The Queen of Cool Read online

  “Well, at least it was an idea,” Perla says, pulling out her compact and applying lip-gloss. Her enormous lips always look moist and glittery. “I don’t hear anyone else speaking.”

  “We have bigger things to think about than what we’re going to do for fun tomorrow,” I say.

  “Like what?” Perla asks.

  “Like the Fall Formal,” I say. “I think we should be color coordinated.”

  “Right!” Perla says.

  “And there should be no dates,” Kenji says. “We go as a group.”

  “Like an orgy,” Mike says.

  “We’ll all wear purple,” I say.

  “But the theme is Autumn Fires,” Perla says. “We’ll clash with the decorations.”

  “That’s the point,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says. “I get it.”

  But clearly, she doesn’t.

  We’re all outside, behind the gym. I’m in a fabulous purple gown sucking vodka and grape punch through a straw. Perla is smoking a cigarette, trying to look glamorous in long lavender gloves.

  “This shit is awkward,” she says. She peels off the gloves, finger by finger.

  Why is it that when you have what seems to be the perfect combination of elements to ensure no-brainer fun — friends, booze, music, and fancy clothes — you still all end up in a yawn fest, standing around behind the gym, complaining?

  The vodka isn’t working. It’s not strong enough. Suddenly I know what will give me the buzz I need.

  I start peeling off my dress.

  “What are you doing?” Perla says. “Chica, put your dress back on.”

  The boys don’t say anything. They continue to drink the punch and try to look like they are not looking at me, the girl standing in front of them in her bra and underwear.

  “I dare you to go inside like that,” Kenji says.

  “That’s the plan,” I say.

  He puts his hands around my waist and pulls me toward him.

  “That’s my girl,” he says, kissing me.

  When I break away from him, there is a string of saliva still connecting me to his mouth. It glistens in the light, then breaks and falls onto his chin.

  I wipe it off with my thumb.

  “Anyone care to join me?” I ask.

  Not one of them meets my eyes. They all shake their heads no.

  Wimps. All of them.

  “What will you do when you get to the other side?” Perla says. “You’ll be, like, naked.”

  I grab a plastic bag from the garbage and put my dress and shoes in it.

  “Ready,” I say.

  “Wait,” Sid says. He goes back to the garbage can and digs through until he finds a paper bag. He rips two eyeholes in it and places it over my head. “You don’t want to get caught.”

  They open the door and go into the gym while I hang back.

  I count to ten. My heart is pounding.

  “GO!” I tell myself.

  I push the door open and start to run. I see almost nothing. A flash of fabric. An ogling face. The sound of shrieks. A cackle. An adult screaming to stop me.

  But I am still running, past the jocks and the cheerleaders and the math club and the vogue girls and the sun and surfers and the extremers and the young politicos. It is me and my feet on the floor and my goal: the doors at the other side of the gym.

  I make it.

  I run down the hallway right into the bathroom and dive into a stall. I take the brown bag off my head and let my hair spill out as I lean my head forward. I put my face in my sweaty hands.

  Instead of laughing or feeling thrilled, I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from crying.

  What is wrong with me?

  I feel no difference from that moment of running to this moment of crying, and the next one, the one where I open my garbage bag and calmly put my dress back on.

  Shit. I’m missing a shoe.

  I wake up on Monday morning, and my bedroom is the same, and the view outside the window is the same, and the smell of breakfast coming up from down the hall is the same. Only I feel different.

  At lunchtime, in the pavilion, I sit at the usual table, and I am eating the same lunch I have every day (fat-free, sugar-free yogurt and a Diet Coke), while everyone else is talking over one another.

  They are all talking. And nobody is listening.

  Kenji: “I refuse to go to museums because they’re just trying to dictate what culture is, but once it’s in a museum, all they’re doing is displaying what culture was. And by that time it’s dead.”

  Perla: “Why would I bother with acting school? Such a waste of time. Everybody knows that reality shows are the way to become a megastar.”

  Sid: “The best band to ever come out of Seattle is Mudhoney, not Nirvana. It’s such a cop-out to say Nirvana.”

  Mike Dutko: “That chick’s boobs look good in that sweater.”

  All of a sudden it hits me.

  I don’t want to say it out loud because I really can’t believe it, but it’s true.

  They’re all boring.

  Everything is boring.

  “What’s wrong with you, Libby?” Perla asks. “You sick?”

  “No,” I say.

  “You look sick. Like pale white or something.”

  “Bad yogurt,” I say. I get up and throw the container into the garbage can.

  I’m not hungry.

  I’m not anything.

  Thankfully, the bell rings and it’s time to go to AP Biology.

  I rush to class. I practically run. Not because I’m going to be late, and not because I even care about getting there on time, but just because I want to get away from my friends.

  I’m afraid that they’ll all find out what’s really wrong with me.

  Outside the classroom, I’m panting with my head down and my hands on my knees. I wonder if I’m having a heart attack. I look up and try to focus on something, on the internship bulletin board with its even blocks of pastel-colored flyers. I read the big black cutout letters on top of the board that say Are You Ready for an Adventure in SCIENCE?

  The word SCIENCE is wobbling. It looks as though it’s 3-D. It’s jumping out at me.

  I stand in front of the bulletin board for a long time. People jostle me as they pass by to go into the classroom. I steady myself by keeping my eyes on the internship sign-up sheet for the L.A. Zoo.

  That’s something I would never do.

  Scientifically speaking, I’m not a scientist.

  But before I know what I am doing, my pen is out of my bag and with my shaking hand I am signing the sheet.

  I sign at the top, on the first line. Number one. I almost think that I’m going to be the only one who signs up when I notice that the bottom line is filled out too.

  Number 25. Tina Carpentieri.

  I laugh. She probably couldn’t reach any higher.

  It takes only one day for Ms. Lew to call my name at the end of biology class.

  “Libby, can I talk to you a moment?” Ms. Lew asks.

  I know why she wants to talk to me. I want to leave so that I can cross my name off the list hanging outside of her classroom door.

  “Yeah, I really have to get to class. I don’t want to be late.”

  Usually this tactic works. But today Ms. Lew writes out a late pass for me. I put my book bag down on a desk.

  “I just wanted to let you know how pleased I am that you’ve signed up for the L.A. Zoo internship,” she says.

  “I’m going to quit.”

  “But it hasn’t even started,” she says.

  “Yeah, I might have been temporarily insane,” I say.

  She smiles. She thinks I’m kidding. Making a joke. She doesn’t know I’m actually worried that it might be true. I may be insane. My name on that paper may have been the only thing keeping me from becoming a quivering blob outside her classroom yesterday.

  “I wish you wouldn’t quit. You excel in science.”

  “No, I don’t excel in anything. I’m a B student.”

  “I think we both know that you can get a B with your eyes closed.”

  “No, I struggle,” I say. But no matter how serious I try to look, I can’t help smiling.

  “It counts as an extra science class,” she adds. “And it will look terrific on your college applications next year.”

  I want to say, BIG WHOOP. But Ms. Lew is being sincere and passionate again, and I just don’t have the heart to be shitty to her.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Libby, this is a good opportunity. It shows initiative. You are a natural leader, and thanks to you, other students have signed up for some science internships too.”

  “I didn’t mean to start a trend,” I say.

  “Well, you did.”

  The late bell rings.

  “I gotta go, Ms. Lew.”

  “I’m giving you a compliment, Libby. Try to learn to accept compliments.”

  She turns back to her desk, and I figure I can finally leave. I get to the door, and I turn back and I say one more thing.

  “Thank you, Ms. Lew.”

  But I don’t know why I said it. I know I’m not thankful for a single thing.

  I cut American History class and go to the bleachers by the track so I can try to finish The Great Gatsby. Maybe if I get my reading done, I will actually bother showing up for English.

  The field is full of football players running into mats, soccer players bouncing balls on knees, and track people running around the field. Except one girl. She’s in the middle of the field doing yoga. Downward facing dog. Sun salutation. Tree pose. It looks awkward, though. Her body is all wrong. After a minute, I realize it’s not the shapes that she twists in that make her body look all wrong. It’s Tiny. And Tiny’s body is strange. Her hips are a bit too wide. Her legs are just a bit too short. Her arms bend over her trunk a bit too soon.

  She’s completely oblivious to all of the grunting and shouting and running around her. She sits down and starts to meditate.

  I shade my eyes to watch her. She’s more interesting than the book I’m not reading. She’s almost graceful in a way. Once you get used to watching her movements, they somehow make sense.

  Perla, who cuts class as much as I do, approaches. Her long, shiny, black hair is pulled back into a Frida Kahlo braid that swings from side to side as she joins me on the bleachers.

  She stands in front of me, blocking my view of Tiny and her interesting stretching, so I put my head down and begin reading again.

  “I have to cheat,” Perla says. “Reading all those words makes my brain hurt.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say. “Sounds like the smart thing to do.”

  Of course she totally misses the sarcasm in my voice.

  “I know, right? Sid sits next to me, so I just cheat off him. Except I have to reword his weird concepts so it sounds like I wrote it. But at least then I know I’ll get an automatic C.”

  “Doesn’t it ever bore you not to think, Perla?” I ask.

  Ironically, she has to think about it.

  “Aw, man!” Kenji says. “Why’d you sign up for a winter session internship?”

  “Because,” I say.

  “Not coo’,” Kenji says. “No fun. Total snore pie.”

  He tilts his head sideways as though he’s falling asleep and makes snoring sounds.

  “I think it’s stupid,” Mike Dutko says.

  “A total waste of time,” Perla says.

  “Basically, it blows,” Kenji says, one hand on my thigh, and the other hand making its way down my shirt. “I don’t understand why you’re doing it. It’s for geeks.”

  I don’t say anything. I twist away from Kenji.

  “Where you going?” he says.

  I reach into the Halloween candy bowl on the glass coffee table. It’s an excuse to get away from his slithering hands.

  Strange. The more that they say it’s the wrong thing to do, the more I want to do it.

  “It’s only for winter session,” I say. “Three months. Starts in December, ends by spring break.”

  I look at them:

  Kenji, stretching out his legs, kicking his snakeskin boots up on the coffee table.

  Perla, in her pink feather sweater, staring blankly as she applies her lipstick for the fourth time in half an hour.

  Mike Dutko, preoccupied with the Band-Aid on his hairy finger.

  Sid, wearing vintage tortoiseshell glasses, peering out from underneath his sweatshirt hood. He thinks I don’t notice that he’s the only one looking at me and that he’s the only one who hasn’t weighed in either way.

  He’s waiting for the explanation.

  Then it dawns on me.

  “There are these crabs in the ocean,” I begin. “They get into a fisherman’s net, and they’re too stupid to get out. They just can’t figure it out. But every once in a while, one crab figures out how to escape, and the other crabs go crazy and pull it back into the net; they pull its arms and legs off because they just don’t want it to leave.”

  “I guess you’re not napping in science class,” Sid says.

  “Are you calling me a crab?” Kenji asks.

  I don’t say anything.

  “Whatever,” Perla says, momentarily done with her preening. “She’ll still have plenty of time to hang out. How hard can it be? It’s the zoo. It’s just animals.”

  “Exactly,” I say, looking at all of them. “Animals.”

  Perla comes up to me between sixth and seventh period as I’m getting my textbook out of my locker.

  “I have to baby-sit my cousin after school,” she says. “I pulled the family short straw.”

  She puts her fingers in the form of an L on her forehead. The sign of the Loser.

  “Well, I have a thing to do too. I have orientation at the zoo,” I say.

  “Oh that. Can’t you skip it? I don’t want to baby-sit alone.”

  “Uhm. I can’t.”

  Perla pouts and bats her eyes.

  “Not going to work on me,” I say. “Try it on Mike Dutko.”

  “Ooh. That’s a good idea. He’d do anything for me. He loves me.”

  She grins, making her finger pop out and up. The sign of the Boner.

  The chair is hard as a rock, and the plastic digs into my back. Though I am uncomfortable, I try to seem engaged. When will Mrs. Torres, the animal services manager, get to the part where I can pay attention? All I can focus on is the tacky alligator earrings she is wearing.

  At last she starts saying something interesting.

  “Strict hygiene rules are in place here at the zoo due to diseases like mad cow and Newcastle virus.”

  I shudder. The horror. She blah blah blahs more about the animals and the importance of hygiene.

  “The condor is an endangered species. It is a California native, and it is a bird of prey,” Mrs. Torres says. “The public never sees the birds. We only breed them.”

  I look around wondering if anyone is as startled as I am. What a sad life those endangered birds must have. Kept away from public eyes. Never free. A life secluded for the one chance of species survival. I shudder again.

  “Cold?” Tiny asks. “Me too. I’m always cold. I’ll go ask them to turn down the air conditioning.”

  Tiny climbs off her chair and talks to an animal service technician in the back of the room, who makes an adjustment on the thermostat.

  I can’t believe it. I bet she totally played the dwarf card with that guy.

  On her way back, she squeezes the arm of a geeky kid with a pizza face. He turns bright red and smiles at her. Then Tiny makes her way back over to her chair.

  I wish she hadn’t sat next to me. Just because we go to the same school doesn’t make us automatic friends. She’s totally going to try to be buddy-buddy with me. I can tell.

  “We do not ever work with any animals directly. They are off limits,” warns Mrs. Torres.

  I raise my hand.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  “Yes, Miss . . .”

  “Brin,” I say. “Libby Brin.”

  “Libby. Go ahead.”

  “I don’t understand. We don’t ever get to touch the animals?”

  “If you had read your paperwork, you would have seen that unless interns are eighteen years old, they are not allowed near any animals. You can clean cages. You can help with animal enrichment. You can and will learn biology. But these are WILD ANIMALS.”

  “Well, what’s the point . . . ?”

  “No one has you in a cage, Libby. You can leave the zoo at any time. There’s the exit.”

  The other interns, not one of which looks at all cool, begin to laugh.

  They are laughing at me!

  Mrs. Torres waits to see what I will do before she starts talking again.

  I cross my arms and make a big show of getting comfortable in my chair. When it’s clear I’m not leaving, she nods and continues.

  “The procedure will be as follows: A team member will check in and receive your daily assignment. You will do whatever the animal keeper asks you to do. Your team will be required to take notes of your activities. You will be graded on these field books. You will be on duty with a different animal every week. When you are done with the internship, should you choose to continue with us here at the zoo, you will have had training enough to move on to the next level and apprentice with a specific kind of exotic animal.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know how I feel about zoos,” Tiny says, twisting toward me. “But at least it’s better here than that old zoo. Have you ever been there? I mean, to the old zoo? Seen those tiny empty cages?”

  “No,” I manage to respond.

  “It’s just on the other side of the park. We should go one day. It’s really thought-provoking.”

  Whatever.

  Thankfully Mrs. Torres interrupts before I have to figure out some kind of an excuse. Normally I don’t feel as though I need to come up with one; I can just say NO. But Tiny is relentless. She seems like the kind of person who needs reasons.

  “Now I will hand out your team assignments,” Mrs. Torres announces. “These will be your teams for the duration of the internship. Green Team will be Matthew Avilles, Consuela Adams, and Priscilla Brand. Blue Team will be Libby Brin, Sheldon Black, and Tina Carpentieri . . .”