, you can make
me
do a public dare at”—I needed to sweeten the deal so he wouldn’t keep undermining me for the next six months—“at the
Spring Fling
.” The Spring Fling was the big dance that literally everybody in school attends. If you’re gonna be publicly humiliated, that’s a surefire way to make sure that no one has to hear about it secondhand.

Spencer looked like he was pondering everything. “There are too many holes in this. Let’s say you become popular but aren’t happy, but you say that you are just so you can make me do a public dare.”

“Fine,” I said. “You get to decide!”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you always know when I’m lying.”

He immediately smirked. Every time I’ve tried to put one
over on him (“I haven’t had sugar in a week!” “I think I may be bi”), he knew I was lying before I finished the sentence.

I continued. “If you think I’m happy, I win. If you think I’m not, you win.”

He looked unconvinced. “I don’t know if I approve of public dares anymore. It seems a little like I’m trying to control the universe. And, if I actually do win and come up with some way to humiliate you”—he looked like he was trying to find the right words—“it’s as if I’m hoping to bruise your soul.”

Bruise my soul?
Why is everything such a big deal with him lately? Of course it’s embarrassing when you lose a public dare, but that’s the fun part! He was acting like we were planning a
Hunger Games
–style fight to the death.

I had to use all my lawyerly skills. “Spencer, it’s not controlling the universe if we’re
both
agreeing to enter a wager.” He looked vaguely convinced. I went on. “And if you win, instead of trying to make the dare
bruise my soul
, like making me come to school in my underwear, you can make it”—I had to think of a phrase he would buy—“soothe my soul. Like … forcing me to go to a yoga retreat.” Ironically, that would probably be more horrible for me than parading around in my underwear.

He thought about it for a moment, then put out his hand.

“It’s a deal,” he said as I shook it.

I smiled. I felt sure I was gonna win. I looked at Spencer. He looked like
he
knew he was going to win … but didn’t want to.

I LEFT SPENCER’S AND TOOK
my time getting to the food court. I wanted to take in the anticipation of my first date with Chuck. (And Becky.) I arrived at the mall thirty minutes early and decided to make a pit stop at one of my favorite stores, The Body Shop. I first feigned looking at the men’s stuff. I say “feign” because I never like the stuff they have for guys: It always smells like patchouli or other weird scents guys are supposed to like. After an appropriate amount of time elapsed (I could only take it for seven minutes), I then moved over to the ladies’ stuff and picked up a sample bottle of moisturizer. In a volume I knew the salespeople could hear, I proclaimed, “Oh … I think my mom would like this dewberry lotion. Let me see what it smells like.” I then proceeded to pour half the bottle on my arms and neck.

Mmm … delicious.

My next stop was The Nature Store, where I looked at
some cool books about weather. (I’m obsessed with hurricanes and tornadoes. Not the dying part, but the amazing winds and waves.)

Finally, it was time to go to the food court.

I had been waiting for one second when I saw Becky come up the escalator. I couldn’t tell if she put on makeup for her date or if her whole face just naturally got more gorgeous because she knew she was going to meet Chuck. In my case, instead of naturally looking like I had a perfectly made-up face in anticipation of meeting Chuck, I naturally formed an extra layer of upper lip sweat. I quickly wiped it with the back of my sleeve.

“JUSTIN!” Becky screamed, and ran into my arms. She gave me a quick kiss on the lips and hugged me.

“Mmm,” she said. “You smell so good!”

I smiled.

“Like my mother,” she continued.

I stopped smiling.

Her reddish gold hair swung wildly as she did a 007-looking-for-spies move. She obviously decided the coast was clear because she started talking softly.

“I can’t believe how well it worked. Everyone thinks we’re a couple.”

I gave her a thumbs-up. “You’re the genius. And I guess your father deserves some thanks for surprising you yesterday.”

“Oh!” she suddenly said. “That reminds me. I gotta call
him.” She pulled her cell phone from a pink holder and pushed a speed-dial button.

“Hi, Daddy! I’m not gonna be home for din-din. I’m having Japanese.” She paused. “Oh … Justin and some friends.”

Pause.

“Yes, you can talk to him.”

She handed the phone to me and put her hand over the receiver. “Don’t worry. Just lie.” Then she added, “I have to go to the bathroom. Be back soon!” And she walked off quickly, past the escalators.

“Hello?” I asked, not knowing where this was going to lead.

“Justin, my boy!” he said, with what can only be described as gusto. “I’m very glad you and my daughter seem so happy together.”

Seem so happy together? He only saw us together yesterday for ten minutes. But I went with it.

“Oh, we are, Dr. Phillips!”

“Quite frankly, I’d love it if some of your bio skills could rub off on her.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” I fake-laughed.

“Now, I know you also dabble in theater like she does.…”

Dabble? More like having a featured role in every show since fifth grade. I’m not counting my seventh-grade stint in the chorus, because I blame that on the phlegm attack I had during the audition due to Doug Gool’s harassment of the afternoon, which consisted of forcing me into a toilet stall and
smoking a pack of cigarettes in my face. “Well, it’s a little more than dabbling …,” I began.

“That’s because
you’re
actually talented.”

Wouch. PS,
wouch
is something Spencer and I made up, a combination of “wow” and “ouch.” It was appropriate because I was both happy for the flattery and shocked that he’d dish about his daughter with me. And yet … he did have a point. Becky was always amazing in class or during rehearsals, but every time she performed in public with a chorus solo or a part in a show, she was ter-ri-ble. Sometimes she’d sing flat and sometimes she’d sing sharp. And mind-bogglingly, during one small solo in
Oklahoma
, her last note was flat
and
sharp, or “flarp” as I christened it with Spencer. Her other vocal “skill” was either no sound coming out of her mouth in the middle of a phrase or simply cracking … and not just on the high notes. She would crack on any note, no matter the range. She sang “Memory” when we did
Cats
at our synagogue’s yearly Passover fund-raiser. Ouchy-wowy. I taped the whole show, and out of morbid curiosity, I listened to her again and again on my iPod for weeks afterward. I can offer a full analysis by heart:

(Music swells)

(flat)
Touch me!

(forgets words)
to
(flat)
leave me!