The Queen of Cool Read online

  Weekday morning routine:

  Take shower.

  Assemble perfect outfit.

  Apply makeup.

  Pull hair into bun. Secure with glitter pencils.

  Accept twenty-dollar bill from Dad.

  Pick up latte and creamy chocolate brioche from café.

  Drive to school the long way.

  Listen to sad music way too loud.

  Nab choice parking spot under tree.

  When I enter the school courtyard, Perla waves me over with her mascara wand, then continues to apply her makeup. She needs no mirror. She knows her own face by heart.

  “Morning, Libby,” she says, concentrating on her eyelashes, not looking at me. “Cute outfit.”

  “It should be cute,” I say. “I worked hard to come up with it.”

  I may not be as devastatingly gorgeous as Perla, but I know how to emphasize my assets.

  I plop my bag on the ground and sit in the middle of my friends:

  Kenji, frantically copying some homework before the bell rings.

  Perla, now blotting her lips on the corner of the weekly school handout.

  Sid, his nose in a book, his ears plugged up with headphones, his head bouncing slightly in and out of his green hooded sweatshirt.

  Mike Dutko, head leaning against the trunk of the tree, half asleep, mouth open.

  “Brainstorm,” I say.

  Everyone stops what they are doing to look at me.

  “You must create your own fun,” I say as I pull the glitter pencils out of my hair and tape them onto my shirt.

  Sid removes his headphones and pulls his hood back to make the announcement.

  “Pencil Day!”

  Perla laughs. Kenji digs into his bag and starts looking for pencils.

  Halfway through the day, everyone has covered themselves with pens or pencils.

  Halfway through the day, the tape no longer has the strength to keep the pencils in their place, and they start to drop off my shirt. They are jumping ship. The pencils are bailing.

  They might just have the right idea.

  I think: Fuck it.

  Out of school. Out of mind.

  I cut and go home.

  “Ugh, that little freak freaks me out,” Perla says during Nutrition.

  I look over to where she’s pointing. It’s at Tiny Carpentieri. She’s over by the vending machine getting an apple.

  I don’t like the look of Tiny either. She’s too, I dunno, desperate.

  When the bell rings, she passes by us. She kicks her right leg out a little bit when she walks.

  “She waddles like a duck,” Perla says.

  “She’s not a duck. She’s a dwarf.”

  I’m not even being funny. Or mean. I’m just being truthful. Tiny is a dwarf.

  “Weird Walk Day,” Perla announces, and walks to class shaking her ass the whole way.

  I take quick little steps, which make me fall behind. Perla laughs and tells me to hurry up.

  By the end of the day, everyone in school is doing a weird walk.

  By the end of the day, the teachers are asking everyone to stop it.

  By the end of the day, I am over it. It was so second period.

  “What do you think the point of life is?” I ask.

  We are sitting in my rec room. I’m swigging a beer. Mike Dutko is passing around a joint.

  No one says a word, until Sid pipes up.

  “Life is everything and nothing. Wonderful and terrible. The beginning and the end.”

  Perla laughs.

  “You are such a dork,” Perla says. It’s her favorite insult this week. Last week it was moron.

  “Yeah, man, school just started, and already you’re reading way too many books,” Mike Dutko says.

  Of course, they’re trying to get a rise out of Sid. Everyone does. Sid is such an easy target.

  But Sid does not engage. He folds his hands in front of him and presses his full lips into a thin line.

  “Life is a pain in my ass,” Perla says, raising up her beer in a toast. “Give me oblivion!”

  Mike Dutko laughs and pulls Perla close to him. In a minute he will go to the bathroom and ask Perla to help him with something.

  And then she will give him a hand job.

  I will be stuck sitting in my rec room alone with Sid, and he and I will attempt small talk. Out of embarrassment, we will not look at each other because we will know what is really going on in the bathroom.

  Sid will talk to me about his band, Swisher.

  Or he will talk about some obscure book he is reading.

  Or he will mention a philosophical thing that no one has ever heard about.

  He will try to fill up the air with words so that we can’t hear the noises coming from the bathroom.

  It’s the same old routine.

  Mike Dutko makes his move, but before Perla follows him, Kenji finally arrives, followed by a bunch of other kids from school. He is carrying a case of beer.

  “I’ve brought reinforcements!” Kenji says. “Let’s get this party started!”

  Kenji wedges himself between Sid and me. He puts his arm around my waist.

  Sid looks relieved by the sudden invasion.

  I know I am.

  Of course, Pajama Day is my idea.

  I am wearing Gama-Go pajamas and toting around Mr. Puffy, my teddy bear from when I was a kid.

  Perla is wearing a fancy lace nightgown.

  Sid is wearing crisply ironed, blue-striped vintage pajamas.

  Mike Dutko forgot about the whole plan.

  Kenji is wearing a robe.

  “I sleep naked,” he explains.

  A week later, Perla snorts and points at a bunch of total geeks who show up to school wearing pajamas. I notice Tiny Carpentieri is wearing a Disneyland Sleeping Beauty T-shirt, only on her it reaches all the way to the floor.

  “Copycats,” Perla says, snapping her gum and adjusting her bra under her flamingo pink baby-tee that has the words Spoiled Brat printed in rhinestones across her boobs.

  Her every move results in a disco effect, creating a bunch of mini-rainbows on the wall of lockers next to us. I’m mesmerized, but Perla’s already moved on to the next topic: boys and how they all love her.

  “God, they all stare at me,” she says. “I guess it’s good practice for when I’m famous, when my dad gives me my own reality show, The Totally True Adventures of a Beautiful Girl.”

  “Is that what it’s going to be called?” I ask.

  “I don’t know — I’m trying it out,” she says.

  It is true; she is beautiful.

  Everybody stares at Perla. Even babies. Even old women. Everybody. And I know what they think — I can see it in their faces: “My God, what a lovely girl.”

  I zone out again and watch the rhinestone rainbows shimmer in time with her body while she counts on both hands, twice, all the boys she swears get a boner whenever she walks by.

  “. . . and Mr. Stephens. He’s always, like, adjusting himself around me.”

  Perla finishes her list and stops moving. The rainbows disappear, along with my moment of inner peace.

  I snap shut the lock on my locker.

  From somewhere behind me, I overhear someone say what a cool idea coming to school in your pajamas is.

  Usually I would turn around and demand credit where credit is due. But who has the energy to care?

  The late bell rings, and I just make it into AP Biology on time.

  “Find a seat, please, Libby,” Ms. Lew says.

  I scan the room and notice two empty seats. One is next to Kenji and Sid in the back of the room. Kenji is making kissy faces at me. The other seat is in the front row with the total rejects.

  I make my way
over to the boys and sit down. I am not in the mood for my boys today. But I just can’t do dork.

  Ms. Lew, an aspiring actress who can hardly fake being interested in teaching us, places her hands on the back of her chair and sighs heavily.

  I bet we are the closest thing she ever comes to having an audience.

  She turns and writes the words Endangered Species on the board in dry erase marker. She’s picked the color red. I can tell this is going to be a dramatic class.

  “The world is in ecological crisis. Who can guess some of the causes for endangerment?” she asks.

  A handful of kids in the front of the room raise their hands.

  “Tina,” Ms. Lew says as she calls on Tiny.

  “Causes could include habitat, or the introduction of a new exotic species into the environment.”

  Showoff.

  I wonder if Tiny has to sit in the front of the room because she can’t see over anybody’s head if she sits anywhere else. I wonder if that’s why she always raises her hand. I wonder if the classroom looks different from the front of the room. I bet it’s harder to not pay attention.

  “Good, Tina,” Ms. Lew says. “Anyone else? Libby? You have a look of deep thought on your face. Do you have anything to add?”

  “Me?” I ask. I hate being singled out in class.

  “No thoughts at all?”

  “None I care to share,” I say.

  People laugh. Ms. Lew is not happy.

  “How about overexploitation?” Sid calls out.

  I turn to look at him as he acts the hero, thinking he’s saved my ass. He hasn’t. I could’ve come up with an acceptable answer. If I really wanted to.

  “Good. How about some examples?” Ms. Lew says.

  “Well, like people who think tiger bones will make them virile,” Sid says.

  People laugh. Louder.

  I notice that Sid is not laughing. The word virile doesn’t make him crack a smile.

  “Excellent,” Ms. Lew says, her mood brightening a bit. She probably feels good about her performance today.

  She starts writing down a million notes on the board. Pulling down maps. Handing out info sheets. She is excited.

  But me, I am ready for a nap.

  I open my loose-leaf notebook, propping it up in front of me. Then I put my head down on the desk.

  It smells like pencil and hand.

  SWISHER is scrawled in Sharpie pen across the chest of my homemade T-shirt, which I’ve cut up strategically to show just enough flesh.

  Swisher, like the toilet and faucet maker, is the name of Sid’s band, which is on stage in the middle of their third song.

  Swisher is what makes Sid cool enough to pal around with us.

  Swisher has no singer. The music is like a physical attack. It moves from a delicate whisper of notes to a full-throttled cacophony. I join the throng of people dancing in the pit.

  I want to lose myself in the music. I want to feel free.

  I want to feel something.

  I try to dance myself into a frenzy until sweat is pouring down my sides and my makeup feels like it’s running off my face. I close my eyes. I feel the same. Empty. Maybe I just need a beer.

  I go to the bathroom and splash myself with water. I take out my travel-size rubbing alcohol and I wipe off the under-21 stamps the bouncer put on the backs of my hands.

  I sidle up to the bar.

  “A draft beer, please,” I say.

  The bartender pulls on the tap and slides the beer over to me without a second thought. He doesn’t bother asking me for my ID. He just looks at the backs of my unmarked hands.

  I walk back over to Perla. She’s sweaty from the dancing.

  “Chica! Where’d you get that beer?” she asks.

  “The bar,” I say. “Suckers.”

  “Give me a sip,” Perla says.

  I hand her the cup. She drinks it stealthily, but she holds the cup as though it belongs in her hands. She’s had practice.

  After the show, Sid and his band load the gear out of the club while the rest of us go straight over to Jakob’s and steal some pinot grigio and shiraz from his dad’s wine cellar.

  “This is a good year,” Mike Dutko says, nodding in approval at the label, trying to sound like he knows something.

  “Just fucking uncork it,” I say.

  Sid and his bandmates show up two bottles later. I am already warm and drunk from all the wine and the music. I am sitting between Mike Dutko and Sid. Perla is across the room making out with Jakob.

  Kenji and I have an understanding. And Kenji is not out with us tonight. So I have a choice.

  I could choose to make out with Mike Dutko, ’cause he’s available for the smooching. Or I could choose to make out with Sid.

  However, I am not drunk enough to make out with Sid. I will never be drunk enough for that. Even though his band doesn’t suck, Perla and I agree that he has absolutely no sex appeal.

  “Let’s play spin-the-bottle,” Perla says, like she always does, ’cause she thinks that sometimes a girl just needs to get drunk and make out with cute boys.

  Always game for a chance to exchange fluids with Perla, Mike Dutko drains one of the bottles and places it on the floor.

  “You playing?” he asks me with bedroom eyes.

  “No,” I say.

  I move myself out of the ring and pour myself another drink.

  “Suit yourself,” he says, and twists the bottle with a flick of his wrist.

  But before the spinning bottle on the floor has a chance to stop, I see Sid uncross his legs and remove himself from the circle too. He heads away from me, toward the CD player, closer to the speakers. For Sid, there is always safety in music.

  From the other side of the room I watch everyone else in the ring. They chuckle and chortle and whoop as the bottle doles out the random kisses.

  I play my own game. Desert Island.

  “What time did you get home last night?” Mom says. “Sounded late.”

  “Five a.m.”

  “Did you have fun?” Dad asks.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Pass me the sports section,” Dad says.

  I hand it over and pour myself another cup of coffee.

  “So how’s your weekend looking?” Mom asks Dad.

  “Work,” Dad grunts.

  “Can you expand on that?” Mom asks.

  “Gotta come up with copy for a new low-carb, fat-free chocolate bar,” he says.

  “Does it taste good?” I ask.

  “No, of course it doesn’t taste good,” Dad says, rolling his eyes. “It tastes like cardboard.”

  “We have tickets to the opera,” Mom reminds him.

  “I’m working. Take Libby,” he says.

  “I’m busy,” I say.

  “Well,” Mom says to no one in particular, “it seems like a waste.”

  Dad peers over the paper at Mom. “Take one of your friends from work.”

  “I wanted to go with you,” she says. “Never mind. I’ll donate them back to theater. Someone can use them, I’m sure.”

  “Give them to Nastja,” Dad suggests.

  “I’m not sure Nastja would like the opera,” Mom says.

  “Why wouldn’t she?” I ask.

  “Because she’s the cleaning lady,” Dad says.

  “I didn’t say that,” Mom says. “Mitch, don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “No, but maybe I will,” she says. “Why do you have to be like this?”

  “Like what?” he asks.

  “So . . . irritable.”

  I push myself away from the table. I don’t have to excuse myself, but just to be polite, I announce that I’m going to my room.

  The parental units take no notice of me as I make my leave. They are too busy having a discussion.

  I scan my bedroom for a mid-morning activity.

  Red Fender Telecaster guitar in corner of room.

  Panasonic DV camera.


  Easel, paints, canvas, papers, good light through window.

  Library books.

  I like the idea of them all. But not one of these things really captures my imagination. I just can’t see myself actually doing any of them.

  I don’t want to make the effort. Just give me the end result, I say.

  Thinking of the energy any one of those things would require makes me immediately want to lie down.

  I throw myself on my bed and take a nap.

  Ass Backward Day.

  Sid is adjusting his pants. They are bothering him because he’s put his vintage lime green 1970s polyester suit on backward and inside out.

  Kenji yanks at the lapels.

  “Why do you always have to do this?” Kenji asks Sid.

  “What?”

  “Overdo it.”

  Kenji is only wearing his T-shirt backward, but it doesn’t even look like it’s backward. It looks like it’s supposed to be worn that way. It’s obvious Kenji is just jealous of Sid for being more creative than him.

  “One should always try to ‘overdo it,’” Sid says.

  “Who said that? Confucius?” Kenji laughs.

  “No, Confucius said —”

  “Sid, tell me, do you have to use your big brain to hide your micropenis?” Kenji laughs again.

  “Nice, Kenji,” I say.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Perla says, refocusing the attention back to her, as always.

  “Your ideas always suck,” Kenji says.

  “What about Weird Walk Day?” Perla says. “That was my idea. That was a great idea, right Libby?”

  “You just copied Tiny. That’s unoriginal,” I reply.

  “Whatever,” Perla says, putting her hand in front of her like a stop sign. “Can I help it if Tiny walked by at that moment and inspired me?”

  Perla will never admit that I’m the idea girl. I’m the original thinker. She’s the copycat. But I just don’t see the point of getting my panties all in a stitch today, so I don’t bother reminding her.

  “Her name is Tina,” Sid says. His panties are in a stitch.

  But no one acts like they hear him.

  “Okay, I got one,” Perla says. “How about No Makeup-Wearing Day?”

  “Yeah, that’s dumb, Perla,” Kenji says. “Guys don’t wear makeup, and most girls don’t wear as much makeup as you. Like, not at all.”