by Holly Smale
There are supposed to be seventy-seven muscles in the back, but it feels like I only have three or four of them.
On the upside, I have never felt more like a genuine tortoise.
Quietly, I make my way over to the far side of Bunty’s prettiest tree.
Then – carefully – I use timeworn niches cut into the trunk to precariously climb up to a tree house, hidden in the branches.
Inside it’s small and damp: dark and wooden.
But as I sit with my legs crossed and the precious backpack tucked snugly in front of me, I can see “BB” carved into the wall with a swirly picture of a daisy.
Exactly where I knew it would be.
Then, I pull the Brick out.
And with a deep breath I make the call that I know is going to change my life once more.
“Howdy, you’ve reached Wilbur!” the answer machine says chirpily. “With a bur not an iam. Leave your voice on my digits and I’ll tinkle you back if you sound fabulous enough. Ta-ta for now!”
There’s a beep.
And, in that fraction of a second, I see it all …
Me in bed, covered in lipstick and talcum powder; falling down the coach aisle; smashing into a hat-stall; climbing under a table; thirty hands in the air; spinning under a spotlight; jumping in the snow; a ponytail, cut off; sitting on a catwalk; standing on a doorstep; my first kiss, on a television set.
I see a Japanese fish market and an octopus; a sumo stage; a glass box and a hundred dolls; a shining lake; a zebra crossing; a brand-new sister.
I see New York and a governess; a fairground ride; a planetarium; a party; Brooklyn Bridge. Toilet paper and Icarus; dinosaur biscuits; posters; Marrakesh and a monkey; parties of stars. Picnics and coffee; an advertising agency; a doppelganger; an Indian elephant and firework clouds of paint; a cafe, filled with pink. I see Sydney and diving and a fashion show that glittered with gold.
In short: I see a whole world, opening behind me.
And a new world, opening in front.
A world that I fit into perfectly.
“Hi, Wilbur,” I say into his voicemail. “Thank you again. You’re the best fairy godmother a polar bear could ask for, and the last year and a half has been a fairy tale. But I’m not going to take any more modelling jobs. I think I’m ready for my next big adventure.”
Smiling, I put the phone down and get a red Sharpie out of my pocket. Because if we are all infinite and we are all irreplaceable, then it stands to reason that the narratives we write for ourselves are too.
Each of us, with our own distinct voice and way of looking at the world.
Each of us, a hero.
And every one of us: creating our own plots, selecting our own words and putting them in our own unique order.
Then – one by one – setting them among the stars.
Carefully, I write in big letters on the front of my backpack:
GEEK
Then I put my pen away.
Because these are my words, and this is my story.
Now you get to choose yours.
Acknowledgements
Each of us has a story, and GEEK GIRL is mine.
Not literally. The series is fiction, not autobiography: it has come from reading, from experience and research, from three decades of obsessive scribbling and – most of all – from an “overactive imagination” that has been getting me into trouble since I was three.
But it’s the story I needed to tell.
It’s also the story I needed to read when I was a teenager: when I was lonely and anxious and unpopular and felt like I would never be good enough, never pretty enough, never confident enough, never cool enough … never enough.
And, in telling this story, I think I’ve found a way to reach her. To slay the dragon, and to climb that tower. It’s a fairy tale for the teenager I was, from the adult I turned into.
However, the story also needed help being told.
And – like any good adventure – there have been many magical guides along the way: remarkable people who have supported me, encouraged me, adored me and given me the wisdom I needed to get it done.
My mum, who gave me unlimited access to the local library and an intense love of books before I could even read; my dad, who told me I could be and do anything I wanted. My little sister, Tara, who listened to all my stories and believed them (even when she probably shouldn’t have: sorry about that). My English teacher, Mr Bott, who told me at eleven to “always write honestly”; my sixth-form English teacher, Miss Hughes, who didn’t punish me for (wrongly) thinking I already knew everything.
Helen, who first encouraged me to write these books and then read all of them.
My agent, Kate Shaw, who loved the first three chapters of Geek Girl and waited three years for the rest: who tirelessly, passionately and fiercely continues to support my writing and everything I do. Lizzie Clifford, my editor, who found and fought for Harriet and has championed her ever since: helping, beautifully and with great sensitivity, to shape these stories into what they are.
Everybody at HarperCollins, who immediately understood and believed in Team Geek, and has backed me – creatively and with enormous dedication – for years: Ann-Janine, Rachel, Pippa, Ruth, Sam, Abby, Geraldine, Nicola, Hannah, Lily, Kate, Elorine, Mary, Elisabetta, Carla, Paul, Simon, Alison, Sonia, Catherine, Camilla, Jo, Samantha, Rhiannon, Cate, Jessica, Alex and Sarah.
My family who have always loved the (frequently annoying) pilgrim soul in me: Grandma, Grandad, Judith, Lesley, Robin, Lorraine, Caroline, Veronique, Louise, Adrien, Ellen, Freya, Dan and Autumn.
To all these people I owe a huge debt of gratitude, and all these people I thank from the bottom of my heart.
But there’s one more person I need to thank: you.
You are the person who has read this book and reminded me over and over again that there is an Army of Geeks already out there: living brilliantly and brightly and uniquely and fearlessly. That we all have the power to be who we want to be, one page at a time.
So, to you, I say thank you.
And I can’t wait to tell you another story.
The series in reading order
GEEK GIRL
ALL WRAPPED UP (a Geek Girl novella)
TEAM GEEK (a World Book Day novella)
MODEL MISFIT
PICTURE PERFECT
ALL THAT GLITTERS
SUNNY SIDE UP (a Geek Girl novella)
HEAD OVER HEELS
FOREVER GEEK
About the Publisher
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