The (Totally Not) Guaranteed Guide to Popularity, Prettiness & Perfection Page 4

  Unlike many tall girls with unignorable hair, Hope didn’t try to hide. She had spoken with confidence. The result? Miss Orden looked like she had died and gone to Language Arts heaven.

  When that class ended and we went to second period, Sara officially introduced me to Hope and also to Manda, who happened to be one of the, uh, developed girls I mentioned earlier. The four of us went to Spanish together taught by Señora Epstein (NOT pronounced ep-STINE or ep-STEEN but ape-stay-EE-en, which I guess is supposed to sound more Spanishlike). The four of us pretty much stuck together all day, through Pre-Algebra, Physical Science with Mr. Todd (better known as Mr. Odd because there’s a definite spaciness about him, like he’s inhaled the chemical contents of too many test tubes), Social Studies, and Gym, but I’m not really going to get into all that right now because everything that led up to my seventh and eighth periods is kind of blurry.

  Lunch and Woodshop were doozies.

  Chapter Nine

  Lunch was seventh period. However, preparations for lunch began much earlier in the day. Lunch was pretty much the only period we could decide who we wanted to sit with and where. According to Sara, the importance of these decisions could not be underestimated. So much so that she’d persuaded Hope—the artistic one, apparently—to draw up a map of the cafeteria based on what Sara had learned during her extensive research on the subject.

  “The round tables in the center of the room are our best bet,” she said during a lull in Language Arts.

  “Best bet for what?” I asked.

  “Staking our claim.”

  Next period, in Spanish class, Sara picked up right where she had left off.

  “We can watch the Hots at the long tables without getting in their way.”

  “The Hots?” I asked.

  “The popular crowd,” Sara explained. “And we won’t get mistaken for the Nots at the square tables near the kitchen.”

  “The Nots?” I asked. “The unpopular kids?”

  Sara closed her eyes and nodded serenely, like I was the rookie ninja and I had just bested my master.

  Finally, in Social Studies, Sara further explained why the round tables were ideal for our group. Sara really likes explaining things.

  “There’s room for four to six people, which is the perfect number because it’s exclusive without being snobby.”

  At which point our Social Studies teacher, Miss Hutch, confiscated the cafeteria map and joked, “That’s not the kind of geography we’ll be focusing on here.”

  The class laughed, but Sara did not. This was serious business.

  She expressed her annoyance on the way to the cafeteria.

  “Omigod! Choosing the perfect lunch table is probably the most important Social Studying I’ll do all year,” she said in a huff. “You’ll thank me for doing my research.”

  And when we stepped through the double doors and experienced the cafeteria firsthand, I knew she was right. The cafeteria was like the riot of the school bus multiplied by, like, a bazillion. The everything-goes state of the lunchroom was even more shocking because of the strict assigned-seat structure that had come all morning. We were frozen in place, not knowing where we’d fit in amid the chaos.

  Fortunately, Sara knew just where to go. She was our fearless leader and took on the role with gusto.

  “OMIGOD! RIGHT THERE!” she yelled, pointing to an empty round table. “THAT’S OUR SPOT!”

  Two mousy girls were timidly drifting in the general direction of the same table. I knew one of them from elementary school: Dori Sipowitz. She was plain and soft spoken, and I knew that Sara would consider her a classic Not.

  “QUICK! BEFORE THEY STEAL IT!” Hope squealed.

  Sara and Hope rushed for that round table as if it were the last lifeboat on the Titanic. Manda and I quickly followed. We all slapped down our backpacks and victoriously claimed the table as our own.

  “Woo-hoo!” Manda cheered. “High fives all around!”

  Sara held up her hand first. I followed. Then Hope. Only when all hands were in the air did Manda officially offer us her congratulations. It was strange how Manda led the celebration of the round table even though Sara and Hope had done all the work to get it. But I didn’t think about it all that much because I was too busy feeling guilty as I watched Dori and her sorry-looking friend slink away. Having accepted their fate, they steered themselves toward the square tables near the kitchen.

  I guess this is where I should mention that Dori Sipowitz and I used to be friends.

  Okay. Best friends.

  When we were in single digits, Dori, Bridget, and I were an inseparable trio. I was the one who came up with the name 3ZNUF, which we all thought was incredibly clever in elementary school. Our motto?

  “3ZNUF! 4EVA!”

  On the weekends, 3ZNUF would gather at Dori’s house because Bridget’s mom was always mad at her dad and my mom always complained too much about the noise and the mess. We’d play make-believe games like School (I was the teacher, they were the students), Bank (I was the teller, they were the customers), or Store (I was the cashier, they were the shoppers). I can’t even fathom how many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I must have eaten in Dori’s daisy-yellow kitchen. Bridget’s mom was usually too preoccupied to make lunch for us. And my mom tried too hard to fancy up our PB&J by buying plum preserves or lingonberry jam. When I was little, all I wanted was plain old grape jelly.

  And I guess that sort of became the problem with Dori. She was the friendship equivalent of plain old grape jelly. Dori was by far the most reliable of the three of us. She never forgot to give me the red Skittles and Bridget the yellow ones. She never hoarded the sharpest colored pencils. She never borrowed an American Girl doll and forgot to return it. We could always count on Dependable Dori.

  As single digits turned into double digits, Bridget became obsessed with Hollywood gossip and the hottest fashions. I really got into books, especially my sister’s old paperbacks, dozens of novels about gorgeous sixteen-year-old twins who—based on the cover art, anyway—must have reminded Bethany of herself. Dori just kept being Dori. She was content to keep playing School and Bank and Store. But Bridget and I… well… we just weren’t anymore.

  Dependable Dori turned into Predictable Dori. Predictable Dori turned into Boring Dori. And, yes, I was the one who started calling her Doring behind her back, but Bridget didn’t exactly resist. I’m also not proud to admit that I was incredibly relieved when Dori’s family moved into a bigger house across town during the summer before fifth grade. Across town might as well have been across the galaxy. By the time Bridget and I graduated from sixth grade, 3ZNUF was a faded memory.

  Faded, not forgotten. Definitely not 4EVA. There was still enough of something there between us to try to save her from sitting at a Not table.

  “Uh, maybe we could invite them to sit with us,” I suggested. “There’s room.…”

  Hope raised an eyebrow. Sara blinked in disbelief. Manda batted her eyelashes and locked her arm in mine.

  “Jess! You are the sweetest girl ever for taking pity on those two poor Nots,” she said in a sugary tone. “Isn’t she?” She didn’t bother looking to Sara and Hope for verification. “You really live up to your last name!”

  Then she headed toward the lunch line without discussing the matter any further. We would not be inviting Dori and her friend to sit with us. That was that.

  As we followed after Manda, Sara took it upon herself to explain the Unbreakable Laws of Cafeteria Line Cutting.

  “The what?” I asked, unsure I had heard her correctly.

  “The Unbreakable Laws of Cafeteria Line Cutting,” Sara said. “Obey or die.”

  This system had been passed down orally from student to student through the generations. In that way it was kind of like the epic battle songs by the ancient Greek poets—only with even greater threat of bloodshed if the laws were broken.

  The Unbreakable Laws of Cafeteria Line Cutting

  1. 8th-Grade Hots can cut
everyone, anytime, anywhere. The hottest 8th-Grade Hots (Hot Plusses) often bypass the line altogether by making 8th-Grade Hot Minuses purchase their lunches for them while they hold court at the long tables by the windows. Particularly promising 7th-Grade Hots can be tapped for lunch-buying duty, which is considered a great honor. It’s kind of like an apprenticeship for popularity.

  2. 8th-Grade Hot Minuses can cut everyone except the 8th-Grade Hots who actually buy their own lunches.

  3. 8th-Grade Normals can cut any seventh grader. They can be granted temporary Hot Minus line-cutting privileges if they are wearing something really, really cute or have just scored the winning point in a big game. (This often indicates that the Normal is on the verge of a promotion to Hot Minus status.)

  4. 7th-Grade Hots can cut all seventh graders and all Nots.

  5. 7th-Grade Hot Minuses can cut 7th-Grade Normals and all Nots.

  6. 7th-Grade Normals can cut all Nots.

  7. 8th-Grade Nots can cut 7th-Grade Nots.

  8. 7th-Grade Nots can’t cut anyone. Ever. If they don’t brown bag it, they don’t eat at all.

  Why wasn’t this on my sister’s IT List? This was practical information I could use, if only to avoid getting trampled by a ravenous eighth grader who wouldn’t let anything—or anyone—get between him and his sloppy joe sandwich.

  “What are we?” I asked as an eighth-grade boy with, like, a full-grown mustache went straight to the front without any objection.

  “It’s only the first day so we all start out as 7th-Grade Normals.” She paused long enough to make eye contact with Dori Sipowitz and her hapless friend who had gotten in line before us. “Unless you’re obviously a Not.”

  I watched with discomfort as Sara boldly pushed ahead of the two girls. Manda didn’t think twice about staking the spot in front of Sara.

  “Such a sweetie!” Manda said to no one in particular. “Such a doll!”

  Manda’s words were kind, but her tone was not. And I had no idea who she was addressing. Sara? Me? Dori and all the “sweeties” and “dolls” she was cutting on line? Like those bogus terms of endearment were supposed to make us feel better about what she was doing? I awkwardly stood in front of the trash can, wringing my hands and wondering what to do. I was thinking that Hope had the right idea by bringing her own lunch.

  “Jessica!” Sara snapped. “Come on! What are you waiting for?”

  I was waiting to grow a backbone. To stand tall and strong enough to say, Hey, I know that everyone cuts everyone and that’s the way it’s been forever and nobody questions it, but I don’t think it’s fair and even though Dori and I aren’t friends anymore we do have a history together and I’d feel like a total jerk if I cut her—

  Dori nudged me, interrupting my inner monologue.

  “Go ahead,” she mouthed. She didn’t look at me though. She kept her eyes on the dimes in her penny loafers.

  Dori Sipowitz has been wearing dimes in her penny loafers since preschool.

  Grape jelly.

  Sigh.

  Grape jelly.

  Dori had barely stepped aside when Sara grabbed the hem of my shirt and pulled me toward her and Manda.

  “This is where we belong,” Sara assured me.

  “For now,” Manda said. “We’ll be 7th-Grade Hots before we know it!”

  I honestly didn’t know how I felt about that. I still don’t.

  Even with my slight social edge, there were only about five minutes left in the lunch period by the time I got my French fries and grilled cheese sandwich. I had just sat down when Sara called our attention to something going on behind me.

  “Omigod! Who is that?”

  “Whoever she is, she’s getting a personal escort from the boys’ football team,” Hope observed.

  “Whoever she is, she’s on the fast track to Hot!” Sara exclaimed.

  Manda put on her glasses to get a better look. She wrinkled her nose at whatever she saw.

  I turned around to see for myself. A bunch of boys wearing identical PJHS Football T-shirts had joined Burke Roy on what was now Bridget’s Seven-Man Welcome Committee. After the scene on the bus this morning, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that all this fuss was being made over someone whose most distinguishing characteristics—until yesterday—were a braid down to her butt, a mouth full of metal, and hives. Wow. What a difference a day makes.

  Bridget spotted me right away. A look of relief washed over her face.

  “JESSICA!” Bridget shouted loud enough for the whole cafeteria to hear.

  She ran toward our table without so much as a glance in the football team’s direction.

  “You know her?” Sara asked incredulously. “Who is she?”

  “That’s Bridget,” I said. “My best friend from Pineville Elementary.”

  “You didn’t mention that your best friend is totally gorgeous,” Sara said.

  “She’s not totally gorgeous,” Manda replied dismissively. “She’s, like, sorta gorgeous.”

  “That makes no sense,” Hope piped in. “By the definition of gorgeousness, nothing can be just ‘sorta’ gorgeous.…”

  “Then she’s not gorgeous,” Manda sniffed just as Bridget breathlessly reached the table.

  By her own definition, Manda is also not gorgeous. Pretty but not gorgeous. And it’s a kind of pretty that required effort. Like, there’s no way she woke up with hair so pin-straight and shiny. And she must have done a lot of research before she found the exact color of eyeliner to make her gray eyes pop. And she was obviously aware of how to make the most of her, um, most notable assets. Let’s put it this way: If what I wore was considered a training bra, Manda’s was a two-time world champion.

  Bridget crashed down beside me and crushed me in a hug.

  “I feel like I haven’t seen you since forever! I kept hoping you’d show up in one of my classes, and I’m so relieved we have lunch together. I’m starving!”

  She opened up her lunch bag, tore off the plastic wrap on her turkey sandwich, and unselfconsciously started eating. Bridget was oblivious to the reaction she was getting from all the boys… and the girls at my table… and everyone.

  “I got totally lost on the way to the cafeteria,” she began in between chews, “and then those nice guys on the football team offered to help me find my way, but they have a worse sense of direction than I do because somehow we ended up on the totally wrong floor on the totally wrong side of the building and…”

  As Bridget babbled on, Sara’s eyes got wider and wider and wider while Manda’s eyes got narrower and narrower and narrower. Hope’s expression was unreadable. In fact, I’m not sure she was even listening.

  Bridget took the final bite of her sandwich and washed it down with gulps of iced tea. She had just started in on her bag of pretzels when she paused and looked across the table.

  “Sheesh! You must think I’m, like, the rudest girl ever!” She brushed pretzel salt off her hands. “I’m Jess’s best friend. I’m Bridget!”

  “Jessica has told us all about you,” Hope replied with a slight smile.

  “No, she hasn’t,” Manda replied without a smile.

  “There’s always more to know about everyone,” Sara replied with the biggest smile of all. “Like, where did you get that adorable skirt? I love it!”

  Bridget lit up. “I was just about to ask you where you got your adorable skirt!”

  Sara’s and Bridget’s adorable skirts were exactly the same. So Sara told Bridget where she bought her adorable skirt and then Bridget told Sara where she bought her adorable skirt and—WOULDN’T YOU KNOW IT?—it turned out that they had bought their same exact adorable skirts at the same exact store. In fact, the other three girls were all wearing clothes that not only looked like they came from the same exact store, but from the same exact rack. More than ever was I baffled by what my sister was thinking with “Wear something different every day.”

  I swear Manda read my mind.

  “Jessica, I’ve been meaning to ask you
all day. Where did you get your shirt?”

  “It’s vintage!” I said proudly, having prepared the answer in advance.

  “It’s…” Manda puckered her lips. “Um.” More puckering. “Interesting.”

  Interesting.

  Interesting is… good? Right? Interesting is the opposite of boring. It means I’m not grape jelly. I’m lingonberry jam!

  Right?

  Sigh. I really don’t understand fashion.

  Talk turned to the last period of the day, and Bridget was thrilled to discover that she and her adorable skirt would be joining Sara, Manda, and Hope for Home Ec. She was not thrilled when she found out that I wouldn’t be joining them but not as unthrilled as I was about this situation.

  “Woodshop?” Bridget recoiled. “What happened to Family and Consumer Sciences?”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I replied. “I specifically requested not Woodshop.”

  “You really need to get that switched,” Sara said, echoing the warning from homeroom. “Pronto.”

  “Don’t expect much from your guidance counselor,” Hope said.

  It was the first comment she had directed at me all day.

  “Uh, okay,” I replied, unsure of whether I even had a guidance counselor, let alone where that person might be located in the building.

  “They hate changing around schedules,” Hope added. “Which is lame because it’s their job.” She sounded surprisingly bitter about this, like she was speaking from experience.

  Then the bell rang and the whole room sprang up from their respective tables to make the mad dash to last period. Only Hope held back a bit.

  “Have you seen Mr. Poodle?” Hope asked.

  “Mr. Poodle?” I said, giggling at the name. “Who’s that?”

  “The Woodshop teacher,” Hope said. “My brother warned me about him. He said I should avoid the Woodshop hallway at all costs.”