Word Nerd

by Susin Nielsen

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Word Nerd

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Allergy

  2. Protect

  3. History

  4. Ambrose

  5. Exposed

  6. Unhappy

  7. Bonehead

  8. Surprise

  9. Criminal

  10. Murderer

  11. Empty

  12. Rescue

  13. Humiliate

  14. Frustration

  15. Visitor

  16. Breasts

  17. Bonding

  18. Honesty

  19. Narcotics

  20. Avoidance

  21. Miracle

  22. Triumphant

  23. Screwed

  24. Rumble

  25. Testimony

  26. Rebellion

  27. Runaway

  28. Solution

  29. Busted

  30. Peace

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Susin Nielsen

  Extract

  Praise for Word Nerd

  ‘Ambrose Bukowski is the titular nerd and it’s in his delightful, disarming voice that Word Nerd unfolds … a funny, wry tale’

  Globe and Mail

  ‘Tender, often funny. It will appeal to word nerds, but even more to anyone who has ever longed for acceptance’

  School Library Journal, starred review

  ‘Enlivened by the witty, articulate musings of a hyper-observant and eccentric protagonist, Word Nerd is also chock-full of valuable lessons about being yourself and giving second chances. A page-turner’

  Quill & Quire

  Praise for The Reluctant Journal of Henry K. Larsen

  Winner of the Governor General’s Literary Award and the Canadian Library Association’s Children’s Book of the Year

  ‘Both disarming and endearing. A realistic, poignant portrait of one teen who overcomes nearly unbearable feelings of grief and guilt’

  Kirkus

  ‘A fantastic narrator, authentic and endearing … a memorable read for all the right reasons’

  Booktrust

  ‘Nielsen writes about the heaviest subjects with the lightest of touches … a truly uplifting, even happy read’

  Lovereading

  ‘Gloriously character driven … poignant and witty’

  Bookbag

  Praise for We Are All Made of Molecules

  ‘There are many great voices in YA fiction, but Susin Nielsen manages to give us TWO in the same book. I defy you not to fall in love with this book’

  Phil Earle

  ‘There’s so much to love about this story, but what grabbed me most is the humour. Who do I write to to join the Susin Nielsen fan club?’

  Christopher Paul Curtis

  ‘Susin Nielsen is one of the best writers working today’

  Susan Juby

  ‘This savvy, insightful take on the modern family makes for nearly nonstop laughs’

  Kirkus, starred review

  ‘A book to fortify readers against bullies and homophobes’

  Sunday Times

  ‘Nielsen deals with some big issues – grief, loss, bullying and homophobia – but anchors the story with terrific warmth and humour. One to make you laugh, cry and read in one sitting’

  The Bookseller

  ‘Snappy and witty. A really fine YA novel’

  Telegraph

  ‘A sheer delight. That next life-affirming book’

  Storytellers Inc.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781448188543

  Version 1.0

  This edition published in 2016 by

  Andersen Press Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.andersenpress.co.uk

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  First published in 2008 in Canada

  by Tundra Books, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Ltd

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  The right of Susin Nielsen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Text copyright © Susin Nielsen, 2008

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  ISBN 978 1 78344 460 1

  To my mom,

  for her unconditional love; and for being

  the one person I can always beat at Scrabble.

  1

  LGRYALE

  early, ale, all, gall, gel, leg, real, gear, largely, lag, gale

  ALLERGY

  THE DAY I almost died, the sky was a bright, brilliant blue – a nice change from the rain earlier in the week. A few clouds hung over the North Shore mountains, but they were far away.

  I was sitting at a picnic table on the school grounds, eating my lunch. Being mid-October, it wasn’t really warm enough to eat outside, but I preferred it to the lunchroom, which was noisy and crowded and occasionally hazardous to my health if some kid tried to trip me. Sometimes a guy could feel lonelier surrounded by people than he could when he was alone.

  I had another bite of my sandwich, then looked down at my feet. I was wearing my brand-new sneakers. Only the keenest eye would be able to tell they weren’t Nikes. Mom could never afford Nikes, but when she’d taken me to Chinatown on the weekend, I’d spotted a knockoff brand that was practically identical and a quarter of the price.

  They looked good, my new shoes. Really good. Bright white, with a navy blue swish on the side and matching navy laces. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have worn my neon orange socks with them, but even so, they looked mighty fine. They almost made me forget about my pants, which were getting too short, but as Mom liked to say, she wasn’t made of money. New pants would have to wait.

  On the field, Troy, Mike, and Josh were kicking a soccer ball around. For a moment I thought about asking if I could join them, but the last time I tried that they made me the goalie, then kicked the ball at my head over and over again until I had a headache. So I decided to stay put.

  The sun felt good, and I closed my eyes. I could feel the warm rays on my face and imagined them zapping the blackheads on my nose into oblivion.

  Then the sun disappeared and something bounced hard off my head. I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was the soccer ball, rolling away from me. The second thing I saw were three sets of big Nike-clad feet.

  I looked up. Troy, Mike, and Josh were towering over me, blocking the sun.

  ‘Oops,’ said Troy. He was the tallest of the three by at least a head and as broad as a tree trunk. He had short, thick black hair and his eyes were too small for his face.

  ‘It’s OK. Accidents happen,’ I said, even though accidents between their soccer ball and my cranium occurred at least three times a week.

  ‘What’s for lunch, Spambrose?’ asked Mike, who was what some people would call stocky and I would call fat. He had curly brown hair and a permanent scowl, and his jeans hung way below his waist, exposing a good four inches of his underwear, which I understood
was supposed to look not dorky but cool.

  ‘Ambrose,’ I answered. ‘Cheese sandwich, carrots, apple—’

  ‘Your lunch sucks,’ Mike said.

  I laughed. It came out like a horse’s whinny because, I confess, I was forcing it a bit. ‘Yeah, my mom’s big on nutrition …’

  ‘Hey, Damnbrose, is it true you’re allergic to peanuts?’ asked Troy.

  ‘Ambrose. Yeah, it’s true.’

  ‘I’ve been going to this school for, like, six years. For six years, I’ve eaten peanut butter and jam sandwiches for lunch. Then you show up, and suddenly our school’s declared a peanut-free zone.’

  ‘Yeah, my mom takes it pretty seriously. Have you ever tried almond butter? Because it’s not a bad substitute …’

  ‘Look at his shoes,’ said Josh. He was the smallest of the three, but strong and wiry and tough, and his hair was shaved into a kind of Mohawk. For some reason, he scared me the most.

  Troy and Mike looked at my feet.

  ‘Ike,’ said Troy.

  ‘It’s pronounced Ikee,’ I explained. ‘Like Nike without the N.’

  Troy shook his head. ‘You are such a freak.’

  The good feeling I’d had about my new shoes started to fade.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ said Josh.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I said.’

  Now this made me a little nervous because the last time I’d closed my eyes for them, I’d opened them to find a dead crow in my lap.

  But it’s very hard to say no to the Three Stooges. I called them that (only in my head and never out loud because I am not suicidal) because my mom had taken me to a ‘Three Stooges Marathon’ a few years ago and we’d watched their old shows for about four hours straight. Troy was Moe, the leader; Mike was Larry; and Josh was Curly because his hair was cut so short, he almost looked bald.

  It didn’t really make sense because the Three Stooges were funny. Troy, Mike, and Josh were one hundred per cent not.

  So I closed my eyes, and to pass the time I scrambled the letters from ‘Three Stooges’ in my head to see what new words I could make. I came up with ghettos, together, shooters, shortest, and had just figured out soothers when Josh said, ‘OK, you can open your eyes.’

  I did. Nothing was in my lap. I patted my hair. Nothing – no worms, no spit.

  ‘What’d you guys do?’ I asked.

  But Troy just patted me on the back, a little too hard. ‘See you, Peanut-butter-and-Jambrose.’

  ‘Ambrose,’ I said. ‘See you guys in math.’

  They walked away. I picked up my sandwich and took a bite, thinking that, all things considered, my chat with the Three Stooges had gone pretty well. In fact, I was thinking that maybe this was a step forward in our relationship when suddenly I felt itchy all over, followed by a distinct tightening in my throat.

  I knew that feeling. It had been eight long years, but I still knew. I peeled back the bread on the top of my sandwich and, sure enough, there it was.

  A peanut. Well, to be accurate: half a peanut. The other half was in my digestive tract, and I was going into anaphylactic shock. All the mucous membranes in my throat were swelling up and I could hardly breathe. I reached for my EpiPen, then I remembered that it wasn’t with me. It was in a fanny pack in my locker, where I hid it most mornings, even though my mom would kill me if she knew. When I wore the fanny pack, the Three Stooges called me a fag because it was hot pink – a free sample my mom got at a shopping mall in Kelowna, where we’d lived until two months ago.

  So the shot that could have saved my life was inside and two floors up, and I was outside in the schoolyard gasping for breath. I caught sight of Troy, Mike, and Josh doubled over with laughter as they watched me. Just before everything went black, I pictured the headline of my obituary: FRIENDLESS NERD KILLED BY PEANUT. And the byline: DIES WEARING IKES.

  2

  CTTPOER

  pet, poet, rope, pore, opt, top, pot, potter, core, tore

  PROTECT

  But I didn’t die. Instead, I had what the doctor called a near-death experience, which, I guess, sounds kind of exciting, but I personally wouldn’t recommend it.

  I didn’t see a bright blazing light. I didn’t see God, or Allah, or Buddha. My life didn’t flash before my eyes. In fact, after I blacked out, I didn’t remember anything until the ambulance attendant gave me the first shot of adrenaline, which is enough to wake anyone up. After that, I must have passed out again because when I woke up, I was in a hospital bed and my mom was sitting beside me, wearing the floppy hat with the flower on it that I had bought her last Christmas from Value Village. She was clutching my hand, bawling her eyes out.

  I wanted to tell her I was OK, that everything was going to be OK, but my throat felt funny and I think I was drugged because I couldn’t get the words out. This bothered me because I could see how upset she was.

  I love my mom. She has tried to protect me my whole life, and not just from peanuts. When I was little and we still lived in Edmonton, Nana Ruth used to joke that our place was outfitted like an asylum – all that was missing were the straitjackets. Our outlets were plugged with wall-socket protectors; medicines and cleaning products were locked up; sharp-edged tables were padded with hunks of foam; drawers and cupboards all had childproof locks. We even had big plastic clip-locks to hold the toilet seat down because Mom was worried that I might lift up the seat, fall in, and drown.

  She made me watch the ‘Stranger Danger’ video twenty thousand times. I’ve never been allowed to climb ladders or trees, or swim unless she’s in the pool, and she still makes me hold her hand when we cross busy roads. Sometimes it’s a little embarrassing, especially when she swears at bad drivers in a loud voice from the sidewalk, but I know her heart is in the right place.

  Because my mom has done such a good job protecting me, I decided, when we moved to Vancouver two months ago, that I was old enough to return the favor. That’s why I’ve told her that everything’s working out well in my seventh-grade classroom at Cypress Elementary; that I have friends, and their names are Troy, Mike, and Josh. I can see how happy it makes her, because in Edmonton, Regina, and Kelowna, I never really had friends.

  And what would be the point in telling her that this school was the same as all the rest? That, on a good day, the Three Stooges called me names; that, on a bad day, they threw my lunch into the toilet and, on one occasion, my lunch and my gym shorts.

  The thing is, I’ve learned to live with it. It’s not the end of the world. And besides, if I told my mom the truth, she would flip. She would make a big production out of it. The principal would be called, parents would be called … and when it all simmered down, who would be left to deal with the ugly aftermath? Me.

  And, to be honest, it made me feel better when I could tell her stories at the end of the day that made it sound like I had a life:

  ‘Then we all shot hoops at lunch.’

  ‘I helped Mike with his math after school.’

  ‘Troy invited me to his birthday party at Planet Lazer.’

  That last one almost backfired. I’d chosen laser tag because I knew my mom thought it was violent and dangerous, so I was shocked when she said I could go. We picked out a gift, and Mom took me by bus to Planet Lazer, which took over an hour because it was all the way out in Richmond. When we got there, she wanted to come in and meet Troy’s mom, but I begged her not to, saying it wouldn’t look cool. She finally backed down.

  For the next three hours, I stayed in the laser-tag bathroom because it was pouring with rain outside. I read the book we’d bought for Troy – The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke – and, for a while, I could really believe that I was in Venice, Italy, on an incredible adventure and not in a stinky cubicle perched on a toilet seat.

  On the way home, the bus was crowded and people were wet, so it smelled like dampness and armpits. Mom and I had to stand near the front.

  ‘So? How was it?’ she asked.

  ‘Great. Our team won. I shot a l
aser right through Troy’s heart.’

  She shook her head. ‘Ugh, it sounds awful. You didn’t eat the cake, did you?’

  ‘No, Mom,’ I said. ‘I didn’t eat anything except the snack you sent me with.’

  After that, we were both quiet. I watched the rain swirl down the bus windows like miniature rivers and snuck peeks at the unsmiling faces around me.

  This time, the lie hadn’t felt very good. It hadn’t made me feel like I had a life.

  It just made me feel like a speck in the universe.

  I must’ve drifted back to sleep because the next time I woke up, I could hear my mom in the hospital corridor, talking to a doctor. Her voice was raised about an octave. I could picture her in her hat, waving her arms around, and I felt a twinge of pity for the doctor. Suddenly I heard, crystal clear: ‘They slipped a peanut into his sandwich? His school friends intentionally slipped a peanut into his sandwich?’

  Oh, man. I wondered who had dared to snitch on the Three Stooges. Another kid who’d seen what had happened? Or, perhaps, one of the Three Stooges themselves, in a rare moment of guilt?

  Then a hazy memory floated to the surface of my brain, and I groaned. A pretty nurse had been standing over me when they gave me my second shot of adrenaline. She’d asked me what had happened …

  And I’d told her everything. It was me. I was the snitch.

  In the hallway, my mom was still shouting and, crazy as it sounds, at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about how grateful I was to be alive.

  I was thinking, Why didn’t that peanut just kill me?

  Because I knew with absolute certainty that the poop was about to hit the fan.

  3

  ROYSHTI

  his, hit, sh—, stir, toy, soy, shot, hot, shirt, short, story

  HISTORY

  WE FOUND OUT I had a peanut allergy when I was three years old. We were living in Edmonton, and my mom decided to take a part-time teaching job at the university because we were running out of money from the life insurance policy. She put me in a home daycare run by a woman named Betty Spooner (snooper, opens, peon, pores, poser, prone, prose, ropes, spore, person). I don’t remember much about Betty except that she was prehistoric – like, she looked ninety-seven, but maybe she was only sixty.