Queen Geeks in Love

by Laura Preble

  “True.” I hear the other two Lycra worshippers upstairs squealing. “But you know what? We don’t want to miss whatever Becca will come up with for Elisa to wear. So c’mon. Don’t worry about the Jon thing. It’ll sort itself out. I’ll race you.” We both run like stupid puppies up the stairs. Maturity is overrated.

  Elisa is standing in the middle of Becca’s bedroom wearing a purple one-piece that tugs in odd places. “It was Mom’s maternity swimsuit,” Becca says apologetically. “I know it doesn’t fit, but it’s the closest thing I have to a…a…”

  “A polyester tent,” Elisa offers as she examines her shape in the mirror. “It’s okay. It’s just going to be us anyway. So, I’m okay with being Moby Grape.” When we finally all have our suits on, we head for the pool.

  Today is warm and sunny, the perfect weather for lounging poolside. Becca also has a fridge next to the pool, which is well stocked with diet soda and water and munchies. Her mom also put up this big slide at the deep end, so it’s like our own personal water park. After two or three good cannonballs, I find a soda and a bag of cold pretzels, and park on one of the lounge chairs to get some sun.

  Suddenly something blocks my rays. “Got sunscreen?” It’s Fletcher.

  Elisa, who is at the top of the slide, squeals as if she’s been hit with a dart gun and clings to the ladder as if she’s about to float into space. “Why is he here?” she wails. “Now I can’t get down!”

  “What, are you swimming naked?” He laughs. Elisa makes an inhuman sound of suffering. “Okay, fine, I’ll cover my eyes.”

  There’s a big splash, and Elisa bobs up from the bottom, then dog paddles to the side of the pool. “Okay, it’s safe now.”

  Fletcher crouches at the edge of the pool. “Are you one of those girls who hates how she looks in a bathing suit?”

  “That’s all girls, dork,” Elisa says. “But yes. I’m wearing a borrowed suit, and it’s kind of unflattering. You’re not staying, right? I don’t want to get all pruny in here.”

  Fletcher stands again and blocks my light. “Could you just sit down?” I ask. “I’m trying to tan evenly. I don’t want a Fletcher-shaped pattern on my tummy.”

  “There are so many ways I could respond to that comment, but I’ll just shut up.” He pulls up a chair next to me and sits. “So, wanna go out tonight?”

  “Where?” I continue to sun, acting as if any date is of no consequence, when, in fact, it makes me nervous again.

  “I was thinking maybe a movie.”

  “Well, let me ask Becca—”

  “No, no,” he says. “Just the two of us.”

  Here we go again. I am excited at the thought of being alone with him, but it also makes me feel like punching something. I think I must be the most messed-up teenaged girl on the planet. But I also realize I can’t avoid this forever unless I just break up with him, so I guess a movie is pretty safe. “Okay. What time?”

  “I was thinking seven.”

  “Seven it is.”

  “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.” He stands, stretches, and waves to the other girls. “See you, Geektastic Four.”

  As he walks away, Becca throws a towel at me and says, “So, somebody has a date?”

  “It looks that way,” I answer, stretching like a lazy cat. “Just a movie. We’re not getting married or anything.”

  “Not yet,” Elisa adds.

  Amber is rubbing sunscreen on her purposefully pale skin for the fifteenth time. She tans but doesn’t want to. “Well, I hope you have a good time. It’s nice when you have someone to go to a movie with,” she says, concentrating very hard on spreading that zinc oxide evenly.

  5

  THE GEEKTASTIC FOUR

  (or Pretty in Pixels)

  Dad picks me up and we drive uneventfully home. “I have a date tonight,” I say as we pull into the driveway.

  “With Fletcher?”

  “Yep.” I duck out of the car before the interrogation can begin.

  “Whoa! What are you going to do?”

  “About what, Dad?” I’m to the door, and he trots up beside me.

  “What are you going to do? I mean, tonight?”

  I give him a kiss on the cheek before I open the front door. “Just a movie at six-thirty. No big commitment.”

  “Will you be here for dinner?”

  “Not hungry. I have to get ready.” I bolt down the hallway to my room as my dad calls out behind me, “It’s only five o’clock!”

  Euphoria is busy making dinner in the kitchen, so I have my room all to myself. Having a personal robot is kind of cool, but honestly, there are times when Euphoria gets on my nerves. She has to get into all of my business all the time. If I’m getting dressed, she offers fashion advice. If I’m doing homework, she wants to do it for me. If I’m talking on the phone, she eavesdrops. It’s like having the FBI for a nanny. If the FBI commented on miniskirts and algebra, I mean.

  I put on jeans and a blue T-shirt, nothing too dressy. I don’t want Fletcher to think I care what I look like, so I have to take extra-special care to look like I don’t care. Put my hair up in a ponytail, slap on just a little makeup…yeah, I look casual, but good. Perfect. I tackle some boring homework, and the time goes quickly.

  The doorbell rings, and I grab my purse and rush to the door to get to it before Mrs. Nosey Bolts trucks on in. Fletcher’s kind of dressed up, no less: tan pants, white shirt, hair actually combed. “Wow, I feel like a slob compared to you,” I say casually. I actually feel like I’ve won a point. He’s dressed up, I am not, which gives me superiority in the game of who cares most.

  “Well, it’ll be dark,” he says, closing the door behind him. “Anyway, you look great.”

  “What are we seeing? Let’s go.” I grab his arm, turn him around unceremoniously, and open the door again.

  He stops me. “Hey, what’s the rush? I was hoping I could see your dad too.”

  “Nope, sorry. He’s gone.”

  “Hey, sweetie,” Dad says, emerging from the kitchen munching a celery stick. So much for timing. “Hey, Fletcher.”

  “Mr. Chapelle.” He extends his hand like he’s meeting an old friend or a business partner. Maybe they’ll trade aftershave tips or something. Gross. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Gotta go. Don’t want to be late!” I say. I shove Fletcher to the door. “See ya, Dad.”

  Once outside, I can see that Fletcher is kind of ticked at me. “What was that about?” he says as he opens the passenger door.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you want me to get to know your dad?” He hops into the driver’s seat and starts the engine on his magnificent orange Volkswagen hatchback. He picked me up for the Big Date in his dad’s Volvo, but now that the newness has worn off, I guess, I get to ride in the rustbucket.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he says as he backs down the driveway. “Some honesty, please.”

  I take a deep breath. “Look, it makes me feel really weird when you act like you’re a…a man or something around my dad. Like you guys are going to work out a deal for the smooth transfer of my ownership papers or something.”

  He laughs. “Ownership papers. Right. We really need to get your head examined. I think there must be some paranoid little gnome living behind your frontal lobe.”

  This sets me to fuming. “What movie are we going to see, master?” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Why don’t you decide.” He shakes his head, and negotiates the car onto the freeway entrance.

  We end up seeing some Adam Sandler movie. It doesn’t matter which one, because in all Adam Sandler movies, he plays a guy like Adam Sandler who alters reality, or likes a girl who is far above him, or both. We sit in the middle, which doesn’t make either of us too happy. I like the back, he likes the front. Just one more reason he’s totally wrong for me.

  “Popcorn?” he says, shoving a big bucket of butter-drenched fiber in my face.

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to have a heart at
tack before I’m old enough to drive.” I watch the stupid movie trivia thing on-screen. Who writes those things? That’s someone’s job. They must actually sit around and surf the net for stupid trivial facts about movie stars. I wonder if they have another job. Like, they are heart surgeons by day and while they’re operating, they’re secretly cruising the movie database and stuff. Geez, now I’m really glad I didn’t eat any of that popcorn.

  “Shelby,” Fletcher says awkwardly. “Look, I—” A big shadow falls over Fletcher’s face. I turn and see this amazingly tall guy standing next to me in our row. I am literally staring into this guy’s knees. I just hope Fletcher doesn’t owe him money or something, because I’m right in between them. I plan an escape route that involves throwing the greasy corn at the big dude and then sliding out of the theater on a carpet of Good & Plenties.

  “Hey, Fletch,” the giant says, extending a huge hand. Fletcher shakes it, and stands up, smiling. Good. No giant wrangling needed today.

  “Hey, Carl.” Fletcher nods toward me. “This is Shelby Chapelle. Carl Schwaiger.”

  Carl sits down next to me; now that I can see his head, I see that he’s blond all over, blond eyebrows, eyelashes, blond hair, even a little blond wannabe mustache inching across his upper lip. He gives me a lopsided grin. “Hey, how’s it goin’, Shelby?” He has one of those caveman-jock voices that rattle windows. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Really?” I give Fletcher a withering look. “Don’t believe any of it.”

  Carl shoots Fletcher a confused glance. “Yeah, well, it was all good, but if you don’t want me to believe it, okay.” He focuses on Fletcher again. I consider moving. Maybe they’d like to be alone. “So, what’s up with you, dude? Summer’s good?”

  Fletcher glances at me before nodding. “Yeah, pretty good. You?”

  “Not bad, not bad.” He stretches his legs out, and they wrap around the seat in front of him. That’s going to totally freak out whoever sits there. Imagine reaching for your popcorn in the dark and instead you get this gigantic Converse with old gum stuck to the bottom. “I’m working at my dad’s shop.”

  “What kind of business is that?” I ask politely, just to show that I can engage in conversation.

  Carl looks mildly surprised. “Uh, he owns that sport shop over by school. Makes signs and stuff and trophies.” He looks at me, then at Fletcher, then back at me again. “Yeah, so I’ll leave you two alone. Nice meeting you, Shelby. Fletch, IM me or something, dude. I have to talk to you about some stuff.” Again, he looks at me, like I’ll be an obstacle to his deep, intellectual conversation about sport signs. “Later.”

  I watch him stand up and lumber away. “Wow, Fletcher. You have a secret life, huh?”

  “What?”

  I nod toward Carl. “I mean, here I thought the jock thing was just for show, but you actually hang out with guys like that! I am totally shocked.”

  Fletcher stares ahead frostily at the screen as the lights dim. “You’re kind of narrow-minded, you know.”

  “Am I? Well, let me tell you something, I can be—”

  “Shhh!” He puts his finger in front of his mouth. He’s shushing me! “I want to see the trailers.”

  When the movie’s over, we walk out of the theater, and he grabs my hand.

  “I like you. Why does that piss you off?” he says as we walk under the white twinkly lights surrounding the mall’s central walkway.

  “Well, that’s a little blunt. Want to rephrase that?” I don’t look at him.

  He turns me around and right there, under the sparkly tree decorations, he puts an arm around me, pulls me close, and holds the back of my head with one hand. We are eye to eye, and the light is strong enough for me to see the kaleidoscope whirls of yellow in the center of his green eyes. “I really like you. And I’m going to kiss you now. So get over it.”

  He does, too. I’m not really sure what happens next, because I sort of have an out-of-body experience. I am floating above the twinkle lights, floating above the discarded corn-dog sticks and the movie-ticket stubs, bumping into pigeons and air conditioning ducts. I am full of electricity and could probably light up the neon beer signs at every bar within ten miles of the mall.

  He pulls away, and I slam back into my body. That neon-light buzz feeling is vibrating through me, and I feel as if all that bitchy nastiness I was throwing at Fletcher has all gone down a large drain. I melt into his hand, lean into his chest, and I kiss him back.

  The next week, we all get together to swim a lot at Becca’s (and Elisa finally gets a swimsuit—a black thing with a little skirt on it), and Jon comes over several times to check his drawings against the digital pictures and the real thing (us). I notice that he and Amber seem to be getting a bit more comfortable with each other every time he visits, and Becca sees it too.

  Speaking of getting a bit more comfortable, I notice that after that Movie Kiss (as opposed to the Big Date Kiss), something sort of snaps in me, and I can’t get my mind off that boy’s lips. For about a week, I can’t think of anything else but the Kiss. I burn a batch of fudge, I vacuum my sweatshirts instead of my rug, and I keep replaying the whole episode in my head like an on-demand HBO movie. Even Euphoria notices.

  “Shelby, I have to ask you a very sensitive question,” she says one night as we’re finishing up dinner dishes.

  “Shoot.” I put away the last plate and begin my search for dessert. I have to wait until she’s gone, though, or she’ll scold me about putting on too many pounds or something.

  “I don’t know how to say this,” she says as her lights blink cautiously. “But…are you on drugs?”

  “What?” I can’t help but laugh like I’m going into convulsions. “Drugs? Where did you get that idea?”

  “Well, you’ve just seemed very strange lately.” She reaches out and pats my hand with her claw. “If you are on drugs, it’s not a problem. I have some very good deprogramming software that I can use to help you kick the monkey.”

  “Kick the monkey?”

  “You know. ‘Bite the horse that feeds you.’ ‘Get up at the dawn of crack.’ Please, Shelby. You must have heard some of these phrases at school. It’s what all the kids are saying!” She beeps proudly. “I’ve been surfing the Internet.”

  I put an arm around her and steer her toward the living room. “Euphoria, I promise. If I ever do any drugs, you’ll be the first to know.”

  I can hear her processors whirring over that one. “But, what about all this unusual behavior? Your increased blood pressure? Your excessive sweating?”

  “Hey. That’s kind of personal.” I sniff under my arms as subtly as I can. “I’m not sweating excessively.”

  My dad notices that I’m distracted also. At breakfast one morning, he just sits and stares at me. “What?” I ask between bites of toast.

  “Something is going on with you.” He leans on one hand and fixes me with this mad-scientist squint. “Are you doing drugs?”

  “What, is this a conspiracy to get me to be a junkie?” I throw down my napkin and shake my head. “First Euphoria, then you. Why is everyone convinced I’m on drugs?”

  “Well, I honestly didn’t think you were on drugs, but you are acting pretty weird.” Coming from my dad, accusations of weirdness are very frightening.

  I am unable to really express why I’m behaving strangely, even though I know it’s true. It’s disturbing to me, but I’ve sort of made peace with it. Here’s the deal: I realize now that, at my age, hormones are powerful chemicals that will take over brain function, and when near a male with a specific chemical pheromone makeup (like Fletcher, for example), my complete neural network gets scrambled. It’s like when a signal jams radar or something. I cannot be held personally responsible for the fact that I turn into a drooling idiot around Fletcher any more than a radio operator could be held responsible for getting a message wrong when there’s an electrical storm.

  My theory gets proven again and again over the course of the next few week
s. Fletcher and I have had exactly seven dates now, I mean formal dates, and we’ve also had several kind-of sort-of dates (that’s where he comes to my house and we watch sci-fi movies and Euphoria pops popcorn in her microwave compartment). I won’t go into all the boring details of all of these dates, but at about date three, I realize that I’m walking with my head on his shoulder wherever we go. It occurs to me that our bodies might fuse together, and only a medical miracle will ever allow us to be two separate people again. And, oddly enough, I think that’s okay. Freaky, I know.

  The Becca/Jon/Amber triangle becomes more and more scary as time goes on. Everything sort of breaks loose one night when we’re all sitting around Becca’s house for the unveiling of the Geektastic Four.

  It’s one week before the deadline to submit websites to the Comic-Con competition. Jon has even dressed up for the occasion, which means that instead of a torn black denim jacket, he wears a black denim jacket with patches.

  Jon has brought his laptop with him and he and Fletcher are hooking it up to a projector in the truffle room. Becca is sitting on the big couch, staring dreamily at Jon while Amber, Elisa, and I pick at a bowl of chocolate-covered almonds. “So, if the website wins, what do we get?” Amber asks. I notice she’s also wearing a black denim jacket, even though it’s almost ninety-five outside.

  “I’m sure it’s something really valuable, like the whole first season of the Weather Channel on DVD,” Elisa answers as she munches busily.

  “I don’t think the prize is really important,” Becca interjects. Apparently the spell of Jon has worn off momentarily. “It’s more the visibility. We want people to know who we are.”

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  Becca sighs and stands up, stretching so her dragon tattoo seems ready to pounce from her long leg. “Oh, this again. I told you last year: We want to find others of our own kind. Websites and stuff are sort of a shortcut way to do that. All geeks surf websites. And most of them read graphic novels.” Okay, so now she’s calling them graphic novels too. Soon toilet paper will be elevated to the status of “hygienic pulp byproduct.”