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1995 General Short Story Winner, Second Place

Popularity tastes good . . . or does it?

Peer Soup

by Robyn J. Kishida

Our seventh grade religion teacher, Mr. Cabrera, stood at the front of the classroom. "If you are honest with everyone all the time," he said, "people will trust you. They'll come up to you and say, `Is this true?' And when you say either `Yes' or `No,' they'll believe you--every time. It's called trustworthiness. That's a special gift to have, and I hope you guys don't take it lightly."

Inspired by what Mr. Cabrera said that day, I vowed to be a trustworthy person.

Only 325 students attended my school, so we knew each other pretty well, and each of us had our reputation. I was known as the smartest in my class, a typical "good girl." People think a "good girl" is honest, I told myself, so I'm well on my way to my goal.

A week after Mr. Cabrera's talk, I walked to PE with some classmates.

J.J. said to my friend Stephanie, "Hey! What's that on the back of your dress?"

The other guys around him picked up real fast.

"Yeah! What is that? You must have sat on something during lunch."

"Looks like ketchup or something."

"It's not ketchup, but it's definitely brown. What is that stuff?"

Stephanie frantically pulled at her dress to see what was on the back. She had a crush on J.J., and for him to find a flaw on her dress was catastrophic in her seventh-grade mind. In desperation, she turned to me.

"Robyn, do I have a stain on the back of my dress?"

For a few seconds I felt tempted to join in, but then Mr. Cabrera's challenge came back to me.

"There's nothing on the back of your dress, Stephanie. They're just teasing you."

The guys moaned loudly.

"Thank you, Robyn," Stephanie sighed. "I knew I could trust you--unlike some people around here!"

The guys just laughed and ran off to the gym.

"You know, that's one nice thing about Robyn," commented Anna-maja, who was walking with us. "She never lies. She's like that person Mr. Cabrera talked about in class."

"You're right. I'm glad you're my friend, Rob," Stephanie added.

A chorus of "Me too!" came from the girls around me. I felt like a million dollars. In one week I had reached my goal.

But with my new "trustworthy" image came some things that Mr. Cabrera hadn't talked about. Things I wasn't prepared for.

Like I said, I was known as a "good girl," but all my friends--Stephanie, Anna-maja, Carrie--were known as "good girls" too. That wasn't a problem.

But now the guys I had told on earlier started calling me "Miss Goody Two-Shoes," which was beyond "good girl" in most seventh-grade minds. Their name-calling soon elevated me to the status of "prude" and "nerd."

Even my "good girl" friends began to treat me a little differently. When they did something with the guys, they often left me out. When I asked them why, they responded, "Well, the guys said you wouldn't like what we were doing, so we didn't invite you."

Suddenly being "bad" had become cool in my friends' eyes, and "Miss Goody Two-Shoes" didn't do "bad" things. I felt hurt at being excluded. I began to think being trustworthy wasn't worth it.

Coming back from PE class one day, Andy, another guy in our class, began teasing Anna-maja.

"Anna-maja, look out! There's a spider in your hair!"

"Cut it out, Andy," she said. "There isn't any spider in my hair."

"But it's true! Ask J.J."

"He's right," J.J. agreed. "It's a little gray and black–striped one."

"Knock it off, you guys! This isn't funny." Anna-maja began to look worried. When they told her it had moved close to her ear, she panicked.

"Robyn! Do I really have a spider near my ear?"

I started to shake my head and say "No," but stopped. Here was my chance to stop the guys from calling me that awful nickname. My friends would invite me to go along with them when they went out again. I only had to play along once. Anna-maja would forgive me. She knew it was only a game.

"Oh, Anna-maja! It's almost touching your ear!" I exclaimed.

With a scream of terror she brushed at her ear and shook her head. Everyone laughed. The guys patted me on the back. One said, "Good going! Nice job!" before walking on.

Stephanie, still giggling, went up to Anna-maja and gave her a hug. "They were only teasing, Anna-maja. There wasn't a spider in your hair."

"Why didn't you guys tell me? I was scared to death!" She didn't look angry--just relieved.

Fortunately, Anna-maja continued to be my friend. I never had to apologize to her for joining in the guys' teasing. I did feel a little guilty afterward, but nobody seemed to have noticed my untrustworthy behavior. At least they didn't say anything about it.

But Anna-maja's actions in the following months told me volumes. I watched her struggle every time the boys teased her. If they told her she had gum in her hair, she'd run to the bathroom to look in the mirror. Even after Stephanie or I assured her otherwise, she would still go and look. I had made her distrust everything people said.

My friends still told me things they liked about me, but they never mentioned honesty. They continued to say they trusted me, but if a secret got out they would come to me and say, "You sure you didn't tell anybody?"

The boys stopped calling me "Miss Goody Two-Shoes," but different, equally embarrassing, names took its place. I also received the invitations I coveted, but they were for stuff I wasn't comfortable doing. The guys stopped inviting me after I declined a few times.

Acceptance tasted good, but it didn't last very long. And in the end I knew that I had lost far more than I gained by selling my honesty. I did what Mr. Cabrera warned us against--I took honesty lightly--and I lived to regret it. Like Esau, I traded my birthright of trustworthiness for a bowl of peer soup.

Robyn Kishida entered this story in the 1995 INSIGHT Writing Contest.