The Opposite of Geek (6 page)

“Nothing.” I say. “Forget it.”

And between merging onto the highway and some story on the radio, she does.

I push aside the conversation in the car — put it in its own box and lock it — and write until one in the morning, until my eyelids feel like sandpaper and I can’t make sense of the words.

It feels

more like living

than the living

I’ve been doing

so far.

for missing the slam but also, I suspect, because he can’t help himself, James presents me with a baby blue t-shirt, folded up neatly on our table in the library.

“Go ahead,” he says, grinning and nudging it.

I slowly unfold the fabric, terrified I’ll be forced because of friendship to wear a
Geeks Rule the World
t-shirt. But instead I find PoEM written as elements from the periodic table: Po (Polonium) + E (Einsteinium) + M (Muriaticum).

“Wow,” I say. “It’s … not something I ever thought I’d see.”

“I had to fudge it a little — the E and M are older element names. Don’t tell Mr. Marchand.” He looks at me. “Do you like it?”

I stare at the letters — the word, something I love so much, and the language, something I’ve always hated — and I do like it.

Not just because it’s creative and weird and random but because James gets me in a way I never thought he would.

As we finish the lesson, my homework perfect and mostly understood, James looks suddenly uneasy. His face shuts down, gaze to the floor.

Behind the closed glass library doors, two lacrosse guys make rude gestures in our direction.

“What’s the deal with them, anyway?” I go for casual, as if I have no idea.

“I made them look stupid in class last year and they haven’t forgotten. Maybe if I was in a gang of Scientist Ultimate Fighters I could level the field.” He shrugs and takes a long time closing his bag.

“But you don’t have to take it,” I say. “There’s stuff you can do — people who handle this stuff all the time.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve explored the avenues.”

“Have you?” I glance back at the doors but the guys are gone.

We cruise in Lucy, Dean and James providing beatbox rhythms as I lay lines from Ezra Pound poems over top.

Dean smiles at me, keeps nodding as I add another line, think of a new poem when the last one ends.

“Where to, lady?” he asks as we come to an intersection.

“Um … a washroom? I need to piss,” James says from behind me.

“Ah, but you are not the lady, James.” Dean winks at me.

“The park,” I say. “Port-o-potty for James and swings for me.”

“Swings. Executive.” Dean puts on his indicator.

They ask for another poem.

If I didn’t know better I’d say I’ve developed a crush on Dean. But I know better. Otherwise I’d want to touch him and not get out of the car when he drops me off. And I’d want to see him smile so much, I’d tell any stupid joke I could think of. But I’m not doing that.

We’re at the gas station, waiting for James to finish filling up the tank, when Dean leans over and whispers in my ear: “Let’s take off, right now, just you and me.” I freeze in my seat. This kind of comment makes me weak, now that I know I’m crushing on him.

I watch James rock out to some tune in his head as he holds the pump. He’s such a freak, but at least his party of one is entertaining. I try for something non-committal. “And just ditch James?”
OhmygodOhmygod Ilikehim helikesme
.

Dean shrugs. “He’s got a bus pass. Look, are you into me yet?”

I take a second to consider my options. Play innocent. That would be the pre-swim party Gretchen. Or, I could play this my (new) way. Get some balls, as James/Dean like to say.

He’s watching, waiting, so I purr, “Yeah, I’m into you. What do you want to do about it?”

I get the reaction I want: He’s stunned. But only for a second. “Whoa — really? You serious? You’ll go out with me?”

I flutter my eyelashes. I never knew I could be such a tease!

“Gretchen, I’m kind of blown away.”

He’s so cute. My name sounds so good when he says it. My name is a supermodel strutting down the runway of his tongue!
Gretchen! Gretchen!
“Gretchen?” James pokes his head through the window. His breath smells like onion chips. “You got any change? I’m short three bucks.”

After fishing three dollars out of my pocket for James, I turn to Dean and say, “You want to take me for coffee?”

Why haven’t I done this before — flirting with guys is the best thing! I feel like a lion tamer who’s just made her cat jump through fire.

He’s having trouble forming words, but when he does they’re priceless: “Uh, yeah. Now?”

I slap his arm. “We can’t leave James. He’s your cousin.”

“No, he’s not,” Dean says.

I suggest Wednesday. That gives me three days to prepare and him three days to sweat. I roll my head against the back of the seat, grinning at him.

He’s finally catching up … and drooling.

“I’ll pick you up from school.”

James is walking toward us, a bag of Doritos in his hand — do guys never get sick of eating?

“Gretchen. Wednesday?” Dean puts his hand on my leg. HAND ON MY LEG.

I almost lose it.

James throws himself into the back seat and Lucy shudders to life.

Basically an adult

A guy (duh)

A guy I like!

A guy who has his own car and a job

Who isn’t in school

and likes to talk about things other than school

Who’s my friend

Who likes me because I’m funny

and shares my devotion to grilled cheese sandwiches.

Why did I say Wednesday — it’s so far away!

The Spring Fair is fast approaching, according to Ashlyn, whose blood pressure must be through the roof. Even though they mostly look to me now, she marches around the kitchen, barking orders about how, what and why to bake. They all look at me behind her back, but I can only do so much. She did pull my butt out of the gutter not that long ago.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that dramatic. I owe the girl. We organize an assembly line of brownie makers. I get to be foreman (forewoman?) and deal with soaking dried cherries. We practise our roles like a circus troupe before the first night.

Just then Luke walks in with a shoebox under his arm and a foul look on his face. He heads for Ashlyn so fast he might just bowl her over.

“What the hell is this?” he snarls.

She looks panicked and whispers something. “Well, I DON’T WANT IT!” he shouts. “Stop following me around like a stalker! We are not together anymore!”

He turns and marches out, and Ashlyn leans on the counter, clutching the shoebox.

Since I’m forewoman, I rush over and offer assistance.

She glances around and mumbles, “Please, Gretchen, I can’t handle them staring.”

Ashlyn bends over the sink

in the girls’ washroom and tries to wipe

the mascara from her cheeks.

She looks like a sad clown.

I feel bad for ever thinking

evil thoughts about her. This

isn’t far off what I went through

with Nemiah, and I’m not immune

to the irony.

“He said he loved me two weeks ago,”

she sniffs. I hand her a wad

of paper towel. “He said it and we

messed around and he stopped calling me.”

Sounds like the kind of thing a jerk

would do, I just didn’t think Luke

was one. I shake my mistaken head.

“He’s a loser then. Forget him.”

“I can’t!” she cries. “I love him!

We were going to the Formal together!”

She doesn’t explain what’s in the shoebox,

and this doesn’t seem

like a good time for me to ask. But then,

a stalker’s a stalker.

“Ashlyn, you have to get over him.

Plus, there are people in there

who want to know if their brownie

batter is good enough.” I point

out the door. I go on about boys being

the devil’s spawn, and I don’t think

she believes me (I don’t), but she washes

her face and forces

a smile as we walk into the hall.

“Can I call you later, just to talk?”

I’m not sure I want to be Ashlyn’s

sob sister, but part of me

remembers what it was like

to have that kind of girlfriend,

so I don’t say no.

I have Dean’s cell number taped to the inside of my desk at home (and on speed dial, and in my journal, and burned into my memory forever), and because I’m a loser and obsessed and probably going to regret it, I call him before I go to bed, just to say hi. He answers after five rings. Each ring is a stone against my heart: he has call display. Does he not want to talk to me?

“Hey, beautiful,” he says finally, and I melt.

“Hi! Just wanted to say goodnight — you busy?” My own voice is pathetic in my ears.

He pauses. “Nah, just got home from work. You busy?”

I tell him I’m in bed (truth), just reading (lie).

“In bed, eh? Just had to mention that, didn’t you?”

My face feels red hot. Thank god he can’t see me.

“You’re blushing!” he crows. How can he know? I thrash around to look out the window, my heart pounding. He cracks up. “I’m joking. It was a guess — but I was right!”

I don’t fall asleep for two hours.

At our table in the library, I try to focus on the chemistry mumbo-jumbo before me. I finally get to the end of the chapter (James is taking a hands-off approach and making me actually do the work myself. Turd.) and he nods his approval, holding up a page he’s been scratching notes on as I worked.

“So, I’ve been thinking about how social structures can be like chemical structures. There’s this concept that society is a social molecule and social interactions are like molecular interactions.”

He hands me the page. “Check it out.”

It’s strangely beautiful and oddly … poetic. How can it all fit so neatly into these categories?

“So you are … one of the geeks?” I point to the molecular structure.

“Well, this might be chemistry geeks, all connected by one obsession or skill. You would have your own poetry geek–shaped molecule.”

“Enough with the —”

James interrupts me with a roll of his eyes. “Yes, you are, Gretchen. You’re in the food club and you are poetry obsessed. Those are, in fact, two areas of geekiness for my one.”

I stare down at the paper. “Fine. Say I am. Why are the other people circling an empty space? Shouldn’t there be something in there — like a nucleus?”

He looks impressed. “Actually, the point is that the cool people are bonded by their idea of whatever is cool. It could be anything, so each cool group is different. The thing is that the individuality of those people can’t be expressed if it doesn’t conform to whatever is ‘cool’.” Again, the air quotes.

“So …?”

He taps the page. “So maybe there are geeks trapped inside the bodies of jocks and hot girls all over this school, and no one has been able to get them out.”

“Psst.”

We both jump at the sound over James’s shoulder. Next, a wad of paper bounces off his binder and rolls between us. I turn to see two of the guys who de-t-shirted James walking out of the library, heads down as if nothing happened.

James has opened the paper and flattened it in front of him. It’s blank, but from the look on his pale face, this isn’t the first time.

Surprise! wrapped in rice

a good day dipped in soy sauce

Warning! Wasabi!

Guess who?

We

thankfully

have almost no classes

together, but Ashlyn

has managed to find me

three times today and offered me

her muffin, to loan me her coat,

to have me over for dinner,

to show me her family’s

new litter of beagle puppies.

I

don’t mind,

considering what happened.

I guess it’s expected,

and I won’t turn down

the attention. But it feels

a little weird to be followed

so closely by someone

so new. I agree to the muffin

but nothing else.

I’ve been so wrapped up in my burgeoning social life that I haven’t been around the house much. I haven’t had to watch any of Layla’s brain-numbing dances or listen to my parents’ reminders about good grades and medical school-related extracurriculars. Honestly, I’ve been keeping to myself a lot since the slam. It’s self-preservation that results in a lot of eating of cereal in my room.

But maybe Mum and Dad sense this with their offspring-happiness-radars, because tonight we are having Family Pasta Night. Family make-noodles-from-scratch-each-other’s-eyeballs-out night.

I’m told this when I get home from school. Only an hour to mentally prepare for the onslaught.

Layla and I have been making pasta for a few years now, so even though I don’t want to be here at all, at least I know what I’m doing. She and I are on roll ‘n’ crank duty. We roll and crank the pasta dough through the machine until it comes out in long, playdough ribbons, which we lay out and then put in boiling water. I can tell the fun of doing all this is wearing thin with her too. We both used to love it, fought over who did what.

Now I have to be dragged in and I wager next year she will too. Mum’s on sauce duty, but she eyes us as we roll and crank. “Isn’t this nice, girls? We don’t do this enough these days.” I know she sees what’s happening. Her little girls are growing out of pasta wrangling — what on earth can she do?

“There’s more dough? I thought we were done!” Layla wails.

“Only another few sheets.” Mum leaves the sauce to help. I take over stirring, thankful for the switch-up. Layla gives me a look that says, “You cow, how could you leave me here?” Mum sees it, square on. Like the look was meant for her.

I am over being forewoman.

So, so over it. Since I’m Ashlyn’s

new saviour, she asked me

to take on extra duties, and these

include shepherding those

with the littlest brains so they

don’t burn or drop things,

and then cleaning up

after they do a shoddy job

cleaning up the kitchen.

If I have to chip off any more

pasta dough dried like glue

on the counters

when I could be doing anything else

I’ll freak.