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Of all the cliques in the school, the most talked about and yet annoying had to be the Society Girls. They didn’t actually call themselves that, of course, but everybody else did. Besides their good looks, fancy clothes, and expensive cars, they were known for their grand entrances to school events, usually just oh-so-fashionably late to draw maximum attention, chatty yet poised in an over-rehearsed sort of way. Their goal was to turn heads—which they always did—and to always be the main topic of conversation wherever they went.
For the most part, Dave and I ignored them, while Onion just rolled her eyes when they went by. We didn’t have any particular ill will toward them—we just didn’t particularly care about social status in general. I did notice that the more someone berated the Society Girls, the more jealous they seemed, as if they were so incensed by their mere existence they just couldn’t let it go. That always made me a little uncomfortable because you have to worry about the one who might decide to finally “do something about it” someday. That was the only time I was glad for the metal detectors at the front doors and the occasional surprise locker inspections.
The oddest thing was, the jealous ones were always the girls, never the guys. Maybe the guys thought the Society Girls were nice to look at even if unapproachable, while some girls were absolutely outraged whenever they were mentioned. Go figure.
The most noticeable among the Society Girls were Julia, Jennifer, and Jeanette, The J’s as they were known. The three of them went and did absolutely everything together, which always led to some crass comments about their mutual trips to the washroom.
“They’re not The J’s. They’re the jerks,” Dave called them once, not really meaning it.
“You’re right. They are,” said Onion, who did.
Like I said, go figure, although Onion might have had an extra reason to dislike them since it was one of the Society Girls she had been unfavorably compared to by Freddie the Nerd back when she didn’t want me to see her cry.
One afternoon I was in the school library with Onion, where we sometimes met to work on our assignments. Even though the library was as new as the rest of the school, it seemed much older with its dark woodwork and hemmed-in feeling. It even smelled old, but I was sure that was from all the dusty books that hardly came off their shelves. Most students made a beeline for the rows of computers when they came in; few ever bothered with the books.
Onion and I were sitting next to each other at one of the center tables. She was finishing an essay for her English class on one computer, and I was researching my Geography paper on another. We were whispering and joking—in low voices, or so I thought—when one of the library ladies came over and shushed us.
“Please keep your voices down. You’re disturbing the other students,” she said in a not-so-low voice that made several students look up, thereby disturbing them. With her high buttoned-up blouse, granny glasses, and hair in a bun, she seemed to identify with her role so much that if you saw her and had to guess her occupation, your first answer would be “librarian” in a living stereotype sort of way.
“Sorry,” both Onion and I said simultaneously.
She nodded, apparently satisfied with our immediate apology, and then returned to her desk.
Onion and I worked in silence awhile longer when there was this sudden commotion by the entrance. The J’s came grandly through the doors, chatty as always, in voices that sure seemed louder than the ones Onion and I were reprimanded for.
Nearly everyone in the place stared up at them as they strode in, as if we should be honored by their arrival. Most of us looked annoyed except for a couple of freshman guys who seemed enthralled instead.
Onion did her eye roll thing and then looked over at the librarian. “Observe. Any second now,” she whispered to me.
The librarian kept her head down, as if she couldn’t hear them.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Onion whispered as the girls continued to chat quite loudly not far from us. “We get chewed out but they don’t? Why not?”
I shrugged. “Because they’re special?”
I could tell from Onion’s immediate dark expression that that wasn’t a good answer. Not even close.
Onion waved her hand to get the librarian’s attention. It might have been my imagination, but it sure seemed like she was trying hard to ignore Onion, too.
After a few seconds of waving so frantically I thought she was going to fall out of her chair, Onion finally stood up.
“Excuse me,” she said in a perfectly clear voice.
The librarian winced, as if she had no choice but to acknowledge her.
“Yes, young lady?” the librarian said, still seated.
Onion pointed at the J’s.
“I believe they’re much louder than we were. Aren’t you going to tell them to keep their voices down, too?” Onion smiled, but it was a snarling kind of smile, not unlike one of Dave’s fake, sarcastic ones.
The librarian didn’t look where Onion was pointing. Instead, she winced again and clasped her hands in front of her.
“They don’t seem so loud,” she said, unconvincingly.
“Oh, but you’re mistaken,” Onion replied over the chattering J’s. “They’re quite loud. You mean it’s all right for them to talk in the library but not us? Seems like a double standard to me.”
The librarian slowly stood up, still not looking where Onion was pointing, wavered a moment as if uncertain, and then turned and walked away.
Onion dropped her pointing arm to her side. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She ever so slowly turned to face the girls, who were standing a scant six feet away from us, lost in their own little chatty world.
“Onion,” I said, afraid of what she was going to say and the fallout that would follow.
She reached behind her to give me a “stop” hand signal.
“Excuse me, ladies! Excuse me!”
The J’s paused mid-sentence to look Onion’s way with blank faces. Nearly everyone else in the place looked at Onion, too.
“Would you mind keeping your voices down? You’re in the library, you know.” Onion laughed lightly, as if their chattiness was just a simple oversight.
With that, even the enthralled freshmen looked away, apparently wanting no part of the confrontation about to come.
All three girls frowned. One of them—I couldn’t tell you which since I could never keep their names straight—took half a step forward.
“It’s none of your beeswax if we talk in the library. You’re not the librarian. You don’t tell us what to do.” She turned back to her friends.
Now it was my turn to wince. I actually felt a little sorry now for them.
Onion took a full step toward them. “Oh, but I think it is my beeswax. Here’s the thing. George and I and everyone else here are trying to study. Perhaps that’s a foreign concept to you, but that’s mainly what people do in the library. They study. They don’t stand in the middle of the aisle annoying everyone with their loud gossip. Understand now?”
The girl who spoke gasped. “How dare you! Don’t you know who we are?”
I winced again. Of all the things she could have said to Onion, that was clearly the worst, as she was about to find out.
“Yes, I do know who you are. You’re students here, like me.”
One of the girls scoffed. “Hardly.”
I saw Onion draw in in a big breath, as if arming herself for the barrage she was about to unleash.
“You know what? You’re right. I doubt your grades even come close to measuring up to mine. Believe it or not, that’s what we’re here for, to get an education. But I guess that’s news to you. I’ve seen you and your exclusive little clique prancing about in your too-tight dresses, designer shoes, and perfect hair and matching manicures, full of your own self-importance, turning your noses up at everyone not part of your shallow, vain little group like we should all bow down before you. Do you have any idea how many people either hate you or make fun of you behind your backs? Why, it’s practically the whole school, except maybe for a few fawning freshman boys who don’t know any better.”
The two freshman boys across from us blushed a little and stared down at their open books.
“What’s the purpose of your clique, anyway? To celebrate that your daddies are rich and willing to buy you whatever you want? Is that it? Because as far as I can tell, that’s all that really separates you from everyone else, despite how superior you pretend to be. But that’s pretty sad, isn’t it? It’s sad and it’s pathetic, and no matter how much money your daddies throw your way, you can’t buy dignity or respect no matter where you shop. But I’m afraid that’s a lesson you’ll never learn because you’re still trying, aren’t you, still looking for that one thing to buy that will finally give you a sense of genuine self-worth without you having to lift a finger to earn it. Well, here’s a news flash for you—it ain’t gonna happen. You’re wasting your time. Self-respect doesn’t come in a bag or a box at any price from any fancy store or boutique. Buy yourselves all the expensive little trinkets you want with your daddy’s money, but your exclusive little clique is worthless.”
The first girl who spoke came up to Onion, stared hard at her a moment, then threw her arm back to slap Onion’s face. Onion easily caught her by the wrist to block the slap. The girl tried with her other arm; Onion caught that one, too. Then the girl struggled to claw at her, but Onion calmly held her in place as the girl squirmed and struggled. Finally, Onion casually tossed her away as if she were inconsequential, the way you might brush off a pesky fly. The girl staggered back, breathing hard through her nose.
“Don’t ever talk back to me again. And if I hear any gossip about me—anything at all—I’m blaming the three of you, understand? And there will be serious and immediate and unfortunate consequences.” Onion stepped forward; the girl stepped back. “You can count on it. Now get out.”
The girl spun to face her friends.
“Let’s go,” she said. “She’s obviously crazy.”
They marched out single file, faster than they came in, and without any chatter at all.
Onion sat down.
“Now,” she said. “Where were we?”
I sighed, wondering what the repercussions of that little speech were going to be despite Onion’s warning when a strange thing happened. Someone behind us began to clap, then someone else, then someone else, until everyone but the two freshmen were applauding.
Onion stood up, took two quick little bows to either side of the room—which drew some laughter—then sat down again. The applause died out.
The two freshmen grabbed their books and headed toward the door. They slowed as they passed our table, eyes wide and fixed on Onion and their mouths sagging open.
“What?” Onion said, barely looking up at them.
They shook their hands to indicate they didn’t want any trouble and hastily departed.
I sat back in my chair and eyed Onion with apprehension.
“What?” she said again. She kept her eyes on her computer screen, typing again.
“You’re going to pay for that somehow, you know.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not.” She still didn’t look at me.
“Why not?”
She finally looked my way. “Because they’re the Society Girls, that’s why. Do you think they’re going to admit defeat, that someone finally put them in their place, that they’re afraid of me now like they should be? They’re going to deny it ever happened no matter who says what, mark my words. But we’ll know the truth, won’t we? And that’s all that really matters.”
She paused. “Besides,” she added with a satisfied grin, “payback sure is sweet.”
I had a sudden thought. “So how long have you been waiting to give that little speech? Ever since that incident in the cafe?”
Onion grinned coyly as if proud of me for figuring that out.
“Maybe,” she replied. “All I know for sure is that we won’t be hearing from them again.”
And as the days and weeks went by and nothing untoward happened, it turned out Onion was right once more.