Geek Charming

by Palmer, Robin

  “Maybe we should just wait out here,” I said, sidestepping a banged-up stuffed UCLA Bruin bear, the school’s mascot, as we made our way up the driveway. “We could take exit polls or something. Like they do during the election.” A tingling started above my right eye, which I knew from WebMD to be a sign of nystagmus, a syndrome where your eye moved from side to side.

  Dylan put her hands on her hips. “I don’t understand why you’re so scared.”

  I took out my inhaler. “I’m not scared,” I scoffed. “Why would I be scared of a bunch of dumb frat guys? It’s just not my scene.”

  “Okay, Josh? Don’t take this the wrong way, but from everything you’ve told me, it sounds like other than dark movie theaters, you don’t exactly have a scene,” she replied.

  “That’s not true,” I corrected. “There’s the going to Du-par’s and discussing-the-movie-afterward part.”

  “Right. With other guys who don’t have a scene other than hanging out in dark movie theaters.” She grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the door. “You wanted popular, right? Well, only the most popular of the popular have the guts to crash a frat party. Now come on.”

  I took a deep breath and let myself be led inside.

  Total pandemonium. Kids being sprayed with beer, Hacky Sack games, a Bruin bear-costumed being cheered on while doing flaming shots of some sort of alcohol.

  So this is what I had been missing all these years. Although I had seen countless movies about this kind of thing, from National Lampoon’s Animal House to Old School, I had never come anywhere near to witnessing it up close. Here I was, finally in the inner sanctum of guyhood, surrounded by testosterone and college girls in tank tops and miniskirts, and yet I could only think of one thing.

  “Wow. It really smells like dirty feet in here,” I said to Steven.

  “Dude, this is total awesomeness to the nth degree,” whispered Steven as we stood at the edge of the living room taking in the group of tank-topped, miniskirted girls dancing together to Jay-Z.

  “Look at that sound system,” said Ari.

  I started sneezing from the cloud of cigar smoke that was permanently lodged in the middle of the room. Great. Now I probably would have an asthma attack.

  “You guys want a beer?” asked Dylan, pointing toward one of the twenty kegs that were scattered around the room.

  “No thanks. I don’t like to drink when I’m working,” I replied. The truth was that I didn’t like to drink, period. After spending five hours last spring break with my head in the toilet puking up crème de menthe and peppermint schnapps when Steven and I raided his grandmother’s liquor shelf at her condo in Boca Raton, Florida, the thought of alcohol made me woozy.

  “Okay, well, I’m going to have one,” Dylan said, heading over to a keg where three ZBT-T-shirt-wearing guys were standing.

  Within two minutes Steven had inserted himself into a Ping-Pong game while Ari had found the Rent crew. At least that’s who I figured they were with their white-painted faces. When had my friends become so outgoing? Lola and Hannah had drifted off toward the sliding-glass door to the backyard, where two thick-necked football players were entertaining them with riddles. Not even jokes, but riddles, like the ones on the bottom of Bazooka bubble gum wrappers. And they were laughing. I could just imagine trying to win Amy Loubalu over with riddles. She was so nice she’d probably laugh anyway, but still.

  So with everyone off doing their thing, that left me alone. In the middle of a fraternity keg party with huge sweat stains under my arms, holding a video camera. I wondered how long it would be before I was thrown in the pool or something equally humiliating. As I stood there praying that the cops didn’t show up and bust me for underage drinking even though I wasn’t even drinking, two guys wearing ZBT shirts started walking toward me.

  “Great. I never even got a chance to finish my first film and now I’m going to die,” I murmured.

  “Hey, pledge, go get me a beer,” said the taller, better-looking one.

  “And when you’re done with that, get me that chick’s phone number,” said the shorter one, pointing to a cute redhead.

  I gulped and willed myself not to reach for my inhaler. “Uh, I would, but I’m not one of the pledges,” I said.

  “You’re not?” said the good-looking one.

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t even go to school here. I’m a senior in high school, so I wouldn’t want to take any jobs away from any of the pledges, you know?”

  “Dude, you’re in high school?” the short one asked.

  I nodded, holding my breath. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say.

  “And you had the guts to crash one of our parties?” said the other one.

  “Well, see, I’m doing a documentary for my USC application—”

  The good-looking one narrowed his eyes. “Dude, why would you want to go to USC?”

  I had forgotten how much of a rivalry there was between the two colleges. Probably not the smartest thing to say.

  “Yeah, but only because of their film school. Because UCLA has a great film school, too, but—”

  “Ohhhh, a film geek,” said the short one. The way he said it made me think that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  “Watch it—my little sister’s a film geek,” said the good-looking one.

  Maybe there was a god.

  “Anyway, one of the girls I’m focusing on heard about this party and thought it would be good to include in the documentary,” I continued. “See, it’s all about popularity—”

  “We’re the most popular frat on campus,” said the short one proudly.

  “Exactly,” I said. “So that’s why I was hoping to get some footage. I’m thinking I’ll use a flash-forward-after-high-school dissolve effect.” It amazed me how easy it was to think on your feet when you were scared for your life.

  They nodded, impressed. “So you wanna film us?” asked the good-looking one.

  “That would be great,” I replied.

  Who knew frat parties could be so fun?

  I sat on the couch and zoomed in for a close-up on Lice, the short one (his real name was Arthur, but there had been an incident back in freshman year). “Dude, you have no idea how important ZBT is to me, man,” he said, almost in tears. “It saved my life.” He swiped at his face. “Before I got here, I was just a dweeb from Nebraska. And now, little dude? Look at me—I’m golden.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes being a ZBT is tough,” admitted Whit, the tall one. “People think all you do is party and never read a book, but that’s just a misconception. I’m an eighteenth-century French-literature major—do you have any idea how hard it is to keep up with the reading load?”

  I nodded sympathetically. “That sounds tough.”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. “There you are,” slurred Dylan, plopping down on the couch. She looked at the guys and thrust her hand out. “I’m Dylan. Howyadoing.”

  They looked at each other nervously and stood up. “Nice talking with you, little dude,” said Lice. “But we’re gonna bolt now.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Whit. “I try not to be within a fifty-foot radius of drunk high-school girls. Good luck.”

  I turned to Dylan, who let out a huge burp.

  That didn’t sound like a bad rule of thumb to live by.

  “You wanna know the best thing about being popular?” she slurred a few minutes later as I tried to get her to drink from the bottle of water I had gotten her.

  “Sure,” I answered, ducking to avoid the football game that was being played over my head and knocking over my can of Coke, which, from the amount of dust on it, was probably the only nonalcoholic beverage in the entire house.

  “Once you’re in the club, it never ends. First it’s proms, then frat parties, then, after you get married, there’s the country club.” She leaned over to the camera. “Are you getting all this?”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied. I didn’t mention that I had neglected to actually turn the camera on. I know that when I c
ame up with the idea for the documentary I had said it was be a no-holds-barred, down-and-dirty look at popularity, but as I sat there with Dylan right then, the idea of shooting her when she was drunk felt uncool. Even though she thought I was a geek and probably wouldn’t have thought twice about filming me if the tables were turned, I found myself feeling oddly protective of her.

  “You know, I just have to say that for a geek, you’re not all that geeky,” she slurred. As she leaned forward, she toppled over. “Oooof.”

  “Uh, thanks. Maybe we should go,” I said as I tried to help her up.

  Which was hard to do when she was in the process of throwing up on my sneakers.

  “Okay—now I think we should definitely go,” I said. Lice and Whit were cool, but I didn’t think they’d appreciate vomit all over their ugly plaid couch.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Dylan moaned.

  I looked at my brand new Chuck Taylor Converses, which were slowly turning from red to pink. “I think you already were,” I replied, lifting her up and dragging her toward the bathroom, averting my eyes from the lacy bra strap that had popped out of her shirt. “Why don’t you get cleaned up while I round everyone up so we can get out of here?”

  “I’m never drinking again,” she moaned.

  I shoved her inside. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I promised as I shut the door.

  I turned around to find that in the short time since we had left the couch the crowd seemed to have doubled in size. It was next to impossible to find Steven and everyone else, especially since the average height of the guys in the room was about six foot four. Apparently ZBT was made up of equal-opportunity partiers, because in addition to the frat boys and sorority girls who filled the house, I could see that there were also some Goth girls and Mohawked guys lounging around.

  “Hey, Josh,” I heard a girl’s voice say above the thumping rap music that flooded the place, making it seem like an earthquake that had no intention of stopping.

  I turned around to find Amy Loubalu, dressed in jeans and a light purple T-shirt that made her eyes even more beautiful, as if that were possible.

  “Amy. Wow—how weird to find you at a college frat party. You know, since both of us are still in high school and underage,” I babbled.

  Could I have said anything more stupid?

  “Which means, you know, we’d probably be arrested or something if the police showed up,” I added.

  Apparently I could.

  She smiled the same smile that, for more nights than I could remember, had been the last image in my brain before I fell asleep. Not wide, but rather just enough of a hint of her straight white teeth to make you want to really make her laugh so you could hopefully see more. “I guess you’re right.” She chuckled. “So who are you here with?”

  “Ah, I’m here with Steven and Ari and . . . some other people. You?”

  “I came with Whitney,” she said, pointing to Whitney Lewin, who was in the process of making out with a very short guy wearing a dress. “She’s dating one of the pledges.” Whitney also went to Castle Heights but I didn’t really know her very well. Not because she was popular, but because she refused to speak to any guy who wasn’t at least a year older than we were, which meant that now that we were seniors, she didn’t talk to anyone but Amy. “Do you smell something weird?” She sniffed.

  I moved back a few inches. “That would be my shoes. One of my, uh, friends had a little accident.”

  Again with that smile. “Got it. Oh, hey, I heard about your film. I’d love to see it when it’s done—I love documentaries.”

  Not only was Amy Loubalu the most beautiful girl in the world—she was also smart. What more could a guy want?

  “Sure,” I said. “That would be great.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dylan wobbling toward us. “But, uh, I should go find my friends because it’s kind of late and we were just leaving—”

  “There you are!” said Dylan, who, in trying to clean herself up, looked like she had taken a shower with her clothes on. Her cardigan sweater was buttoned wrong and her skirt was all wrinkled. She was still tipsy, but not so tipsy that she didn’t realize who was standing in front of her. “Oh. Look who’s here,” she sniffed.

  “Hi, Dylan,” Amy said.

  A group of pledges in a conga line came in between us and Amy. Dylan turned to me. “So now you’re talking to my archenemy?”

  Archenemy? Amy Loubalou was Dylan’s archenemy? But she was so . . . perfect.

  Amy smiled at both of us. Not many girls would be able to manage a smile that looked that genuine to their archenemy. Amy wasn’t just beautiful and smart—she was classy to boot.

  “I was right,” Dylan said, “you totally are Single White Female-ing me!”

  “What are you talking about?” Amy asked.

  “First Michael Rosenberg and now him,” she said, pointing at me.

  I was just as confused as Amy.

  “Not that I’m dating him or anything—our relationship is strictly business, seeing that I’m the star of his movie. But don’t think I haven’t seen you throwing yourself at Asher.”

  Throwing up in the middle of the room at a frat party may not have been any big deal, but judging from the way a few of the partygoers were now staring at us, a potential catfight between two girls was.

  Dylan grabbed Amy’s sleeve and yanked her off to the side. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but from the way Dylan was swaying back and forth and jabbing her finger in the air, she was obviously going off on Amy. Amy, to her credit, just stood there, patiently listening without interrupting. In fact, she even reached out and steadied Dylan a few times so she wouldn’t fall over. It was in heightened moments of drama like this where one’s true character really came out, and it was comforting to see that Amy was as classy as I had always imagined.

  “Dude, this is awesome,” Steven said. “Are you getting this?” he asked, pointing at the camera.

  I held the camera protectively. “This isn’t TMZ, Steven,” I snapped.

  He looked at me, amazed. “When did you and Dylan become all BFF?”

  “We’re not. It’s just . . . ” It was just what? I had no idea. Over the last few days instead of finding everything about Dylan annoying, now I only found sixty-five percent of it annoying. I turned to our little group, who had now gathered next to me. “Are you guys ready to go? I think Dylan should probably call it a night.” By this time Whitney had rescued Amy, and Dylan was sitting on the stairs with her head between her legs.

  The three of them, along with Lola, looked at each other. “There’s no reason we all have to leave, is there?” asked Lola.

  “Yeah,” agreed Hannah. “There’s two football players who seem to be really into us. They tell the funniest riddles.”

  So much for Dylan’s best friends being there for her through thick and thin.

  “Ari and I will make sure the girls get home okay,” added Steven, who had his car with him.

  “Ari, you don’t really want to stay, do you?”

  He thought about it. “Actually, I do,” he admitted, as amazed about the fact as I was.

  “So I’m assuming I’m driving Dylan home?” I asked.

  They all nodded.

  “So we’re going to get back to the party. See ya,” Hannah said, walking back toward the kitchen.

  “What about her car?”

  “I’ll bring her back tomorrow to get it,” Lola replied, running toward Hannah.

  Even if I had wanted to protest, it wouldn’t have mattered because they had all disappeared before my mouth was even fully open. I looked at Dylan, who was about to go tumbling down the steps headfirst, and sighed. “Let’s get out of here,” I said, hoisting her to a semistanding position before she broke her neck.

  Apparently my job responsibilities as director extended far beyond what would end up on-screen.

  “Where we going?” Dylan mumbled as I carried her down the street.

  “To my car.”

/>   “Shotgun!” she yelled in my ear.

  “Ouch. My ear. Since it’s just you and me, I think you win,” I said. That being said, because she was now wearing the pizza that we had grabbed before the party, I had been hoping to put her in the backseat.

  When we reached the Geekmobile, I sat her down on the curb while I found my keys. However, unlike a Weeble, she didn’t just wobble—she fell down.

  “Talk about being committed to my art,” I said as I hoisted her back up to a semisitting-but-more-about-to-fall-over-any-minute position. “I bet Woody never had to deal with anything like this.”

  Just then she opened her eyes.

  “What. Is. That?” she said.

  “It’s the Geekmobile,” I replied.

  “The what?”

  “My Geekmobile. Well, technically, it’s not my Geekmobile—I mean, the registration is under Good Buys’ name.”

  “And you want me to ride in there?” she asked.

  “It’s a very smooth ride,” I said defensively. “Plus it gets great mileage, even if it isn’t hybrid.” I had written the Good Buys headquarters a few e-mails about how, in the spirit of helping the environment, they should switch from Mini Coopers to Priuses, but so far I hadn’t heard back.

  Holding my nose so I didn’t have to breathe in Eau de Vomit, I settled Dylan in the passenger seat. Once I got into the driver’s seat, I looked at my watch. “Shoot. It’s already eleven-thirty.”

  “It is? It’s still so early! We should go do something!” she slurred, bouncing up and down in the seat.

  “Don’t you have a curfew?” I asked

  “I’m not sure. I never asked.”

  I took out my phone. “Well, I do, and it’s midnight, so I need to call my mom and tell her I’ll be a few minutes late.”