Not Here to Be Liked: Chapters 11–16

I let out a deep sigh, and then I explain what happened. The accidentally posted rant. The backlash.

His reply is succinct. "No."

The other kids in my class have noticed as well, and they start eyeing the button that I’m still wearing on my cardigan. As we stand for the Pledge of Allegiance, we’re all thinking the same thing about Serena’s sartorial choice: What could it possibly mean?

“Does this mean you’re planning to run?”
Serena flashes a demure smile. “Never say never.”

“The thing is, what did Serena even add to the conversation?” Winona is flummoxed.

“Anyone who thinks gender equality is important can be part of it.”
Serena bobs her head earnestly, like I am espousing something very profound.

“Anyone who thinks gender equality is important can be part of it.”
Serena bobs her head earnestly, like I am espousing something very profound.

Dylan Park, who is wearing a jersey with his name on the back, hurries over in an exaggerated scamper. Jason, languidly, follows behind him.

“You’ve become so humorless since becoming a feminist,” he remarks, before both he and Jason, satisfied with their obnoxious performance, mosey away.

A select group of girls, including Serena and her friends, continue to wear my I AM A FEMINIST buttons conspicuously displayed on their shirts, and I feel a little bit like I’ve joined an elite cohort that owns the same limited-edition handbag.

Overnight, the girls’ field hockey team pulled together a petition to replace their decade-old uniforms, preferably with the money that the football program squanders on new tackling dummies every year.

The prep area behind the counter is thronged with employees, and one of them, in the process of pouring creamy liquid over ice, catches sight of us.

His handshake, unlike Ian’s jaunty squeeze, is a real solid grip.

As Kevin moves onto the merits of Boba Bros’ proprietary syrup, I inch away from Len, reminding myself to keep an eye on the story.

“Kevin has an MBA from Stanford,” says Ian. “Our mom would want you to include that, so people know he has marketable skills even though he’s now running a boba shop.”
“Nah, Ian’s the one with skills,” Kevin demurs.

Boba Bros is an homage to his American dream. The perfect tech-bro-turned-entrepreneur story, with just enough child-of-immigrant pathos thrown in.

She wasn’t thrilled when we told her we were both quitting high-paying jobs to do this. She was an accountant, too, and always believed in working hard, getting a good education, doing something lucrative and prestigious.

If everyone faces these same delays due to regulations, maybe Kevin is right. Maybe the city codes are too onerous.

“But what’s the story really about?”
I ruminate on this before responding.

“Kids at school don’t care about that stuff.”
I pluck a blade of grass from the lawn and throw it at him. “It’s our job to write what’s significant, not just pander to the masses.”

No?
The brevity simultaneously irritates and embarrasses me. At the same time, I am sort of relieved that his message was so useless, because it means...well, I don’t know what it means, so why am I relieved?

“The political stuff is first-rate, as usual.” In response, I give Len an imperious look, but then James adds, “I think you’ve done a decent job sketching out who these guys are, too. Interesting stuff.”

He puts up both hands in a gesture of capitulation.

Right, the symbolism is convoluted, and it’s been manipulated by all kinds of groups, especially those supporting the patriarchy.

Serena chats nonstop, blithely unaware of my terror.

“That’s great,” I say, as Serena accelerates with gusto through a green light.

It occurs to me then what a singular moment this is: here I am, inexplicably in solidarity with Serena Hwangbo, the girl whose entire student-council tenure has been based on nothing but marginally considerate behavior and attractive boyfriends.

It occurs to me then what a singular moment this is: here I am, inexplicably in solidarity with Serena Hwangbo, the girl whose entire student-council tenure has been based on nothing but marginally considerate behavior and attractive boyfriends.

His house has a pitched, asymmetrical roof, with wooden double doors nestled into a stone-and-glass facade, and the lawn, not subject to the smaller lot constraints of newer subdivisions, is generous—maybe the size of my living room and kitchen put together.

And books—lots and lots of books. Large, glossy compendiums of art on the coffee table, whole series of Latin-etched volumes on the built-in shelves, and paperbacks stacked on side tables as if there just isn’t enough room for them anywhere else.

He’s beaming up at the camera, more exuberant than I’ve ever seen him, holding a baseball in two hands like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“They tried to get me into an accident.”
Serena’s well-shaped brows arch behind her phone. “Says the guy who was texting while driving.”
“I was checking Len’s address,” Ryan grouses.

“Your dad would be excited about that. He loves Macbeth.” Len’s mom says this in a way that is hard to read, dipped in a kind of sardonic subtlety that could be either disdain or affection.

“Your dad would be excited about that. He loves Macbeth.” Len’s mom says this in a way that is hard to read, dipped in a kind of sardonic subtlety that could be either disdain or affection.

“Would it kill you to just tell the truth for once?”
This sounds exactly as belligerent as I intended, but the way he falters, almost like I’ve struck him, makes me second-guess myself.

“People believe lies, though. Especially if they want to.”
“That just makes fact-based journalism even more important.”
“So your commitment to the Bugle, that’s based purely on altruistic ideals.”

I grasped then that my ideas, earthbound and miniature in scale, couldn’t fill all that empty air. They were no match for everyone else’s pom-pomming and grandstanding about school spirit and all that other nonsense.

“Guess some jerk ruined that by putting your manifesto on the front page.”
Len’s voice dips into that inscrutable register, the one that I’ve just discovered is a DiMartile family specialty, and I can’t tell whether the barb is for me or whether there is even a barb at all.

“Guess some jerk ruined that by putting your manifesto on the front page.”
Len’s voice dips into that inscrutable register, the one that I’ve just discovered is a DiMartile family specialty, and I can’t tell whether the barb is for me or whether there is even a barb at all.

I watch him bounce that stupid basketball off a wall that he shares with no one else, in a room that contains nothing less than probable Princeton legacy status in chair form, as he contemplates a philosophical quandary about the necessity of ambition.