The List (6 page)

“Do you want butter or cream cheese?”

“Neither,” Bridget says. She pushes her hair back. It is damp around the edge of her scalp.

“Oh. Well … congratulations again!”

“Thanks,” Bridget says quietly, taking the bagel in her hand. She can’t believe the weight of it.

Bridget walks into homeroom. She is shaky from the shock of it. Never, never in a million billion years would she have dreamed this would happen to her. Sure, when school started, she was taken aback by all the compliments she got. How fit she was looking. How thin! And now, to be on the list. To be the prettiest junior in the whole school. It is confirmation that there’d been something wrong with her before. That she
had
needed to lose weight.

It is terribly confusing.

Eat.

After putting down her book bag, Bridget steps over to the trash can and presses her fingers into the still-warm flesh of the bagel. She pulls out clumps of soft dough, then drops them like pennies into a wishing well until the shell of the bagel is all that’s left. She wants to throw that into the trash, too.

When she looks up, she sees Lisa running with Abby Warner down the hall. Lisa beams at Bridget, so unbelievably proud of her big sister. The lipstick Lisa had put on in the car has faded. It’s barely noticeable.

Bridget is light-headed. As right as things felt mere seconds ago, she knows better. Inside, she knows how wrong this is. She hates herself for knowing better, for robbing herself of one good feeling. One moment of being happy with herself.

Eat, Bridget.

Just five bites.

They can be little ones.

Bridget manages two.

It is not something she wants to celebrate.

ennifer Briggis makes her way through the morning hallway traffic, head down, silently counting off the twelve green linoleum floor tiles she’ll cross before reaching her locker. The kids lining the walls keep their voices low, but Jennifer still hears every word. Most of her classmates don’t actually talk to Jennifer, just whisper about her, and all those hushed conversations over the years have done a strange thing to her ears. They’ve become tuned in to pick up what everyone’s saying, whether she wants to or not.

“Have you seen the list yet?”

“Is Jennifer on it? Oh my god, I bet she’s on it again. Oh my god!”

“Do you think she knows what today is? She
has
to, right? I mean, how could she
not
after the last three years?”

“Twenty bucks says if she’s the ugliest senior, she barfs again. For old times’ sake.”

Every conversation orbits the same central question: If this year’s list decrees it, how will Mount Washington’s undisputed queen of ugly accept her crown?

Jennifer has thought about little else since last year’s list named her the ugliest junior and effectively knocked down the second-to-last domino in this impossible chain of events. Despite the muddy feelings she had about her particular situation, a clear
either/or
presented itself.

Senior year would arrive, and either Jennifer wouldn’t be on the list … or she would.

But that’s not what captivates Mount Washington High this morning. Four lists or three or two or even one can’t change what is widely accepted as fact: Jennifer Briggis is clearly, certifiably, undeniably ugly. But Jennifer knows that what everyone in the hallway salivates for is her reaction. That’ll be the
real
show. And the expectations for something big, something messy, aren’t beyond her control, like being pretty or being ugly. They are, in fact, her fault.

When Jennifer was put on the list her freshman year, she became an instant legend. No one, in the history of ugly girls, had reacted so unattractively.

Jennifer had sunk to the floor in front of her locker and bawled unabashedly until her entire face was shellacked with a mixture of tears, snot, and sweat. The list, damp and twisted in her fists, was reduced to soggy pulp. Blood vessels burst in her cheeks and in the whites of her eyes.

She’d barely survived the worst summer of her life, and now this?

The freshmen collectively backed up and gawked in horror, the way one might upon seeing a dead body. Except Jennifer was very much alive. A gasp for breath turned into a choke, and then she vomited on herself. The metallic smell of it filled the hallway, and people ducked into classrooms or pulled their clothes up over their noses to avoid it. Someone ran for the nurse, who extended rubber-gloved hands to help Jennifer to her feet. She was led to a cot in a dark corner of the nurse’s office.

Jennifer couldn’t stop crying. She wailed so loudly, the science classes heard her even with their doors closed and the teachers lecturing. Her misery vibrated against the steel lockers, turning the halls into one big tinny microphone that broadcast her suffering to the whole school. The nurse eventually sent Jennifer home, where she spent the rest of the day in bed, feeling bad for herself.

When she returned to school the following morning, no one would look at her. She found some vindication in the school’s collective avoidance, but mostly Jennifer felt lonely. She knew for sure that her old life was officially over. Despite having played it cool for an entire summer, praying that things would return to normal, the list had ruined everything. She would never get back what she’d lost after the way she’d acted. The only thing she could do was move on.

It proved a difficult task. Before Jennifer, the prettiest girls were the ones remembered and the ugliest girls faded into the shadows. But Jennifer bucked that trend. No one would forget her.

Sophomore year, the second time, Jennifer was on her way to a fresh start and the previous year’s list was a distant memory, at least to her.

In 365 days, Jennifer had gained some confidence, having successfully auditioned for chorus, and had grown friendly with a couple girls who also sang soprano. They were nothing special, not even well known in the chorus/band circle. Their clothes weren’t particularly cool, and they never wanted to do the things Jennifer suggested — preferring to rent old musicals and collectively sing along with them rather than, say, trying to get into a party. But Jennifer knew that beggars couldn’t be choosers. Nothing would be as good as it had been. She’d just have to live within her means.

The morning of the sophomore-year list, Jennifer rode the bus completely aware of what day it was, but without a thought that she might make the list again. In fact, she couldn’t wait to see who had been picked for her grade. She had her hunches. Nearly every one of her chorus friends would have been a likely choice.

This time, after she spotted her name, Jennifer remained in school the entire day. She cried a little, alone in the bathroom, but she didn’t throw up or make a scene, which were marginal improvements. Her friends did their best to console her.

Junior year, when Jennifer saw her name on the list, she laughed. Not because it was particularly funny, but because it was so ridiculous. She didn’t delude herself — she knew she wasn’t going to be named prettiest. But wasn’t it only fair to pass the ugliest torch along to another girl?

She didn’t cry, not once. Her chorus friends comforted her again, of course, but more intriguing were the random students who sought her out to personally apologize. They never said what they were sorry for, but Jennifer had a pretty good idea; no one should have to be the ugliest girl three years in a row. It was too cruel, too mean. There were other girls who deserved to be picked, not only her. She was being unjustly singled out.

Though a big part of her was angry at this repeated indignity, Jennifer graciously accepted the supportive pats on the back. This, she noticed, made people relax around her. It eased their minds. The entire student body seemed to appreciate that Jennifer was taking this with grace. They were relieved that she wasn’t going to make this awkward for them, like she had back when she was a freshman. There was no hysterical scene, no finger-pointing, no barfing. She was a really good sport.

It was clear to Jennifer what had happened. The list, for better or worse, did elevate her status at school. Practically everyone knew who Jennifer was, and that was more than the other ugly girls, her friends, could say.

The rest of junior year transpired without incident. Jennifer made halfway decent grades. She stopped hanging out with the chorus girls. She never really liked them much anyway.

After twelve green tiles, Jennifer pivots. She spins the lock left 10, right 22, left 11.

Jennifer steels herself and clicks open her locker. The entire hall watches as a white paper falls softly to the floor and lands inches away from her feet. She sees the embossed stamp of Mount Washington High. Certified truth, special delivery.

Jennifer unfolds it. She skips the other grades, the other girls, and goes straight for the seniors.

Margo Gable, prettiest.

Jennifer wishes Margo didn’t deserve it, but she does.

And right above her name, ugliest, for an unprecedented fourth year in a row.

Jennifer pretends to be surprised.

Someone claps. Someone actually claps.

Drumroll, please.

Jennifer shrugs off her book bag. It hits the floor with a thud, amplified by the vacuum of noise. She paddles her hands against her locker door rapid-fire until they burn. The sound smacks off everyone watching her, shocking them like those heart-attack paddles.

Jennifer spins around to face her crowd. She explodes into a jumping jack, legs spread, hands shooting straight up, holding
the list for everyone to see, as if she were one of the cheerleaders brandishing a F
IGHT
, M
OUNTAINEERS
, F
IGHT
! sign. She shouts the best “Wooooooo!” she can and pumps the list up and down in celebration.

A few kids grin. More clap, and when Jennifer curtsies, enough hands join in to make it full-fledged applause.

Jennifer skips down the length of the senior hallway, keeping her hands raised for anyone who might give her a high five. Many reach out for her.

At the end of the day, there is this fact: Jennifer has accomplished a feat no other girl at Mount Washington has, endured something no one else can touch. She can’t help but feel special. It’s how that old saying goes.
If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
She pulls her smile as wide as it can go, so no one will think for a second that she might not be enjoying this, fully embracing this gift.

She wants everyone to know. She’s come a long, long way.

argo Gable is walking with her best friends, Rachel Potchak and Dana Hassan, three wide in a crowded hallway that always leaves room for them. The girls’ heads are pitched forward in a secret-sharing way, their hair falling collectively to make a privacy curtain. They are not talking about the list, as an outsider might assume. They are giggling about Mrs. Worth’s toes.

The toes, gnarled and stuffed into a pair of orthopedic sandals, had mesmerized Margo during fourth period, and she ignored the lecture on the algebraic equation of a Möbius strip in favor of mentally unlocking the twisted, overlapping joints.

“Why would a person with such hideous feet ever think to buy a pair of sandals?” Rachel asks.

“No clue,” Dana says. “Also, hello! It’s almost October. Why is she wearing sandals in the first place?”

Margo pulls her brown hair up in a sloppy bun at the very top of her head, secures it with a pencil, and thinks hard for an answer. Perhaps it’s a medical condition?

This is why she doesn’t notice Principal Colby lurking by the staircase until the principal’s hand is on her arm, pulling her to an abrupt stop.

Principal Colby is new and, so far as Margo can tell, the youngest faculty member at Mount Washington High School. She’s dressed in a red pencil skirt and a cream silk blouse with tiny yellow beads for buttons. Her dark hair is gathered in a low
ponytail, except for her bangs, which Margo notices are kept long and shaggy in the way that is featured in lots of magazines right now.

Some in her group have said that Principal Colby could be Margo’s older sister. But now, up close, Margo thinks Maureen, her
actual
older sister, is prettier.

“Margo. I’d like to talk to you about this list. Do you have a minute?”

Margo expects this to be a quick conversation, if that is even the right word for it. She tongues her watermelon gum down in her cheek and tells Principal Colby that she doesn’t know anything about it.

Principal Colby narrows her eyes. “Well, Margo … you know that you’re
on
the list, right?”

The suspicion in Principal Colby’s voice catches Margo off guard, and it suddenly feels funny to be smiling. Like it gives the wrong impression of her. She threads some of her soft hair behind her ear. “Yes,” she admits. “Someone mentioned it in homeroom.”

Actually, Jonathan Polk, who had been cast as the lead in
Pennies from Heaven
, drowned out the morning announcements by performing the list as a monologue. Afterward, he tried unsuccessfully to coax Margo into taking a bow. It
is
nice, being on the list again. She’d been on it freshman year, Dana sophomore year, and Rachel last year, when they were juniors. That’s when her sister, Maureen, had also been on the list, and then, five days later, was picked as homecoming queen, which was the way things usually went.

Margo had thought about texting Maureen at college with the good news, but decided against it.

It has been weeks since they’ve spoken.

Principal Colby produces a copy of the list from a small pocket at her hip. It has been folded several times to fit, like a piece of origami. “Since I’m new here, I was hoping you could shed some light on what this is, exactly. Fill me in.”

Margo gives a light shrug. “I don’t know. It’s just a weird school tradition, I guess.” It feels strange to be talking openly about the list with school faculty. Margo is almost positive the teachers at Mount Washington know about it. How could they not? The ones who’ve grown up here, like Mrs. Worth, could have even been on it back in the day! But they tolerate it in the name of tradition, like Margo said. Or maybe, she realizes, they just don’t care.

“And you have no idea who is behind it?”

Dana and Rachel are lurking a few steps away, trying to eavesdrop. Margo says, “No,” as confidently as she can.

Principal Colby regards her skeptically. “Do you know any of the other girls on the list?” She offers her copy of the list to Margo, but Margo keeps her hands clasped behind her back.

“A couple, I guess.”

“Would you agree with the ones who were picked? Or would you have picked different girls?”

“Principal Colby, I haven’t even seen the actual paper before right now. I don’t know anything else. Really.”

Instead of believing her, Principal Colby waves off Rachel and Dana, who have inched a little too close. “Go on, ladies. You don’t want to be late.”

As her friends disappear down the stairs, Margo is guided over to the wall. She recognizes Principal Colby’s perfume as
one of the bottles on her dresser, but decides not to comment on it. “Am I in trouble?” she asks.

“No,” Principal Colby says. Which, to Margo, should be the end of it, but she goes on. “I’m wondering how you plan to respond.”

“Respond?”

“You seem like the kind of girl who has influence around here, Margo, and how you choose to deal with the list will have an effect on your peers.” Principal Colby pushes up her sleeves and folds her arms. “This is a sick tradition, don’t you think? And I plan on getting to the bottom of who’s behind it. So if you know something, I would suggest you let me know right now.”

Margo stares blankly. What does Principal Colby expect her to do? Confess? Rat someone out? Um, please. “I didn’t make up the list, Principal Colby. And I don’t know who did.”

Principal Colby lets out a long sigh. “Think of the girls who are on the ugly side of things. Think of Jennifer, and how she must have felt this morning, seeing her name on the list for the fourth year in a row.”

I heard Jennifer was pretty psyched
is what Margo wants to say. That’s what she’d been told, anyhow. But Margo doesn’t want to think of Jennifer. Not at all. If there was one sucky thing about this morning, it was finding out that Jennifer was on the list, too. It made Margo feel like she was living the drama of freshman year all over again.

Margo starts backing up. “I’ll think about it. I promise.”

She makes it halfway down the stairs before she has to stop and catch her breath. Principal Colby was so suspicious. It was as if she’d heard something.

Margo arrives at the cafeteria with cheeks brighter than the heat lamps burning red over the casserole special. Feeling slightly dizzy, she grabs a bottle of water and, aware that her hands are shaking, attempts to tide the miniature waves breaking against her lips with careful, measured sips. Margo pays for her lunch and then walks to where Rachel and Dana are sitting with Matthew, Ted, and Justin. On the way over, she passes a few tables of underclassmen. She senses them looking at her and quickly puts on a smile.

“What was that about?” Dana asks.

Margo falls into her seat. “I don’t know. Principal Colby’s all worked up over the list.” She fights the urge to look at Matthew to see if he’s heard.

Of course he has.

Rachel cups her hands and whispers, “Does she think you wrote it?” in a hissy voice that everyone can hear.

“God, no.” Margo quickly follows this statement with a breezy laugh. Underneath the table, she wipes her sweaty palms on her skirt, smoothing down the pleats. “Definitely not.”

“I’d put Principal Colby on the list,” Justin says, and licks his lips before taking a bite of hoagie.

Dana throws a napkin at him. “Ew.”

Ted leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. He’s got on a plaid button-down, collar popped, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He says, “Why’s it such a big deal? I mean, the list doesn’t say anything that everyone isn’t already thinking. We all have eyes. We know who’s hot and who’s not.”

Rachel taps a finger on her temple. “That’s funny. I seem to remember you were sweating that freshman Monique Jones pretty hard after she got on the list last year.”

“Busted,” Justin says and gives Rachel a high five.

The tips of Ted’s ears turn bright red. “The list had nothing to do with that,” he argues, louder than he needs to. “I always thought Monique was hot. She freaking modeled, dudes. The list just gave me a reason to go and introduce myself.”

Matthew pulls his sweatshirt hood up over his buzzed head. “Who wants to play me in Ping-Pong?”

He’d worn his blond hair long and floppy throughout high school, but decided to cut it short late this summer. None of the other girls liked it, but it reminded Margo of fourth grade, when Matthew first moved to Mount Washington. They’d been assigned desks next to each other, and Matthew appeared intrigued with her collection of tiny rubber erasers, which she kept in a pencil box. He’d always sit on his feet when she’d bring out the pencil box, trying to look inside as she picked which one she wanted to use. Around Christmas, she bought him a football eraser and slipped it secretly into his desk. Margo never saw him use it. She likes to imagine that maybe he still has it.

Dana shakes her head, confounded. “Principal Colby needs to relax. Next thing you know, she’s going to institute a ‘No Freak Dancing’ rule for homecoming dance.” She takes a sip of her iced tea and then adds, “Hey, speaking of freaks, did any of you guys see Sarah Singer parading down the hall with
UGLY
written on her forehead?”

“What a rebel,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes.

Matthew pushes away from the table. “Come on, Ted, play me. I want a rematch.”

“One ass beating, coming right up.” As Ted collects his garbage on his tray, he leans down over Margo’s shoulder and says,
“I think you’re going to make a beautiful homecoming queen, Margo. And if I’m lucky enough to be your king, you should know right now that I’m not letting go of you the entire night.”

Matthew groans. “Come on! Lunch is almost over.”

Margo answers, “Um, thanks, Ted,” and tries not to appear disappointed at Matthew’s non-reaction. Maybe he hasn’t heard that she’s on the list?

Ted perches himself on the corner of the table. “I mean, don’t you think it’s funny that we’ve never hooked up? Homecoming might be fate bringing us together. I mean, I’ve always thought you and I would make a good —”

“Dude!” Matthew calls out, cupping his hands. “Let’s go!”

Ted shakes his head. “Whatever. I’ll talk to you later, Margo.”

Rachel stares at Ted as he walks away and whispers, “Ted is such a list fucker! I mean, could he
be
any more transparent?”

Margo watches Matthew reach for the Ping-Pong paddles, which are kept on top of the soda machine. The two of them have never been single at the same time before. She tended to date older guys, guys who could get her friends beer and who had cars. Matthew dated younger girls, the sweet girls who did well at school and were friendly to everyone. Girls from his church. Margo didn’t go to church.

“Anyway … as I was saying, the only one I feel bad for is Jennifer.” Dana spins in her seat and scans the tables behind her. “Look at her. Even the chorus girls have abandoned her.”

Though she doesn’t want to, Margo looks. Jennifer is across the room, sitting at a table full of other kids, but she isn’t with anyone.

“Do you buy her whole happiness act?” Dana asks.

“No way.” Rachel bites into a fry. “It has to be a cover. I mean, four years of being the ugliest in your class? How do you not kill yourself?”

“I give her credit. If I were Jennifer, there’s no way I could walk into school like she did and hold my head high,” Dana says. And then she whispers, “Remember at the junior picnic, when someone whipped that hot dog at Jennifer’s head? And Jennifer was laughing, like it was funny? Ted never copped to it, but I know he did it. I saw him. A-hole.”

Rachel shakes her head in disgust. “She probably deals with that kind of crap every day.”

The girls watch Jennifer pick at her sandwich. Two younger boys, obviously freshmen, pass behind her as they carry their trays to the wash line. As they do, they point Jennifer out to friends across the cafeteria and make gagging faces. Jennifer is oblivious to it.

Rachel throws down her fry. “That’s it. I’m going to ask Jennifer if she wants to sit with us today.”

Margo reaches out to stop Rachel from getting up. “Come on. No.”

Rachel stares down the two freshmen boys as they walk back to their table. “I don’t like those little turds thinking they can make fun of Jennifer because she’s on the list. Don’t they have any respect for the fact that she’s a senior? If she’s with us, they wouldn’t dare say anything.”

Margo sighs. “No one cares about hanging out with us that much.” But she knows that isn’t true. Especially when it comes to Jennifer.

“Huh. Easy for the prettiest senior girl to say.”

“Shut up, Rachel. You’ve been on the list, too. Both of you. It’s not a big deal.”

Dana cocks her head. “Yeah, but
you’re
the one who’ll get to be homecoming queen.”

“That’s not a guarantee,” Margo says, even though it basically is. “And anyway, I don’t care about being homecoming queen.” Sure, it will be nice. But if Margo hadn’t made the list this morning, if it had been Rachel or Dana instead, she’d have been fine with it.

Rachel pats Margo on the back. “Inviting Jennifer to hang out for half a lunch period isn’t going to kill you.”

Margo pretends to concentrate on picking the lettuce out from her chicken wrap. It doesn’t surprise her how quickly the legs of Jennifer’s chair squeak against the floor.