Class Favorite Page 5

  “No.” Of course, I immediately thought of Jason. He wasn’t the most popular guy in school. In fact, he used to be pretty much like me—neither here nor there. But since he made the basketball team, he was hanging out with people like Richie Adams and Sean Hurley, upping his status. I wondered why hanging out with Arlene, who was somewhere in the middle of the social food chain, hadn’t done much for me.

  “Then what about a crush?” Kirstie asked, plopping back down on her stomach.

  “Well, actually . . .”

  “Aha! You must tell!”

  “It’s embarrassing. You don’t even know him.”

  “I might. Who is he? Class president? Quarterback of the football team?” She stared back at me and waited, kicking her feet behind her like she was on a kickboard in the Wave Pool at Wet ’n Wild.

  “Fine. His name is Jason Andersen,” I confessed, feeling the hot flush on my cheeks from saying his name.

  “Okay, that’s a start. What else? He’s probably completely gorgeous, right?”

  “Oh, my gosh, totally,” I said, feeling the words ready to tumble out of my mouth. “I mean, you might not think he’s good-looking, but I think he is. He has these clear hazel eyes, and he’s all tall and lanky. He plays basketball, but he’s not a dumb jock.”

  “So what are you going to do about him? You love him, right?” She grinned.

  “I don’t love him!”

  She laughed and I couldn’t help but smile with her. “Seriously, what’s the game plan for this guy?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a satanic cult will kidnap me and he’ll come to my rescue?” All I had done so far was let my mouth drag on the ground every time he passed me in the halls. I loved watching him at his locker as he and Richie talked about plays and the previous night’s game. I loved English class because I could stare at the back of his head without anyone knowing I was totally lusting.

  Kirstie said, “You gotta have a goal if you want to go out with this guy. Even if your goal is to just walk up to him, tell him he’s completely beautiful, then walk away mysteriously. I know! We could make up a list of things that make popular people popular, and you just make sure you do those things. The nomination will just fall into your lap then.”

  “A list like . . . what? What did you do at your last school that I can do too?” I asked.

  “Hmmm, good question,” she said, grinning happily at me. “Okay, so, I guess I would start by glaming myself up. Not that you’re not gorgeous already, but you could benefit by stepping it up a notch.” I tried not to cringe, looking down at my standard-issue jeans and nondescript top. “A little lip gloss goes a long way. And then, infiltrate this Jason’s world. Sit where he sits at lunch. Find out where he hangs out, then we’ll start hanging out there. Make him notice you.”

  “I don’t know. Sounds kind of pathetic—like stalking.”

  “It’s not pathetic,” she defended. “What’s wrong with wanting him to like you, wanting other people to like and respect you? So you want people to dig you for being something other than a period-obsessed spaz. Who cares? Why do you think there’re so many movies about being popular in school? It’s like, part of our genetic code. There’s no avoiding it.”

  I thought about that. I guess there was some truth there.

  “What about basketball?” Kirstie continued. “Since you don’t play, do girls do anything else for the guys’ teams? I don’t know, like give them water or something?”

  “Oh, man, that’s it.” It was so brilliant. “Stat girl!”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re the girls who write the statistics for the players. You know, how many baskets a guy makes, how many free throws, fouls, stuff like that. They have them all year, for all the sports. Stat girls get to hang out with the guys through every practice and every game. They’re like part of the team. You know what?” I paused, thinking. “This one girl did stats until the girls’ team complained that they needed her more. Her slot might still be open.”

  “So there it is. Do that. How do you get to be one? Isn’t the season almost over?”

  “Yeah. There’s only a few more games left, I think.” I thought for a moment and then remembered. “I could ask my sister. She and Coach Eckels are super tight. She still asks for his advice on, like, a weekly basis. Maybe I could ask her if she could ask him?”

  “That’s so cool you have a sister you can turn to when you need stuff,” Kirstie said, tearing the edges of a Cosmo. “My mom is cool and all, but sometimes I wish I had a little sister to take care of.”

  “Humph.” I thought about all the times my sister had sat on me and farted, or asked me to hang out in her room, then shut the door in my face. “Believe me, I’d rather be an only child any day.”

  “You only say that because you don’t know what it’s like to be alone.”

  “I guess.” I thought for a moment. Then I said, “And you’re only saying so because you don’t know otherwise.”

  She laughed and said, “Okay. How about this: When we hang out, you can pretend like you’re an only child and I’ll pretend that you’re my little sister. I can help you with things like getting hooked up with Jason Andersen and making Class Favorite. What do you say?”

  She looked at me with a hopeful gleam in her eyes. Maybe it was completely horrible being an only child. Sure, I hated Elisabeth and all that stuff, but we did play together when we were kids. She had even given me some advice over the years.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sounds cool.”

  Having a goal seemed like the productive thing to do. So, as soon as I got home, I decided to start right in on my Class Favorite–nominee quest before I could even think about what I was doing.

  I saw Elisabeth sitting on her bed through her half-open door, her long, tanned legs bent as she painted her toenails cotton candy pink. I stuck my head through the door and asked, “Can I come in?”

  She glanced up. “I guess.”

  Elisabeth’s room was always spotless, despite being cluttered with running trophies. She even made her bed in the mornings without Mom telling her to. At the edge of her bed was a copy of Running magazine, her biology textbook, a red folder, and her diary. She had a copy of Us Weekly under her foot to keep any nail polish from getting on her comforter.

  I sat on the floor facing her, my back up against the wall next to her tennis shoes, my legs straight out in front of me.

  “You’re so lucky Mom doesn’t humiliate you,” I began, referring to the flowers.

  “She didn’t mean to,” she said. It was just like her to be the good daughter, even when Mom wasn’t around to notice.

  “It’s so embarrassing,” I said. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it over at your school.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still worrying about that. Listen.” She screwed the cap back on the polish and set it on her nightstand. “I totally agree that what happened on Friday was humiliating, but it wasn’t Mom’s fault—she was just trying to be nice. And you said you already got teased for it. I’m sure everyone’s moved on from it by now. You should too.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I just wish I knew how everyone found out.” I looked up at my sister and asked, “A school administrator could get fired for telling stuff about a student, right?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind.”

  Elisabeth leaned back against her headboard, gave me a look, and said, “Sara, if you want something, just ask.”

  “Well, I was wondering if you’d do me a favor.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I’m just trying to think of ways to make my life a little easier. So I was just wondering, you know, since you’re such good friends with Coach Eckels, and since he’s the guys’ basketball coach and you’re so close to him and all, will you please, next time you see him, ask him if I can be a stat girl? Please?”

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  “Because he likes you.”

&nb
sp; She picked up a bottle of clear polish and rhythmically slapped it on her palm.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you started your period?” she suddenly asked.

  “Why did you have to out me to Mom about it?” I retorted.

  “Sara, you make too big a deal of things.”

  “Oh, right. Like having guys offer me a tampon is no big deal.” I felt like no one understood what had happened. The worst thing that had ever happened to Elisabeth was the time she came in second in the 1,600-meter, and that was only because she was getting over the flu.

  “Getting your period isn’t a big deal. Don’t let them make you think it is. They’re just being immature.”

  “It’s just so humiliating having everyone know when I got it. Besides, why do you even care?”

  “Sara,” she said, looking down at me. “I’m your sister.”

  She didn’t state it like it was the obvious, though. More like she just wanted to let me know that there were some things she would always be there for.

  “So will you talk to Coach Eckels for me?”

  She slowly opened the bottle, then continued with steady strokes across each toe, her chin resting on her knee. A heavy silence filled the room, one that I was pretty sure Elisabeth created for the sole purpose of torturing me with anticipation. It worked.

  She exhaled dramatically, and I prepared for my boring days to change—or to stay the same way for eternity.

  “Fine,” she finally said. “But you owe me.”

  6

  Do You Know Who You Can Trust?

  You really need to talk to your best friend about the latest development in the ongoing saga of your love life, but she’s not at school today. Instead, there’s Veronica, a relatively new girl you’ve become friendly with. What do you do?

  a) Tell her your problem, automatically assuming that she’ll keep the information mum.

  b) Tell her your problem, but make her swear on her cat’s life that she won’t tell a soul.

  c) Wait and call your best friend when you get home—you’d rather not take the risk.

  In English class the next morning, I couldn’t even look at Arlene. I felt sick to my stomach with worry, thinking that maybe, just maybe, she was out to get me. Despite Kirstie’s advice to just leave it alone, I really wanted to ask her if she was planning on pulling any little pranks on me. I was sure she’d tell me she didn’t know what I was talking about—and would mean it. Still, our lack of any kind of confrontation or miscommunication over the years had left me not knowing exactly how to approach her. So, I stalled. I didn’t even wait for her outside the caf like I normally do.

  Holding my lunch tray, I stood before the half-filled tables, people talking and laughing, and the occasional fry flying across a table. I saw Jason Andersen’s table, which was completely full but for one seat . . . right next to him. To his left was Jessica, who had movie star–blond hair and dated Richie Adams; she and Kayla were laughing with their heads close together. Jason sat quietly, almost alone in the midst of the chaos of the lunchroom table. I thought of what Kirstie had said about sitting at his lunch table and faking confidence. For a daring moment I considered just plopping down at that one empty seat next to him and saying, “So, whaddaya think of that book we’re reading in English? You ready for the game next week?” I wondered how Jason and the others at the table would react.

  Maybe I should try it, I thought. I was looking pretty okay that day. When I woke up that morning, instead of stressing over Arlene, I thought about Class Favorite-dom. With the stat girl thing from Elisabeth in the works, I decided to glam myself up, like Kirstie had suggested. I snagged Elisabeth’s powder, mascara, and lip gloss from her makeup bag while she was in the shower and did my best to apply it all correctly. As soon as I had gotten the mascara on both eyes—after stabbing my eyeball twice—I promptly sneezed, squeezing my eyes and smearing mascara all over my upper and lower eyes. I had to quickly scrub it all off and start over again before Elisabeth got out of the shower, and then I had to keep my head down and avoid looking at her or my mom for the rest of the morning. Trying to be pretty was very exhausting.

  Just as I lifted my Ked-clad foot to walk over to Jason’s table, Richie Adams came through the open doors of the cafeteria and sat next to Jason, slapping him on the back as he took that last seat. So much for my few seconds of bravery.

  After I’d stood holding my tray long enough to look weird, I glared toward the FFA table. Ellen wasn’t there, but the other girls and guys were, all in Wranglers and Rocky Mountains, big belt buckles and Ropers. The girls probably spent Saturday nights discussing cow feed while not washing their hair, I thought bitterly. But maybe that was better than staying home alone.

  I took a deep breath and started toward the FFA table.

  “Sara, wait up,” Arlene called from behind me.

  For a brief moment I was glad to have been stopped. I felt that if I sat with the FFA kids, nice as I’m sure they were, I’d never be seen as the sophisticated woman who was on her way to Class Favorite glory. I still wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to achieve my nomination goal, but I was pretty sure it didn’t involve cows and goats.

  I turned to face Arlene, my lunch tray heavy in my hands. Her blond hair was tucked behind her ears, and her cheeks had a fresh, rosy tint to them. My heart raced.

  “What?” she asked. When I didn’t say anything—I was trying to think of what to say—she said, “I was waiting outside for you. How come you didn’t wait for me?”

  She’d been my best friend for so long, and I really loved her, but when she wanted to know why I wasn’t waiting on her, I got angry. I’m not sure if I was angry at myself for not having more friends, or angry at her for expecting me to always be around. I had so many conflicting emotions swirling around my head as it was, and when she stood before me, acting like I needed to wait on her, I just snapped. There was no equality in our friendship, I thought. It was always me following her, or waiting on her to grace me with her presence.

  “Why should I always have to wait on you?” I heard myself say.

  Arlene looked taken aback. “You don’t,” she said. “But your class is closer to the caf than mine.”

  “Well, maybe I’m tired of waiting around on you while you take your time, chatting with all your little friends along the way.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Are you mad at me about something?”

  Friends have fights, I told myself. I was allowed to be angry with her if I wanted to be. And I certainly had the right to confront her. I tried to keep my confidence up when I asked, straight up, “Did you tell anyone about the roses, Arlene?”

  “The roses? From Friday? You’re still thinking about those?”

  “I asked you a question,” I said, and I have to shamefully admit that seeing her look so confused and even a little scared made me feel that much more in control even though, deep down, I was more afraid of losing Arlene than anything else. “You swore to me you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “You think I told people about them?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t think you told anyone about it, just like you didn’t tell anyone about my basketball tryout disaster.”

  “Wait, this is too random. First of all, the basketball tryout thing wasn’t exactly a secret—there were fifty other girls there.”

  “I told you not to tell my sister, and you did.”

  “Secondly,” she forced, “I already apologized for that. I really didn’t think it was a big deal.” Arlene took a deep breath. In a calm voice she said, “Look. I know Friday was awful, and I’m really sorry. The truth is, no one even cares anymore. Most people care more about who didn’t get flowers. Did you hear that Richie sent Jessica carnations? They say she’s thinking of breaking up.” I glared at her, and she said, “You’re totally overreacting. Those flowers are so over.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Everything’s been working out perfectly for you since we left elementary school.”

 
; Arlene huffed and said, “What exactly are we talking about?”

  “You and your big mouth. You can’t keep anything a secret. You gossip with people just to get them to like you—like all those loser softball girls.”

  Arlene shook her head and said, “I’ve never done anything mean, Sara, and you know it.”

  “When it’s not happening to you, I guess I could see how having the entire school knowing my private business isn’t anything mean. It’s not like you’re the one who has to sit through class while people throw tampons at your head.” I slightly exaggerated on that last bit, but Friday’s algebra class didn’t feel far from that.

  “Look,” she said, clearly more annoyed than sympathetic. “I’m really sorry about Friday. I’m sorry some immature jerks were mean to you. And I’m sorry your mother sent you roses that happened to come from my mother’s shop. If you were so upset with me over all this, I wish you would have just said something.”

  I gritted my jaw and shifted the lunch tray I still held in my now-sweaty hands. I was angry that Arlene was angry, but at the same time, I knew this was more than just a spat between friends. Testing the state of our friendship, I said, “Do you want to come over on Friday and watch the new Razzie worst picture winner? You said you wanted to see it before our regular Saturday night thing.”

  Arlene looked off toward the athletes’ table; some girl whose name I didn’t know waved at her. She looked at me and said, “You know I have games on Fridays. Maybe I can come over after. . . .”

  “Forget it,” I said quickly. “I don’t even care.”

  “Look.” Arlene’s eyes began turning dark. “I’ve already apologized to you for about ten things. I said I was sorry for things I didn’t even do. What’s your problem?” She stood, defiant, waiting for an answer.