Popular: Vintage Wisdom for a Modern Geek (10 page)

He smiles at me, obviously forgetting (or choosing to ignore) the earlier porcupine story incident. I smile back, trying to seem composed and normal. We talk for a while and he teaches me and some of the other kids card games. He really is gorgeous.

Finally, it’s time to go outside and light fireworks.

The sky is orange-gray with smoke. Dad stands next to me as someone begins a countdown.

“Ten!”
So makeup is over and I’m still not popular.

“Nine!”
The paint on my face was hardly noticed (except by Kenzie).

“Eight!”
But I think there’s been a greater change.

“Seven!”
It feels like I’m less afraid.

“Six!”
I’m deciding now to be more confident.

“Five!”
I’m going to be popular!

“Four!”
And it’s okay if I hit some stumbling blocks.

“Three!”
Because I’ll catch my balance and not give up.

“Two!”
And whatever I’m doing will be fantastic!

“ONE!”

All the couples at the party start kissing. Dad pulls me close into a big hug. I secretly watch Mr. and Mrs. Montero and I think that if I ever made out like they are, Dad would pop a blood vessel, and my lipstick would disappear before you could say, “Popularity, here I come!”

Fireworks blaze through the darkness, and gunshots echo through the night.

Happy New Year, Betty!

CLOTHES & WHAT TO WEAR WHERE

I’m the type of person who runs away during uncomfortable scenes in books and movies. Not the racy or scary ones, but the situations that make your skin crawl with embarrassment. You know, when a character lies about being terminally ill to get out of jury duty, only to have it tailspin completely out of control as celebrities and international media get involved? I cover my eyes or flee from the room, thinking, “I’m so glad I’m not her right now.”

But it’s completely different now that my life has become that uncomfortable situation.

I can’t leave.

Instead, I have to watch, however grotesque or painful it might be. I can’t blame any director for his lack of judgment. There is only one person accountable for getting me into this mess.

Her name is Betty Cornell.

Well, okay, it’s sort of my fault, too. I wanted to kick things up a notch for the new year.

But Betty’s the one who has instructed me to wear a skirt and pearls to school tomorrow.

How did I let it get this far?

Monday, January 2

Brunettes . . . can play exotic in tangerine tones, in reds, and in bright greens. They should be careful of yellows that tend to give their skin a sallow cast, but they can look to blues and beiges with success.

Mom and I bought some clothes at the thrift store based on the wardrobe Betty outlines.

School:

• Several basic skirts in neutral shades
  
• Long and short sleeved sweaters in classic colors
  
• 1 or 2 jumpers—a good dress-up-dress-down item
  

I looked up the school dress code, and it allows khaki skirts with brown and yellow sweaters. It didn’t say anything about jumpers. I’m not entirely sure what they are.

I still have to gather a few things.

Accessories:

• 2 or 3 pairs of nylon stockings
  
• 2 pairs of white cotton gloves—for dress-up
  
• 1 simple string of small pearls
  

In the absence of jumpers, this morning (the first day back after Christmas break) this is what I wear: a knee-length khaki skirt, my yellow polo shirt (sorry Betty, but some dress code rules I can’t change), and a brown, low-neck sweater. I stick my feet into the new (to me at least) black leather shoes. They have a square heel and a buckle on the top, like something a five-year-old would wear for a Thanksgiving pageant. I fasten Mom’s pearls at the base of my neck and stare at my reflection.

It’s literally painful. I look like someone out of an old movie, or a patient in a nursing home. Tears well up in my eyes, but I bite my lip. This is not the time for crying. This is the time to remember that I’m the protagonist in my own story, facing every challenge with grace and wit. I do one more makeup check, then walk slowly out the door. Mom wishes me luck, but I don’t answer. Instead I listen to the
clop, clop
of my heels on the pavement. They are the drumbeats of my execution.

 . . . . . . .

The reaction isn’t what I expected. I did get a few comments at lunch, but the whole experience feels somewhat anticlimactic. I wore a skirt for heaven’s sake!

As flabbergasted as I am, I realize that Joshua, the eccentric kid in reading, came back from vacation with a beard. My strange new style simply can’t compete with an overgrowth of middle school facial hair.

When I walk into science class, I do get some funny stares. One girl tells me I look fancy and my skirt is very . . . “Maya.” I thank her.

Many people judge us by our dress. Clothes, being such obvious externals, are readily remarked
[on]
, by anyone, and it is, indeed, often our tendency to think of our friends in relation to their dress. “That coat looks just like Mary” or “What a perfect skirt for Jane, just her type.”

My friend Dante stares at me and walks over. It’s nice to see him again, considering the last time we interacted was when he wrote
Maya is flatulent.
Ew! on my notebook in permanent marker a couple of weeks ago.

“So,” he says quietly, looking down at the pencil sharpener so that the teacher can’t see him talking. “What’s the big occasion?”

“Huh?” I say, like the straight-A student I am.

“Are you having pictures taken today?” he asks.

“Er, no. I’m just wearing the skirt . . . for fun!”

He laughs obnoxiously, and I’m reminded of how much he assumes the role of a big brother. The teacher looks up, pausing the lecture on physics that has meandered off to extreme cases of amusement park deaths. She raises her eyebrows.

“
You’re a wild and crazy person
,” he whispers to me sarcastically as he returns to his seat.

“I know,” I say.

Meanwhile, Mr. Lawrence isn’t back yet. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m afraid to ask. What should I do?

Tuesday, January 3

Many kids at my school wear designer jeans and wouldn’t be caught dead in Walmart-brand clothing. Even though we live in a poor community, they seems to find money to dress well. The required uniform still leaves room for self-expression and individuality, especially when the Volleyball Girl’s polo shirts have giant designer names all over them. You can tell when someone spends money on their clothes.

Being well dressed does not mean dressing expensively or lavishly. Many girls look well and fashionably dressed on very little money—they know how to pick and choose and they have sure sense of what’s appropriate.

Thanks, Betty.

 . . . . . . .

Today I’ve decided to step it up a notch, try something a bit more challenging. As I get on the bus this second day of my clothing experiment, the lower half of my body shrouded in an ankle-length khaki circus tent, I’m surrounded by whispers and giggles. I miss Kenzie. If she wasn’t lounging about in London, I know that she’d mock me too. But at least she wouldn’t let anyone
else
mess with me.

By second period nobody looks me in the eyes. How can the length of your skirt affect your popularity so much? Be careful what you wish for: I wanted a bigger reaction and I got it. It’s not a “Wow, she looks fantastic” reaction. It’s a reaction that makes my face turn beet red and wish that I could crawl under a rock. I walk into choir and notice some boys in the class are watching me. Their eyes drift from my lopsided breasts to below my waist. They don’t stop looking. I shift from one foot to the other, extremely uncomfortable. This has to count as some kind of sexual harassment. One of them mutters something I can’t hear, and they all laugh.

“Come on you guys, that’s just mean,” says one girl.

I try to look dignified but I feel hopelessly lost. Finally my mind rests on an image of the women who fought our government for the right to vote. I did a report on the Suffrage Movement for History Day two years ago. They wore long skirts. They changed the world. I sit up a little straighter.

Even if I’m the only one in school covered by billowing material, I can manage.

The final bell rings and I make my way out the doors leading to the buses. I trudge through the muddy grass, lifting up my skirt. A teacher catches my eye. I smile but he frowns at me.

“Do you belong to . . . one of
those
churches?” he growls.

“N-n-no,” I stutter.

“Oh good,” he says, clearly relieved. “I just saw the long skirt and assumed.”

Off he goes on his merry way, leaving me stunned. Betty Cornell was right. People do judge you on your clothes.

“Guess what, Maya,” Mom says when I get home. “I went downtown today.” Downtown Brownsville has Chinese import shops, bars, strip clubs, craft and clothing stores. We usually go there for the
ropa usadas
(used clothing stores) before Halloween. They sell clothes by the pound.

Mom pulls some items out of a plastic bag: panty hose, imitation pearl bracelets, and every size of plastic pearl earrings imaginable. She passes the bag to me, and I look inside.

I blink several times, blinded by sheer terror. This can’t be happening.

I see a pair of cotton gloves . . . and a white faux-leather clutch purse.

This is going to have to be part of my Sunday outfit. Along with one other element:

Don’t forget that there are occasions when you must wear a hat. Church is one place that you cannot go bareheaded.

I already know which hat I’ll wear. It’s a little straw boater with a white ribbon that ties in a bow at the back. It started life as part of my suffragette costume, but I figure that it works for this purpose as well.

I wonder what Ethan will think?

Wednesday, January 4

An eighth grader died today at another middle school in our town.

Some people say that he took his own life. But I wonder if he anticipated what would happen when he brandished the gun he’d brought to school and refused to put it down.

All the other kids on campus were put on lockdown. They heard the shots go off, three in all. Each one aimed at the boy. The students hid under their desks thinking they would die.

But no, only the fifteen-year-old eighth grader was killed.

I wonder what it felt like, to look down at the body of a child lying in the hallway of a school. And to realize that the thing clasped in his hand was nothing more than a pellet gun.

As I lay crying in my bed, I think about how little my fashion worries really matter.

Thursday, January 5

As I climb up the steps to the bus, I see two purple-and-black tennis shoes under the seat. I leap to hug my friend.

“Kenzie! You’re back! Oh my gosh, how was it?!”

She flinches.

“Well, are you going to answer me?” I ask, plopping down on the seat next to her.

“Where are your
normal
shoes?” she asks in her dangerously low voice.

“In the locker . . . why?”

“You’re wearing
pearls 
. . . and a
sweater 
. . . and a
skirt
 . . . and
stocking
s.”

Actually they’re panty hose, but I’m not about to tell her that. She’s already twitching.

My full 1950s outfit

“Yep,” I say.

“Why?” Her voice is almost a whine.

“For fun!” The response is almost second-nature now.

“What the hell, Maya? You’ve become a lady!”

“Not all ‘ladies’ dress in 1950s clothes,” I say.

“Exactly! You’ve become an
old
lady! Old, old, old! You look like a teacher! You could be Ms. Thomson’s twin! Her twin! Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?”

“Why? Is someone going to make fun of me or beat me up?” I tease.

“Both!” she snivels dramatically and shakes her head. “I- I don’t even know who you are anymore!”

“Oh, Kenzie.” I smile. “I’ve missed you, too.”

Friday, January 6

“You’ll never believe what I picked up at the Louvre!” Kenzie says, pulling out a big book from her backpack. “It’s pictures of all the paintings they have there. See, look, there’s
The Virgin of the Rocks
, by Leonardo da Vinci.” She flips the page. “And oh, I remember this one!” she says. “But, I don’t get why the artist thought that two naked women pinching each other’s nipples was interesting.”