The Queen Geek Social Club

by Laura Preble

  But he’s laughing! “You’re right. Oh, well. At least I finally found you. So what do you say? A bunch of us are going to see a movie on Friday. Want to go?”

  I wave at Becca. “Do I want to go to a movie on Friday? Wow. I have to check my book. Hang on.”

  She’s nodding violently. “Yes!” she whispers. “You have to go!”

  I hiss back at her. “Why don’t you come too? With Tim?”

  She sneers. “I’m not good at dating.”

  I go back to the phone. “Hey, Anders, I have an idea. Listen, I made plans with Becca for Friday, but maybe Tim could come too and we could have a foursome. What do you think?”

  “Sure, I think we have room. What’s that saying, ‘the more, the merrier’? But let me ask Tim. Hang on.”

  While he’s gone, I talk to Becca again. “He’s asking Tim.”

  “Eww! I don’t want a charity date!”

  “It’s not a charity date, you dork. It’s a double date. You’re not marrying him. We’re just going to a movie!”

  “But he didn’t ask me. That makes it a charity date.” Becca rolls her eyes and flops, dejected, onto the bed. I realize we flop a lot, but it’s a very satisfying way of sitting down, really.

  “Hey, Shelby?” Anders and his smooth soapy sandalwood voice are back on the phone. “Tim says that would be great. He thinks Becca’s cute, actually.”

  “He thinks Becca’s cute?” I say it loudly so she pays attention. She turns over and buries her head in my pillow. “That’s really cool. What movie are we going to see?”

  “We kind of wanted to see Star Wars again. Are you into sci-fi?”

  I pray silently, thanking gods, goddesses, the Great Spirit, Buddha, and the almighty Wal-Mart for this amazing gift. A cute Norwegian guy who likes me and enjoys science fiction? Pinch me. Pinch me hard.

  “Yeah, we love sci-fi. Want us to meet you at the theater?”

  “Sure. How about the seven-fifteen show?” he asks.

  “Great. We’ll be there at six-thirty. See you then.”

  “Okay. Hey, Shelby, I’m really glad we met.”

  “Me too.” I can barely contain my squeals of delight. I feel as if they will burst right out of my tummy like the bugs in Aliens, except that instead of killing me, they will fill the room with bubbles and butterflies and puppy dogs. Even as I think this, I realize how utterly gross and disgusting it is. I feel doomed to be a sappy romantic, even if I know better. Hormones suck.

  “Bye.”

  “Bye. See you Friday.” I hang up the phone, and we both scream so loud I think the roof will blow off my house. Euphoria calls from the intercom: “Are you girls all right? What’s going on in there?”

  “Everything is fan-freakin-tastic!” Becca screams.

  “Well, I guess that’s good,” she answers. “Try not to break anything.”

  9

  SHERLOCK HOMES (or If You Lived Here, You’d Be Rich by Now)

  In my extreme joy about the Anders situation, I forget totally about The Dinner, so when I hear the front door open, my dad’s keys jangling in the lock, and then a female voice, I freeze and get a stabbing feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Becca puts a hand on my shoulder. “It will be fine.” She puts up one finger, the universal signal for “wait a minute,” and silently opens my bedroom door, sneaks into the hall, and peeks around the corner. She scurries back within minutes with a report.

  “Okay.” She sighs heavily, then leads me to the edge of the bed. “You might want to sit down.”

  “Oh no.” I park on the edge and lean over with my head in my hands. I feel like throwing up.

  “Yeah, oh no. Good news first: She’s not really old, kind of pretty, seems fairly intelligent from what I could see.”

  “That’s the good news?”

  “It gets better.” She scratches her scalp between the spikes and bites her lower lip, a sure sign that this is a bitter piece of news. I rarely see Becca unable to find the right words. “Brace yourself. It’s someone you know.”

  “What?” I sit bolt upright. “Someone I know? Like who, Briley from next door?”

  “Gross. It’s not that bad.” She pounds an open palm on a closed fist and takes in a loud breath through clenched teeth. “All right, this is like taking a Band-Aid off an old scabby wound. The best way is to do it quickly. Your dad is dating Ms. Clarke.”

  “Ms. Clarke? Who is—” But then the lightbulb illuminates with a blinding flash, and I suddenly remember who Ms. Clarke is. She’s a second-year biology teacher. At my school. She’s a teacher.

  “You’ve got to be wrong. There’s no way Dad would date a teacher from my school and not tell me.” This eases my mind for a second; I hope I’m right, but of course, deep down, I know that this is like those morons on the Titanic who kept saying the whole thing was a publicity stunt to sell ice cubes.

  “Yeah, but what if he doesn’t know she’s a teacher at your school?” Becca is whispering now. “What if he met her somewhere else, and doesn’t know about her job?”

  “I guess.” Great. The best day of my life (the Anders call) is also the worst day of my life (the Dad-dating-a-teacher thing). Why is it that life seems to put those two things together so often? What I say is, “Let’s just go get it over with.”

  “That makes sense, I guess.” Becca leads the way, opening the door with a sense of impending doom. We trudge down the hallway into the living room, and there they are, my dad and a teacher, sitting together having a friendly drink. It’s enough to make a girl run away from home.

  “Oh, hi, honey.” He jumps up, totally nervous, and spills a little of his white wine on the carpet before he sets the goblet down. “I’m glad you’re home. And Becca’s here too, huh?” He looks expectantly at Becca, who doesn’t look inclined to grant him any slack.

  Neither of us says anything for a very long minute, but finally Ms. Clarke clears her throat and stands up. She does not have a white pantsuit on, but it’s almost as bad: She’s wearing very tasteful black dress pants and a pink silk top with pearls. Her dark hair is swept up on her head in a sort of bun-thing, and she has on these old-looking pearl earrings. She gives me kind of a sheepish smile, and I notice that her pink lipstick is smudged at the corner. My female tendency is to fix it for her; my daughterly tendency is to chortle with internal glee at the fact that she looks like a badly drawn cartoon. “Hi. I’m Kristin Clarke. I think I’ve seen you at school.” She extends a well-manicured hand.

  Courtesy demands that I shake hands with her, of course, and I’m nothing if not polite. So I shake her hand, but I do it with that limp-fish wrist that means I’m not at all pleased to meet you. She looks like she’s probably a nice lady, really, but because of the situation, I am morally bound by a code of honor to torture her, at least a little. “Hi. Shelby. This is Becca.”

  Dad is sweating. He loosens his tie and laughs as he comes between us. “Shelby, I think you may know Kristin. She’s a teacher at your school, did you know that?”

  “Well, I knew she was a teacher at my school, but I had no idea you were going out with her, so I don’t really know how to answer your question.” I send Ms. Clarke a wan, pale smile and cross regally to the couch, followed by Becca. We sit, leaving the adults looking awkward.

  “So how did you two kids meet?” Becca asks, sweetness dripping from every word.

  “I used to work with Shelby’s dad at Gentech,” Ms. Clarke says, then sips her wine. “We met again recently at a . . . meeting.”

  “You met at a meeting?” I ask.

  “Shelby.” Dad doesn’t even have to say anything else. It’s clearly a warning not to grill his new whatever-she-is.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Euphoria chimes from the kitchen.

  “Great. I’m starving.” Becca hops up and leads the way to the dining room, where the table is set with china, crystal, and good silver. This makes me determined to facilitate some type of disaster that will result in Ms. Clarke’s pearls spilling all over
the eggplant parmesan. Euphoria rolls in, and I brace for a scream, a squeal, even a slight wince, but Ms. Clarke maintains her composure. Clearly, she’s met our cyber servant before, which means she’s been to our house before. With that realization, I want to reach over and choke her with the pearls rather than let them spill needlessly.

  “You know what? I’m not really hungry.” I push back from the table and throw my napkin down.”

  “Sit down, please,” Dad commands.

  “I feel kind of nauseous. I think I might throw up.” And that’s not an exaggeration.

  Becca stands too, and follows me out of the dining room. I hear Dad say, “Just give her some time,” as I walk down the hall, an impending crying jag tickling my nose.

  A kaleidoscope of images flashes against the tears behind my eyes—Dad hugging Mom from behind as she washed the dishes, and how she always wore this silly pink apron, how she smelled like lilac but never seemed old-fashioned. You’d never have caught Mom in a stupid black pantsuit with pearls, hair in a prissy, uptight bun! Dad and his stupid smile introducing that woman, the woman who’s now sitting in Mom’s chair and eating off Mom’s plates and—

  “Hey, why don’t we get out of the house for a while?” Becca grabs her backpack and takes her cell phone from her jeans pocket. She quick-keys somebody. “Hey, Thea? Can you come over to Shelby’s and pick us up? We need to get out of the house. We have a situation.”

  Fighting the rush of images and memories, I take a deep breath and send Euphoria a text message to tell her that I’m leaving for a few hours, so Dad won’t worry, even though he deserves to. Becca phones Elisa, Amber, and Cheryl, calls an emergency meeting of the Queen Geeks, and gives them directions to her house.

  “I had to leave Cheryl a message. But Amber and Elisa said they can come over.”

  We sit on the porch outside waiting for the purple Jeep. I notice I’m rocking back and forth like some crazy person. “Won’t your mom care if a bunch of us invade your house? And who’s Thea?”

  “Thea is my mom.”

  “You call her by her first name?”

  Becca rolls her eyes again and flips her phone open angrily. “Thea? Where are you? Okay, cool. Hey, listen, I called a few other people. We’re having an emergency meeting for school. We won’t bother you.” A pause, and Becca sighs, exasperated. “Yeah, I know that you work best in the early evening. We won’t bother you, I promise.” She flips the phone shut. “God, she’s so selfish. Aren’t moms supposed to, like, put their kids first? I guess my mom didn’t get the memo.”

  “Neither did my dad.” I consider leaving my microchip watch in the mailbox, but decide that it’s too cruel.

  “Anyway, she’ll be here in about five minutes. Do you want to take some stuff so you can stay over?”

  “I don’t want to go back in. They might be making out on the couch or something.”

  Becca cringes. “Yuck. Thanks for that visual.”

  We wait.

  Becca’s mom pulls up and leaves the motor running on the Jeep. “Hey,” she calls as we cram ourselves into the backseat.

  “Hi, Thea. This is Shelby.”

  Becca’s mom turns to face us. She’s young-looking and has short-cropped black hair. She also has a nose ring. This is not something you usually see on moms. “I’m Thea. Hi.” She cranes her neck to check the street as she backs out of the driveway. “Where to, Bonnie and Clyde?”

  “Just take us home.” Becca groans, shaking her head.

  The Jeep is noisy, so I don’t get to ask Thea any questions on the drive to Becca’s house. It turns out that it’s only two freeway exits away, which is weird because I’d always had the impression that it was really far, or really ghetto, and that’s why Becca stayed over so much, and why we never went to her place.

  When Thea pulls the Jeep into this huge circular driveway, I nearly have a heart attack. Becca’s house is a palace. How this place ended up in the middle of suburban San Diego, I don’t know, but it has two towering palm trees in front, a stone fountain, two stories, and a third-story porch around the top of the house where deck chairs and umbrellas make it look like some bar in Puerto Vallarta. Not that I’ve been to a bar in Puerto Vallarta. I just read a lot.

  Thea parks the Jeep and we contort ourselves out of the backseat. “Now I can properly shake your hand,” she says, extending hers. “Thea Gallagher. It’s so nice to finally meet you. Becca has talked about you so much, I feel as if I already know you.”

  I cannot stop fixating on the nose ring. Becca sort of shuffles her weight from foot to foot next to me, clearly anxious to get rid of her mom. “Nose to finally meet you,” I say as politely as possible.

  Did I just say “Nose to meet you”?

  I can tell by the puzzled look on Thea’s face that I did, in fact, commit a major blunder, but I’m passing it off like she just misheard me, and I shake her hand. Becca grabs my arm. “C’mon, Amber and Elisa will be here before you know it. We’ll be in the conservatory, so if anybody calls, can you buzz me?”

  “Sure.” Thea unlocks the front door, and we enter the interior of the mansion. To describe it as palatial would be an insult. The place is the Enchanted Castle, with inlaid wood floors, oriental rugs, recessed lighting, even an inside waterfall cascading over polished granite rocks! “Have fun, girls. Will Shelby be staying over? I can drop both of you at school tomorrow if you want.”

  “Maybe. See ya later.” Becca walks briskly down a long corridor, and I have no choice but to follow her, even though I desperately want to explore her house. She makes a left and opens two gorgeous redwood and brass French doors, and we walk out into the Secret Garden. Ferns taller than I am, another waterfall, flowering shrubs, and even a tree in the middle. Over all of it, a stained-glass dome with patterns of dragonflies and hummingbirds. Soft Chinese flute music is playing from somewhere; Becca leads me to four overstuffed ivory-and-jade-colored chairs around a table.

  “Uh, wanna tell me why we never come to your house?” I nestle into one of the chairs, which is big enough for me to curl up on.

  “Want coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Becca pushes a recessed button on the table. “We don’t have a robot, but we do have a maid.” She plops into one of the chairs opposite me. “Yeah, well, I never bring anyone to my house until I’m sure about them. I’ve had too many friends who only like me because my parents happen to be extremely rich, so I always wait until I’m totally sure before I invite anybody over.”

  “Well, I’m glad I passed the test. This is pretty amazing. Makes my house look like the local landfill.”

  “Oh, please.” She taps her foot nervously. “Would you please stop looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m some sort of freak now that you know where I live?” She is more angry than I think I’ve ever seen her. The sparkly, bubbly Becca I usually see has been replaced by worried, sullen Becca.

  “Look, I don’t care where you live. It is spectacular, but that’s not why we’re friends.” The French doors open, and Elisa walks in, followed closely by Amber, who resembles a largemouth bass on a hook.

  “Hello, Richie Rich,” Elisa says, gawking at the ceiling. “Is this the Sistine Chapel?”

  Amber continues to stare skyward, her mouth agape.

  “Okay, now you know.” Becca sounds like she’s just revealed that she has two heads or something. “I’m sorry I kept it a secret, but I don’t like people judging me based on my parents’ questionable wealth.”

  “Oooo. Are they jewel thieves? I’ve always wanted to be a jewel thief.” Elisa fairly drools with envy.

  “God, no, you moron.” Becca sneers, disgusted. “They’re artists. Well, my mom is.”

  “Artists? And they live like this?” Amber manages to squeak.

  Becca nods. “Yes. I swear. No crimes have been committed to bring us this disgusting opulence, unless you count crimes against art.”

  “What kind of art does you
r mom do?” Elisa asks. Just at that moment, a dark-haired woman in a black dress comes in and sets a silver tray on the table.

  “Hello, Becca,” she says with some exotic accent. “Who are your friends?”

  “Amber, Shelby, Elisa. This is Meredith. She goes with us everywhere.” Becca pours coffee from a carafe into four small china cups. “Don’t we have any mugs, Meredith? These little baby cups won’t do.”

  “I don’t think so, Miss.” Meredith chuckles. “You know how your mother is about stimulants.”

  Becca grimaces and takes a sip of her coffee. “Yes, I do know. And she’s so full of green tea she can’t see straight, so I don’t care what she says.”

  “Call if you want anything else.” The woman smiles and glides silently back the way she came.

  “Wow.” Amber watches the woman recede into the distance. “Wow.”

  “Okay, let’s stop ogling Becca’s riches.” Elisa sips her coffee. “So let’s go. Why are we here?”

  I had momentarily forgotten about the whole Ms. Clarke episode and the call from Anders. My stomach suddenly feels like a swirling sweet-and-sour stew of emotion. That whole nausea thing starts up again, and the coffee doesn’t seem like such a good idea. “Maybe I should have some Sprite or something,” I say lamely.

  Becca can read my nausea (and that proves a true friend, in my book), so she licks her lips uneasily and says, “Anders called Shelby.”

  “What?” Elisa blurts. “He actually called you?”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Becca says stiffly. “He obviously liked her.”

  Elisa arches her eyebrows slightly, but sensing her disadvantage, she backs off. “Sure,” she says between sips of coffee. “Obviously. Well, I hope you two will be very happy together. Maybe he can teach you to make Swedish meat-balls.”

  “He’s Norwegian!” Becca and I both yell at the same time.

  “As fun as this is,” Amber drawls, “I am totally confused. Is there some other reason we’re here besides Shelby’s amazing dating life?”

  “We need to figure out what we want to do about the spring dance.” Becca downs the coffee in her fussy china cup and pours more. “Shelby and I are on the committee, and we need some good ideas to make this dance geekworthy.”