The Nerdy and the Dirty

by B. T. Gottfred

  But Benedict doesn’t give a crap, does he? He doesn’t. And even though he’s this robot, he was this sexy robot today. Because he’s a real robot and not a fake person like me. And being real is really sexy. Really. Yes.

  My body shook, twice, and I fell asleep two seconds later.

  11

  BENEDICT MAXIMUS PENDLET …

  When I woke up the next morning, I checked Facebook on my iPhone before I got out of bed. An email! Success! One of the five girls had written me back. Sophie Gutierrez. She was in my top two, so at the first sight of her name, I felt satisfaction. But then I read what she wrote: Don’t be weird, Benedict. That was all. I almost asked if this meant she would go on a date, but then decided this did not mean she would go on a date.

  I was not sad. Sadness is not productive. But my head felt as if there were a large object on top of it, crushing my skull. There was nothing literally on my head. My head was safe. Obviously.

  After showering and dressing, I found my mother in the kitchen. She had made me egg whites and English muffins. This was my favorite breakfast. I should have apologized for saying she wasn’t as smart as Dad yesterday. Instead, I said nothing, not even good morning, and started eating. When Elizabeth entered, she said, “Good morning, Mom,” and then, “Thanks for breakfast.”

  I should say thank you too, but now I felt bad for not saying it before my sister. So instead I remained silent and looked at my phone. There was nothing on my phone I wanted to look at, but your phone is a good place to look if you want to avoid eye contact.

  When we were finished eating, my mother said, “We aren’t going to Hawaii this year for break.”

  “Why not?” my sister asked.

  “Because your dad wants to go to Wisconsin.”

  “Wisconsin’s not warm!” Elizabeth whined. “I need to get a tan! I’m so pale!” My sister was always nice until she didn’t get her way. Then she was a baby.

  “Why Wisconsin, Mom?” I asked, very calm. I enjoyed Hawaii, mostly because I could order as many virgin piña coladas as I wished. But if Dad wanted to go to Wisconsin, I was sure this was the right thing to do.

  “There’s a lake he went to as a kid. He wants to show both of you where he spent his winters.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Elizabeth said. “He hates nature. He just wants me to be pale.”

  “Why would Dad care if you were pale?” I asked.

  “Shut up, Benedict.”

  “Don’t say ‘shut up,’ Elizabeth,” my mom said.

  “What is the name of the lake?” I asked.

  “Wild Wolf.” Since I already had my phone out, I looked it up. It was a resort, sort of. Not fancy like we were used to. There were pictures of cabins with large fish hanging on the walls. “It doesn’t look very nice,” I said. Elizabeth yanked the phone out of my hands. I yanked it back.

  “I’m not going,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes, you are. But you can bring a friend if you wish,” my mom said. “And Benedict, you can bring Robert.”

  Elizabeth whined louder than usual, “It’s like three days away! And anyway, no friend of mine is going to want to go up to freezing-cold Wisconsin with my weirdo brother and weirdo Robert!”

  “Elizabeth!” my mom yelled.

  “Robert won’t be coming. We aren’t friends anymore,” I said. Both my mom and sister snapped their heads toward me as if I had turned into a gorilla. I hadn’t turned into a gorilla. Obviously.

  “Benedict, but…” my mom started, but she did not know what to say. My sister looked down at her plate. She felt sorry for me. Having your younger sister feel sorry for you did not feel good. I was not doing a satisfactory job of controlling my emotions this morning. I must work on that.

  I said, very confident, “I am very okay. I am better than ever. Robert was no longer adding to my life in a way that benefited me.”

  “Benedict…” my mom started again.

  “I am fine. Tell Dad I am excited about going to Wisconsin.” I then stood from the island counter, scooped up my backpack, and drove to school. I would be very early because I didn’t need to pick up Robert, so I drove through his neighborhood just in case he called. He didn’t.

  * * *

  I went to my locker even though I bring all my books home every night and carry them around all day. But sometimes you need somewhere to go so you don’t look lost. After opening my locker and rearranging some folders so that I appeared busy, I closed it and turned to walk toward first-period AP English.

  The rest of the students in the hall had all moved toward the lockers. No one was walking in the center except me. This was very strange. Obviously. Then three boys moved to the center and started walking toward me. It was Paul Barbo, Joey Plint, and Conrad Miller. Everyone called him Miller because he didn’t like the name Conrad. They were all friends with Stacy Ashton, whom I had insulted yesterday. Thus, logically, this meant they were here to hurt me as revenge for what I had said. The three boys spread out as they walked toward me, far enough apart that I couldn’t walk around them but close enough together that I couldn’t walk between them. The smart choice would be to turn and walk the other way. Or to stop and press myself into the lockers like the other kids. But then everyone would think I was a wimp. I wasn’t a wimp. But I didn’t want to get beaten up either.

  The first time I got beaten up was in sixth grade. His name was Kyle. He punched me in the face in the bathroom because he said he didn’t like how I answered questions in class. My nose bled all over the floor and mixed with my tears. I told the teachers what he did and then Kyle got in big trouble. When he came back to school after being suspended, he had a bruise on his face. He told everyone that he had fallen skateboarding. But Kyle’s dad had coached us in soccer, so I knew he was very mean and had probably hit Kyle. In sixth grade, I was happy his dad hit him. But now that I’m older, I realize I’d rather be a kid who gets punched by another kid than a kid who gets punched by his dad. Obviously the best kid to be is the kid that doesn’t get punched at all.

  After Kyle, I got beaten up four times in junior high. I didn’t tattle on them like I did Kyle, just in case. No one had tried to hit me since high school started. This is probably because I’m taller and I do push-ups. But I didn’t know how to fight, so even if I was taller than Paul, Joey, and Miller—I’m going to call him Conrad, okay?—they probably did know how to fight. Joey was on the wrestling team. So he really knew how to fight. I kept walking toward them, but I walked slower because my imagination could feel their fists hitting my face and that made it hard to walk normal speed.

  With Robert no longer my friend and none of the girls I had emailed wanting to go on a date with me, I decided that I should just run the other way and not care that everyone thinks I’m a wimp. No one likes me anyway, so I might as well be someone no one likes who doesn’t get punched. But then, just as I was logically explaining to my body how we should turn around and flee to safety, my mouth yelled, “AAAAAAH!” and my legs ran toward the boys, and my arms twisted my backpack off and swung it into Joey’s head. He wasn’t expecting that. I laughed. I don’t even know why. I must be crazy. But maybe I was happy because the other kids in the hall all clapped. But then Paul tackled me. He was on the football team. He did not play much, “rode the bench” I believe is the vernacular, but my body said he was still good at tackling because I was thrown hard into the floor. Paul straddled my chest and pinned my arms down with his hands. I tried really hard to move, but I couldn’t. Then Conrad kicked me in the thigh.

  That hurt

  so so so so so

  much.

  Then Joey, who was mad that I’d whacked him in the head with my backpack, kicked me in the side. As much as getting kicked in the thigh hurt, getting kicked in the side hurt five trillion times more.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  I still couldn’t breathe.

  And I still couldn’t breathe.

  If you can’t breathe, you die. So I guessed I was going to die. I
should have run. I should have run and then when I was rich and famous when we are all grown up, I’d exact my revenge by hiring assassins to blow up their cars. But now I was going to die.

  While I was dying, Paul said, “Never talk to any of us again, retard,” and then he pulled back his fist to hit me. Gosh, it’s mean to hit someone while they are dying. But then I heard:

  “Paul! Don’t!” He turned and I, sort of, turned too. It was hard for my eyes to focus. You get blurry vision when you are dying, I guess. I did manage to see that it was Penelope. Paul’s girlfriend. Robert’s dream girl. She was running toward us. Before Paul could hit me, Penelope pushed him off me. Now all the kids watching laughed. Paul didn’t like getting laughed at.

  “WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM, PEN?!” Paul yelled at her, and then he lunged toward her but Joey pulled him away and pointed down the hall. I think teachers were coming because everyone was trying to pretend nothing happened.

  Penelope got on her knees and leaned over me. “Are you okay, Benedict?” she asked. I couldn’t talk because I was dying. But I did notice that she smelled. Well, first thing I noticed was her scar. It looked different up close. But then I noticed she smelled. I don’t mean she smelled bad. But she had a scent. It was very distinct. I had not been close to Penelope since junior high, and I don’t remember her smelling like this. I don’t remember any girls smelling like this. It was a nice smell. It was like flowers and fresh laundry and something I couldn’t determine. I’ve always liked the smell of fresh laundry. I guess I also liked flowers. And this currently undefinable third component too. She asked again, “Are you okay?”

  Even though I was surprised I was still alive, I somehow managed to speak and I said, “I’m dying.” But it came out very wheezy and high-pitched.

  Penelope smiled, which I thought was not very nice at first but then realized it calmed me down. She said, “You just got the wind knocked out of you.” Then Penelope rubbed my chest for only a second. It felt almost as good as getting kicked felt bad. I think it also helped me breathe again. At least the two seemed to happen at the same time.

  A teacher then leaned over and yanked Penelope off me and to her feet. A second teacher, whom I didn’t know but I think taught woodshop, leaned over me and asked if I was okay and that’s when I started to cry. Darn it, Benedict, you turn seventeen in five days. Seventeen-year-old boys should never cry even when dying. But I think my breath coming back made me realize I wasn’t going to die and knowing you are not going to die when you thought you were might be even scarier than actually dying. That doesn’t make sense, but my brain isn’t working optimally at this moment.

  * * *

  Both Penelope and I were taken to the dean’s office. I had never been there. Only people who get in trouble go there. And I never, ever got into trouble. Obviously. Penelope and I were seated next to each other and told to wait here until Dean Jacoby arrived.

  The office was small and dark since the blinds to the courtyard were closed. There was a big computer that looked so old my iPhone probably was ten times faster.

  “It smells like cigarettes,” I said, which I didn’t mean to say out loud. I didn’t want to speak to Penelope. For at least five reasons and probably more.

  “Totally,” Penelope said. Saying “totally” made her sound not very smart. Which I already knew. Then she said, “I’m sorry Paul and those guys jumped you like that.”

  The mature thing to say would be “I’m sorry I told Stacy she was fat,” but my brain and mouth didn’t want to work together this morning. Perhaps they never worked well together. Thus I said, “I’m sorry you have a boyfriend like Paul.”

  I didn’t look at Penelope, but I could tell she was sad by the way her body slumped in the corner of my vision. Then she said, “Yeah,” and then we were quiet until Dean Jacoby arrived twelve minutes later. During those twelve minutes, I didn’t look at Penelope even though I wanted to say something nice because I could tell I had made her sad. My dad’s book talks about how it is not our job to make other people happy, that we must fight compromising ourselves for the sake of others’ feelings. But I felt sad that Penelope was sad. This was very confusing to be sad because someone else was sad. I really needed to talk to my dad about controlling these feelings.

  There was another thing about those twelve minutes we waited in silence in the dean’s office. Even though we didn’t speak, and we didn’t look at each other, I could still smell her. Those flowers and fresh laundry and that mystery smell almost made the cigarette stench go away. It almost made the pain in my side and leg go away too. But it didn’t make my sadness go away. Her smell might have even made the sadness worse. This didn’t make any sense.

  12

  pen

  Shit. Pushing Paul off Benedict made Paul super pissed at me. I had never seen him look at me like that. He hated me. I mean, hated me. And now, once Benedict told Dean Jacoby that Paul, Joey, and Miller had beaten him up, Paul would totally blame me for getting caught. Then he’d dump me. My whole life would be over. Except for like the tiniest one second, I thought, I’d be free, right? I’d be free.… Then I hated that feeling. I don’t want to be free. That’s stupid to think. Everyone wants to be free. But not if free meant my whole life would change. Because, man, I like my life. I mean, yeah, it’s not perfect—my parents fight, my boyfriend doesn’t know the real me, I’m getting C’s in all my classes—but, like, I’m cool and my boyfriend’s cool and my friends are cool.

  I mean, what the hell were you thinking, Pen? You should have just let Paul and them beat up Benedict and stayed out of it. So stupid. I mean, shit. Now I’m sitting next to the robot in the dean’s office and I can’t even look at him because he’s so weird and I, of course, can’t stop thinking how I got off thinking about him last night. And I know how stupid and weird I am for having thought about Benedict like that. I mean, sitting next to him I can’t even imagine saying two more words to him! But of course sitting next to him and thinking about the dirty thoughts I had last night starts turning me on because I can’t control anything about myself and then I feel like such a freak I want to kill myself.

  * * *

  Dean Jacoby strutted in after making us wait forever. He had the smug, creepy grin he always has. Like he’s got naked pictures of you in his house or something. After sitting on the edge of his desk like he’s so goddamn important, he said, “Hello, Ms. Lupo. I thought you promised you wouldn’t be making any visits to my office until next year?”

  I was about to say “I’m sorry” or something except Benedict spoke first. “She helped me. She should be given praise by you, not judgment.” Shit. Benedict the Robot just told off Dean Jacoby. No one ever tells off Dean Jacoby.

  “I don’t know you and I don’t like your language,” the dean said.

  “I am Benedict Maximus Pendleton. I’m ranked third in the junior class. I do not ever curse, so I am not sure why you would not like my language.”

  “Christ,” the dean said. Benedict was getting to him. I tried not to smile. But, man, it was sweet to see Jacoby sweat. “Just tell me why you’re here. Penelope, you go first.”

  But Benedict spoke before I could think of how I could lie without getting in trouble. He said, “Another student and I ran into each other, accidentally, in the hallway. Penelope helped me up.” The robot was lying for me. He was protecting me. And protecting Paul. And me and Paul. Shit. Not expected. My brain didn’t know how to rearrange my assumptions in my head. I mean …

  “Benedict, I asked Penelope to speak first. Do you have a problem with authority?”

  “Not if it is competent,” Benedict said.

  Dean Jacoby’s face was turning that purple color that means he’s about to yell. Like really yell. But he held it in, and even though he wasn’t breathing normally, he said, “Penelope, I was told there was a fight. What happened?”

  Benedict said, faster than me like always, “I just told you what occurred.”

  “DO YOU WANT A DETENTION?!” Jac
oby couldn’t hold that yell in for long, I guess. Benedict looked like he just got slapped. Then the dean said the most asshole-ish thing I had ever heard him say. “I can see your face is red from crying, kid. You think lying to protect Penelope and her loser friends is going to make you popular? It’s not. And if you think they can make you cry, wait till you see what I can do.”

  I so wanted to tell off Dean Jacoby, for a hundred things he had done and said to me since I got to The Bend, but mostly for making fun of Benedict, who wasn’t used to getting bullied by a jerk-off adult like Jacoby.

  Except Benedict, fucking crazy Benedict, said, “I will make YOU cry when I report you for smoking on school property.”

  Jacoby was about to explode. Literally. You could see his ears shaking super fast. He stepped toward Benedict, but said to me, “Lupo, get out of here. I see you again, I’m kicking you out of school.”

  I’m free to go … I should go. I should. But now I didn’t want to leave Benedict, like I was afraid Jacoby might hurt him, like really hurt him, so I said, “Dean…”

  “GET OUT OF HERE!” he yelled at me. Shit. How do angry nut-balls like this get put in charge of kids? But now I knew I definitely couldn’t leave Benedict. He was shaking too. Just fricking terrified. Jacoby shaking out of rage, Benedict shaking out of fear. No way could I leave them alone. No way. I knew what Jacoby was capable of.

  “He’s got social problems,” I said. It sucks Benedict heard me say this, but I figured it was better than leaving Jacoby alone with him.

  “Lupo, you are out of here in three, two, one.” The dean grabbed my arm, with those pudgy dirty fingers of his, pinched me hard, then ripped me off the chair and toward the door.