The Summer I Became a Nerd

by Leah Rae Miller

“Just show me the cover, please,” I say as he unlocks his car door.

  “Sorry. No time. I have reading to do.” Before he leaves, though, he rolls down his window and yells, “You might want to man up and go in there. There’s only one copy left.”

  My heartbeat speeds up, and my palms start to sweat even more. Is it worth the risk? I ask myself as I begin to pace.

  It’s not like any of my friends are going to come in, and I’m thoroughly disguised even if someone I knew did happen to be in there.

  Only one copy left.

  I have to take the chance.

  I take a fortifying breath and square my shoulders before I stroll up to the glass door of The Phoenix.

  I can’t believe it. The Phoenix. I’m about to go into The Phoenix!

  I pull the door open, and the twinkly bell I heard from the alley sounds above me. The store is set up like a book itself. I’m standing at the end of a long empty walkway. On both sides of me, metal, A-frame racks are lined up like pages waiting to reveal their awesomeness. Spinning racks are scattered throughout the store. Collectable action figures mint-in-the-box and key chains featuring superhero logos dangle from the racks’ hooks. One spinning rack is covered top to bottom with slim foil packages containing Magic: The Gathering playing cards. If I wasn’t trying to be sneaky about this whole thing, I’d give that rack of commons, uncommons, and rares a big ole whirl just to see the shimmery packets reflect the summer sunlight filtering through the windows.

  “Welcome to The Phoenix, can I help you find anything?” a guy’s voice asks from the end of the walkway.

  Keeping my head down, I dart down one of the aisles on my left. “Just looking,” I say and then snort at my own silly attempt to sound like a man.

  “Let me know if you need any help.”

  There’s a hint of suspicion is in his voice, but I stay hidden. Superspeed would be handy right now. I could find my book and leave the money on the counter without being seen. “Okay.”

  Then, I get lost. Lost in the bright colors of the covers, lost in the stacks and stacks of lovely, numerically organized issues. The comics are grouped by publisher and alphabetically by series. There’s Marvel’s Ant-Man next to The Avengers. Booster Gold and Blue Beetle from DC. By the time I come across Fables, my number three favorite Vertigo title, I’ve run out of shelves on this side. I zip across the empty aisle and try to focus on the task at hand. The Super Ones must be somewhere in the middle of these shelves. There’s Sandman, Superman, ah ha, The Super Ones.

  I slide out the last comic in the stack.

  #399?

  I search the surrounding stacks, thinking maybe that money-exploiting jerk hid it from me, but I can’t find it.

  Here’s the part where any normal person trying not to be recognized would give up and leave. Actually, a normal person wouldn’t have disguised themselves in the first place, but that’s a whole other matter. I, being a very nonnormal person, am going to have to ask the cashier and hope he’s some college kid that won’t give me a second look.

  I take another fortifying breath and walk up to the counter. The guy is bent so far over a comic I can only see the top of his head, which is covered with brown, messy hair. I make an “ahem” noise to get his attention, but he doesn’t look up. I raise my sunglasses up a little to glance at the book he’s reading. I see a full splash page of Marcus. His whole body is contorted in agony as he screams—and I know he’s screaming because the speech bubble next to his head is all pointy—“NOOOOOO!!!!” I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting the book to be spoiled for me, but the damage is already done. I’m at the end of my rope.

  “Do you have a copy of The Super Ones #400?” I say, abandoning my faux-guy voice.

  He finally looks up, and I recognize him. Not only do I recognize him, I know him. I could probably tell you what shoes he’s wearing (black and white chucks with frayed laces) even though his lower half is hidden behind the counter. I know this because he’s kind of been my geek idol for a while now and I’ve…paid attention.

  Last year, he got in trouble at school because he was wearing pornography. At least, that’s what the students were told, when in reality, he was just wearing a T-shirt sporting an Adam Hughes drawing of Power Girl. Ridiculous, I know. I mean, Adam Hughes is one of the best purveyors of the female form in comics today, even if he has a tendency to overexaggerate certain body parts.

  Ever since then, I’ve had a thing for Logan Scott. Not an actual thing since I have a boyfriend and that would be bad, but he’s got these cute freckles on his nose and cheeks, probably from playing soccer—he’s the Natchitoches Central High School’s goalie—and he’s always reading, comics mostly, but every once in a while, I’ll catch him with a high fantasy book with dragons or elves on the cover. Not that I’m stalking him or anything.

  He has really nice eyes, though.

  His brow furrows when he looks at me. “Sorry, we’re all out.”

  “Really? What’s that?” I point at the book he’s currently stuffing under the counter.

  “It’s…” He trails off as he takes in the way I’m dressed. He tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to see behind me. I whip around, thinking someone else is there, but the store is still empty. When I turn back, a knowing smile plays at the edges of his mouth. Sighing right now would be bad, but he has perfect boy-lips—not too full, not too thin.

  He props his chin on his fist. “Do I know you?”

  “Uh, no, I mean, I don’t think so. I’m just passing through town. I mean, I don’t live here or anything so how could you know me?” I say in a rush.

  “Okay.” He squints like he can pull a confession out of me with his eyes alone. “That’s too bad, because this is the last copy.”

  He pulls #400 out and waves it around, which sends electricity shooting through me because: (1) it’s right in front of my face, and I can see the amazing cover, and (2) the way he’s flopping it around is breaking the spine, which breaks my heart. You’d think a guy who works at a comic shop would be a little more careful.

  Instinct kicks in, and I throw out my hands like he has a gun pointed at a puppy. He stops and lays the book on the counter between us.

  “Why is it too bad?” I ask. “I’m a paying customer. I give you money, you give me #400. That’s how these things work.” I tentatively reach for #400, but he slaps his hand down flat on top of it.

  “It’s too bad you’re just passing through, don’t live here, and don’t know me, because this is my copy, and if you weren’t just passing through, lived here, and knew me, I might let you borrow it.”

  He smiles that knowing smile, and more of that electricity shoots through my body, but for completely different reasons: (1) that smile is the irresistible kind I can’t help but return, and (2) his voice has a soft, smooth quality that makes my brain turn to jelly.

  I shake these thoughts from my mind when a voice in the back of my head shouts, “Quarterback boyfriend!”

  “Well, by passing through, I meant visiting. I’ll probably be around for the next couple of days so I could have it back to you pretty quick.”

  He scratches the back of his neck. “Hmm.”

  “I promise,” I blurt out, my hands clasped together. I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to begging. “I’ll have it back to you in a couple of hours even.”

  There’s that smile again. He might be adorkable, but he’s not being very nice, teasing me like this.

  “We’ll be closed in a couple of hours, so I’ll give you my number, and you can call me when you’re done.”

  “Perfect. No problem at all.” I nod again and again until I think I’ve given myself whiplash.

  He presses a button on the cash register, and blank receipt paper rolls out of the slot on the top. He hands me #400. I devour the cover with my eyes as he rips the receipt paper off and jots down his number. When he reaches for the book again, I jerk it away, thinking Mine!

  “I just want to put this in there so you don�
�t lose it,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to calm a hostile beast.

  “Oh.” I hand him the book. He slides the piece of paper behind the last page. “Can I get a bag? I don’t want it to get any sun damage.”

  The bag might be another piece of evidence I’ll have to find a hiding place for, but I might never have the guts to come back to The Phoenix. I want a memento, darn it.

  #3

  That was incredible! No, it was amazing! Incredizing? Amazible? Whatever. It was awesome, the perfect ending to a spectacular series. Of course, the story was left a little open at the end to allow for future spin-offs and things, but that’s to be expected.

  I turn the final page of #400 to read the “Letter from the Author” and the receipt paper with Logan’s number on it slides into my lap. I don’t look at it until I’m completely done reading every last word of the author’s “this couldn’t have happened without the fans” thing.

  I write down my final thoughts in my comic journal, ending with a quote from the book: Be true to yourself and others will be true to you, too. It’s a nice thought, but so not realistic.

  Now that I’m done, I can return the book and forget I almost exposed my dark side to another living person. I’m about to dial the number on the slip of paper when I read what else he wrote:

  I know your secret identity.

  “He what?” I jump off my bed, still staring at the note.

  How could he know who I am? I was adequately disguised. I told him I didn’t live in this town.

  This is a disaster.

  What do I do? Call him up and pretend like I have no idea what he’s talking about? Try to bribe him to keep his mouth shut? I find myself glaring at #400 like this is all its fault but quickly look away, mentally apologizing to the book.

  He’s expecting me to call him tonight. He’s probably sitting by his phone with that knowing smile spread across his perfect boy-lips.

  My phone rings, and I jump about four feet in the air. He couldn’t wait for me to call? He just had to rub it my face as soon as possible that I’m just like him and don’t have the guts to admit it? Of course, this is true, but it’s not polite to rub anything in anyone’s face unless it’s… Well, now that I think about it, it’s never polite.

  I lean over, eye the screen on my phone, then relax. It’s just Terra. I should have known. We have a standing appointment of a thirty minute phone call every night.

  I lucked out when it comes to Terra. She’s awesome, plus she moved here after The Costume Incident. We’ve been best friends since ninth grade, cheer-sisters since tenth grade, and soul-sisters since we were born. Or, at least, that’s what we’ve decided. We are proof positive that opposites attract. Where I’m stand-offish and shy, she’s charismatic and balls-to-the-wall outgoing. I mean, seriously, who has inside jokes with their English teacher? The girl could make friends with an armadillo. And I’m so thankful she’s as awesome she is. Without her, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

  “Hey, Terra.”

  “Oh my God, Maddie, did you hear?” she asks, and my breath hitches.

  Someone knows. Someone saw me leaving with that bag or talking to Mr. More Money.

  “Hear what?” I ask in a weak voice.

  “Allison Blair is doing a concert in Shreveport next month!” she screams, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Cool, very cool,” I lie. Like most people around this area, I like country music, and Allison Blair is the biggest thing to hit the country music scene in years. But I just don’t get it. Her songs are too sappy with no meat to them, and they’re so overplayed. All of my friends love her to bits. Little, tiny, microscopic bits. Which is why I have both of her CDs strategically placed on the backseat so everyone thinks I’m a fan when they pass my car.

  The things I do to fit in.

  “So?” Terra prods.

  “So?”

  “So, are we going? I have to go, I mean, when will we ever get this chance again?”

  Actually, we’ll probably get this same exact chance next year or the year after that or, hell, maybe in a few months, considering how often these tours happen, but I don’t tell her that.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my parents.” I look at Logan’s note again. How can I think of an adequate excuse to not go to this concert when I hold my potential downfall in my hand? It’s just a simple one sentence note, you might say, but I see it for what it really is.

  A threat.

  “Well, ask them. Tickets go on sale in two weeks, and people are going to snatch them up. If I find some good ones, I’ll grab you one, okay?”

  “Yeah, sounds great.” I’ll figure out some way to get out of this later. At the moment, I have bigger fish to fry. When Terra hangs up, I drop my phone on my bed and crush Logan’s note in my hand.

  …

  I pull into a parking space and glance in the rearview mirror at Natchitoches Central High School. It’s the last day of school. Today, I officially become a senior. I should be strutting through the halls like a peacock, eying soon-to-be juniors and bestowing my newly gained seniorly wisdom upon them, but instead, I’m sitting here in my hand-me-down Lumina wondering if Logan really knows who I am.

  This could be a disaster of epic proportions. What if he says something to someone? What if the girls on the squad realize I swoon over Peter Parker or that I secretly wish our uniforms included a cape? It would be The Costume Incident all over again. Good-bye awesome plans for this summer. Good-bye stress-free senior year.

  If he puts the word in the right person’s ear, the double life I’ve been leading for five years will crumble like a fortune cookie beneath the Hulk’s big, green toe.

  It’s not that all my friends have an unnatural hatred of comic books. It’s just one of those things popular people like me aren’t supposed to be into. We’re not like the group of poor RPG-obsessed guys that meet every morning in the band room to get in some imaginary life-living before class. They, at least, aren’t too embarrassed to admit who they are and what they love.

  I envy them.

  When I walk into first period, Logan is sitting behind my normal desk even though his regular seat is in the back row, third from the window. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel him staring at me. The back of my neck stays warm through the whole class like he has heat vision. Which puts me even more on edge. It’s like he’s toying with me. Or maybe he really doesn’t know. Please, please, please let him not know.

  My second class period goes by without a hitch. During lunch, though, things get stressful.

  “Dude, did you read #400 yet?” a boy’s squeaky voice says behind me in the lunch line. It’s hard not to know the owner of that voice: Dan Garrett.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Logan says, his voice a complete contrast to Dan’s, all velvety and shiver inducing. He raises his voice a little. “I lent my copy to somebody before I finished.”

  Dan gasps. “Are you bat-shit crazy? It was fan-freaking-tastic.”

  “She seemed pretty desperate. Who am I to deny a damsel in distress?”

  “She? She? A girl wanted to borrow your #400? Where in hellfire-damnation do you find these chicks?”

  Well, at least he’s creative with his expletives. Wait, did he just say “chicks” as in plural? Maybe he didn’t mean another chick, specifically…

  “Or was she, ya know, not hot? I mean, the old ball and chain was damn fine, and it would be cosmically unfair if you were struck with the hot-nerd-girl-lightning twice.”

  My ears perk up at this. He did mean another specific chick, but the more important matter is: does Logan Scott think I’m hot?

  It gets really quiet behind me until I hear a pained grunt from Dan just as I’m paying for my food. I turn to leave and see Dan clutching his shoulder. His dirty blond hair brushes the tops of his glasses, and his mouth looks like he could be saying, “Ow, ow, ow,” but the only sounds coming out are high-pitched squeaks. I glance at Logan. He’s looking at the ceiling, hands clasped b
ehind his back, whistling.

  Whistling.

  If there was even a little doubt in my head about whether or not Logan really knew it was me at The Phoenix, it’s vanished now. My heart speeds up when he has the nerve to look me in the eyes and say, “The Celtics have a good chance at the championship this year, don’t you think, Maddie?”

  This is it. My tumble down the popularity ladder has begun. What if he follows me to my table? What if he asks in front of everyone if I’m done with #400 yet?

  What if he never says my name in that sexy voice of his again?

  Bolting for the exit doors is really tempting. I could have just realized I left my headlights on this morning. Maybe I’ve just come down with an incredibly rare and contagious disease. But that would just bring more attention to the whole situation, wouldn’t it?

  Crap.

  Logan leans forward, one eyebrow raised mischievously, waiting for my response. Instead of deigning to answer him, I edge around him and go to my regular table, head down and shoulders scrunched up. Like somehow that might keep me from being seen. Eric has saved a seat for me, but before I sit, I look out over the sea of jabbering students for Logan. Just as I find him walking to his own usual table on the other side of the cafeteria, he looks directly at me. He raises that eyebrow again and puts on that knowing smile. I avert my gaze and sit down as fast as I can.

  Unfortunately, I sit on something that’s moving. I squeal and jump back up, jarring the table, which knocks over Terra’s bottle of water. When I look at my seat, Eric’s hand wiggles its fingers at me, and he starts to laugh with great big, honkin’ snorts that echo above the other commotion.

  Another quick glance at Logan and he’s shaking his head. I slap Eric’s muscled upper arm and say, “You’re such a jerk,” in my most I’m-a-giggly-cheerleader voice, but what I really want to do is dump my fifty-cent banana pudding on his tall, dark, and handsome head.

  “Seriously, Eric, grow up,” Terra says as she mops up her water with some napkins.

  “Whatever, that was classic!” He fist-bumps Peter.

  “You going to the party tonight, Maddie?” Terra asks.