It’s different with April. It’s like I broke her bottom line or something. I broke it, and there’s no way to unbreak it.
But I have to try.
I have to tell her about the real me, why I lied that day, all the things I wanted to say to her at the wedding. I want to tell her about the night when I couldn’t sleep, and I had those crazy ideas about us at three in the morning.
I want to tell her all of that and more, but when I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out. That’s what it’s like to be me. Everything goes into my mouth, but when I need something to come out, I’m out of luck.
I guess April gets tired of waiting, because she spins around before I can say anything and walks away. I stand there, so heavy I can’t move, listening to the squeak of her sneakers on the hall floor. I’ve known April for less than a week, and I’ve seen more of her back than I have of her front.
That’s not how I planned it. Not at all.
15. the scent of popular.
Things happen really fast after that.
On Monday I’m standing in the hall outside the boys’ locker room. The bell has already rung, but I’m afraid to go in. Since the soccer game, I’m not exactly Mr. Popularity in gym class.
Coach passes by on his way into the locker room. “Oh, good,” he says when he sees me. “I need to talk to you.”
We go into the locker room together, and the guys look at me like I’m dead meat. If Coach wasn’t there, I probably would be.
“Let’s go into my office,” Coach says, and he closes the door behind us.
I’ve never been in Coach’s office before. There are inspirational posters all over the walls. One shows a big chunk of coal like you’d use in your grill. The poster says, A diamond is a lump of coal that stuck with it.
“I have good news,” Coach says. “I’m taking you out of this class.”
For a second I think I won’t have to take gym anymore.
“I could have a study period or something,” I say.
“No, no,” Coach says. “Phys Ed is mandatory. I’m putting you in Modified Gym.”
“Mod Gym?” I say. Mod Gym is the class for retarded kids and the handicapped. Everyone calls it Slow Gym. “I can’t go into Mod.”
“It’s for your own safety. And anyway, I think it will be more your speed.”
My speed. Slow.
What do you do in Slow Gym? It’s more like what you don’t do. You don’t go outside and play sports with the normal kids. You sit in a circle and roll a kickball back and forth in the gym. No kidding. One hour of rolling a ball. Coach pops in every twenty minutes to make sure nobody fell out of their wheelchair.
If that wasn’t bad enough, guess who’s in Slow Gym?
Warner.
He’s sitting on the ground smiling and spinning a dodgeball between his legs. So we’re together yet again.
That’s just Monday. Trust me, it gets worse.
On Tuesday, Eytan and I are walking out of AP History when I see Justin put his arm around April’s shoulders like he’s hot shit. She shrugs it off, but not too fast. It looks like she’s grateful to have someone paying attention to her. Someone with a positive rep. Someone who’s not me.
Eytan sees it, too, but he doesn’t say anything. He starts talking about Estonia instead, trying to distract me like a friend does when things are bad.
At dinner on Tuesday night I have to listen to Jessica telling Mom how things are going so well at school. She loves seventh grade, she says, and then she launches into some stupid story about how the boys try to touch her hair, but she screams and they run away.
Mom asks me how things are going, and I tell her the girls try to touch my hair, but I scream and they run away. Jessica doesn’t find that funny, and neither does Mom. So I make up a bunch of exciting stuff, so Mom won’t get worried or e-mail Dad to have a talk with me.
So much for Tuesday.
On Wednesday, April’s not sitting alone at the new-girl table in the cafeteria anymore. Instead she’s at a table with Lisa Jacobs and a bunch of the popular girls. Lisa Jacobs is an SHG. Super Hot Girl, only she’s SHG #I. She’s got long blonde hair, an amazing face, and giant boobs. Her boobs are so big they’re like an entire other student. Eytan says they have their own GPA, like Lisa has a 2.8, and her boobs have a 4.0.
The worst part is that Lisa is nice. Not nice to me, but a nice person. Everyone says so.
What I can’t figure out is how April ended up with Lisa. They’re laughing together like old friends. When did they become friends?
Lisa is also O. Douglas’s girlfriend. No surprise that the hottest girl and hottest guy are together. My dad always says, “Water seeks its own level.” Maybe that’s why I always get stuck with Warner. Fat drifts towards other fat. It’s a fundamental physical law.
Later that day I see April and Lisa Jacobs together again, this time sitting in the library. It looks like they’re studying together, but that seems pretty much impossible. I mean, April is brilliant, and Lisa Jacobs is… known for having good hair. It’s a mystery to me.
On Thursday, I see April walking down the hall with those same girls. They’re like a posse now, moving together in a clump of popularity.
By Friday, she’s sitting far away from Justin in History class. She’s getting so popular, she doesn’t need him anymore. Or maybe her new friends warned her that he was a dipshit. Either way, she’s moved on to bigger and better things.
That would be kind of a relief, except she’s moved on from me, too. She hasn’t said a word to me since that day in the hall, and she won’t make eye contact. It’s like we’ve never even met. Or maybe we did meet, but she purposely did an Eternal Sunshine and had the memory erased to make space for more pleasant memories that don’t include fat kids.
Eytan said I had to move fast, and I did.
It took just one week for April, a brand-new girl, to become popular. It took me less than a week to become an untouchable.
That’s pretty fast.
16. mini memories.
I’m standing in front of 175 mini spring rolls with a love song playing in the background. “True Colors,” that old song by Cyndi Lauper. Sappy. But what else do you expect at a wedding?
It’s the weekend, and I’m helping Mom again. There are girls all over the place, but I can’t stop thinking about April. I blame the spring rolls. They’re Asian, and so is April. I know she’s Korean and spring rolls are Vietnamese, but it doesn’t matter. Asian things remind me of April now.
Mom passes me with a platter of mini knishes, and those remind me of April, too. I can’t figure that one out. Why would Jewish food remind me of her?
When I see the mini meatballs, I realize it’s not the nationality at all—it’s the food. Food in general reminds me of April. So I’m pretty much screwed.
As soon as Mom disappears into the kitchen, I stuff three spring rolls into my mouth. I gulp down a knish and nearly burn the roof off my mouth. Then I pop in a meatball to wash it all down.
True colors.
I’m trying to distract myself, but it doesn’t work. I keep looking behind me thinking April is going to walk up at any minute.
And the thing is, she’s not even at this wedding.
17. I turn right.
It’s the end of the day, and I’m rushing to put books in my locker and get down to the auditorium for the first Model UN meeting. Eytan has been talking about it nonstop for two weeks. “Are you excited?” he asked me yesterday for the three-thousandth time.
“Absolutely,” I said. “But aren’t you a little worried about being Estonia?”
That was my subtle way of reminding him that nobody gives a crap about Estonia, and maybe he shouldn’t get his hopes up.