Romancing the Nerd

by Leah Rae Miller

  She frowns a little, then shakes whatever thoughts she was having from her head. “Don’t care. I’m over it. Just give me my phone so I can leave your tedious presence.”

  Gotta love it when a girl sounds like she just stepped out of a period movie about old chaps, matrons, and wealthy estates. An idea hits me then. She’s a girl and I’m assuming she knows how girls think. Maybe she can help me figure out what to do about effyeah. “Zelda, you’re a smart person of the female variety. Can I ask you something?”

  Her brows knit together and cheeks redden. “Oh my God, Dan Garrett, shut up and give me my phone!”

  She tries to snatch the phone from my hand, but I’m faster. And taller. I hold it at my full reach above my head. She jumps for it, using my shoulder to help hoist her up, and I have to smile. This feels better, like I’m making progress with her. It’s the first time she’s touched me since that forearm to the gut in the gym. And not only is this physical contact a lot less painful than the last, it comes with what I can only describe as pretty-girl-smell.

  I laugh at her second attempt to reach the phone. “Just hear me out. I—” That’s when the warning bell for class sounds from the PA system, and we both look around to see we’re practically the only two left in the hallway. “Crap, I have to get to class. I’ll see you at lunch?”

  Zelda

  I’m not just going to kill him. I’m going to decimate him. I’m going to eviscerate him in fiction. If there isn’t already a category on my fanfic site called “Dan Garrett, how I hate thee, let me count the ways,” then I’m going to make one.

  I can’t catch up to him in the hallway. Damn his long legs and actual exercise regimen. The door to his class closes behind him just as I reach it. I fling it open and all eyes turn to me. Miss Greer’s eyes included.

  “Can I help you, Miss Potts?” she asks.

  I open my mouth. Close it. Then open it again. “Sorry. Wrong room.”

  Dan glances at the screen of my phone as he sits in his desk on the other side of the room. The door clicks closed in my face.

  I’m doomed.

  I don’t even make an attempt to rush to class. It’s drama and the only reason I took it is because the teacher is really laid back. A group of four people are huddled outside the class, practicing lines for the upcoming production of Taming of the Shrew when I trudge up, dragging my backpack behind me. The only notice they give me consists of scoffs and eye rolls when I interrupt their rehearsal by shoving through the center of them.

  Mr. Drew, the teacher, is having an animated discussion with one of the resident stoner musician guys, so I collapse in a desk next to Beth.

  She doesn’t say anything for a long time. She just stares at me. I guess I deserve to be stared at, considering I probably look like my goldfish just died.

  Finally, she asks, “Soooo, how did it go last night? What are you on now? Date number ten? Eleven?” She props her chin on her palm and her big, almost anime-like eyes try to read my thoughts. It shouldn’t be too hard for her to do. I’m not trying to hide the fact that life is about to get really hard.

  And the “date”? It was…kind of awesome. Granted, I haven’t gotten any super juicy tidbits out of Dan, but surprisingly, I’ve had fun. So much fun that on most nights we don’t stop talking until two in the morning. Not to mention that last night I actually felt, gasp, sympathy for him.

  All day, I’d been reliving our “dates.” I even checked back over the chats on my phone because I was sure I’ve said or done something that would reveal who I really am or something that was incredibly loser-ish. But I couldn’t find anything. After that, I wanted to message him, but I couldn’t get it right. I didn’t know if I should say, “Did I keep you up too late?” or “American history is so messed up. Are we being taught the reality of what happened or the holiday/commercialized version? I find it hard to believe Native Americans were cool with sitting down to break bread with those interlopers.”

  Then he had to make an appearance and shatter all my happy feels. There he was, the exact guy I was about to message. Dan Garrett with his stupid, hilarious T-shirt featuring two AT-ATs humping and his mussed but dying-for-fingers-to-run-through-it dusty brown hair.

  And now I hate myself even more for just thinking that.

  “So?” Beth asks again.

  What do I tell her? Do I tell her that I’m so severely screwed that I’m considering a full-on witness protection lifestyle? Because that’s pretty much my only course of action at this point.

  Dan has what amounts to my entire life in the palm of his hand. He’ll see our chats. He’ll see the texts I sent to Beth about him and my plan. And what did I think was going to happen? Did I really think I could pull off some only-works-in-movies shit?

  “Do you think it could be possible that Dan didn’t mean to hit me with that basketball?” The question flies out of my mouth, and I don’t remember thinking about asking it.

  She scowls, looking me up and down. “Are you okay? I mean, I can tell you’re not. Was he that big of a jerk last night?”

  I shake my head and pick at my nail polish. It’s not chipping yet, but it’s inevitable, so why not just go ahead and get it over with? “No, I’m fine. He was fine. I just… I don’t know.”

  She puts a worried hand on my shoulder. “What happened, Z? Tell me.”

  I let my forehead hit the surface of my desk. It hurts. “He has my phone.”

  A bit of time passes where she doesn’t say anything. I just wait for the moment of realization to explode from her.

  “Holy shit! Don’t tell me your chat is on there!”

  There it is.

  I nod my head, which probably just looks like I’m rubbing it up and down on my desk.

  “Please tell me it’s password protected or something.”

  I shake my head, again seemingly nuzzling my desk.

  “Zelda, do you have your homework?” Mr. Drew asks from above me.

  I pull out my five hundred words on the importance of James Dean in cinema from my backpack without even looking and hand it to him. Mr. Drew has a big thing for James Dean.

  “Are you…okay, Zelda?” he asks a bit uncomfortably.

  Good old Mr. Drew. Concerned about his students but very much not well versed in actually dealing with them.

  I raise a hand and wave him off. “I’m good. As you were, Drew.”

  “Right. Okay then.” He moves on.

  Beth rubs my back. “It’s going to be all good in the hood, babe. Don’t worry. Dan won’t be interested in your phone. How did he get it, by the way?”

  I turn my head just enough to let her see my face fully. I’m not sure if she sees a woman at the end of her rope or a girl who has no idea what to do next, but she pulls her hand back like she just touched a disguised snake. I’m so not in the mood to describe the sequence of events that led up to the worst moment of my life, and she knows it.

  Chapter Ten

  Dan

  The temptation is great, I’ll say that, but I won’t give in. She didn’t even lock the phone in any way. And Miss Greer is known for getting so involved with writing notes on the white board that she hardly ever turns around. I have plenty of time to scour Zelda’s phone. I could change all the names of her contacts to cartoon characters and still have time to take down the notes for this class.

  But I don’t.

  If there’s one thing I live by, it’s honor. She did not give me permission. She was so distraught that she chased me, which makes it even more of a temptation, but it’s a no-go, damn it. It doesn’t matter how much I want to see her collection of selfies or how far she’s gotten on Candy Crush. It’d be nice to know that she hasn’t given up on the game, since it was always a silly competition between us. I certainly didn’t give up.

  Honor, Dan. Remember. No looky at phoney.

  The bell rings for lunch, and I’m so very thankful. I don’t think I could have lasted another minute with Miss Greer’s back turned and Zelda’s phone bur
ning a hole in my pocket.

  I’m one of the last to leave the class and, over the heads of the others filing through the door, I see Zelda. She leans against the far wall of the hall, her arms crossed, that look of “bodily harm is in your future” on her face. Sure, the assault she’s planning is mine, but it’s hard not to laugh.

  The hallway empties quickly because food awaits, and I’m left alone with the main suspect in my future murder investigation.

  She grips the strap of her backpack. “Give me my phone.” Her tone is flat, hinting at the beating I will get if I don’t do as she says.

  Why do images of Zelda-freaking-Potts pushing me against the wall and forcing her hand into my pocket, invade my mind? Because, let’s be clear, self, the girl hates us. If she did do that, it would not end the way you are currently imagining it would, and dear God, stop being such a horn dog, Garrett!

  I clear my throat. “Hungry?”

  I head down the hall, but she’s undeterred.

  “Dan, if you don’t…” She goes silent, which is weird.

  I turn back to her and she seems… I don’t know. I’ve never seen this look on her face. Is that defeat?

  I may be known as a heartless bastard, but her red-rimmed eyes and her chipped fingernail polish make me want to fix everything. I’m reminded of the LARP game the other night. I wanted to make everything right but there was nothing I could do. I could’ve yelled at Excited Julie for making Zelda protect her, but that wouldn’t have fixed anything. And now, seeing her defeated? Again? I hate it. She’s Zelda Potts. She’s never to be defeated.

  I thought I’d gotten over this. I pissed her off such a long time ago, and then again the other day, so I decided to let go of any feelings I might’ve had for her, because a) she hates me and b) I never had a chance with her anyway. But now that we’re actually interacting more, even if those interactions seem to turn to crap rapidly, those reasons I liked her before are bubbling up. The way her bangs hang in front of her eyes so when she blinks her lashes make them twitch. And her bravery. The girl must be wearing at least four different types of patterns: flowers, plaid, polka dots… I’m not a fashion guru, but even I know that’s a no-no. But does she care? Hell no. It doesn’t matter how many snickers echo behind her back, this girl is fearless. And, in my opinion, that’s hot. That’s undefeated.

  I walk up to her and hold out the phone. She snatches it before I can get a word out. “Just so you know, I didn’t look at it. Except for your wallpaper. Cersei from Game of Thrones? Really?”

  “Shut up. She’s a badass.” She glances at me from behind her bangs, and I think I see a hint of a smile.

  “No, she’s dire-wolf-balls insane.”

  She opens her mouth to argue, but I don’t let her speak. We seem to be on amicable terms and I don’t want to screw that up because of Game of Thrones. “Want to have lunch with me? I, uh, need some advice.”

  She cuts her eyes at me, obviously suspicious, as we stroll down the hall.

  I want to keep things civil, but I can’t help but defend myself. “Come on, dude. Why are you so wary of me? I didn’t do anything.”

  Zelda

  He didn’t do anything? He must be joking, right? He’s pulling my proverbial leg. He’s jerking the legendary chain. He’s blowing smoke up a place he shouldn’t be blowing smoke up.

  “You, Dan Garrett, are full of it. You know exactly what you did.” I push the cafeteria doors open with a vengeance and hope they bounce back to slam into his nose. Let him see how it feels.

  No such luck, though. He stops them easily. “Not going to forgive me for the basketball thing, are you?”

  I have to admit that I’m starting to believe he didn’t do it on purpose, as much as I don’t want to. Now that I think about it, physical assault doesn’t fit his style, but it is the style of the lowlifes he hangs around. Maybe they’ve rubbed off on him. And did he really not look at my phone? I don’t know what to believe anymore.

  I sit down at my usual table and look around for Beth. When I find her across the room, I ask with my eyes, Come sit with me.

  She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.

  I give her another look that says, Why not? Then Dan sits across from me and I see why she doesn’t want to be near me. I lean to see around him and put on my most pitiful, please-don’t-abandon-me face. She sighs, scoops up her backpack and tray, and heads my way. Loyal Beth, God, I love her.

  “I mean, if you think about it, I should be the one who’s angry. That stunt you pulled at the game the other night was low. Not warning me about a trap just so you could step up and get an extra chunk of experience points?” He shakes his head, and I prepare to be very colorfully insulted, but then he smiles this bright smile that’s full of humor and, dare I say it, admiration. “It was freaking inspired, Z. I’ve seen some crazy soap opera stuff happen at LARP, but that was epic. I’m almost honored to have been a part of it.”

  A warning bell goes off in my head. Do not engage. He’s up to something.

  But do I listen to my brain’s alarm system? Of course not. “Well, I appreciate that, but you being impressed isn’t going to bring Bronla back.” The warning in my head goes from bells to sirens because did I just say that I appreciate something from him? Get your act together, Potts! I go back to what I’m comfortable with, which is being an ice queen. “I didn’t say I’d have lunch with you,” I say as I pull out my lunch box. It’s a vintage 80’s Rainbow Brite one and it is fabulous no matter what anyone says.

  His back suddenly straightens and he sniffs at the air. “Oh man, it’s pizza day. I hate my life.” He pulls out a huge, multi-level Tupperware box then takes forever opening each container. When he opens one that reeks of fish, I put a hand over my nose and mouth.

  “You see what I have to put up with?” He points at his array of beige and green food with his fork. “Protein and green, fibrous vegetables. My father has lost his ever-loving mind with this stupid diet.”

  Beth sits next to me. “Good God, what’s that smell?” She makes the question sound more like an accusation.

  My mouth is full of a delicious peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich by this point, so I just nod at Dan.

  “You’re probably smelling the tuna salad made with tuna and fake mayonnaise. I know, I know, it’s a crime against food. But hey, lettuce be thankful for what we have.” He uses two long celery sticks to play a “ba-dum-tiss” on his container of lettuce and spinach and smiles at us, waiting for us to get his lame pun.

  My snort of laughter catches me off guard and I play it off as a cough. No way am I going to let him think he’s making progress. I’m mad at him, damn it.

  “That was bad, Dan,” Beth says, and I do snort at that.

  He shrugs. “Well, I have to laugh or I’ll cry. Especially on today of all days. Freaking pizza day.” He shakes his head and snaps off a bite of celery. His stupid clear, blue eyes stare at the people in the lunch line as person after person gets two slices of pizza.

  I repeat the phrase “I will not feel sorry for him” over and over in my head. But it’s hard not to pity him a little bit when I remember the few things he used to show true joy over. Most of them were food related. Why is he doing this to himself?

  “Just go get a slice. Your dad will never know,” I say, trying to show the least amount of concern possible.

  “Can’t risk it. I’m starting to think he has spies. I got a bag of chips from the vending machine in the hall last week. I swear, no one was around, but he knew. He lost his shit when I got home.”

  “That doesn’t sound like your dad.” I immediately regret the words. It brings up memories of hanging out at Dan’s house, playing video games, eating his dad’s barbecue. I remember staying up late watching the goriest, most not-safe-for-children movie at his house and both of us laughing our way through it, making pun after pun. Does that maybe make us both great subjects for a psychological study? Probably. But we loved it.

  As he chews his food, hi
s jaw slows to a stop and he looks at me. Is he remembering the good times, too?

  After a slow blink, he snaps out of whatever world he was in. “Okay, maybe he didn’t ‘lose his shit,’ but there was definitely some losing of something going on. Anyway, let’s get to the matter at hand.”

  I take a sip of my Yoo-Hoo. “What matter?”

  He leans in with a conspiratorial look. “I met this girl online. And—”

  Beth’s hand drops to the table in surprised shock, which begins a horrible chain of cause and effect. Her hand hits the handle of her fork, which was stuck in her potato salad, which flings the lumpy, greasy mass in its entirety up and directly into my hair.

  Plop.

  “Whoa,” Dan says in awe. “That was like watching a game of Mouse Trap.”

  “What?” Beth pulls clumps of napkins from the silver dispenser in the middle of the table and starts swiping at my head.

  “You know, that board game where you drop the marble on the thing and it hits the other thing, which causes the other thing to swing or something, which causes the trap to fall.”

  I’m about to tell Dan to stop speaking when I notice some annoying laughs coming from two tables to my left. Of course, the stereotypical jocks and mean girls are pointing at me, and they’re not the only ones.

  I smoosh a napkin to my head and stand. I walk calmly to the doors, back held straight. I will not let them see that this embarrasses me. I even laugh with them a little. But when I get into the hall, I run. Yes, I’m used to being clumsy, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the snickers, the laughs. They echo in my mind and grate down my spine, which has gone from board-straight to hunched, as I take a few turns and finally get to the restroom.

  I allow myself a few seconds to stare in the mirror and self-loathe. A clump of potato salad falls from my hair to slide nastily down my cheek and I don’t even move to wipe it away.