Populazzi (12 page)

I was a good student. I was totally falling for Nate Wetherill.

Eventually Archer noticed. We'd be talking and I'd see Nate out of the corner of my eye and lapse into fantasyland, losing track of our conversation entirely. Sometimes Nate would look our way and nod or even give a sly half smile. I'd melt a little, imagining the look was for me ... but of course it was meant for Archer. Archer always caught me when I got dazey like that, and he'd scrunch his face at me, but I'd snap out of it pretty quickly. I didn't want to let him in on my plan until our friendship was rock solid again.

It took about two weeks.

"Archer," I said as we split a massive sundae at Friendly's, "we're friends, right?"

"Only if you let me have the peanut butter cup," he said.

"Done."

He plucked it out and took a bite.

"And friends help each other," I said.

"I believe that is indeed part of the
Webster's
definition, yes," he said after another bite of the candy—which looked really, really good.

"You're totally giving me the last bite of that, right?"

He pondered a moment, then handed it over. I popped it in my mouth, looked around to make sure no one from school was in earshot, then leaned across the table. "I want you to help me go out with Nate Wetherill."

Archer grimaced like I'd just told a bad joke. "What! Since when do you like Nate?"

"Shhh!" I looked around again to make sure no undercover gossip hounds were texting this information to the entire school. "I just do," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "He's ... you know ... hot. Like ... rock-star hot." Yeesh, that sounded lame when I said it out loud.

Archer thought so, too. "'Rock-star hot'?"

"Whatever. I like him."

"So, what, you want me to tell him or something?" Archer asked, digging back into the sundae.

"No! You
can't
tell him. Not until I'm ready."

"Ready? Ready how?"

Ugh, how was I going to explain this? I couldn't tell him about the Ladder. There was no way he'd ever understand.

"You spend time with Nate in jazz band," I said. "You know him. You know what he likes to talk about, where he likes to go, what he likes to do ... maybe even the kinds of girls he's into."

"Yeah. Not girls like you."

"Ouch. Blunt much?"

"You asked."

"I did. For a reason. That's why I need your help. I want to know everything about Nate. Everything he likes—especially everything he likes in a girl. Then once I know it, I can become it."

"Kind of
Fatal Attraction
meets
The Talented Mr. Ripley.
Classy."

"Archer..."

"What? You don't turn yourself into someone else to get a boyfriend. If it's the right person, it's supposed to just happen naturally. You meet, you click, you hang out..."

Did he not realize what he was saying? That's what had happened with us, and it had ended in disaster.

"I know, but I can't let it happen naturally with Nate. You said yourself that wouldn't work."

"Because you're not right for each other."

"Haven't you heard of 'opposites attract'?"

"Yes, but they attract as opposites, not because one changes for the other one. What do you even like about Nate? Aside from his 'rock-star hotness'?"

"I don't know yet! I don't know him! Maybe when I do, I won't like him, but I can't even
get
to know him if I seem like ... you know ... me."

"I think it's a dumb idea," Archer said.

This was going nowhere. Obviously, Claudia thought I had far better recruiting skills than I actually did.

But did I need recruiting skills for the Ladder? Sure, it would be easier to go after Nate with Archer's help, but I could conceivably do it on my own, right? The main reason I was telling Archer in the first place was so he'd know I was totally over him. That mission
had
to have been accomplished.

"Fine," I said. "You don't have to help me. I just thought it would be more fun that way."

"Fun? How would this possibly be fun for me?"

"It would be fun because it's a project, and we'd work on it together. Like"—I suddenly thought of exactly how I could make him understand—"like a musical! Think of it as
My Fair Lady.
You'd be Henry Higgins; I'd be Eliza Doolittle."

Archer thought for a moment. "How well do you know
My Fair Lady?
"

"I know Henry succeeds; he turns Eliza from a flower girl into a lady. You could do the same thing. It's a Cinderella story; you could be my fairy godmother."

"I do look good in a hoop skirt and wings."

"You see? You're thinking about it. You know it would be fun..."

"I know you have a twisted sense of fun."

"Come on. Let's do this together. You said you're my friend. You want me to be happy, right?"

Archer looked at me skeptically. "And you think Nate will make you happy?"

"I told you, I have no idea! But getting the chance to find out will make me very happy. Especially if I get to do it with you."

Archer thought a second, then he burst out in a perfect upper-crust British dialect. "'I'll take it! I'll make a duchess of this draggle-tailed gutter-snipe.'" "You're quoting, yes?"

"Yes." Archer looked me in the eye. "Let's get to work."

"NateGate" was the name of our plan. We gave ourselves three weeks to make my transformation: the last week of school before Christmas break plus the break itself. After vacation I'd return to school as the new me and take Nate by storm.

Studying to become Nate's girlfriend took far more effort than studying for any other test I had ever taken, including the PSAT. Even the reading material was more intense, or at least there was more of it, most in graphic novel form. I had to read
Watchmen,
which Nate had told Archer was pretty much his bible. I also had to read a slew of other graphic novels, none of which involved Spiderman, Batman, or any other superhero I had ever heard of. While some of Nate's favorite books had become movies, I was strictly forbidden by Archer to watch them. Or if I had seen them, I was warned to either forget them or simply feel unclean from the sullying experience.

Then there was music. Music was not surprisingly the most important thing in Nate's life, and he would pretty much discount any girl who was into music that he considered pop and shallow. Music pointed to character. I told Archer I was neither pop nor shallow, and I thought my music choices reflected that just fine.

Archer pressed a preset button on my car radio. An old Britney Spears song blared, and I sang along to every word, bopping in my seat. Archer just looked at me.

"Oh, come on!" I said. "Who doesn't sing along to Britney?"

Archer changed my presets, but radio stations are fickle, and since he didn't want me listening to anything objectionable, he recommended I avoid the radio entirely. Instead he reprogrammed my iPod. Nate's particular passion was emo punk, which included some bands I actually knew from their big hits, like Paramore and My Chemical Romance; and a bunch that I had never heard of, like Jawbreaker, Braid, and Sunny Day Real Estate. Some I liked, some I didn't, but I made my new iPod mix my constant soundtrack, and even read up on the bands so I could speak intelligently about them.

What would be more challenging than changing my interests would be changing
me.
I was way too happy, well adjusted, and goofy for Nate, Archer assured me, and to prove it, we secretly tailed three of Nate's ex-girlfriends. Honestly, we could have saved time and just tailed one. Archer hadn't lied. Nate had a type, and it wasn't me. While my mane of curls burst out of my head in every direction, Nate's girls had poker-straight hair, with bangs that hung low over one eye. The hair could be dark, blond, or a streak-dyed combination of jet black and green, but the style remained the same.

They also seemed to dress in uniform. They all wore tight jeans with black belts that were sometimes chunky and ornamented. Over that they wore close-fitted tees: concert shirts of bands I knew from my new and improved iPod. All three wore snug zip-up hoodies that looked vintage seventies. One wore black boots, the others flats. Their makeup had some minor variations, but all three of them seemed to use an entire stick of black eyeliner around each eye. Several bangles adorned their wrists, and their nails were painted black.

Then there was the attitude. None of the girls seemed particularly happy. Not that they were actively crying or moaning, but I tend to think if someone saw me going about my daily business, they'd get the idea that I was probably a pretty happy person. Not so much with these girls. Even when they were hanging in the halls with their friends, even when they were
laughing
with their friends, they had this air of despair, like the moment was just a blip in an otherwise endless sea of malaise.

Could I really pull that off?

"Okay," I told Archer a few days later, "I've got the music, I've got the graphic novels, I've got the look and the attitude ... or at least, I know what the look and the attitude are supposed to be. Do I need anything else?"

"A full brain transplant?" Archer suggested.

I threw a pillow at him. I was sitting on his bed as he packed. Christmas break had begun, and he and his parents were leaving in the morning for a trip to Chicago. Archer wouldn't be back until the night before classes started up again, so the rest of my training would be more of a correspondence course.

As it turned out, this was for the best. The biggest thing I needed to concentrate on now was my physical transformation. That meant tons of shopping, tiny dressing rooms, and honest opinions on whether this or that outfit pooched out my flab in horribly unflattering ways. For that, Claudia was far more helpful than Archer ever could have been.

Two days after he left town, she and I spent an entire day at the mall. We nailed a ton at Hot Topic: skinny jeans in several shades of black, some with added zippers, some pre-ripped, and one with skull designs that made me feel like a particularly ridiculous pirate. We also chose a few short black skirts with several different pairs of leggings. We got creative with the leggings: in addition to all varieties of black, we also found bright purple fishnets and a fuchsia zebra stripe. For shoes we went with one pair of boots, one pair of flats. We grabbed hoodies, tees, bangle bracelets, necklaces, earrings, arm warmers, and wrist warmers. The last two were important for the emo-chick mystique because, even if you've never considered cutting, it's apparently good to look like you have.

The day was insanely fun. It was like Claudia and I were playing dress-up. We'd both try on what were for us the most bizarre outfits imaginable, and even though we'd send several to the counter to be held, I didn't really comprehend that these would be my new wardrobe. Nor did I have any concept about how much I'd actually be spending—until I was rung up and I felt my head go swimmy. Claudia later told me that I grew so pasty white that I drew jealous sneers from several of the vampire wannabes in the store. Claudia slipped an arm around me to keep me upright.

"It's okay," she whispered in my ear. "You
never
use your credit card. Spread this over the past two and a half years and it's inconsequential."

She did have a point. My parents had given me a credit card on the first day of high school, and it was a matter of pride that I could count on one hand the number of times I'd actually used it. Still...

"We should just go," I said.

"What the hell! Are you kidding me?" asked the goth-faced girl behind the counter, who'd just spent an eternity ringing up my massive pile of merchandise.

"Give us a second," Claudia said. She pulled me a few feet away. I shook my head, completely overwhelmed by the absurd futility of what we were trying to do.

"We shouldn't be doing this. It's crazy. It's never, ever, ever going to work. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing; a guy like Nate Wetherill would never go for someone like me. He's totally out of my league."

"You mean he's better than you?" Claudia asked.

It sounded stupid when she said it out loud, but yeah, kind of, that's how it felt. I mean, I knew Big Life Picture he wasn't, but I didn't live in Big Life Picture. I lived in high school, and high school had a hierarchy that couldn't be ignored.

"Cara, ask me how things are going at Pennsbrook," Claudia said out of nowhere.

"Okay ... how are things going at Pennsbrook?"

"'Hell is empty, / And all the devils are there,'" she quoted.

I shook my head. "I don't know that one."

"That's okay. It's
The Tempest,
and I changed a word, but you get the idea. Pennsbrook is hell, Cara. I'm a Cubby Crew of one, with no chance to reinvent myself because I'm surrounded by zombieheads who made up their minds about who I was before
I
even knew. I would give anything to have the opportunity you have now. I'm just as interesting a person as the Supreme Populazzi—so are you—but
I'll
never have the chance to prove it."

Claudia's eyes bore into me, finishing her thought without saying it. I
did
have that chance. After ten years I was finally away from everyone who had labeled and categorized me and put me in a cubby—and now I was doing the same thing to myself.

"Pretty fancy speech just to get someone to dress like the undead," I said.

"Did it work?"

I walked back to the girl at the counter and handed her my credit card. "We're ready now."

Of course, Hot Topic was only our first stop in the day's transformational odyssey. From there we went to Sephora and grabbed several soft black eyeliners, thick black mascaras, smoky-colored eye shadows, and black nail polish. This time I didn't hesitate. I presented my credit card with a smile.

The next stop was more difficult. After we pulled into the parking lot, I had to close my eyes and breathe deeply to still my pounding heart. Claudia put her hand on mine. "You don't have to do this part, you know. It's okay if you can't."

I took another long, deep breath, then opened my eyes. "No," I said. "I want to."