The Geeks Shall Inherit the Earth: Popularity, Quirk Theory, and Why Outsiders Thrive After High School

by Alexandra Robbins

  In Vermont, people had suggested that Regan try acting because of what they called her “grandiose personality.” She auditioned for a high school musical, scored a role in the company, and immediately was hooked.

  Theater allowed Regan to be artistic and creative in an acceptable outlet. Most of all, it was a relief to inhabit someone else’s life for a while, to shed her personal issues for a brief respite. In a play, she knew exactly how all of her character’s problems would be resolved. No matter how the cast performed, the end turned out the same. No questions, no worries, no unknowns.

  “Theater people” had always treated her differently than people at school did. They appreciated her openness, ebullience, goofiness, and offbeat interests. Theater people genuinely liked her, while schoolmates patronized her, calling her ridiculous and silly. Regan explained, “You know how when you talk to a little kid who’s rambunctious and talking a mile a minute, you’re kind of like, ‘Uhhh, ookayyy’ and make a face to adults like, ‘What is wrong with this child?’ That’s how people react to me. They say things like, ‘Okay, Regan,’ talking down to me. Wyatt always said I’m like a little kid. I think I just am not cynical. I’m a realist, but I’m still happy that life exists and that I’m a part of it. Personally, I think that’s a strength.” Sometimes she compared herself to Ally Sheedy’s Breakfast Club character, who was quiet in the beginning of the movie; once she started talking, the students “thought she was odd, like they understood her less once she started sharing herself. That’s sort of how I am at school.”

  When Regan moved to Georgia, she couldn’t be involved with James Johnson’s drama program because she wasn’t part of the performing arts department. So she had auditioned for a role in a community theater play.

  “Regan’s here!” yelled Naomi, the thirtysomething female lead, as Regan and Crystal slipped into the theater. Naomi smiled at Regan’s rehearsal clothes: a T-shirt, cutoff sweats, and a bandana tying back her newly dyed pink hair. When Regan had shown up at school with pink hair, her peers scoffed. (The administration didn’t penalize her, she assumed, because many of Johnson’s mostly black students—and even some teachers—added color when they got their hair done.) The theater cast, by contrast, was unfazed.

  Only a few people were at rehearsal today. “This is my Crystal,” Regan announced. Lately she had taken to introducing Crystal that way to people who didn’t necessarily know she was gay.

  “Ohh myy Gaahhd,” squealed the middle-aged woman who was playing Regan’s mother in the show. She seemed to be taking to the role in real life as well. She cupped Crystal’s face in her hands. “I have been waiting to meet this gorgeous woman. She . . . is . . . beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Crystal said, smiling.

  “Thank you,” Regan repeated.

  As the woman returned to her seat, she continued to beam at Regan and Crystal. Regan breathed a small sigh of relief. In a world in which so many places were unsafe for Regan and her relationship, the theater was a sanctuary.

  The director handed Regan a script. “Will you stay on-book for me?” she asked. Regan was so busy reading her lines and those of the absent cast members that she didn’t have time to think for the rest of rehearsal.

  Afterward, the group met for dinner at a diner down the street. “You did a good job today!” Naomi said, elbowing Regan when she sat down.

  “Yeah, no kidding,” said the male lead. “Thank God you were there to read for everyone. I didn’t know you could play everyone in the show.”

  “You’re really good, you know,” said Naomi. “I hope you continue to act.”

  Regan glanced up from the menu. “Oh, hey, I appreciate it, but I need a little break. This show took up my entire life.”

  “Isn’t that always the way?”

  Regan pressed Crystal to choose a dish she really wanted, knowing that she would choose something cheap, as usual. Regan always paid. Crystal was embarrassed that she didn’t have the money, but Regan didn’t mind treating her girlfriend. Neither of them had much pocket change. When they went out on weekends, they usually looked for free activities: Johnson plays, public festivals, fairs, and concerts.

  As her castmates smiled at their coupleness, Regan thought, What a comfortable place to be. She never felt this way at school.

  Mandy seemed to be making an extra effort to glare at Regan lately. Her blatant hostility mystified Regan. They had conversed only twice. The first time Regan saw Mandy after Wyatt had dumped her, Regan had wanted her to know that she didn’t hold anything against her. So on the first day of school that year, when Mandy came through the main doors, Regan nervously approached her. “Mandy!” Regan exclaimed, and hugged her. They made brief small talk about their summers and parted.

  A few minutes later, as Regan walked upstairs, she overhead Mandy and Wyatt making fun of her in the hallway. “And she hugged me and everything, like how fake is that?” Mandy said, laughing.

  The second time they had talked was the previous year. Regan was walking out of the bathroom when Mandy happened to be coming in. Regan stopped, turned around, and said, “Mandy.”

  Mandy also turned. “Yes. I’m glad we’re about to have this conversation.”

  “I just want you to know that the things you heard about me aren’t true,” Regan said.

  “I’m starting to figure that out.”

  “I really don’t have a problem with you, and I think it’s stupid that we’re supposed to hate each other. It’s just not worth it to feel awkward,” Regan said.

  “Yeah, and to think it’s all over a stupid boy,” Mandy said. “Really, we should be on the same side.” But Mandy had been rude to Regan ever since.

  Luckily, Mandy’s gossip about Regan had been overtaken by an incident near the end of the school year. A drama had exploded when two people were caught having oral sex in the parking lot; they were discovered because they were skipping class. One of the two, who was black, left the school permanently. She told students that white people were getting her kicked out and asked a group of boys to gang up on Wyatt, who had gossiped about the incident, including to the head of the English department. They did. They found him in a classroom, took their shirts off, and threw them on the ground, ready to fight him. He was able to summon administrators, who broke up the mob and suspended the boys. For the rest of the day, the school police escorted Wyatt to his classes. At least, that was what Wyatt said. Sometimes Regan believed that Wyatt was James Johnson’s gossip mill.

  A few days after play practice, Wyatt approached Regan in the hallway. For once, he didn’t tease her. “So what’s new?” he asked.

  “Not much. My life is pretty standard.”

  “That’s good.” He paused expectantly.

  Regan took the hint. “So, uh, what’s new with you?”

  “A lot.”

  “Is everything okay?” Regan asked.

  “I think it’s going to be. I got rid of a lot of things, and I think it’ll make things better.”

  “Like what things? Objects or people?”

  “Both. We broke up.”

  The next day, Mandy passed out during class. She left school in an ambulance and didn’t return for a week, later citing “exhaustion.”

  DANIELLE, ILLINOIS | THE LONER

  Danielle was in a local store helping her friends hunt for Homecoming formalwear when she saw the dress. Strapless, satin, and short, the fuchsia number nicely complemented her relatively dark hair and eyes. Along with her “annoying, big, Hispanic eyebrows,” those were the only features she had inherited from her Costa Rican father, who lived in Florida. The dress came to mid-thigh and showed off her long, slender legs. The top of the skirt puffed out, disguising hips that Danielle was self-conscious about. It was nothing like any of her other clothes. She liked the idea of wearing something that no one expected her to wear.

  She called her mother. “I found a dress I like. Can I get it?” she asked.

  “I thought you weren’t going to Homecoming,” h
er mother said. “You don’t need a new dress unless you’re going.”

  Danielle hated school dances and had broadcasted that she had no intention of going to Homecoming. Why would she want to spend any more time with her classmates than was required? On weekends, Danielle usually stayed home and read, watched movies, or researched Internet topics that interested her. But she loved this dress. “Well, I guess I’m going now,” she said.

  Danielle knew her mother would get her the dress because her mother understood her. Danielle was a lot like her mother, tough and independent, and she appreciated their relationship. “Since we’re the same, personality-wise, I can tell her pretty much whatever. And she has a good sense of humor, and is up for doing some funny things,” Danielle said. “I admire that she doesn’t take crap from people, although sometimes I wish she wasn’t so in-your-face about it; it’s really embarrassing at restaurants when she gets pissed off. And I like that she doesn’t need constant interaction with people. And the past couple of years she’s seemed to give me more trust. For the most part, it’s a pretty chill, understated relationship.”

  As soon as Danielle’s group walked into the decorated gym for Homecoming, Danielle already regretted going. Her friends mingled, darting about so quickly that Danielle lost track of them in the crowd. Danielle grew lightheaded, as she usually did in the middle of large social gatherings. Why was she here? She didn’t like dancing—at least, not the grinding that surrounded her. She preferred “old-people dancing,” the elegant waltzes she saw in the classic movies she loved, and wanted to learn the flamenco, the tango, the salsa. For now, she tried to ignore her discomfort.

  When her friends dragged her onto the dance floor, Danielle swayed awkwardly and tried to think of an excuse to do something else. She surveyed the other students, who were laughing and frolicking in the crowd. It hit Danielle then just how different she was from her classmates.

  It wasn’t her looks. She could blend in, and outside of school, people insisted she was pretty. No, she figured it was everything else about her that made her stand out. She didn’t listen to the same music her classmates did; she preferred to listen to her mother’s favorite bands: Deep Forest, Marillion, or James. For extracurriculars, she took tae kwon do classes with her younger brother and played varsity tennis only reluctantly. Even her conversation topics meandered from the mainstream; she liked to raise random questions, like “How are sweatshirt drawstrings made?!” She couldn’t relate to other students’ provincial, high school–oriented goals. They talked about partying at the local university and staying together in town for the rest of their lives, while Danielle dreamed of someday doing something “really great,” like joining Doctors Without Borders or discovering ancient ruins. She preferred not to act phony, so she refused to pretend that shallow topics were interesting or that unintelligent comments were witty. Better to say nothing than to be fake.

  Danielle didn’t feel like she assumed other people her age did, either. Classmates never seemed to understand why she hated talking on the phone and texting. She didn’t date, shop, or watch much TV. Also, Danielle enjoyed her own company. Danielle’s mother, who was a childhood outcast too, had taught her not to care what other people thought. “If I believed in fate,” Danielle said, “then I would say that I was destined to be an outsider, based on my genetics. The entire maternal side of the family is extremely antisocial, and I definitely got those genes.”

  Sometimes Danielle considered being an outcast pretty cool, actually. Because she didn’t feel the need to follow trends like other students did, they didn’t scrutinize her; or if they did, she wasn’t aware of it. She didn’t feel strange doing things that other students wouldn’t do, like reading in odd places. Danielle read incessantly; she thought perhaps it was because reading made her feel smart and she liked the quietness of it. She liked watching movies, too, but not as much, because with movies “you miss the really cool sentences.”

  More than three hundred books were divided among three bookshelves in Danielle’s room. One was the Young Adult section, with Harry Potter, the series that first inspired her to read, and the Gossip Girl Series, which she read during the year of the hate club to try to learn how to be popular. She hadn’t read the YA books since middle school, but she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of them. The other large bookshelf was her literary shelf: Tolstoy, Orwell, Rand, Dickens, Hardy, Lessing, Faulkner, Proust, Shakespeare, Austen, Saramago, García Márquez, both Brontës. She kept her favorite books on a shelf attached to her headboard. There she could find Gone with the Wind, A Farewell to Arms, For Whom the Bell Tolls, Out of Africa, and Into the Wild.

  Danielle treated her books like museum treasures, cringing if a book cover so much as creased. When a classmate borrowed her Les Misérables paperback and told her the cover fell off, she gave him the book permanently and bought herself a new, unblemished hardback. Books were so sacred to Danielle that she wouldn’t check them out from the library. She wasn’t “some creepy book worshipper,” as she phrased it; she just didn’t like the idea of touching things with unknown histories. Also, one time a friend had opened a library book and found a piece of salami.

  Besides, there was something gratifying about owning books. She didn’t have to read them within a predetermined time limit. She took good care of them because she figured that in twenty years, she wouldn’t want a torn-up, dog-eared copy of Snow Falling on Cedars. She’d want a clean read.

  Danielle read in classes because she was bored, and aced the tests anyway. Her classmates made fun of her for it, but their opinions didn’t outweigh her love of reading. She could relate better to the worlds in her books than she could to the teens at her school.

  Recently, two physics classmates near Danielle had discussed phoning significant others just to talk. “I don’t know if I should call her or not,” the boy said.

  “[My boyfriend] calls me every night. Sometimes when he doesn’t call, I get mad,” the girl said.

  Danielle looked up from her book. She wouldn’t want a guy to call her. Not that she had to worry. Danielle had never had a boyfriend, and didn’t want one. She figured that was yet another thing distinguishing her from other teenagers. She couldn’t identify with the girls she saw fluttering over their latest boy dramas. A relationship seemed like a waste of time and effort if you weren’t going to marry. “What do people even talk about when they call each other?” Danielle asked. “ ‘Oh, hi honey, how was your day? . . .’ It seems boring.”

  “What?! You are so weird, Danielle,” the boy had said.

  There were downfalls to being an outsider, even for a loner. When Danielle did want company, her few friends were usually busy. Beyond her tiny group, Danielle had not once hung out with anyone else outside of school. Just because she liked being alone didn’t mean she always preferred to be. “You know how in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, they’re all such good friends and they can tell each other anything and they always give each other hugs and stuff?” she said. “I’ve always wanted to have friends like that. I’m kind of averse to hugging, and I’m obviously not very good at sharing things about myself, but those are the kind of friends I wish I had.”

  It was difficult, too, when everyone else in the room seemed to be having fun, while Danielle couldn’t fathom how she could possibly relate. Like now. Danielle spotted a familiar color. One of the preps was wearing the same Homecoming dress as her. Ugh, Danielle thought. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten a dress from the mall.

  Danielle lasted maybe half an hour on the dance floor before she began hunting for open doors through which she could sneak out of the building. Stone Mill kept doors locked until 10 P.M. in an effort to keep students from drinking and driving. When she finally found one near the art hallway, her friends weren’t ready to leave. By the time Paige agreed to join her, chaperones were allowing students outdoors. Danielle and Paige spent the rest of Homecoming at a local Wendy’s, waiting for Mona and Camille to get tired of the dance so they could spend
the night in a backyard tent like they had planned.

  JOY, CALIFORNIA | THE NEW GIRL

  Joy sat with Natalie in the library, talking over lunch as they had every day in the two weeks since Joy had arrived. Natalie peered at her Asian friends at a corner table, briefly at Joy, then at the clock. Joy knew what was coming.

  Natalie cleared her throat. “Hey, Joy, um, tomorrow I’m gonna eat lunch with my friends, okay?”

  “No problem. That’s cool,” Joy said. She had seen the looks Natalie’s friends gave her. She understood why Natalie didn’t invite Joy to sit with the group. Races stuck together. Joy was not the type of person to hold grudges, but even she wasn’t immune to the sting of rejection. She didn’t know anybody else at school.

  The first weeks at Citygrove were some of the loneliest of Joy’s life. In English, Joy’s favorite subject, the teacher asked for an interpretation of a vignette and clapped at Joy’s response. The other students frowned at her. The only other black person in the class was Latrice, a cheerleader, whom Joy spoke to sporadically. Joy had tried to socialize with other black students, but they didn’t welcome her. She didn’t “talk gangsta,” hang out with boys who wore baggy jeans, or “stick to her own race”; therefore, in their eyes, she didn’t have “flava” and, she believed, they viewed her as a white girl.

  In Joy’s Jamaican schools, students had targeted her because she wasn’t 100 percent black. They teased her about her mixed-race Ukrainian mother, whom they called brown, and they made fun of Joy’s skin, a medium-brown shade of chocolate. Once, Joy had asked a friend to ask another girl why she didn’t like her. The girl said that Joy’s nose was too straight and her eyes were too large, “white features” that reminded the girl of slave owners.

  Students had found other reasons to pick on Joy in Jamaica. Because Joy’s mother was lighter skinned than most Jamaicans, people believed that Joy was wealthy. She was not. They teased her because in school she spoke standard British English rather than the more mainstream Jamaican dialect, even though she peppered her Facebook profile with local colloquialisms. They seemed puzzled by Joy because she was proper, yet spoke her mind loudly when provoked. They mocked her because she was an actress on a local academic television show. They were unimpressed that she had won a national award as one of the best theatrical actresses on the island. Eventually she had adjusted to her classmates’ mannerisms and learned “how things operated” socially. By the time she left Jamaica, she had finally figured out that environment. And now she had to master a new one.