Into the Wild Nerd Yonder

by Halpern, Julie

Ah, the Where Does the Time Go speech. Mom brings this one out whenever she’s feeling sentimental, like last summer when Barrett visited colleges. We always have to pat her on the back and assure her that we’ll always love her and take care of her and when it’s time, be sure to put her in a clean but not too expensive rest home that doesn’t force her to eat tapioca.

  “Jessie, I just want you to know that there are a lot of really great people out there. You may not meet them in high school, but you’ll find them. And hopefully they won’t be as concerned with how cool they are more than how much they like to be around you. Because you really are a wonderful person, Jessica.” Mom goes on for a while about how special I am and how lucky she is to have a daughter like me. The usual. I do think a little about one thing she says: “Hopefully they won’t be concerned with how cool they are.” I don’t think I’m going to have to worry about that on Friday night with Dottie and the dweebs.

  I interrupt Mom’s motivational speech (not out of rudeness, of course, but to give her tired throat a break. Yeah.) to ask her, “Mom, if I decide I need to sew some elaborate costumes, would you be able to help me?”

  “That’s a rather random question, but I’d be happy to help you. As long as it’s not a stay-up-all-night last-minute project. I swore I’d never let you do that to me again.” Mom refers to too many Halloweens past where I decided the night before trick-or-treating that being a princess/ballerina/Dora the Explorer wasn’t cool enough, and I’d much rather be a ghost/firefighter/ninja or whatever else Barrett was that year.

  “No last-minute work. I promise. If I even do it.” I don’t know why, but I can’t get myself to tell my mom about Dungeons and Dragons on Friday. I’m afraid she might laugh or tell me that only weirdos play D&D and try to talk me out of it.

  I finish the last of the matzo balls and head to the sink to wash the goo off my hands. Mom slurps her tea and waves me out of the kitchen so she can finish up dinner. Before I head to my room to listen to my audiobook, I pick up several volumes from the World Book Encyclopedia in our living room. The set was my mom’s from when she was a teenager, and we took it from my grandma’s house after she moved into an assisted-living home last year. The set is white leather (or is it faux?) with gold writing on the covers. The date on the side glows “1975,” which is why the encyclopedias are practically covered with dust. With lots of the information completely outdated (or just too groovy), Barrett and I never touch the books. I thought I might find some good pictures, though, in the sections on medieval England, knights, costumes, and royalty for the costumes I might sew. I laugh as I flip through the pages and remember the TP stuffing in Dottie’s chest. Then the curly-haired guy pops into my head for an instant, before I shake him away and bring the heavy volumes to my room. I catch myself unintentionally smiling in my mirror.

  chapter 18

  MY ALARM ANNOYINGLY BUSTS ME awake from a glorious dream. The obnoxious rambling of the morning DJs wipe away any clear picture of who or what it was about, but I have that naughty feeling where I’m thankful I’m not a guy or I’d be changing the sheets right now. I roll around to stretch a little, wishing it was Sunday so I could go back to sleep and have my unruly subconscious continue where it left off. But if I don’t hit the bathroom now, Barrett will hog it with his midweek head shaving, and I’ll have to brush my teeth with his tiny hairs in the sink (the combo of spitty toothpaste and hair grosses me out).

  Today is Wednesday, hump day, and I have managed just the one run-in with Bizza yesterday. She looked horrid, so maybe Van dumped her, if they were ever actually going out. Why do I care?

  Before first period, I stuff books into my locker and sense someone hovering behind me. Part of me hopes it’s one of my new nerdish friends, while the tiniest part of me hopes it’s Van (I think my brain has some chemical addiction to him because my heart has very little interest). It ends up being Char, who I haven’t seen or spoken to since the party. Her loyalty is obviously with Queen Bizza, but I feel a squeeze of happiness to see her. She’s not smiling, though.

  “Hey, Jess, how ya been?” she asks. Is she referring to how I’ve been since The Incident, or how I’ve been doing at school, or with my skirts, or with my complete and total transfer of social groups?

  “Pretty good,” I try to answer in as neutral a way as possible, not overly stoked to be talking to her, not flaming angry, just chill.

  “Have you seen Bizza?”

  Why is that always Char’s question of choice? I flash back to when she asked me that on the first day of school and I saw Bizza’s new head. “Why? What does her hair look like now? Is she totally bald? A faux hawk? Ooh—maybe extensions?”

  Char interrupts my snarkiness. “No, I mean, I haven’t seen her since yesterday at lunch. She and Van had this huge blowout in his car.” I look disgusted. “I don’t mean that kind of blowout. I mean like a fight. She was crying really hard when she got out of the car, and then she just disappeared for the rest of the day. I tried to ask Van what was the what, but he just asked me what I was doing later.” She looks all annoyed, but my stomach churns at the thought. At least she didn’t hook up with him, too.

  “Haven’t seen her,” I tell her, and add coldness to my voice to see if Char notices, but she just chews the inside of her mouth nervously. Feeling guilty, I add, “Did you try calling her at home?”

  “Not today. Last night she didn’t answer her cell or her home.” Don’t get me started on why Bizza needs a cell phone and a private home phone line. Probably to keep up with her prostitution business. Ouch. Did I just think that? “I’m gonna go and see if I can get in touch with her. See ya.”

  As I walk to first period, I’m kind of bunged that Char is so concerned with Bizza and doesn’t seem too concerned about me. She once told me that it only seems like she sides with Bizza more when we fight, but really it’s just because Bizza is such a drama sucker that if she doesn’t make Bizza get over herself, we’d never make up. And Char hates when we fight. But how does that apply here? I think it’s more like Char finally had to choose a side, and she’s gone with the more socially active option. My Char analysis has me spacing out, and I accidentally crash into someone with a resulting shower of textbooks. “Dang! Sorry.” I scramble to separate my books from my collider’s, when I look up to see the curly-haired guy from Dottie’s Rena-crew. My brain sparks, and I realize he was the guy I was dreaming about this morning that got me all hot and bothered. Flustered, I concentrate on the stacking of books.

  “Hey, you’re Jessie, right?” His voice is low and kind, and I wonder if that’s how he sounded in my dream. It’s not like I’ve ever really heard him talk before. What was he doing in my dream in the first place? “Right?” he asks again, and looks at me with intense, Flavor-Ice blue eyes.

  “Uh, right.” I just want to grab my books and go, but seeing as I dreamt about him, I should at least get his name. “And you are . . .” I hope it’s not obnoxious that he knows my name but I don’t know his.

  “Henry.” He rests his books on his crouched knee and extends a hand for me to shake. “Henry Hathaway.” I grip his hand, and he gives me a friendly handshake, not too wussy but not all business-suit painful. A spray of curls falls over his eyes, and I’m almost grateful when the bell rings.

  We both scramble to get our books and stand up, myself way too quickly. “Whoa.” The blood rushes to my head, and I grab on to the closest thing to steady myself: Henry’s chest. He balances my bobbling books on top of his stack while I compose myself (and notice the unexpected solidness under his baggy red T-shirt. Weird).

  “Thanks.” I regain my balance and my books.

  “So I’ll see you at D&D on Friday? It’s at my house. Dottie can give you directions.” If there was ever a way to excuse myself from a Friday night nerdfest, it’s gone now. They all know I’m invited. And it’s at Henry’s house. The surprise subject of my I-wish-I-could-sleep-forever dream. Or maybe that’s a reason I should excuse myself. What if he used some medieval m
agic to engrain himself in my subconscious?

  I watch Henry walk away from me down the hall. His pants are a little too short, like he hasn’t bought new ones since his most recent growth spurt, and he has on white leather gym shoes, the kind that I would only be caught dead in if I were on a far-off family vacation where I was guaranteed not to see anyone I know or anyone I would want to know. I must be in the Twilight Zone because I think maybe, possibly, somehow I might be crushing on a nerd.

  chapter 19

  I WAS AFRAID THAT DOTTIE WOULD see. She has that freakish ability to know what I’m thinking about, and if she figured out that I was thinking about one of her crew, she might take it to mean more than it does. Which is nothing, because I don’t even have a choice in the matter; my subconscious started this whatever-it-is. But according to Freud, your subconscious is your true, hidden feelings. So what does that mean?

  Thankfully, Dottie is fully immersed in creating what she calls “the most pwnage-inducing adventure you have ever seen. Well, it’s your first adventure, so it will be kick-ass no matter what. Right, n00b?” She has taken to calling me “n00b,” which I know is a dis, but Dottie claims is just a term of endearment for “role-playing fresh meat.” Yes. Endearing.

  I try to work on an English essay assignment, but I can’t seem to get my brain to stop drifting to Henry . . . Char . . . Bizza. If this Van thing never happened, I’d be right there with Char calling Bizza at lunch, stopping by after school with crappy gossip magazines, helping her through whatever she’s going through. But I have to get it into my head that this friendship is over. Friends don’t treat friends the way Bizza treated me, and besides, I’ve got new sort-of-friend-type people who actually want to hang out with me, not use me to get through the punk cloud of smoke at Denny’s.

  I turn to precalc (maybe something more concrete will keep my mind from wandering), but I can’t shake this guilty feeling I have about Bizza. Kicking myself all the way, I get a bathroom pass and head for the farthest stall in the most remote girls’ bathroom. Cell phone use is against the rules during school hours, but I don’t exactly feel like arguing with the hall monitor about why I need to call my friend from a pay phone in the middle of the day. Hopefully, no one will hear me. Bizza’s number is still programmed as number 2 on my phone. I thought about deleting her, but that seemed so permanent, like once her number’s gone I no longer have the ability to contact her if I really need to (ignoring the obvious fact that I’ve had her phone number memorized since first grade, and I couldn’t forget it if someone dropped an anvil on my head).

  I lean against the inside of the stall door. (I’d sit on the toilet lid, but for some reason our school bathrooms don’t have lids. Maybe to prevent us from sitting on them and talking on the phone when we’re supposed to be in class.) A cigarette butt floats in the toilet bowl, and I wonder how anyone managed to smoke in the bathroom without some suspicious authority figure smelling it. Maybe that’s why the bathrooms always smell like an overload of generic celebrity perfume—to cover up the cigarette stink. My mind continues these (not so) enlightening observations until I get up the nerve to push 2. There are only ten minutes left in the period, and I refuse to be late to history, since Mr. Stein makes any latecomers wear a dunce cap. He claims it’s been done this way throughout history. Maybe he wouldn’t feel that way if he lived through the lice epidemic our school had in the third grade.

  Bizza’s phone rings three times, and then her mom picks up. “Hello?” she whispers, as though she knows I’m hiding in the school bathroom.

  “Hi, Mrs. Brickman. It’s Jessie. Is Bizza home today?” I whisper back.

  “Jessie, so nice of you to call. I haven’t seen you in ages. Are things going okay?” Mrs. Brickman continues to whisper. I’m a parental favorite, mainly because I rarely get into trouble, I’m polite, and I get good grades. Funny that my parents never got close with Bizza’s or Char’s parents; they mostly just waved from idling cars, waiting to pick us up.

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Brickman. You?” I wish I didn’t have to make nice with the clock ticking. Plus, every time I hear a noise from the hall, I’m sure it’s the hall monitor coming to confiscate my phone. What if they think it’s my cigarette in the toilet?

  “Oh, okay. I took the day off work to take care of Bizza. She’s not feeling well.” I’m dying to make an allusion to the Van BJ at the party, but of course wuss out, when Mrs. Brickman says, “Sore throat. She’s sleeping next to me on the couch, that’s why I’m whispering. I told her if it doesn’t get better by Friday I’m taking her to the doctor. And you know how she hates the doctor, so I’m sure she’ll be good as new in no time.”

  Bizza has been afraid of the doctor ever since she had that prick test for allergies. Any time a needle comes near her, she goes screaming crazy.

  “Do you want me to tell her you called?” Ig. Did I? I mean, I called to be nice, but leaving a message puts the ball back in her court. I don’t want to jump with panicky avoidance every time my phone rings.

  “That’s okay. I’m sure I’ll see her at school tomorrow.” We hang up, just as the bell signaling the end of study hall rings. Instantly, girls with pointy shoes and giant purses fill the bathroom, and I escape before I’m covered in smoke and perfume.

  chapter 20

  I BEAT MY ALARM RADIO BY WAKING myself up this morning. I once read that you can remember your dreams better if you keep a journal next to your bed and write down everything you remember the second you wake up. You should do this at any point in the night you wake up, which I did, and which is why I am insanely tired. Now all I have next to me is a notebook filled with unreadable, crooked words. One page looks like it says “Turkey holiday,” and I think I can make out “banana crepe” on another. Or is it “banana crap”? All I know is I don’t see the word “Henry” anywhere in the notebook. Maybe I dreamed the whole dreaming-about-him thing in the first place. So at least that’s taken care of for today. And my new phone strategy, just in case Bizza does get a message from her mom that I called, is to leave my cell off. That way my family has to screen calls on the regular phone, and she’ll know my cell’s off when it goes straight to voice mail. That’s if she calls.

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to let it go.

  Char greets me at my locker before first period. She’s in some bizarre gold lamé catsuit, complete with severe cat-eye makeup and thick bangle bracelets shoved up past her elbows. I envy her nerve for a twinge, until she brings up Bizza. “So have you talked to Bizza yet? I called, but her mom said she couldn’t come to the phone. Sore throat.”

  “That’s as much as I know,” I say, gathering my books. I wonder if Char will notice my new skirt, made with cute Elmo fabric I snagged at a baby sheet sale. Maybe she’s blinded by her own golden glow because she doesn’t say anything. Or maybe she doesn’t even notice. Or maybe she does notice, but she doesn’t want to say anything until I say something about her outfit. I’m not saying anything.

  “I wonder what’s wrong with her.” Char looks overly concerned.

  “It’s a sore throat. Big deal. My mom’s had one for a week. It’s just something that’s going around.” Char’s overanalysis of Bizza’s everything annoys me, and I’m happy that she chose to bother me before instead of after school so I can make a clean getaway. The first bell rings, and I tell her, “See ya later.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She pauses, with a stressed look on her face. “I hope I don’t get Bizza’s sore throat.” I curse Char in my head that she does get it, but then I feel guilty and make her uncursed.

  Polly smiles at me as I walk into English. We have an essay test about the significance graphic novels play in documenting history in the twenty-first century. I like this kind of test because it doesn’t require as much studying as it does thinking, and Ms. Norton loves it when we get abstract and analytical (i.e., throw in a lot of big words and BS), so I know I’ll do well. I smile back at Polly and notice how pretty she is—naturally red lips, bouncy hair, and she’s
so tall and thin. I look at her for a minute and try to take her out of context. Like, if she didn’t go to this school and grow up with me and all of these people around us, and nobody knew she played the flute and was in the smart classes and dates a really goobery-looking guy—would she be popular? Would she want to be? A flash of Henry’s bright eyes and curly hair pop into my head. What if Henry’s pants weren’t so short, his shoes not so white . . . How is it that someone becomes a dork? Do they choose to, just like Bizza and Char decided to turn punk? Are they born that way? What makes some people like punk music and Denny’s and other people like costumes and Dungeons and Dragons? And where do I fit into all of this?

  I try to clear all of the existential questions from my head and focus on my essay test. The BS flows nicely, and I leave class feeling pretty confident I scored an A. In fact, I did so well that I decide to make today an official A + test day (yes, this is something I sometimes do), and I skip out on lunch with the band geeks in order to study for my precalc test in the library.

  Oh. Henry’s here. In the library. I don’t want him to see me. Hide in the stacks, yeah, that old cliché hide-in-the-stacks routine so I can spy on the nerd who I may or may not have dreamt about. Because just sitting down near him instead of hiding from him would be weird, right?

  My pathetic reasoning is interrupted by a scuffing sound coming from one row behind me. I peek through some dusty Einstein biographies to catch my brother and his homecoming bride making out. Yuck. I always try to avoid seeing my brother and his girlfriends in the act because I, nor does anyone else in the world, I hope, do not need to see Barrett’s hand on some girl’s butt. I don’t care if she is the potential homecoming queen. Now I should really just bust out of here and sit down near Henry. I mean, I am going to his house tomorrow night, and—

  “Jessie?” It’s Barrett, who has extracted his hand from atop Chloe Romano’s ass and is now standing behind me, watching me watch Henry. “What’re you doing?”