The Day I Was Popular
Creative Nonfiction
When I was a girl, my mom dressed me funny.
I vividly remember the first day of sixth grade. I was eleven years old, and I was alone—my best friend and next-door neighbor Milli had moved away that summer. I was so thin that my mother sewed most of my clothes—she was an excellent seamstress. But for this special occasion, she’d picked out a store-bought dress in size 6X—meant for six-year-olds who are having a growth spurt but who are not quite ready for a size 7. It was plaid with a high neck and a frilly white bibbed front. She accessorized it with thick white knee socks and brown flats with buckles. She curled my bright red hair with sponge rollers—I slept in them overnight to achieve a tight, Little Orphan Annie curl—and then pinned the resulting mess out of my eyes with barrettes. When we stood in line to be admitted to Mr. Probasco’s classroom that first morning, the Popular Girls whispered and laughed and pointed. They were not very subtle about it. I thought I might break down and cry.
I found new friends.
Barbara had been the new girl the year before. She lived right behind me and one house over in Silver Strand Navy Housing, a small San Diego neighborhood on an isthmus between Coronado and Imperial Beach without fenced backyards—we had expansive, grassy, communal ones. Barbara was blonde and blue-eyed and pretty, smart and funny, way out of my league, but I made it my mission to make her one of my best friends. Her family was big and welcoming. I was exposed to culture at Barbara’s house: I remember listening to the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack there and watching All in the Family for the first time. Barbara’s big sister took us to our first concert when we were twelve—The Osmond Brothers at the San Diego Coliseum.
Terrie was red-haired and freckled like me. She was the funniest person I’d ever met and hated P.E. as much as I did. She invented the Womp Attack—a wild, full-bodied version of the dying cockroach reserved for the most incredible moments, like when a boy named B talked to her or when she aced Tiger Beat magazine’s “Could You Be Donny’s Girl?” quiz. Terrie knew everything there was to know about Donny Osmond and Tony DeFranco. I admired her discerning taste in men—she had a series of sophisticated crushes on actual grownups, like Mike Connors, who played Joe Mannix on television, and Peter Duell from Alias Smith and Jones. We cried together in her bedroom after Duell committed suicide when we were eleven.
Together, Barbara, Terrie, and I formed a trio of happy, goofy best friends. In retrospect, our biggest sin was that we weren’t in any hurry to grow up. While other girls were pursuing C and E, the two Cutest Boys in the Class, we were eating pomegranates in the front yard and having Womp Attacks and roller skating and listening to the Osmond Brothers and the Partridge Family on our record players.
One sixth-grade afternoon, D and F, two of the Popular Girls who’d laughed at me the first day of school, approached me and offered to take me under their wings. They could make me popular, they promised. I just needed some coaching. And a boyfriend. The premise was like something out of a Judy Blume novel, so I should have known how it would turn out. But I wanted very much to be liked. And a boyfriend would have been nice, I thought. I was immature, yes, but I was still a preteen with hormones.
The next morning, we met in front of D’s house and walked to school together. They explained the rules. The first step on the road to popularity required me to hang out with the Popular Girls instead of Barbara and Terrie. I’m ashamed to say my eleven-year-old self craved acceptance enough to go along with that requirement. Next step, the boyfriend. They aimed high. They picked E. My heart leapt in my chest—I was about to be the girlfriend of one of the Cutest Boys in the Class. While I waited an appropriate distance away, D and F approached E and asked him if he’d consent to an arranged relationship. But E declined vehemently, insultingly, and loudly enough for me to hear. This wasn’t going well.
By the end of the day, I missed my real best friends terribly. Hanging out with the Popular Girls only pointed up the differences between us—my awkwardness was on display in vivid technicolor. I didn’t want to be doing the things they were doing—at recess, they didn’t want to play; they wanted to walk around the playground talking, and I didn’t want to talk about the things they wanted to talk about. I wanted to be with Barbara and Terrie, where I could be myself, and where being myself was enough.
The next morning, when I walked out my front door to go to school, the Popular Girls were already walking down the sidewalk without me. I didn’t blame them. I’d turned out to be a disappointment and a far more challenging project than they could have anticipated. And I was relieved. I wasn’t ready for that kind of pressure. I walked to school alone that day, but when I showed up at the monkey bars, Barbara and Terrie took me back without question. Terrie and I looked on while Barbara did cherry drops. Barbara was always the bravest of the three of us.
NEWS & ANNOUNCEMENTS
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Leanne Phillips
Writer | Book Coach | Editor
leannephillips.com
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I love this sweet story. And hearing your voice. ❤️
My childhood friends got me through tough times too. Great story.