You would think on weekends I’d get a respite. You know, from the Whitney Robertsons of the world.

 

The problem is, my little sister is turning into one. A Whitney, I mean.

 

Oh, she’s not quite as bad as the Queen of Mean. Yet. But she’s slowly getting there. As I realized to my horror on Saturday morning, when Mom said I had to go with her to the Stark Megastore grand opening, because at fourteen Frida’s still ‘too young’ to do stuff like that by herself.

 

Substitute the word silly for young in the sentence above and you’ll get my mom’s gist.

 

Not that Frida is actually mentally diminished in any way. Like me, she got into Tribeca Alternative High School on an academic scholarship.

 

She’s just turned into a Whitney Robertson wannabe . . . or, more technically, a member of the Walking Dead. That’s the term Christopher and I use to describe the majority of our classmates.

 

To most people, zombies are the undead. But to Christopher and me, zombies are the popular people at TAHS, who are very similar to the undead, in that they have no soul or personality. But they are, technically, alive.

 

However, because they have no actual interests of their own (or if they do, they squelch them in order to fit in), and merely pursue those that they think will look best on their college apps, they’re zombies.

 

Ergo, the Walking Dead is what makes up the majority of the student population of Tribeca Alternative High School.

 

It was kind of frightening to watch your own sister turn into one of the Walking Dead. But unfortunately, there really isn’t anything you can do to stop it from happening. Except try to embarrass her as much as possible in public.

 

Which would be why Frida (it was Mom’s turn to do the naming when my little sister was born, and so she got stuck being called Frida, after Frida Kahlo – Mom’s a women’s studies professor at NYU – a feminist Mexican painter best known for her self-portraits featuring her uni-brow and moustache) was as thrilled to have me along to the Stark Megastore grand opening as I was to be going with her.

 

Um, not.

 

‘Mo-om!’ she whined. ‘Why does Em have to come with me? She’s going to ruin everything.’

 

‘Em is not going to ruin everything,’ Mom said, rolling her eyes at Frida’s dramatics. ‘She’s just going to make sure you get home all right.’

 

‘It’s TWO BLOCKS away,’ Frida pointed out.

 

But Mom wouldn’t budge. There’ve been people protesting outside the new Stark Megastore since before it was even built, back when the neighbourhood found out that’s what would be replacing Mama’s Fruit and Vegetable Stand (located in the middle of an abandoned lot) on the corner of Broadway and Houston. Situated just two streets over from our university-subsidized apartment on West Third and La Guardia Place, Mama’s was where we bought all our lettuce and bananas, since you can’t trust the produce at the local Gristedes, and the gourmet food store over on Broadway, Dean and Deluca, was way too expensive.

 

Mom and I weren’t the only ones who were mad when we found out what was going up in that empty lot. The whole community banded together to save Mama’s, and demanded that Stark get out.

 

But despite all the picketing, letters to the editor, sabotage of the construction site by the ELF, the Environmental Liberation Front (I swear I had nothing to do with it, despite what Mom and Dad seem to think), and promises of a community-wide boycott, Mama’s got pushed out, and a Stark Megastore – featuring three stories of CDs, DVDs, video games, electronics and books (the smallest and most inaccessible part of the store) – went up, guaranteed to put all the locally owned shops that already sold these things out of business with its steep discounts, endless supply . . .

 

. . . and publicity stunts, like the one today: a supersized grand opening, including free food and drinks (Stark Cola and Stark Cookies and Pretzels), with live performances on all three floors by some of the hottest young entertainers of the moment, followed by an opportunity to get a personally autographed CD from them.

 

Which was why Frida was so determined to go.

 

Because unlike the rest of our family – and residents of our community – Frida was thrilled about the new Stark Megastore opening up within spitting distance of her bedroom window (not that Frida would ever do something as déclassé as spit). She could not have cared less that Mama’s had relocated to a windy, desolate corner way over in Alphabet City, nowhere close to walking distance to our apartment building, or that we were being forced to eat wilted lettuce and brown bananas from Gristedes.

 

‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ Frida kept insisting to Mom. ‘I’ll look out for ELF protestors. I’ll wear my bike helmet, if I have to.’

 

Mom just rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not ELF I’m worried about, Frida,’ she said. ‘It’s Gabriel Luna.’

 

Frida’s round cheeks (well, they are. What can I say? Round cheeks – like stick-straight brown hair, brown eyes, medium height and weight, and size-nine feet – is our genetic destiny, the way high cheekbones and perfect everything else are Whitney’s) instantly turned bright red.

 

‘Mo-om!’ she cried. ‘Whatever! He’s, like, twenty. He’s not going to be interested in a kid like me.’

 

That’s what her lips said. But anyone could tell by the glint in her eyes that Frida didn’t actually believe this. She honestly thought Gabriel Luna was going to fall madly in love with her as he personally autographed her CD. I could tell. I used to be fourteen after all, just two and a half short years ago.

 

So it was a good thing when Mom replied, ‘Then you won’t mind bringing your sister along. Just in case.’

 

‘Just in case what?’ Frida wanted to know.

 

‘In case Gabriel Luna invites you to a party back at his penthouse.’

 

You could tell this was exactly what Frida had been hoping would happen. Not that she’d ever admit it. Instead she snarled, ‘Gabriel doesn’t have a penthouse, Mom. He’s not into the trappings of fame.’

 

When I burst out laughing at trappings of fame, Frida glared at me and said, ‘Well, he’s not. He lives in a studio apartment somewhere here in NoHo. He’s not one of those music-company-fabricated pretty boy-band types Em hates so much. He’s a singer-songwriter. Even though he’s already a sensation back in his native London, hardly anyone outside England knows who he is.’

 

‘Except everyone who reads COSMOgirl!, evidently,’ I pointed out. ‘Since you just quoted that verbatim from their article on him last month. Including the trappings of fame part.’

 

‘How would you know, Em?’ Frida demanded snarkily ‘I thought you never read teen magazines. I thought you only read your lame Electronic Gaming Monthly, or whatever.’

 

I sighed. ‘Yes, but when I’ve finished that and your COSMOgirl! is the only thing that’s lying around, what choice do I have?’

 

‘Mo-om!’ Frida cried. You could tell she was really upset that Stark had been so short-sighted as to schedule their grand opening on the last warm weekend in September, which all of her fellow Walking Dead members were being ‘forced’ to spend at their families’ vacation homes in the Hamptons. They’d invited Frida along of course.

 

But she’d as soon eat glass as miss an opportunity to meet actual celebrities – even ones who don’t live in a penthouse.

 

‘Em’s going to ruin everything. Can’t you see that? She’s a dork, you know, Mom. Not even a geek, which would be semi-respectable, but a dork. All she ever does is play her stupid computer games with Christopher, study, and watch disgusting surgery shows on the Discovery Health Channel. And she’s going to say something mean to Gabriel, and embarrass me.’

 

‘I will not!’ I protested, with my mouth full of microwave waffle.

 

‘Yes you will,’ Frida said. ‘You’re always mean to guys.’

 

‘That is completely false,’ I said. ‘Name one time I was mean to Christopher.’

 

‘Christopher Maloney is your boyfriend,’ Frida said, rolling her eyes. ‘And I mean a cute guy.’

 

This was such a libellous statement – since no way is Christopher Maloney my boyfriend – that I nearly choked on my waffle. Not that I haven’t sometimes wished Christopher were my boyfriend, and not just my boy friend – or my best friend, actually.

 

But Christopher has never once expressed any sort of similar desire. You know, that we should take our friendship to a more-than-platonic level. In fact, I’m not sure Christopher has ever even realized that I’m not a boy. I’m not actually the most feminine girl in the world. I honestly wouldn’t mind trying to be, but the two or three times I’ve experimented by putting on eyeliner or whatever, Frida has just burst into hysterical laughter and told me to ‘Take it off! Just take it off right now!’ before I’ve even gotten out of the apartment.

 

So I’ve taken it off.

 

I guess it’s unusual that my best friend is a boy. But the truth is, I haven’t had a girl friend since fifth grade. The few occasions girls ever actually invited me over in middle school, it was always so . . . awkward. Because we ended up having nothing in common. Like, I always wanted to play video games, and they always wanted to play Truth or Dare (with an emphasis on the Truth part . . . like, ‘Is it true that you have a crush on that Christopher guy, but that you just tell everyone you’re really only friends, and that even he doesn’t know you secretly love him? Do you want us to tell him how you really feel for you? Because we’ll be happy to.’).

 

Yeah. Like that.

 

It just didn’t work for me. I told my mother I’d rather stay home and read.

 

Which is one of the good things about having parents who are academics. They know how you feel. Because the truth is, they’d always rather stay home and read too.

 

Christopher was different, though. From the day almost eight years ago that I saw him hanging out with the moving van that was delivering all his stuff to our building, I knew we were going to get along.

 

And OK, mostly because I peeked into the box marked Chris’s Video Games as it sat next to the freight elevator, and saw that we liked all the same role-playing games.

 

But whatever.

 

I guess because we hang out so much, people think we’re dating, but nothing could be further from the truth (alas).

 

Still, even though we’re not dating – however much I might wish that we were – I resented Frida’s implication that Christopher isn’t cute. He isn’t, under the standard Walking Dead definition of hottie, of course. I mean, he’s over six-feet tall and does have the requisite blond hair and blue eyes the WD so favour. Except that Christopher has been trying to see how long he can grow his hair before he drives his father, the Commander (he teaches political science), completely insane. It’s almost past his shoulders now.

 

And he doesn’t spend four hours a day lifting weights, so he isn’t a muscle-bound freak like Whitney’s boyfriend, Jason Klein.

 

But just because Christopher isn’t what the WDs consider hot doesn’t mean he isn’t cute.

 

‘Thanks,’ I snarled at Frida. ‘A lot. See if Christopher ever comes over to defragment your computer again.’

 

‘Christopher’s hair is longer than mine,’ Frida hissed. ‘And what about yesterday in the cafeteria, when you screamed at Jason Klein to shut up while you were both in line for ketchup for your burgers at the condiment bar?’

 

‘Well,’ I said with an uncomfortable shrug, ‘yesterday was a bad day And besides, he deserved it. And at least Christopher can cut his hair. What’s your excuse?’

 

‘All Jason said was that he preferred the cheerleaders’ spring halter-top uniforms to their winter sweater ones!’ Frida cried.

 

‘Well, that is sexist, Frida,’ Mom said.

 

I flashed Frida a triumphant look over my waffles. Still she wouldn’t let it go.

 

‘Cheerleaders are athletes, Mom,’ Frida insisted. ‘Their halter-top uniforms are less binding than their sweater ones, allowing them more freedom of movement.’

 

‘Oh my God.’ I stared across the breakfast table at my little sister. ‘You’re trying out for cheerleading this year, aren’t you?’

 

Frida took a deep breath. ‘Forget it. Just forget it. I’ll ask Dad. Dad’ll let me go by myself.’

 

‘No he won’t,’ Mom said. ‘And you will not disturb him. You know he got in late last night.’

 

Dad lives in New Haven during the week, where he teaches at Yale, and only comes home to Manhattan on weekends (it’s tough on married academics when they can’t get hired by the same college).

 

Because of the guilt he feels about this, Dad will generally let us do anything we want. If Frida had asked if it would be OK if she went to Atlantic City with the men’s swim team for the weekend to gamble away her college-education money, Dad would have been like, ‘Sure, why not? Here’s my bank card, have a blast.’

 

Which is why Mom watches us like a hawk when Dad’s home. She knows perfectly well that he’s a pushover when it comes to his teenaged daughters.

 

‘And what’s this about you trying out for cheerleading?’ Mom wanted to know. ‘Frida, we need to talk . . . ’

 

While Mom went on about how women weren’t allowed to play men’s sports in school until the 1970s, and so were relegated to cheer for the male athletes on the sidelines, thus giving birth to cheerleading, Frida sent me a withering look that said, I’ll get you for this, Em!

 

I had no doubt she’d get her revenge later, at the Stark Megastore opening.

 

And it turned out I wasn’t wrong.

 

It just didn’t happen quite the way I’d been expecting it to.