The Opposite of Geek (2 page)

Synopsis: my father choked on a walnut at the family Xmas Eve dinner, as we made painful small talk with boring distant relatives. He required Heimliching, and this scared my sister so much she required an early night, so we got to drive home from Port Coquitlam in the pouring rain and got stuck behind a snowplough accident (why was there a snowplough on the road when there was no snow??) and got home grumpy and tired at midnight — technically Christmas day — and fell into bed without brushing teeth. Let’s just say, this bad mood and luck with traffic did not improve from then to New Year’s. Next year, all I want for Christmas is to move out on my own, get an apartment and a job, a boyfriend, and not have to spend another torturous holiday season with
them
.

Of course I wasn’t.

I only wish that would explain the weirdness and painful otherness of my family. My father is German, which means: displays of uncalled-for nudity in the house at any time and frequent humming of Bach cantatas when my friends are over.

And lest we forget: the farting.

My mother is Scottish, which means: politeness classes from birth for me and my sister (more on her below), and a formidable collection of wool sweaters.

My chatty, sporty sister, Layla, twelve-going-on-annoying, got cute ringlety pigtails as a child, while I had a bordering-on-boy-bowl-cut. Easy to do the math about that relationship.

Despite the nudity and farting, things are pretty cut and dried:

We must be good, kind little girls,

even if it kills us.

And get As, please.

(Both As and please non-negotiable.)

if my family has anything to say about it, is a doctor. This is because, since I was four years old and obsessed with playing doctor, I have told them that’s what I want to be.

I realized a while ago that a doctor is, in fact, not what I had thought when I was chasing everyone around with my plastic stethoscope. Doctors help people and get to be bossy (the two most alluring things to the four-year-old me), but they also have to deal with people’s body fluids and internal organs and work crazy-long hours and be around sick people all day/night.

But by the time I realized that a doctor’s life was not for me, my parents had embraced my future career with the enthusiasm of evangelists. I would make the family proud, I would make a ton of money and therefore not need to be worried about. I would meet a nice doctor-man who they would beam with pride about when describing him to their friends. And because this is their dream, I haven’t had the courage to tell them it’s a lie. They are so happy with the fantasy, and whenever I show them my English grade or a piece of writing, their enthusiasm loses steam. Translation:
That’s cute, dear, but writing won’t pay your bills or give you a career or make us proud. How’s biology going?

is eating. I am obsessive about many types of food — mostly due to my family’s infatuation with mealtime in general. Take the amazing crepes we had for breakfast the other day. Thin and light, stuffed with jam and berries, oh my god. Wait, isn’t that a gospel song?

Amazing crepes! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me …

I rest my case.

We think about what to have for dinner as soon as we’re finished breakfast. My friends wonder why I’m not five hundred pounds and I can only say: good metabolism? But if they knew what my mum’s sister looked like — what my genetic future could be — they wouldn’t be jealous.

— me to get sympathy/encouragement for my chemistry grade woes, Nemiah to spring me with news: she’s joined the swim team. She’s been swimming on her own for years, but now she’s been to two team practices and says she’s stoked about wearing a latex condom on her head and spending hours a day in highly chlorinated water.

Apparently her mum wanted to make homemade, sparkly signs to hold up at every race. Nemiah managed to talk her out of that one, and we’re both relieved. I try to sound supportive, even though I’m surprised and a little hurt she’s leaving our (miniscule) social circle.

“Gretchen, do you have —”

My little sister barges into my room, unbidden.

I shriek obscenities and she backs out.

“The squirt?” Nemiah asks. She likes Layla, but understands my frustrated older sister viewpoint.

Voices mumble outside my door.

“Better go,” I groan. At least if I’m being studious when I get bitched-out it’s not as bad.

is disgusting. It comes from being the youngest and the prettiest and the one who can’t eat anything with soy because it gives her a rash. Revolting.

Here is a haiku about it:

Her nasty cuteness

Spoiled little shrimp with freckles

How can she be sister?

As I study virtuously in my room, I am pulled out of an intense article about homelessness by my annoying sibling, who says I have to watch her newest dance routine in the living room with my parents. I decline the invitation but get strong-armed by Dad anyway. I perch (à la tooth fairy) on the couch and watch another five minutes of my life die before me.

It begins with the theme from some pre-teen TV show, has a lot of wiggling and flitting of hands, and ends with her on the floor, in a pose that resembles a cat about to puke. I don’t say this out loud, but from the look on my parents’ faces, I know they don’t agree with me.

“Excellent!” my dad shouts; my mum claps along.

“I made up the ending,” says my sister, and I half-expect the three of them to group-hug.

“What’s the big deal?” I say, and they all look at me like I just shook a baby.

“Gretchen, if you have nothing good to say —”

But I beat them to it. “Thanks for the intermission,” I mutter. “Must get back. I have the gentrification of the downtown east side to get through before tomorrow.”

I don’t see their faces, but I know I’ve earned a talking-to, and possibly a stare-down at breakfast.

James walks through the radioactive book-thief detectors in the library at exactly three o’clock and sits in the chair beside me like a stick man, as if his arms and legs have no joints, as if he were drawn that way. “Since we haven’t actually been introduced,” he says, holding out his hand, “I’m James Tarden. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Gretchen Meyers. I really suck at chemistry,” I say. “I know you’re probably a science genius and I apologize for making you tarnish your chemistry reputation by spoon-feeding it to someone who’s hopeless.” My pencil tip snaps off.

“I’m not really a spoon-feeder,” he says. “And it’s pretty depressing to start off hopeless, don’t you think?”

I stare at my closed textbook. “Can’t get worse than rock-bottom,” I mutter.

He holds up a long, skinny finger. “Ah, but I’d argue that rock-bottom assumes there
is
hope. The idea of there being a ‘bottom’” — he even makes the air quotes — “indicates that there’s nowhere to go but up. Right?”

I stare at him, my stomach at rock-bottom. “Fine.”

“But hopelessness is different — it’s the absence of hope, which, basically, is death. At least at rock-bottom there’s up.”

The silence in the library chokes me.

“I’m sorry.” James waves his hands in front of him. “I get wrapped up in semantics sometimes. Let’s see what you’re working on.” He opens my textbook and finds the page I dog-eared. He points to the beginning of the chapter enthusiastically. “This totally blew my mind in grade eleven. It’s so freaking amazing.”

I think:
Well, if you’re that stoked, infect me with it, because right now I couldn’t care less
. I say: “Ugh.”

But he’s already skimming the page, reliving his favourite parts. I slouch back in the chair, trying not to stare at the dandruff flaking off his scalp.
He’s here to help, he’s here to help, he’s here to help
.

Help!

Nem:
so??

Gretchen:
shoot me now

Nem:
don’t joke. Library = no place for gun violence

Gretchen:
change of subject, movie 2night?

Nem:
U can’t be in denial about chemistry forever. B 1 w/chem!

Gretchen:
denial = coping mechanism. I am coping

Nem:
can’t. Gotta help mum’s boyf move. Shoot ME now

Gretchen:
bang bang

Nem:
quick, atomic number of gold?

Gretchen:
ew, no way

Nem:
denial kills!

Gretchen:
grenades, rabid dogs, hurricanes, ebola, nuclear war

Nem:
??

Gretchen:
things that kill

Nem:
fine be that way. Creativity can’t save you every time

Gretchen:
wanna bet?

My mum’s specialty. She may not be Italian, but everyone who’s tried it says it’s the best lasagna they’ve ever had. And though it can’t take away my cringeful tutoring stint, it helps to soften the memory in a cheesy, garlicky haze.

is NOT to visit the dump with your father, who loves chatting with the guys at the gate and embarrassing you by telling stories of your sordid past as a two-year-old. Seriously — those stories involve eating mud.

But, here I am, stuck with him and bags of garden clippings at the refuse depot. I want to stay in the car but he makes me pull the bags from the trunk while he pays the guy at the booth. Booth-guy is pretty cute, but I think my dad does some guy stare-down thing that says:
Check out my daughter and you’ll get a laurel hedge clipping down the throat
. I try my best to walk past his booth, but soon I am summoned to get in the car, and any possible fun evaporates.

“I wanted to talk to you about Layla,” my dad says as we drive back onto the highway. He puts on his sunglasses — the ones that are older than I am and make him look like a bug.

“Am I in trouble?” I ask. Actually I whine it, but who’s checking.

He says he just wants to bring something to my attention. I start to worry. I love my sister, I just don’t like her, you know?

“She’s just going through some changes,” he says.

I stare at the sun going behind a high-rise. “Like hormonal?” I ask.

“She’s been upset lately that you ignore or make fun of her.”

I splutter.

Dad watches the road. “You hurt her feelings when you show contempt.”

I pick a leaf off my pants and throw it out the window. “You mean her dancing? Come on — it’s hideous.”

Dad gives me a stern look. “She’s become very sensitive, Gretchen. She’s always idolized you. Please be kind.”

“Are you serious?”

“She’s growing up,” he says, not answering my question. “Right now she could use your support.”

He looks sad, like he’s lost his little girl. I guess he has. Twice. But that’s not my fault — it’s just puberty. Everyone goes through it. She’ll survive.

“Just be kind to her,” he says, turning the wheel. “Think about how you’d feel in her place.”

Why do they always use that tactic? Other people’s shoes.

What about my shoes?

The father of my future children

stopped at the water fountain before me,

which means my hand

held the same cold metal his did,

just seconds before.

Note to self: Must try to be less creepy about my crush.

Tutor James has a huge zit on the end of his nose, and like a beacon, it attracts all eyes within a two-metre radius. What could he have done in a past life to deserve such terrible skin?

“Do you get it?” he asks again, because I am not paying attention.

“So, it’s thirty-seven?” I ask.

He asks why. I hate when he asks why.

“I don’t know,” I moan, and he patiently shows me the formula again.

Focus on the chemistry, focus on the chemistry. The chemistry focus on the —

“— tried laser treatment, but it hurts a lot,” he’s saying.

What? Did I fall asleep?

“For my skin. It even grosses me out,” he says. “I feel bad inflicting the public with it.”

I avert my eyes and study the graphic on his t-shirt. It’s the periodic table of elements. The whole thing.

“It’s a medical condition. Not contagious or anything,” he says.

“I wasn’t … I didn’t …” I don’t know how to finish.

“I just wanted to get it out there, since we’ll be sitting here together for a while. It’s something people notice.” He glances at a pair of preppy-boy Legwarmers walking by us. They smirk together and it’s hard to know if that’s just part of their general behaviour or directed at our table.

“Sure. Thanks,” I say, not sure that I’m sure, or what I’m thanking him for.

After our lesson, James and I take off in different directions. I head for my locker, salvation in Mum’s carrot zucchini muffins. James heads — I know not where.

But halfway down the hall there are shouts of laughter behind me and I can’t help turning.

Three rejects are pulling the shirt off some unfortunate kid. His books are strewn across the floor. They’re on the lacrosse team, these three known for punching people into lockers if they have an itchy fist.

I’m about to look around for someone of authority when I see who the victim is. A teacher comes out of a classroom and scatters the bullies just as James’s t-shirt rips between two of them. James grabs it and takes off shirtless. The teacher heads after the lacrosse guys, barking punishments.

I stand where I am for a long time. The hairs on my arms won’t stop prickling.

Gretchen
: saddest act of de-t-shirting in the hall just now. I hate bullies

Nem
: I hear U. Who was it?

Gretchen
: lacrosse idiots

Nem
: no, who was de-t-shirted?

Gretchen
: don’t know. Didn’t see their face.

I am approached after French by the leader of the cooking club, which calls itself The Foodies. Her name is Ashlyn and we went to elementary together but we haven’t talked in years. She swings her blond hair over her shoulder and asks if I want to be part of a worthwhile club, the kind that makes things, really gets involved.

I assume that’s the getting-the-hands-floury, rolling-up-the-sleeves part of cooking. Part of me wants to tell her I’m probably more versed in the kitchen than she — food-obsessed as my family is — but then she’d challenge me to duel over cupcakes or something. I bet she thinks I’ll bounce right back to the kitchen with her. Does she know her offer sucks?

“We have cinnamon buns,” she says.

That might work on a guy but I’m made of tougher stuff. She walks away disappointed — her head actually hangs a little — and I feel bad for putting a dent in her perkiness. Maybe the cooking club wouldn’t be so bad.

Later, Nemiah slaps me on the arm when I tell her. “Why didn’t you join?” she says. “Free food! You could bring some to the swim team — we’re always hungry!”

I shrug it off, a little dented that her “we” didn’t include me.

The tooth fairy wants to know how tutoring with James is working out. I pad the truth: problems solved, connections made. She writes in her file folder, saying she’ll check back in next week and that Mr. Marchand is overjoyed to hear about James tutoring me.

“I wanted to show you this collection I just picked up.” She hands me a thin book with half a picture of a bird on it. It screams poetry. I flip to the table of contents.

This is what I always do — scan the titles of poems for one that stops me. That’s the first one I read.

“Her lines are so elegant,” she’s saying. “I was really impressed that it’s her first collection.”

I find it: “Mesmer and the Goldfish.” That’s the first one I’m going to read —

“Gretchen?”

“Huh?”

“I said you should think about writing toward a collection. It takes years, of course, but I know you’re really prolific. I can see it now.” She smiles in that way adults do when they want to encourage you but not seem too eager.

I close the book. “You can see it now?”

“Sure. Now just work on that chemistry grade so you can relax and spend your time doing what you really want.” She taps my shoulder. “Right?”

In the old days, Nemiah and I would be inhaling microwave popcorn and making fun of reality TV stars. We’d be painting her toenails silver and mine chocolate. Now, at home, wondering how Nemiah’s swim practices are going, I try to convince myself there are plenty of things to do without resorting to a crutch like the cooking club. I take out a lawn chair and read the book of poems in the sunny garden. But it’s February and my fingers are numb in minutes. I practice writing metaphors for kitchen utensils. They all sound like sexual innuendo.

I even break down and do a five-million-piece puzzle with Layla — a cheerful scene including kittens and balls of wool. She likes to laminate each puzzle and hang it on her wall. Isn’t that what kids did for fun in the nineteenth century? I call Nemiah and get voicemail.

Leave a message.

I crumble, call the number beside Rutgard, Ashlyn J. Hold the phone away as she shrieks, tells me to come to the Foods room on Wednesday for the next meeting. Mrs. Fletcher’s the teacher supervising, but she’s pretty relaxed. Ashlyn thinks this gives them licence to make really out-there things like soufflés and caramel lava cakes. Pride tries to strangle me as she blabs on. Jelly moulds, paring knives, sculptured vegetables. Three-tiered cakes. The only thing I can do is say that I’ll be there and hang up.

Foodies engulf me in the hall Tuesday like I’m a new captive in their little tribe. Fresh meat, if you can pardon the pun. I guess I’ve found new friends, whether I want them or not.

“Ashlyn says you know a ton about food,” one girl says. “Are your parents chefs?”

“No, just European,” I say.

“Are you vegetarian? We don’t like vegetarians — we want everyone to try everything,” another kid says.

“Like tripe and sweetbreads?” I ask, horrified.

The kid looks at me blankly.

One point for Gretchen — these morons don’t even know their way around a butchered animal.

I beg off to run for biology, knowing it’ll be a long afternoon tomorrow.

Gretchen
: cooking club is populated with CRAZY PEOPLE

Nem
: crazy-good or ??

Gretchen
: definitely ??

Nem
: you’ll fit right in! JK, you’re the sanest person I know. And you love food. You could lead that club

Gretchen
: no thanks

Nem
: R U and Nemiah hooking up?

Gretchen
: ??!

Nem
: sorry G! Miles text-jacked my phone! Idiot! TTYL?

Gretchen
: who’s Miles?

James and I meet at our table in the library. It is our table now. It has his energy and my confusion etched into its surface. (In fact it says: Jeremy is a male slut; B.R. + S.J.; Love Rules!)

No one dares sit at our table, as if they know when we’ll be meeting. I wish I could enter the library, see the tables all filled and say,
Too bad, James, guess we can’t meet today
. But that never happens. He is relentless in his desire for me to love chemistry, and I am relentlessly bad at it. Which doesn’t mean I’m not getting a slightly better grade — even I will admit some of the stuff is coming more easily — but it’s still torture and I still feel like a dunce.

James, nice geek that he is, pulls out my chair and asks me random questions in an effort to ease me into the lesson. For some reason I’ve told him that my parents want this grade way more than I do. The honesty feels good. Together we give them the nickname “The Board.”

James wears obscenely geeky t-shirts every day (the ripped one never appears again) and today it’s the chemical structure of something with the words
Sexy, huh?
underneath. He sees me looking at it. “Do you get it?”

“Of course not.”

He points to the formula. “It’s oxytocin. The ‘love’ hormone.” There are those air quotes again.

“Ah,” I say. “Clever.”

“Hey, I saw you with the food people,” he says.

He knows about the cooking club?

“I think that’s cool,” he says. “Cooking is actually just chemistry if you think about it.”