Popularity Excerpt

POPULARITY by Adam Bagdasarian
Somewhere inside me I knew that ten-year-old boys were not supposed to spend their
recess circling oak trees in search of four-leaf clovers. Still, that’s what I and my equally
unpopular acquaintances, Allan Gold and Allan Shipman, were doing while the rest of
our classmates played tag and kickball and pushed each other higher and higher on the
swings.
Aside from having a little more than our share of baby fat, the two Allans and I had very
little in common. In fact, we could barely stand one another. Still, during recess we were
the only company we had, so we tried to make the best of it. Now and then one of us
would bend forward, pick a clover, examine it, shake his head, and let it fall to the
ground.
“Got one,” Allan Gold said.
“Let’s see,” Allan Shipman said.
Allan showed Allan the clover.
“That’s only three.”
“No, that’s four. Right here. See?”
“That’s not a whole leaf,” Allan Shipman said sourly. “There’s one leaf, two leafs, three
leafs.”
“Four leafs!”
“That’s not a whole leaf!”
We had been looking for four-leaf clovers every school day for six months. And each of
us knew exactly what he would do if he ever found one: he would hold the lucky clover
tight in his hand close his eyes, and wish he was so popular that he would never have to
spend time with the other two again.
“Got one!” Allan Shipman said.

Allan Gold swiped the clover from him. “ One, two, three,” he said, throwing it to the
ground.
“There’s four there! That was a four-leaf clover! Pick it up!”
“You pick it up!”

“You pick it up!”
“You!”
“You!”
While the two Allans faced off, I looked across the black tar and asphalt at a crowd of
boys who were making more noise and seemed to be having more fun than anyone else
on the playground. These were the popular boys, and in the center of this group stood
their leader, Sean Owens.
Sean Owens was the best student in the fourth grade. He was also one of the humblest,
handsomest, strongest, fastest, most clear-thinking ten-year-olds that God ever placed on
the face of the earth. Sean Owens could run the fifty-yard dash in six seconds, hit a
baseball two hundred feet, and throw a football forty yards. The only thing Sean didn’t
have was personality. He didn’t need one. When you can hit a baseball two hundred feet,
all you have to do is round the bases and wait for the world’s adulation.
I gazed at Sean and the rest of the popular boys in bewildered admiration. It seemed like
only yesterday that we had all played kickball, dodgeball, and basketball together; and
then one morning I awoke to find that this happy democracy had devolved into a
monarchy of kings and queens, dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies. It did not take a
genius to know that, upon the continent of this playground, the two Allans and I were
stableboys.
I had been resigned to my rank for many months, but now, looking at the two Allans (still
arguing over the same three-leaf clover), then at the popular boys, I suddenly knew that I
could not stand another day at the bottom. I wanted to be a part of the noise and the
laughter; I wanted, I needed, to be popular.
Being ten years old, I did not question this ambition, but I did wonder how on earth I was
going to realize it. Though I only stood twenty yards from the heart of the kingdom, I felt
a thousand miles removed from the rank and prestige of its citizens. How could I bridge
such a gap, knowing I might be stared at, or laughed at, or belittled to a speck so small
that I could no longer be seen by the naked eye? And as I stood on that playground, torn
between fear and ambition, those twenty yards began to recede from the view, and I knew
that I must either step forward now, or retreat forever to a life of bitter companions and
three-leaf clovers.
I took a deep breath and then, with great trepidation, crossed the twenty longest yards I
had ever walked in my life and found myself standing a few feet from the outer circle of
what I hoped was my destiny. I lowered my head a little, so as not to draw attention to
myself, and watched and listened.
Mitch Brockman, a lean, long-faced comic, considered by many to be the funniest boy in
the fourth grade was in the middle of a story that had something to do with Tijuana and a
wiener mobile. I wasn’t sure what the story was about, but thee was a lot of body English
and innuendo, all of which the crowd seemed to find absolutely hilarious.
I noticed that every time Mitch said something funny, he eyed Sean Owens to see if he
was laughing. He was. Silently. His mouth was open, but it was the laughter of the other
boys that filled the silence. I realized then that Mitch was Sean’s jester. As long as he
could make Sean laugh, he was assured a prominent position in the group.
I wondered what my position in the group might be, I certainly wasn’t a great athlete,
student, or ladies’ man, but I did have a sense of humor. Maybe I could be the second
funniest boy in the fourth grade. My thoughts went no further because the bell ending
recess rang. But that night, just before I fell asleep, I saw myself standing in the center of
the popular boys telling the funniest stories anyone had ever heard. I saw Sean Owens
doubled up with laughter. I saw myself triumphant.
I returned to the group every recess, for three days. I stood, unnoticed, just outside the
outer circle, waiting for my moment, for the one joke or wisecrack that would make me
popular. I knew that I would only get one chance to prove myself, and that if I failed, I
would be sent back to the stables. And so, with the single-mindedness of a scientist, I
listened to the jokes the other boys made, hoping to align my comic sensibilities with
theirs. Now and then I found myself on the verge of saying something, but every time I
opened my mouth to speak, Mitch would launch into another routine, and my moment
passed, and I had to resign myself to yet another day in the dark.
I did not know then that popularity has a life span, and that Mitch’s time was about to run
out.

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POPULARITY by Adam Bagdasarian

“Got one,” Allan Gold said.

“Let’s see,” Allan Shipman said.

Allan showed Allan the clover.

“That’s only three.”

“No, that’s four. Right here. See?”

“That’s not a whole leaf!”

“Got one!” Allan Shipman said.

“There’s four there! That was a four-leaf clover! Pick it up!”

“You pick it up!”

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