The Queen Geek Social Club

by Laura Preble

  “Great.” I scoop up my books and pointedly put my Twinkie back in the box.

  “That’s it? Great?” She puts a hand on my shoulder, and I shrug it off. “Why are you mad?”

  “Well, it just sort of seems like this is all your idea. Like I don’t have much to do with it.”

  She stammers, “Well, it is sort of my idea, isn’t it? You didn’t even really want to do it!”

  “Right. But I thought if we’re friends, we do things together, as a team. You just did all this stuff without even telling me—”

  “That mission statement? That just happened last night. I thought of it when I got home, and I knew you weren’t feeling good, so I didn’t want to bother you. Sorry.” Her shoulders drop a bit, and her face softens. “I don’t want you to be mad, Shelby. I’m sorry. Do you want to just cancel the whole thing?”

  “Yes.”

  She just stares at me. “Huh?”

  “Yes. I want to just cancel the whole thing. I don’t like those girls, and I don’t think you like them either, and this whole Twinkie thing is just weird.”

  “Fine.” She looks like she’s going to cry as she scoops her stuff into the carpetbag. “I have to go to class. Bye.” She leaves the lavender housewives waving in the breeze as she marches away. I can see her brush a tear from her face.

  I feel awful. Maybe I should just be frozen until I’m thirty or something, and maybe by then I’ll have learned how to figure out what people want me to do. I think they did that to Walt Disney’s head . . . when he died, they just took his whole head and put it in a liquid nitrogen tank to preserve it, but of course, I have no way of knowing if you come out the same when they thaw you out, or if your brain can get freezer burn. I should ask my dad.

  Either way, I’m totally stupid and I have to find Becca after school.

  6

  JUNE CLEAVER VERSUS SUPER MODEL (or The Cream Filling Has to Be Good for Something)

  I ask my sixth-period French teacher if I can leave a few minutes early for a personal emergency, and she says, “Bien sur,” which means “of course” in French. I run over to the Social Science building, where Becca has sixth period with Mrs. Yung, a class called Life Management, which only teaches you stuff that will not really help you manage your life in any way. They never talk about how to handle friends who get mad at you, or how to talk to your dad after your mom dies, or how to deal with a surly robot. Nothing helpful at all. Just sex and stuff.

  The bell rings, and kids pour out of the room. Becca is talking to that girl Elisa Crunch, and I immediately feel like I could punch Elisa in the face, which is highly unusual for me. As a vegetarian, I’m very against violence, so punching anybody is kind of against my principles. But I still want to belt Elisa Crunch. Hard.

  “Hey,” Becca nods to me. To Elisa she says, “Okay, well, I’ll see you on Friday. You’ve got my number.” Elisa waves and, looking much less depressed than earlier in the day, she goes on her way.

  “What’s Friday?” I fall into step beside Becca.

  “We’re going bowling.” Becca seems really aloof.

  “Hmm. Hey, stop a minute.” She stops, says nothing. “I’m sorry about lunch. About the meeting.”

  “Why is that?” She’s not even looking at me.

  “Hey.” I touch her shoulder, which seems to break down this invisible wall that’s between us. “I’m sorry I was weird. I don’t even know why I was like that. Really. I do want to help with the club and all. Anyway, I’m just sorry.”

  She turns to me, all smiles, as if a cloud had passed from in front of the sun. “Okay,” she says brightly. “Wanna go bowling on Friday?”

  “Sure.” I really stink at bowling, of course. But I suppose it’s not really about bowling at all; it’s about geek solidarity.

  “On to more pressing matters,” Becca says. “We need to make our ad for Panther TV.”

  “I’m guessing you have an idea already.”

  “Of course. But I want to use Euphoria to videotape us and edit the film, so it can come out really professional.”

  “Euphoria doesn’t have movie-editing software. Besides, it’s not a good idea to use her for anything. She’s way too judgmental.”

  “She’s a robot. How can she be judgmental? Isn’t she supposed to do your bidding and stuff?”

  “Tell her that.” I struggle to keep up with Becca’s long strides as we walk to my house, which is only about three blocks away. “Are you sure a Panther TV thing is the best idea? I mean, it will make us targets, won’t it?”

  “Targets?” Becca slows down just a bit, but I still have trouble keeping up. “You’re afraid that people will know we’re geeks and do something to us because of it?”

  “Well . . . yeah, I guess.”

  “That’s extremely paranoid.” She walks faster. “We have nothing to fear but fear itself, you know. So, here’s my idea . . .”

  The whole way home my mind is revving even though Becca is babbling on and on about our first meeting and the TV spot. I’m thinking about what I’m going to do when Becca decides she needs a braver geek sidekick than me. It’s like she’s the geek Wonder Woman, and I’m—well, Wonder Woman didn’t even have a sidekick. I think she had a secretary, or maybe a dog walker. But whoever it was didn’t get a costume or the keys to the invisible jet.

  The Volvo’s gone when we get to my house, so we have Euphoria to ourselves; she’s in rest mode in her corner of my room. Once I walk in, she turns on and beeps a few times, does a self-diagnostic, and flashes green eye-lights in greeting. “Hey, Shelby. Welcome home from school. Hello, Becca.”

  “Hey, Euphoria,” Becca says, all perky. “We need a favor.”

  “Hmm. Is that so?” She beeps and clicks and whirs while Becca and I get comfortable on the edge of the bed. My friend looks at me with big eyes, nudging me to ask Euphoria about the Great Geek Cinema Event.

  “Uh, Euphoria,” I begin. “Could you bring us a snack?”

  “Is that all? Of course I’d be happy to get you a snack. Any preference?”

  “I’d like something sweet,” Becca sighs as she lies back on the bed, her hands behind her head. “Preferably chocolate.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “And coffee if we have it.”

  “Oh, we always have coffee,” she says as she rolls toward the door. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Her clicks and whirs get fainter as she makes her way down the hall, and when we can’t hear her anymore, Becca turns to me, frantic. “Okay, Shelby, you’ve got to talk her into helping us. Does she have to do anything you say?”

  “I guess. What do you want her to do?”

  “I want her to film us and then I want you to plug her into your computer and have her edit the film so it looks professional.”

  “I don’t know if I can even do that!” I protest. “I mean, I know she can hold the camera and all, but as for the editing, I don’t know if that’s possible. I don’t think her system is compatible with the laptop.”

  “Well, let’s play it by ear. Let’s just start with shooting the footage first.”

  When Euphoria returns with chocolate cookies on a plate and two steaming mugs of coffee, I admit that I’m more focused on eating than filming. “Shelby, be careful you don’t take off a couple of fingers while you’re chewing on those cookies,” Euphoria snaps as I devour more. “We will be having supper, you know.”

  Becca has taken the last cookie and is giving me that scrunchy-eyebrow, purse-lipped look of insistence, so I ask: “Euphoria, do you think you could hold our digital video camera while we do a project for school? Could you film us?”

  “I suppose.”

  Becca jumps in. “And is there any way you can interface with the laptop computer so you could edit the film into a movie?”

  Euphoria’s red lights start flashing in a disturbing sequence, and a high-pitched mechanical whine threatens to inflict permanent hearing damage. “Whoa, whoa. What’s that all about?” I ask.

  The whin
e eases like a downshifted motor; the red lights blink more slowly, and then go out. Finally, she speaks. “You expect me to just interface with any old computer? Even one I’ve never spoken to?”

  Becca looks at me, puzzled. “Uh, Euphoria, is that, like, against the robot code or something? We didn’t know it would be offensive or weird or anything.”

  “How would you like it if I told you to go interface with some strange human boy you might meet at the mall? Wouldn’t that bother you?”

  “Well, it would depend on what he looks like—” Becca’s eyes twinkle wickedly.

  “Okay, okay,” I stand up between them. “I mean interface, like talk, communicate. We just want you to use the movie software on the laptop. Is that too weird?”

  “Yeah, is that, like, robot sex?”

  I do that thing they do in cartoons where you clamp your hand over your eyes in utter pain and disgust at the sheer stupidity of what you witness. “Becca, please.”

  Euphoria has started whir-whining again, and this time the pitch is even higher, and I’m afraid she might blow a gasket or something. Also, there’s some kind of dark gray smoke starting to leak out from her undercarriage, and it smells a little bit like burnt dead hamsters, something I’ve smelled only one other time and was hoping I’d never smell again. Don’t ask.

  “Euphoria, calm down. You don’t have to interface with the laptop, okay? We’ll figure it out on our own.” I pat her silvery sides, even though I know she doesn’t feel it. She does seem to chill out; the smoke clears, although I have a hunch I’m stuck with the hamster-kebab smell for a while. “Do you think you can hold the camera? Hmm?”

  “Yes,” she says meekly. “Sorry, Shelby. I just haven’t . . . been with another computer since your father made me. It’s something that’s always made me nervous. I just overreacted.”

  “Hey, it’s only natural,” Becca says without thinking. “Uh, anyway. Here’s my idea for the Panther TV spot.”

  Becca proceeds to detail the concept: an old-fashioned science fiction movie featuring the Queen Geeks (us) as the larger-than-life heroes who save the world from the evil monster, Super Model. “Who plays Super Model?” I ask.

  “Yeah, that’s kind of a problem. We need somebody who’s almost perfect, and who’s willing to totally humiliate herself. Do we know anyone like that?”

  Euphoria whirs and buzzes. “What about Briley?”

  I groan. “Bad idea.”

  “Who’s Briley?” Becca asks. “C’mon. We need to get this done. If she’s someone who’d be willing to do it, and she’s nearby—”

  “She lives next door,” Euphoria offers. “I can call her—”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  I suppose I have to now explain about Briley Princeton, the girl next door. She lived there when my dad and I moved in three years ago. My first encounter with Briley was actually at my elementary school, where she was in my sixth-grade class. On the very first day of sixth grade, Briley and I were seated next to each other. As she brushed her long blond tresses and scattered the rogue hairs to my side of the table, the teacher was asking if we had done anything interesting over the summer. She raised her hand, gestured to me, and said “This girl, Shelby, and her dad just moved into my neighborhood this summer. I think it’s interesting because she doesn’t have a mom.”

  I remember going all numb in my seat, that first day of sixth grade at a new school, in a new place, in a new life. And Briley Princeton had, without knowing it, found the one thing to say that would cut my heart in two like a sharp axe cutting soft butter.

  I had run crying from the classroom, with the teacher, bewildered, following me. Briley’s voice behind me sounded baffled: “What? I just thought maybe they kept her locked up or something interesting . . .”

  She hadn’t meant to ruin my first day of school, but to me, Briley is the symbol of all emotional pain and anguish. Therefore, I avoid her whenever possible. I certainly don’t go to her house and initiate contact. And I absolutely don’t call her to be part of my promotional videos, not that I’ve ever done any.

  “So? Can we call her?” Becca stares anxiously at me. “C’mon! We need to get this done soon!”

  “Sure. I’ll call her.” Euphoria dials the number and I pick up the house phone receiver. I faintly hear the phone ring next door.

  “Hello?” Same dumb-blond voice. “Hello?”

  “Briley?”

  “Speaking.” So very perky. She’s picked up perky points every year. If she keeps on this way, she might actually perk out of existence.

  “Hey. This is Shelby, from next door.”

  “Oh. Hi.” She apparently doesn’t want to talk to me any more than I want to talk to her. Swell.

  “Listen, this is a weird request, I know, but—”

  Becca grabs the phone from me, nearly knocking me off the bed. “Hey, Briley? It’s Becca Gallagher, from school? Listen, I know you have no idea who I am, but I have a favor to ask. We’re doing this video project for school, and we need another person in it. Would you be willing to do it for us?” She nods and smiles, then frowns. “Oh. Sure. Well, I understand. It’s just that I’m new in town, so when I asked Shelby who we could get to play a model in the video, she immediately thought of you, but said you are so incredibly busy she doubted we could get you. I mean, we need someone who can look, well, glamorous, and so many girls just can’t pull that off. Oh well.” Becca sighs heavily. “Guess we’ll just keep—huh? Oh.” She jumps frantically, waves her hands, and does a little jig that I think means either good news or the sudden onset of stomach cramps. “I guess you could put it on a résumé. Sure. So, what we need is for you to come over in about an hour, as glammed up as you can get, big hair . . . oh, and try to look as skinny as possible. Okay. Thanks!” Triumphantly Becca hangs up the phone.

  “What have you done?”

  “I have made our video a raging success.”

  “There is no video yet.” I peek between the slats of my blinds. “I can’t believe you asked her to come over here.”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s just focus on what we’re doing, and it’ll all be over really quickly. Here’s the plan.” Becca proceeds to tell me how we’re going to do this supercool sci-fi video with no script, no props, and no scenery. “Can we use your dad’s lab?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—”

  Euphoria pipes up. “Your father would not want you girls pokin’ around in his work area. I know that for a fact.” She has picked up the video camera and is fiddling with the controls, the zoom, and the artistic effects. “I wonder how this would look if we filmed it all in black and white?”

  “Great idea!” Becca screams. “Then it’ll look especially old. Let me see the camera.” She gently takes it from Euphoria’s claws and squints into the viewfinder, pressing buttons madly. “Okay, yeah, you have that black-and-white grainy effect on here. Perfect. Let’s find costumes.”

  “Costumes? Do you think I just have superhero costumes sitting around in a drawer somewhere?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Becca slaps my arm, a little too enthusiastically. “Don’t worry. All we need are geek clothes. You have lots of those.”

  “Thanks.” We rummage through my closet and come up with, I must admit, some interesting combinations. We settle on a plaid mini and black Oingo Boingo T-shirt for me, with knee socks and loafers, but for Becca, we’re kind of stumped. She’s so tall that nothing in my closet fits her.

  “Okay, what about your dad’s clothes?” she asks. “Maybe I could turn something of his into a costume.”

  A thought occurs to me, and I immediately bat it away. My mom had some of these very June Cleaver ’50s dresses, you know, the housewife ones, but on her they looked retro and cool. I think I know where they are: Dad put all her stuff in big plastic bins and shoved them into the back of the garage three years ago when we moved in. He hasn’t taken them out since. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to get them out.

  “What? You have an idea. I c
an see it. Tell,” Becca demands.

  “Never mind.” I shove shirts and skirts back and forth on the rod in my closet, hoping something will appear that will spare me from digging through Mom’s old clothes. I don’t find anything. “I was just thinking that you could maybe wear some of my mom’s old clothes.”

  “Oh.”

  We haven’t really talked about this. It’s like over time, the death of someone important doesn’t go away, it just sort of hovers over your shoulder, always there but kind of quiet until you acknowledge it. I know for both of us, this hovering thing that is my mom’s absence hangs there all the time, but we don’t talk about it, just like my dad and I don’t talk about Mom. In a way, we don’t have to. But digging out Mom’s clothes might wake it up, and I’m afraid. So is Becca, I can tell.

  “Should we look?” I ask.

  “Can you?”

  “I think so.” I turn to Euphoria. “Could you get us some aluminum foil and Christmas lights from the utility room? Bring them out to Dad’s work space. We’re filming there.”

  “Oh, but Shelby, your dad won’t—”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “We’ll be careful.”

  Becca follows me out to the garage, and with each step, something heavy seems to drag at my feet. As we get closer to the orderly stack of bins on the back shelves, I feel that angel or demon or whatever it is hovering off my shoulder coming closer, whispering in my ear, trying to get me to feel something. I’ve gotten so good at not feeling anything.

  Becca puts an arm around my shoulder. “We don’t have to—”

  “No. Might as well.”

  Everybody thinks that big moments in life happen when you plan them, and that they announce themselves, but I don’t think that’s true all the time. Like, this night when I take the bin with my mom’s dresses off the shelf, and I open it, I’m hit with a wave of incredible sadness, but also this amazing swell of relief and joy, because it smells like her, like the combination of jasmine and lavender powder that she always wore. And I also laugh, because lying on top of the neatly folded dresses is a huge, gaudy tiara.