Geek Charming

by Palmer, Robin

“So can I see just a little bit?” she asked. “Please?”

  I scooted my chair over. “Okay. But you have to remember that it’s still really rough,” I warned.

  She dragged another chair over. “I know. I know.” She kissed me on the forehead. “But I already know it’s brilliant.”

  I shook my head. As my mom, what else was she going to say?

  I cued up the scene in the car after the UCLA fraternity party.

  “I don’t know,” Dylan was saying on-screen, “sometimes it’s like . . . when people see you a certain way, they don’t want you to change. They just want you to keep being that girl—the popular girl.”

  I had intercut this with Dylan walking down the hall, as everyone yelled out hellos to her.

  “Believe me, if I were to chuck it all and go all boho hippy and stop shaving my legs, people would freak out,” her voice continued. Here, I had cut in some footage of the boho hippies sitting outside school smoking clove cigarettes. “Not just because it would be disgusting, but because they expect me to be . . . well, me,” came the voice again. At this point I had cut back to the footage in the car, close on her face. “I’ve been this for so long I wouldn’t even know how to go be someone else,” she said quietly.

  I loved the look on her face when she said that.

  “Oh, Josh—it’s wonderful,” Mom whispered, squeezing my shoulder.

  “You think?” I said anxiously.

  She nodded. “It’s like you managed to capture the vulnerability that all teens feel, but try so hard to hide. And the fact that it’s coming from the most popular girl in school? Well, that alone is going to make people feel so much better. Everyone thinks that the grass is always greener on the other side, but, really, it’s not. Believe me, I know—I used to live in Brentwood and shop at Saks and now I can’t even afford to get my hair colored there.”

  “That’s exactly what I was going for!” I said excitedly. After I sat down and watched all the footage, I had realized that while an inside look at the popular kids of Castle Heights would be interesting, what would be even more interesting would be to look at the pressures of popularity and how lonely it could be when you were that popular—like those princesses in fairy tales who live in castles and do nothing all day other than play with a golden ball only to find themselves in real trouble when they drop it down a well and have to ask a frog to retrieve it for them.

  By the time the party rolled around on Friday, I had made Dylan so human—so vulnerable—that once people saw this, even the biggest Dylan hater would turn into a Dylan lover. I’m not the kind of guy to use the word genius lightly, but sometimes that’s the only one that works. Even though the documentary focused primarily on Dylan, I think I had managed to tell a universal story that hit on everything audiences like to see—love, greed, ambition, popularity, heartbreak, betrayal. All stuff that Shakespeare wrote about in his plays.

  Not only did I hope the USC admissions committee would like the documentary as much as Mom did, but I was hoping it would help get Dylan back on solid ground in terms of her social status. Although I’m all for a character getting payback in order for the audience to feel satisfied (one of the first things Quentin talked about when he spoke to the Film Society), I couldn’t help feeling bad for her and the way that everyone had been treating her since she and Asher broke up. Instead of falling all over her, they were just tolerating her. Sort of like how on the news you saw people being nice to ex-presidents as if they’d get arrested if they weren’t.

  It wasn’t a huge bash—more of a small get-together of twelve or so of the A-minus/B-plus crowd as well as me, Steven, and Ari. According to Dylan, the party was her way of telling the world that even though Asher had dumped her for Amy Loubalu, she was a survivor. She may have survived the breakup, but judging from how no one was paying attention to her at the party, she might not survive the fallout of no longer being the girlfriend of the most popular guy in school. I had always thought that Dylan was just as popular as Asher, but judging from the way that people were now treating her, that didn’t seem to be the case. Not only was she no longer royalty, but some of them didn’t even try to hide their yawns when she went on about the top thirty reasons why her life was already better since the breakup. To be honest, number fourteen—“I now get to wear the color green whenever I want because I had stopped wearing it because Asher didn’t like it”—felt like it was stretching it a bit.

  “Well, should we screen it now?” Dylan asked. I was sitting next to her on the couch feeling nauseous from all the sushi I had just scarfed down. It was one of the foods on the “Things That I Never Got to Eat When I Was Going Out with Asher Because He Didn’t Like Them” menu that she had served, some of the others being egg salad (which no one was interested in) and beet salad (ditto). “I’m afraid if we wait until after everyone starts in on the black-and-whites, they’ll go into a sugar coma and fall asleep.”

  “That’s a good point,” I said. I could feel my stomach start to jump.

  “Want to do a little breathing first?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Okay, and breathe in,” she instructed.

  We both took a deep breath in.

  “And out,” she said as we started to exhale.

  “Excellent! And again,” she said.

  I still hadn’t replaced my inhaler, and every time I said I was going to, Dylan convinced me to go one more day without it. The breathing really helped. Who knew? Maybe one day I’d be off the inhaler forever.

  After we were done with the breathing, she turned to me. “How’s that?”

  I gave her a thumbs-up.

  She gave me a hug. “I’m so proud of you!” she squealed. “I knew you didn’t really need that thing.”

  “Maybe I outgrew my asthma,” I said as I stood up.

  “Maybe you never even had it. Maybe it was all just stress-related,” she replied.

  “Okay, everyone—it’s time!” she yelled, clapping her hands and running around the living room. “Everyone in the family room so we can screen my—I mean, Josh’s—movie!” When no one moved, she put her fingers in her mouth and gave an ear-shattering whistle. “Let’s move it, people!” she bellowed.

  Soon enough everyone was settled in the family room, with Dylan standing in front of the big-screen television. She cleared her throat. “Okay, so before we start, I just want to say that as many of you know, when Josh first brought up the idea of doing a movie about me, I wasn’t all that interested—”

  Lola rolled her eyes. “It’s not a movie just about you—it’s a documentary about the inner workings of the in crowd of Castle Heights, which means it’s about all of us, right, Josh?”

  “Ah . . . yeah, well, kind of,” I stuttered as I scratched at my neck.

  “Yeah, but seeing that I’m, like, the central figure in the movie, that kind of makes me the star. Right, Josh?”

  I scratched at my neck some more before giving a combination shrug/nod that I hoped would make each girl feel that I was in agreement with her. I could already tell I was going to hate the politics of filmmaking.

  “So as I was saying,” Dylan continued, “when Josh first started filming, I was a little worried that this was just some warped way for him to take out his frustration because he wasn’t popular.” She smiled at me. “But over the last month, not only have I gotten to see that Josh is so not warped in any way—unlike, you know, some people who shall remain nameless who go out with a girl for two years and then dump her three weeks before a major social event—but he’s also not a geek even though he may have looked like one before I gave him a makeover. In fact, not only is he so not a geek, but he’s probably the nicest person I’ve ever met and I feel incredibly honored to be the star of his first movie”—with this, Lola rolled her eyes again—“in what I know will be a supersuccessful career with tons of hit movies and television shows. And with that, I’d like to introduce my dear friend Josh Rosen.”

  As everyone started to clap, I gave
my neck one more good scratch before making my way up to where she was standing. Looking out at the group of kids who, a little more than a month ago, didn’t even know my name and were now giving me what looked to be genuine smiles, I started to relax. Sure, the first eleven years and one month of my school career had been tough, but hey, it happens. As far as I was concerned, all that was water under the bridge. Finally I felt a part of something other than the Film Society and the Russian Club, and I had to say, it felt amazing.

  “Thanks, Dylan,” I said. I looked out at the crowd and remembered to stand up straight. “I’m really excited that you’re all here for the world premiere of The View from the Top of Castle Heights. Not only was it a very rewarding experience creatively, but I also got the opportunity to make some great new friends. I don’t want to say any more, because I’d rather let the documentary speak for itself, but I just want to thank all of you for being so generous with the access you gave me and Steven and Ari into your lives. And, uh, with that, I hope you enjoy The View from the Top of Castle Heights.”

  I started to sit down, but then stopped and faced the crowd. “Oh, and there’ll be a brief question-and-answer period after the film. Thanks,” I said, with a slight bow.

  Once Steven killed the lights, I waited until I saw a FILM BY JOSH ROSEN appear on the screen before making my way to the kitchen. From every interview I had read, no director who was really good ever stayed for a screening of the film. Instead they went to some bar and knocked back a couple of shots of Jack Daniel’s or stood outside and chain-smoked and paced until it was time to come back for the Q&A. Part of being a director was pretending you didn’t care what the audience thought, even if you did. Because I didn’t smoke or drink, I figured I could calm my nerves with food but still be close enough to be able to hear the laughs and sounds of amazement from the audience.

  I was in the process of putting together an Everything-but-the-Kitchen-Sink Special when I heard the scream.

  “Josh, GET IN HERE! NOW!” I heard Dylan yell.

  There was something about the tone of her voice that made me think she wasn’t calling me in to tell me how brilliant I was.

  As I walked into the family room, on-screen was Dylan sitting on The Ramp one day during lunch. She was sitting in between Hannah and Lola, with their arms folded, the three of them looking down at the rest of the cafeteria like they were the judges for Project Runway: Castle Heights. “Um, hello, but could that girl’s outfit be more hi-I-live-in-Seattle-and-therefore-I-have-no-fashion-sense?” Dylan was saying on film.

  I could hear a nervous giggle from somewhere in the room, but otherwise it was quiet. Except for the sound of my very loud gulp.

  “Asher and I pretty much have to date,” she said to the camera in the next scene as a sea of kids parted to give her room to walk. “It’s not like I could be dating someone like, I don’t know, you or him,” she said, pointing to someone offscreen, which, from the look of distaste on her face, meant that it was probably Steven. “That would be like . . . a giraffe ending up with a tiger or something. It’s just not physically possible, you know?”

  As I watched the screen, my mouth fell open so wide I actually could have fit the kitchen sink in it.

  I had grabbed the wrong DVD before I left the house that night.

  Instead of bringing the version that showed Dylan as a multilayered, three-dimensional character, I had picked up the one Steven had put together.

  As Dylan liked to say . . . Oh. My. God.

  I immediately ran over to the DVD player.

  “No, leave it,” she ordered. She sounded so mad I almost expected her head to go around in circles like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist.

  “I know a lot of kids do things like volunteer at nursing homes or stuff like that,” she was saying on-screen, “but I feel like I can do a lot more good just by being around kids my own age and showing them what’s new in fashion, you know?”

  Not the type of footage that was going to have Oprah’s people banging down Dylan’s front door to have her on the show for an episode about “Inspirational Teenage Role Models.”

  “Dylan, I can explain—” I stammered.

  There was a shot of Lola and Hannah being cooed over by two gay guys at a little French bakery on Westwood Boulevard. “I have gay friends, too,” said Dylan on-screen, “but not naming names or anything, I feel like some people rely on them for attention. Especially if they feel like they’re being overshadowed by their best friend.”

  At that line, Lola and Hannah gasped in stereo on the couch.

  “Catfight,” someone called out.

  “Now you can turn it off,” Dylan said quietly.

  Someone turned the lights on. “Dylan, I can explain—” I began as I felt every eye in the room staring at me.

  If I had really wanted to show Dylan in a sympathetic, vulnerable light, I should have had my camera with me, because the look on her face at that moment was heart-breaking. Instead of looking like the beautiful, put-together popular girl who had intimidated hundreds of less popular kids in the halls of Castle Heights, she looked like her fifth-grade self in that picture that was in her dad’s office. The glasses and braces were gone, but the emotional gawkiness was there.

  She looked like I had felt all these years up until I had met her.

  “So this is what you think of me?” she asked softly. Even from across the room I could see the tears that were brewing in her blue eyes.

  “No! What happened was—”

  “You know, maybe I’m not Shari Chase or Debra Wellington”—two girls in school who were always organizing do-good events such as food drives for Feed the Homeless of War-Torn Countries and Take an Elderly Neighbor to School Day—“and maybe I like to go shopping and maybe I know a lot about nail polish, but that doesn’t mean I’m a bad person—”

  “Of course not,” I agreed. “You’re not a bad person at all. You’re a great person—”

  “I mean, would a bad person help someone who she considered a friend change their look?” she asked, her voice rising.

  “Please—just let me explain—”

  “And would a bad person give that quote-unquote friend tips on how to talk to the girl he had a crush on?” she asked, the tears now falling down her face.

  “I’m telling you, it’s all just a misunderstanding—”

  “And would a bad person let someone follow them around with a camera for weeks, and sing Neil Diamond songs with them in the car, and make sure that they didn’t go to sleep without calling or texting to say good night?” she said as her nose started running.

  “No,” I said quietly.

  “I didn’t think so,” she said, wiping her face with her sleeve. Gone was the perfectly put-together girl from that day in front of the fountain. “You know, I’m thinking this might be a good time for you to leave.”

  “But if you just give me a minute to explain—”

  “A really good time,” she shouted.

  It was so quiet I’m sure you could hear my stress-induced wheezing all the way across the room. Everyone was staring at the floor. Finally Steven spoke up.

  “Dylan, I’m the one you should be—”

  She held up her hand. “And I want you and him,” she said, pointing at Ari, “to leave, too.”

  I pointed at the DVD player. “I’ll just take that DVD back—”

  She grabbed it out of the machine and threw it at me.

  “Thanks,” I said, picking it up off the floor. I pointed at the machine. “If I could just get the sleeve for it—”

  The laser beams of hate she was shooting through her eyes would have been enough to scare the biggest action hero away. “On second thought, I don’t really need it,” I mumbled. As the three of us made our way toward the hall, Steven stopped and grabbed a handful of popcorn.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  He shrugged. “Humiliation makes me hungry,” he whispered defensively.

  “Everything makes you hungry,�
�� whispered Ari.

  “So sue me,” Steven whispered back.

  Once we were on the front steps, I heard the click of the dead bolt on the door behind us. I plopped down and put my head in my hands. “I can’t believe this,” I moaned.

  “If you ask me, she’s overreacting a little,” said Steven.

  The two of us looked at him like he was crazy.

  He shrugged as he reached into his pocket and took out a handful of the Hershey’s Kisses that he had stockpiled from the dishes that had been laid out around the family room. “What? People make mistakes.”

  “Yeah, but usually when they’re going to screen a movie before an audience, they check to see if it’s the right one,” said Ari.

  “Still, you have to admit, my cut looked great up there on the screen,” Steven went on. “The pacing was awesome.”

  I sighed as I rubbed my arms in an attempt to get warm. For a few weeks I had been granted entrance into the inner sanctum of Castle Heights society, but that was now a fading memory. Once again I had been thrust back out into the cold. Or at least as cold at it got during an unseasonably warm November in Southern California.

  chapter thirteen: dylan

  Thanks to Josh—my ex-best friend—it turned out my wish had been granted: the documentary was like a real-life Laguna Beach. Except that he had cast me in the role of the bitch.

  After I locked the door behind him and his stupid geek friends, I stood in the foyer and forced myself to breathe. At that moment I wished I had an inhaler. To say I felt betrayed and humiliated didn’t come close to describing how I felt. No—it was as if I was beyond betrayed and humiliated.

  As I slowly walked back to the family room, I prayed that when I got there I’d discover that this so wasn’t a big deal. Wasn’t Lola always telling me I tended to overreact? And back when we had been going out, Asher had said that all the time, like when I got all mad when he had called fifteen minutes before he was supposed to meet Daddy and me at the country club for dinner and said he couldn’t make it because he had just scored a ticket off Craigslist for an Ultimate Fighting match.