Surviving High School Page 3

  “You didn’t see that, Darcy,” I say. She just stares, blinking, then looks away. All I can do is hope she gets the picture: Dead girls tell no tales.

  Was that the worst of my day? Not even close. During gym, I got hit in the head by a basketball. I don’t know who threw the ball so unprofessionally, but my money is on Yvette Amparo. And guess what?! There was Darcy, who doesn’t even have gym fourth period, giving me that silent stare. What is she, stalking me? I put my finger to my lips and said, “Shhh.” She shook her head and smiled.

  Small potatoes, I figured, it’s not like anyone important has seen me act a fool. And by “anyone important” I mean Alexei. I shouldn’t have even let those thoughts anywhere near my head, because just by thinking them I bestowed a curse upon myself. Here’s how it goes down:

  It’s lunch and the cafeteria is serving up my favorite (spaghetti and meatballs), except it’s watery and smells like a barn. Lovely. My plan to sneak off campus didn’t quite happen. Oh well. I set the sad excuse for food down on one of these Day-Glo orange tables across from Alexei, a.k.a. Bae, a.k.a. Sex God.

  “How’s your day been, Lele?” He says my name more perfectly than perfect. Never has a name sounded so magical.

  “Oh, you know”—I flip my hair and slide as gracefully as possible into the seat—“it’s been another regular day in paradise.” I flash him the most genuine smile I can muster.

  “Anything interesting happen so far?” Just as he says this, I set my elbow down on the corner of my food tray, creating a Titanic-like tip. Only this tragedy is much worse. Spaghetti everywhere, pasta sauce splattered across my white polo: I look like a murder scene.

  “Oh my God, what a freak!” A voice rises up from the cafeteria crowd and suddenly everyone is pointing at me. iPhones raise and the room fills with the chk-chk-chk sound of photos being snapped. I could die. I should die. Instead, I scream.

  “MOTHERF**KER, WHAT THE F**CK, STUPID F**CKING SPAGHETTI! I SWEAR TO GOD IF THIS DAY GETS ANY WORSE—”

  “Lele.” Alexei grabs my arm. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just pasta. I’ll help you clean it up. This stuff happens.” Isn’t he the best? Alexei, Bae, Sex God, Hero. He likes me despite my being a total space cadet; he sees through the madness to the real me, my awesome sexy self. I know it. I can feel it. Okay, so maybe it’s a little early, and I’m projecting. But maybe I won’t end up alone forever after all. He runs to get some napkins. I sigh a deep sigh of relief: everything is good in the world; it doesn’t matter that I’m a hot mess—I was born this way, baby. That’s when I look up and see Darcy Smith, calmly eating alone in the far corner of the room, and this time she is outright laughing at me.

  Waiting for Alexei after school, I see Darcy walk past my locker. She’s wearing the same white polo as me, only hers isn’t spaghetti-stained.

  “Hey,” I call after her, and she turns around. “It’s Darcy, right?”

  “Yeah, and you’re Lele?”

  “Lele the Miami High hot mess. That’s the full name, actually.”

  “Nothing wrong with a hot mess,” she says. Fireworks go off in my head; an orchestra plays.

  “Yes, thank you! That’s what I always say!”

  “Great minds think alike.”

  “You,” I say, “I knew you were smart. You know what you are?”

  “Besides smart and pretty and a representative of the black minority at Miami High?”

  “Yes, besides that. You’re that person who always catches me at my worst moments. Everyone has one.”

  “Really? I don’t think I have one of those.”

  “Well, now it can be me!”

  “Yikes, I’ll make sure to be on my best behavior whenever you’re around.”

  “No, you have to be on your worst! Hey, do you wanna come over? I’m in the mood to postpone homework for a few hundred hours.”

  “Wow, great minds do really think alike.”

  We’re days away from having a secret handshake, I can feel it.

  • • •

  I let Alexei tag along for homework procrastination too, mostly because he’s so nice to look at. At home, I make sure my parents are locked safely in their rooms (Lord knows I’ve had enough embarrassment for one day) and then get to work on my latest masterpiece. Alexei films while Darcy and I act out tonight’s Vine: “That Person Who Always Catches You at Your Worst Moments.”

  4

  Bully Target / Sometimes I Feel Invisible

  (2,543 Followers)

  It’s an extra-sunny Friday and we’re walking to third-period calculus. We’re halfway across the grated bridge connecting the history building to the math building when Darcy says she knows some people who are having a party.

  “Wait a second,” I say, stopping us in our tracks. “Am I not your only friend? Have you been hiding your other friends from me because you think I’m not cool enough to hang with them? Or worse, are you hiding ME from your other friends because you’re worried I’ll embarrass you?!” I miss my Catholic-school friends and find myself resenting their extra-busy extracurricular activities, miss knowing where I stand at all times, miss knowing that my friends are proud to know me, the security that comes with lifelong loyalty. At Miami High it feels like that rug has been pulled out from under me.

  “Whoa.” She looks at me like I’m psycho. Psycho but lovable . . . a lovable psycho, if you will. “First of all, I wouldn’t really call Becca Cartwright and Yvette Amparo my friends, more like acquaintances. Second of all—”

  “Hold on, this is Yvette Amparo’s party?”

  “Yeah, do you know her?”

  “Know her? She’s only ruined my life about seven hundred times.” I breathe out my nose like an agitated dragon.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a tad dramatic?”

  “Maybe.” I do a cinematic, movie-star hair flip for effect. “But anyone in their right mind would agree that Yvette is a real see-you-next-Tuesday.”

  “Nice, Lele, very mature,” says Darcy.

  I’ve barely been friends with this girl for three days and she’s already scolding me. I admire her boldness. “Whatever, I’m not going. I honestly can’t stand that girl. She’s a bully.”

  “You don’t have to talk to her, but I think it would be good for you to go. You could use some socializing, you know, get to know your classmates. All the cool kids are going to be there,” says Darcy.

  “I’m sorry, did you just say cool kids?! What is this, High School Musical?”

  “What? What does that even mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” I have to admit. In HSM, was Sharpay the cool kid? Can anyone named Sharpay be cool?

  “Look, you don’t have to go. I just think we’ll have fun. I mean, what else are we going to do on a Friday night?”

  • • •

  As it turns out, Alexei has plans to party with the enemy as well (et tu Brute?!).

  “It’ll be a good opportunity for you to show her that she doesn’t scare you,” he says. “I’ll see you there.”

  “No one scares me,” I say. “I’m unscareable.”

  “Boo!” Darcy hollers in my face, and I practically faint from fear.

  • • •

  “Do I have to dress up for this?” I ask from a comfy place on the floor slumped against my bed. Darcy is applying red-brown lip gloss in my vanity mirror, and already looks super gorgeous. She turns to me, scans me up and down.

  “Um, you don’t have to dress up necessarily, but I would advise you to not wear pink pajamas.”

  “Aw man, but I love these! They’re so cozy. And they fit me so well.” I wrap my arms around myself, grinning cheek to cheek.

  “That’s great, Lele, but this is a party. People do tend to put at least a low amount of effort in.”

  “Ugh, everything’s always so hard.” I use the bed frame to pull myself up and begrudgingly head to my closet. Pants, pants, pants, T-shirts, T-shirts, T-shirts . . . hmm, I don’t have the most diverse closet in the world. Ah, a dre
ss! At last! Just behind a row of polo shirts is a flowy, flowery white sundress that I think I wore once to a family picnic two years ago, and luckily it still fits like a glove. A slightly tight glove, but a glove nonetheless.

  “Cutie!” Darcy exclaims. “Now let’s figure out shoes.”

  “I don’t have a lot. I don’t think I really get shoes, you know?”

  “No, I do not know. Shoes are very important. Everyone knows that.”

  “Really? I thought clean water and oxygen were really important but okay, I see, it’s shoes. You learn something new every day.”

  “Don’t be such a smart-ass. Pick out something strappy and sandally.”

  “Jeez, since when are you the fashion police? Look out, world, Miss Bookworm has a whole other side. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but these are our only options.” I go into my closet and bring out a pair of white Converse and orange jelly sandals.

  “Oh dear,” Darcy despairs. “These are your only shoes?”

  “Yep.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I dunno.” I shrug. “My old school had uniforms and it just didn’t really matter what we wore. It was kinda cool.”

  Darcy sighs, glances back and forth between the two pairs of shoes, then back and forth again, taking her sweet time as if somebody’s life depends on this. Finally, she makes her decision and we head out of my room: Darcy in black Steve Madden flats and me in orange jelly sandals, the official shoe of the five-year-old.

  “Um, excuse me?” Mom stops us just as we’re about to walk out the front door.

  “Yeah, hey, what’s up?” I try to keep it cool, confident—nothing to see here, Mom, just a grown-up lady heading out to a party same as always.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “A girl from school is having a party.”

  “And you were just going to go without asking?”

  “I didn’t think it would be a big deal,” I lie. “It’s just a party. Nothing crazy.” Darcy stands in the doorway awkwardly chewing a lock of hair.

  “Lele, you know the rules, if you’re going to a party I need to have the parents’ phone number. Will there even be adult supervision?”

  “Mom, come on, that’s embarrassing. I’m old enough now to use my own judgment, don’t you think?”

  “No, I do not think. You’ve already demonstrated bad judgment by choosing to not ask permission.”

  “Fine.” I don’t feel up for an argument. “I didn’t even really want to go; I don’t like these kids anyway. Darcy, go ahead, I’ll talk to you after.”

  Mom eyes me suspiciously.

  “What? You’re giving in that easily? Lele, this is not like you, what’s going on? Are you still not getting along with kids at school?”

  “That is correct. Darcy is my only friend.” Darcy waves uneasily.

  “You know what, just go. Go make friends, be social,” says Mom.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, you’re only young once. And plus, I don’t want to be part of the reason you don’t have friends.”

  “Hey, I have friends. Remember Darcy?”

  “Just go before I change my mind.”

  “Hey, what’s goin’ on here?” My dad has appeared behind Mom, eating off a tray of french fries. He’s always had a youthful presence that made him an amazing guy to grow up with as a dad—always up for adventures and practical jokes.

  “Lele’s going to a party,” Mom says. My mom is youthful too, but in a more glamorous way—she curls her ink-black hair and wears oversize, almost cartoonish sunglasses both outside the house and in. They’re the type of sunglasses I imagine I’ll wear when I’m a movie star. She’s my biggest role model. Both of them are, actually.

  “Have fun!” Dad calls as I pull Darcy down the driveway toward the Uber. “Don’t do drugs!”

  “You know I never would!” I call back, pretending to be insulted that he’d even have to say it. Secretly, I like when they act protective of me.

  • • •

  I don’t know what it is about Darcy and Alexei, who arrives just as we do, but they both fit right in at the party. Maybe it’s because they’re hot enough to be models and nod along with whatever anyone says. Psh. We’re there for mere minutes before I’m standing alone, in a corner, like a middle school dance cliché. I’m deep in an ocean of kids, and everyone just swims on by like I’m not even there. Sometimes I feel invisible.

  And it’s not that I’m shy. I’m outgoing, I’m a genuine bundle of fun, let me tell ya, so how is it that I’m so easy to ignore? Hello?! Does anyone see me? I wave my hands but I get nothing. Just like I thought, invisible. This new school is creepy, kind of Stepford wives-y. Everyone, even Alexei and Darcy, seems to be standing on the opposite side of a pane of glass where all have been brainwashed into giving up their individuality.

  Yvette Amparo’s house is gigantic. Big marble columns and rounded porticos, a chandelier that would crush somebody to death if it fell. I climb a red-carpeted spiral staircase up to the second floor, figuring if no one wants to talk to me I don’t need them anyway. Their loss. I stand out on one of the house’s many balconies, looking over the pool below. If I jumped, would anyone notice? What if I tripped and fell, screamed for help as I hung on to the balcony for dear life? I bet they’d still ignore me. Even Alexei, the grand betrayer. He hasn’t even introduced me to anyone as his girlfriend yet! That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? When a boy walks you home it means he’s claimed you as his girlfriend? I’ve never had a boyfriend before, you gotta help me out!

  Down below I can see everyone getting into the pool. Alexei is topless, as he apparently loves to be, surrounded by YES, YOU GUESSED IT: GIRLS. Oh, the girls just love a topless guy with model potential. What a bunch of basic bitches!

  Yvette brings out a tray of strawberries and graham crackers with a gigantic jar of Nutella in the middle. From my Grinch-like pedestal I watch everyone get ultra-mega excited over this as if the Nutella is actual crack-cocaine, which I assure you it is not, the main difference being that eating a jar of Nutella will make you fatter than a Christmas ham. But not for these hotties, apparently. Nooo, nothing stands in the way of Miami High kids and their hot bods. Not even Fatella. Yvette and the other girls down below, Becca and Maddie and Cynthia and Emily, gorge themselves without sacrificing their anorexic mermaid physiques. Well, Maddie is actually quite voluptuous, but just as pristinely stunning as the rest. Alexei takes a bite and I swear his abs actually get more defined. Oh, those abs. I’m glad no one is calling me down to join the chocolate-hazelnut festivities; whenever I so much as go near desserts I blow up like a puffer fish. They’d have to roll me out of here. Not cute.

  Well, that’s it: no one is coming to look for me. I could be dead and no one would ever notice. Somewhere down the line, maybe at a high school reunion, someone will say, “Remember that weirdo who came to Miami High for, like, a week and then just disappeared?” and someone else will say, “OMG, if you hadn’t mentioned that right now I literally never would have thought of her again. What was her name again? Lee Lee?”

  “No,” the first person will reply, “I think it was like . . . Lay Lay, or something like that.”

  “La La?”

  “Lie Lie?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter.”

  Playing this out in my head gets me feeling really sorry for myself; I get all blue with self-indulgent melancholy and storm downstairs, out the front door, past the Nutella eaters, who of course do not acknowledge me, and onto the street. I’m a girl of the streets now, an unwanted. I walk along the road with my head down, melancholy Charlie Brown–esque music playing in my head, watching my sad reflection in the ample puddles that fill the gutters. That’s when—WHOOOOSH—a car races by out of nowhere and—SPLSHHHH—a puddle becomes a tidal wave that crashes over me, drenching me to my poor, sad soul.

  “Sorry, didn’t see you there!” the woman calls from her car as she speeds away, like it’s no big deal. Oh
yeah, sure, no problem, I’m not really a person anyway; I’m just an empty void for people to walk through.

  I decide I should at least say good-bye before leaving the party from hell and go back inside. “Alexei,” I say very sweetly through gritted teeth, “I am leaving now. Good-bye.”

  “Lele, wait! Where have you been? And what happened to you? I’ve been looking everywhere!”

  “I got splashed by a car,” I say, smoothing out my dress that is now wrinkled and sticking to my thighs. “But it’s not a big deal, I will be fine, thank you and good day, sir.”

  “Lele, why are you being weird?”

  “Am I being weird, am I?”

  “Well, yes, you are.”

  Poor guy, I can be quite a handful.

  “Ewwww,” Yvette Amparo shrieks. “Lele looks like a sewer rat!”

  “Yes,” I say. “I got splashed, I don’t look cute. Whatever, Yvette, what’s your problem with me?”

  “My problem with you is that you’re a freak and you don’t belong here. I don’t like when girls like you come around thinking you’re special and can just be whoever you want to be.”

  “But I can be whoever I want to be. That doesn’t mean I’m special, that means I’m human. Anyone can be whoever they want to be. It’s just that not everyone realizes it.”

  “Sounds exactly like what a freak would say.” Yvette laughs, and some of her minions laugh quietly along until she stares them down.

  “She’s not a freak,” Alexei says. “She’s cool. And so what if she’s a little weird, that’s what makes her so incredible.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “What he said.” My heart nearly bursts behind my chest. I want to call out “You’re my hero” like Megara does in Hercules (Disney rendition, obviously), but then I remember how Mom always said that wasn’t very feminist of her, and that girls should learn how to be their own heroes. Still, total swoon.