Geek Charming

by Palmer, Robin

  “Okay, so through this, you’ll be able to help the reputation of all popular girls by showing the world that that’s not true.”

  I sighed. “Look, Josh, I’m all about being of service to my fellow humankind, but I’m sorry—in this case I just don’t feel I can trust you.”

  “Okay, I get it.” He sighed. “I just thought that with what’s going on with Dakota Greene and all, it might have come in handy . . .”

  As I stopped examining my invisible swollen ankle, my head snapped up so fast I’m surprised I didn’t sprain my neck as well. “What are you talking about?” Next to Amy Loubalu, there was no one I disliked more in school than Dakota Greene. Talk about willing to go to any lengths to take away my queen/princess status at every school function. Last year she had tried to set up a raffle where everyone who voted for her for junior prom queen was entered to win a $250 gift certificate to Bloomingdale’s until the principal found out and threatened to expel her.

  He shrugged. “I heard she’s starting to campaign for prom queen.”

  “But prom’s still eight months, one week, and three days away,” I said.

  “Yeah, but she hired some sort of political consultant that her dad knows and he came up with a plan of action. Supposedly she’s started handing out questionnaires about what people look for in a prom queen.”

  “I cannot believe her,” I said as I paced around the table. Miraculously, my ankle seemed to be fine. “I mean, it’s pathetic how seriously some girls take these things, don’t you think?”

  A small smile started to creep over his face as he nodded. “And I was thinking if we did the documentary, then I could cut together a short trailer for you to post online and hand out to people so you can start campaigning, too.”

  As I thought about it, I realized that Josh was onto something. Not only had I been looking for an opportunity to be of service to my fellow humankind that didn’t involve picking up garbage, but this one didn’t even involve having to change my schedule around in any way. I just had to keep being me. Forget using the documentary in place of my college application essay—more importantly, I’d have a ninety-minute prom campaign ad.

  I held out my hand. “It’s a deal,” I said.

  That Tuesday night, while hunting around in the freezer for something low-calorie yet delicious, I came up with a brilliant idea; a way to show voters a whole other side to myself that would be sure to melt their hearts.

  I picked up the phone to call Josh.

  “Hello?” said the woman who answered the phone as some folk music played in the background.

  “Hi, is Josh there please?” I asked, settling myself on the stool in front of the island in the kitchen with a pint of Mint Carob Chip Rice Dream. It wasn’t that low-calorie, but it was nondairy, so it wasn’t as bad as regular ice cream.

  “Why yes, he is,” the woman said, sounding like she had just won the lottery or something. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  It was so weird to talk to a nanny or housekeeper who was American. “This is Dylan Schoenfield.”

  “Just one second. Josh!” I heard her scream, even though she had covered the receiver. “It’s for you. It’s Dylan.”

  “Hey, Dylan,” he said when he picked up.

  “Hi.”

  “Did he pick up?” the woman said. “Josh? Are you there? Did you pick up?”

  “Mom, I have it. You can hang up now,” he said.

  “Okay, honey. Well, Dylan, I hope we get the chance to meet at some point. Josh has told me so much about you.”

  “Mom, please. Hang up now, okay?”

  “Okay, sweetie. Bye, Dylan.”

  “Bye, Mrs. Rosen,” I said, speed-walking around the perimeter of the kitchen to burn off the Rice Dream. Our kitchen is pretty big, so I figured it was decent exercise.

  “Actually, it’s Goodstein. When I married Josh’s father, I kept my name, which turned out to be a good thing on so many levels, especially since we’re now divorced—”

  “Good-bye, Mom,” Josh said.

  “But I always tell Josh’s friends to call me Sandy anyway. How can I expect to really get to know you kids if we’re starting our relationship with such a wall between us?”

  “Okay, you really need to hang up now, Mom.”

  “I am. Bye, kids,”

  “Bye . . . Sandy,” I said.

  We waited to hear the click of the phone being hung up, but it didn’t come.

  “Mom, I can hear you breathing,” Josh said.

  Finally the click came.

  “Omigod—she’s hysterical,” I said, plopping myself back down on the stool and eating what was left of the pint.

  “Yeah, well, I’ll trade you. I’m sure your mother is a million times closer to normal than mine is.”

  “Actually, mine’s dead,” I said.

  “Oh. That’s right. I’m sorry—”

  “It’s okay. So listen—the reason I’m calling is because I thought that maybe after school tomorrow you’d like to come with me to the Amanda Foundation.”

  “Isn’t that an animal rescue organization?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Oh. Are you getting a dog?”

  “Nope.”

  “A cat?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “A rabbit?”

  “A rabbit? Who would get a rabbit for a pet? No. I’m not big on things that shed—I just thought it would be good for the documentary. Especially since Lola heard from Beth Lapkin who heard from Shelley McCrory that Dakota just placed an order for a hundred bedazzled ‘Dakota Greene for Prom Queen’ T-shirts. I’m thinking maybe some footage of me playing with a bundle of fluffy kittens is the way to go.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Josh? Are you there?”

  “Yeah. It’s just . . . nothing,” he mumbled. “It’ll be fine. I’ll just make sure to have an extra inhaler with me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess: you’re allergic to animals, too.”

  “I can’t remember if I was tested by the allergist for animal dander, but I’m sure I am. I was three weeks premature, so—”

  “—you don’t have a strong immune system. Yeah, I know,” I replied.

  He was quiet again. “Plus . . . forget it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that . . . well, there was an incident,” he finally said.

  “What kind of incident?” I asked warily.

  “An incident with a guinea pig I brought home over Christmas vacation in fourth grade. Pepper was his name.”

  “What happened to Pepper?”

  “He kept giving me these pleading looks like he was really hungry, so I threw in a head of lettuce before I went to bed one night and then . . . ”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, apparently guinea pigs don’t know when to stop eating, so he didn’t. And he . . . exploded.”

  “Ewwww!” I shrieked. “That’s disgusting!”

  “Yeah, it kind of was,” he agreed. “So ever since then, I tend to avoid being around animals whenever I can. It’s a post-traumatic-stress thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “But maybe this is a good opportunity for me to try and get over it. I should probably start getting some experience working under less-than-perfect circumstances, for when I’m a real director.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. I had to give him credit—having once had a teddy bear that exploded in the washing machine when I was four, I knew how traumatic seeing an animal’s intestines could be.

  “Yeah. It’ll be okay. I’m sure I’ll have to work with animals at some point. I might as well start now.”

  I had always been under the impression that geeks were frightened of their own shadows, but I had to admit that Josh was being pretty brave.

  That was the thing about people—sometimes they actually surprised you.

  As soon as I walked into Good Buys the next afternoon with the three shopping bags I had accumulated in the last hour, I total
ly understood why Josh’s shirt had said GEEK GANG that first day I met him—everyone in there was kind of geeky, from the people who worked there to the customers. Unlike the Apple Store or Circuit City, which were super loud and made you feel like you had had seven energy drinks, the vibe in Good Buys was more like a funeral.

  I walked over to the neon Geek Gang sign where a guy with glasses and a wart on the right side of his nose was reading a magazine called Fangoria that had a picture of a guy dripping blood on the cover.

  “Hi,” I said, trying not to look at the wart. Facial disfigurations tend to make me nauseous.

  He looked up. “Hello,” he replied. “I’m Agent Raymond Strauss, director of intelligence for The Dell branch of the Geek Gang. How can I help you today?”

  “I’m looking for Josh Rosen,” I said.

  He scratched his nose, right near the wart. “And you a-r-e?”

  “Dylan Schoenfield.”

  “Ah. So you’re Dylan.” He nodded as he brought his walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “Agent Rosen, Agent Rosen. Please report to the command station. You have a visitor. Over.”

  “How cool!” I said excitedly. “I totally feel like I’m in an episode of 24!”

  Now, I thought that was pretty funny, but by the stone-faced stare I got in return, apparently Agent Raymond or whatever his name was didn’t think so. Josh must’ve known how weird this guy was, too, because within thirty seconds he was trotting up to us with his video camera, all out of breath in his white shirt and creased black pants.

  “Omigod—is that a clip-on tie?” I asked, grabbing for it.

  “Hey! Don’t—”

  “I guess it is,” I said as it popped off.

  “Give me that,” he said, taking it back and clipping it back on. When he was done he turned to the wart guy. “Okay, Raymond, I’m leaving.”

  “So I’ll see you at fifteen-hundred hours tomorrow, Agent Rosen?” he asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Raymond—I’ll see you at three o’clock.” He turned to me. “You ready?”

  I nodded.

  He reached for two of my shopping bags. “Here, let me take these.”

  “Oh. You don’t have to—”

  “It’s okay,” he said, leading the way to the door. Asher never carried my bags for me. In fact, one time when he dragged me to a sporting-goods store, he actually made me carry his stuff so he could flip through the latest issue of Surf’s Up! on the way back to the car.

  “Is that guy really like that or is he an actor?” I asked when we got outside the store. Even though it was five o’clock on a weekday, the mall was packed. Sure, New York City might beat L.A. when it comes to museums and the symphony and all that cultural stuff, but no one can touch us when it comes to shopping.

  “Unfortunately he’s really like that,” Josh said as he unpacked his video camera. “Uh-oh,” he said as he examined it.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, panicked. The last time he had said “Uh-oh” I had ended up stranded on the side of Sunset Boulevard.

  “The battery’s dead.”

  I relaxed. “Oh. So now what?”

  “Well, I guess I could buy one at work, but even with my discount it’s pretty expensive, so if it’s okay with you, I’d rather recharge it at home and do this some other time,” he said.

  “Oh. Okay,” I said, trying not to sound too disappointed.

  “Look, I feel bad about having made you wait around for me,” he said. “Can I, uh, buy you something to eat to make up for it?”

  Fighting my way through the crowds at Nordstrom’s yearly half-off sale earlier had sapped a lot of my strength. But still—he was . . . him and I was . . . me. “You mean sit down at a table in a restaurant alone together?”

  He shrugged. “Well, yeah. Unless you want a Hot Dog on a Stick from a cart. Other than the fact that they smell like formaldehyde, they’re pretty good.”

  My stomach started to rumble. “I guess having a meal together would be okay.” My eyes narrowed. “But you’re not thinking of it as a date, are you?”

  He snorted. “No. Of course not.”

  I was glad we were on the same page, but he didn’t need to snort about it.

  “Our relationship is strictly professional. I’m just trying to be a nice guy, seeing that you came all the way over here for nothing.”

  “Okay, then. So where should we go?”

  “I usually go over to Du-par’s at the Farmers Market,” he replied.

  The Farmers Market was within walking distance of The Dell. It had been built in the 1930s and had a bunch of different mom-and-pop food stands and restaurants from Mexican to Korean. Daddy had tried to buy that land as well when he started developing The Dell, but backed down after he received a petition with over a thousand signatures from people who were against it. As there wasn’t one health-conscious restaurant in the bunch, I thought that getting rid of it and putting up a gym was a good idea, but for some reason people tend to like greasy food and old-fashioned soft-serve ice-cream cones. Go figure.

  “Isn’t that like a pancake place?” I asked.

  “Well, yeah, they have pancakes, but it’s more like a diner.”

  I highly doubted that there’d be anything on the menu that was less than fifteen Weight Watchers points, but anything sounded better than a hot dog on a stick.

  “Sure. That sounds fine,” I said.

  Plus, it was a very nondatelike place.

  If you ever want to find the over-sixty-five crowd in L.A., just go to Du-par’s at 5:15 P.M., because they’re all there, eating their Salisbury-steak-and-baked-potato dinners. It was sweet to see so many old couples in love. Who knew—maybe Asher and I would eat here when we got old, too. That is, if I could get him to spend some time with me. Or just even talk to me. While Asher may be super hot, he’s next to hopeless when it comes to communicating. When we were first going out, he’d at least try to keep the conversation going. Granted, it was usually him going on and on about Ultimate Fighting or surfing or some other subject that I had zero interest in while I said things like “uh-huh,” “mm-hm,” and “oh, really?” every few minutes to make him think that I was listening, but he didn’t even do that anymore. Now our conversations went more like this:

  Me: Hey, Asher.

  Him: What up?

  Me: Nothing. Just wanted to say hi.

  Him: Hey, can I call/text you later? I’m kind of busy at the moment.

  Me: Sure. Well, bye . . . love ya!

  Him: Later.

  We had been together for two years, so I realized it wasn’t going to be like it was in the beginning when all we did was make out and tell each other how hot the other looked that day. However, in the book How to Put the Sizzle Back in Your Marriage that Lola stole from her mom’s nightstand drawer a few months ago and gave to me, it said that communication was the keystone to a successful relationship and that if one of the partners was always giving one-word answers or saying things like “Can we talk later? I’m kind of busy,” then chances were the marriage was in trouble.

  And I also knew from having read the copy of Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus that Hannah took from her mom’s nightstand drawer that men just aren’t into talking as much as we women are because they’d rather be off fixing something. But I also knew from the book that there were some guys out there who not only like to talk, but who know how to have a dialogue instead of a monologue.

  Asher just didn’t happen to be one of them.

  At least not at the moment. But that was okay—I could train him. Like a puppy. I mean, he was super hot.

  “This is so trippy,” I said as I squinted against the fluorescent light and took a bite of my iceberg-lettuce salad with Russian dressing. Usually I avoid dressing like the plague, but when I asked for balsamic vinaigrette, Doris, our yellow-haired waitress who seemed to never have heard the word sunblock before, looked at me like I was speaking Swahili so I decided to just go with the flow. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen po
lyester-and-elastic-waist pants up close before.”

  Josh took a bite of his club sandwich. “I know it’s not written up in a gossip blog or anything like that,” he said, “but I have seen a few celebrities in here from time to time.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like . . . Janusz Kaminski.”

  “Who?”

  “Janusz Kaminski!” he said with his mouth full.

  “Okay. A) Rule number 732: the talking-with-your-mouth-full? Totally gross, so please refrain.”

  He finished chewing and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Sorry. I guess I’ve been spending too much time with Steven.”

  “And B) Who on earth is Shamu Kazinsky?”

  Josh looked at me like I had just stood up on the table and started barking. “Janusz Kaminski. Only one of the best cinematographers of all time. He shot a lot of Steven’s movies.”

  “Steven your friend?”

  As he took a sip of his milk, I cringed. First of all, who over the age of five drank milk with a meal? And second, did he not know how much fat was in that glass?

  “No. Steven Spielberg,” he replied.

  “You know Steven Spielberg?” I asked, impressed.

  “Not exactly,” he admitted. “But I’m sure I’ll meet him one day. Anyway, I’m not quite sure it was Janusz because I only saw him from the back and it was right before I got my new prescription for my glasses—”

  “Okay, sorry, but that’s not a celebrity,” I replied.

  He shrugged. “In the film world, he is.” I guess my fry envy was showing because he pushed his plate toward me. “Want one?”

  I shook my head. “No thanks. I try and only have carbs one night every other weekend.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll never understand girls and food. I bet you could eat at In-N-Out Burger every day for the next five years and still be skinny.”

  “That’s so not true, but it’s still really sweet of you to say that,” I replied. His fries did look good. “Okay, maybe I’ll have one,” I said as I reached for one and dipped it in the ketchup/mayonnaise concoction he had made. “Omigod—these are amazing,” I said with my mouth full.