The Nerdy and the Dirty

by B. T. Gottfred

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Huh?” I said because my brain was off in fairy-dork-land.

  “How do the skis feel? How’s your balance?”

  I looked down. I wiggled around. I didn’t feel like I was going to fall, but I hadn’t tried moving yet. “Okay, I think,” I said.

  “Good. I’ve never done this either, so we can learn together.”

  “Is your sister coming?”

  “About that. I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s not going to show up. She tricked me, I believe. Will it not be fun without her? We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

  * * *

  My out!

  But not really. And screw it, I don’t want an out anyway. But I’ve hesitated and Benedict can tell I’ve hesitated.…

  * * *

  So I said, “No, no, I’ve already swished and sweated and looked like a complete idiot getting to this point. I doubt it can get worse. I mean, I’m sure you’ll be fun to do it with. I’m just saying I don’t think I can embarrass myself any more than I have already.”

  Benedict smiled this smile at me. It was so weird. I mean, I kind of liked it. It almost felt, I don’t know, flirtatious. But it was so weird.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, finally, and not flirtatious back. But defensive. I’m such a bitch.

  “I think that sentence before, about swishing and so forth, was the longest, most revealing sentence you’ve ever shared with me.”

  “Oh.” Really? Yeah. I think about it. Thinking about it makes me feel like that sentence doesn’t even sound like me. I mean, it sounds like the me in my head but not the me everyone else knows. The quiet girl who speaks only in single-word sentences.

  “I enjoyed you speaking like that very much.” He is totally flirting with me. In his Tin Man robot way, but for sure.

  I think about saying something flirty back. Like “I like that you like it.” Except that makes me want to throw up. So I just say, “Cool,” and god, I suck, but whatever.

  And then he tells me to follow him, that he did some research on how to ski properly, and he starts moving and I move with him. I know I’m going to fall and look like such a loser, but I don’t care enough to stop. I want to follow him. And as we ski into the woods—woods I’ve avoided my entire life because I’m sure there are monsters inside them—I start thinking how I had said what I said to him. How I just admitted to being embarrassed, just said was on my mind, exactly like it was in my mind.

  And I didn’t do that with Paul, or my mom, or my dad, or Iris, or anyone ever. I did it with Benedict.

  31

  BENEDICT

  Penelope falls three times within the first fifty meters and each time she says, “I’m so terrible at this! I look so dumb!” And I tell her she is doing an excellent job and that she doesn’t look dumb at all.

  This is, of course, a lie. She is terrible at skiing and she looks a bit like a giant white turtle on its back when she falls. But I don’t tell her this. The old me would have. The new me concentrates on what she is probably feeling instead of what I am thinking. It’s very difficult.

  Yet, also, each time she falls, I must help her up and when she stands we are always right next to each other, our skis between each other’s legs. Her scent of flowers, fresh laundry, and mystery floats between us. And there is not much space between us at all. If we were boyfriend and girlfriend, I would kiss her each time I helped her up. Yes, I think that’s what I would do. It would be a nice thing to do, to help console her after a fall, but also it would be nice for me. To kiss a girl. I’ve imagined it many times. I think I’d be very good at it.

  * * *

  Evil Benny says I’d be terrible at it. Even worse than Penelope is at skiing. He says that a boy who has never even kissed a girl by the time he is seventeen (which I turn tomorrow) will probably be a terrible kisser forever. In fact, he says I probably should never kiss anyone ever because they would laugh at how terrible I am at it.…

  * * *

  “Penelope … sorry, Pen … can I ask you a question?” I start, though I really don’t have a question in mind. I just wanted to stop Evil Benny from talking so much.

  “Yeah,” she says, out of breath. I look back to make sure she is capable of skiing and talking at the same time. Possibly not. I decide I must ask a question anyway.

  “Do you like having a boyfriend?” This question was a logical progression from my thinking about kissing a girl, and so forth, but now it feels nerdy. Like a child asking a teenager if they liked being able to drive.

  32

  Pen

  He asks if I like having a boyfriend. Does he know Paul and I broke up? How could he know? Maybe Paul’s telling people and it’s out there and he read it on Facebook or something. I’m half sweaty, half freezing, I keep falling on my butt, and Benedict’s toying with me, isn’t he? He knows I’ve been dumped. He knows I’m this desperate mess. He knows what I’m thinking every time he helps me up.

  I fall again. I don’t even know if I did it on purpose. I think I did. I totally did. So I don’t have to answer the question? Maybe. But really so Benedict would lean over, so he’d grab hold of both my arms, lift me up, and my skis would then slide toward him, almost into him. Even though I’m the least attractive I’ve probably ever been in my life, I decide this time I’ll give him my “fuck me” eyes. I’m good at this. Great at it. It shuts Paul up when I want and has made college boys cross rooms toward me. These eyes are like a gift of mine. Maybe my only one.

  I imagine that after giving Benedict these eyes, he’ll grab me. Grab me like Paul has never grabbed me. Grab me like a guy that can only tell the truth would grab me. Grab me, kiss me, throw me down into the snow, fall on top of me, and I don’t know what else. I can’t really imagine beyond that because just before I can give Benedict my “fuck me” eyes, he says:

  “That was a totally dorky thing to say, wasn’t it? Asking about having a boyfriend? I’m sorry. It must be hard to have conversations with me sometimes.”

  * * *

  What? Huh? Oh-my-god. He has no clue. No clue about Paul. No clue we broke up. Benedict … he’s just … He wasn’t playing a game. Wasn’t trying to get in my head. He was just asking a real question. Like always.

  “No, it’s not,” I said, even though it was a dorky question now that I think about it, but what does that even mean? “It’s cool to ask. Having a boyfriend is cool.…” Stop using the word “cool” so much, Pen, you sound so uncool saying “cool” so much.… “It’s nice to have someone to be with. To talk to.” Even though Paul and I have not had one conversation I can remember right now. But whatever.

  “Okay. Thank you, Penelope. Sorry, I mean, Pen.”

  “You can call me Penelope. I don’t care.” I don’t?

  “That’s nice of you, but I’ll work harder on saying Pen. I’m not sure why I keep saying Penelope. I think it was the name of a Greek goddess. No, perhaps, from one of Homer’s books?”

  I shook my head even though I knew.

  “I’m not sure either. But I think you have always been very mythical to me. How you transformed yourself in junior high from one of us to one of them. So maybe that is why I say Penelope. Because you are more mythology than reality.” He stopped and looked at me. We were still only a foot away, our skis entwined. What Benedict had just said made me like my name for the first time in forever. But I couldn’t tell him that. I couldn’t say anything. I could, I suppose. But I wouldn’t. I’d just stand there, looking at him like what he said hadn’t just rewritten a part of my self-identity. He went on, while I was being a mute fool. “Am I talking too much? Elizabeth says I talk too much. Is everything I’m saying something no one should ever say? You could help me too, if you don’t mind. My sister, she’s socially smart, but she’s only in eighth grade. You’re my age and you’re very popular. You could tell me what I should say. What’s dorky, what’s not. You could be my second teacher. Help me change…”r />
  “Don’t,” I said. I couldn’t take any more. Not of Benedict. Of my own invisibility. Of being not real when I want to be the opposite of not real.

  “Don’t what? Don’t…”

  “Don’t change, Benedict.”

  “But…”

  “You’re awesome, Benedict. You’re one of a kind. You say what’s on your mind. You don’t try to tell people only what they want to hear. You tell people what you want them to hear. You ask questions you want to know the answers to because you want to know things, not just to hear yourself ask things. Yeah, not everyone’s going to love it, you’ll get beaten up by idiots like Paul sometimes, but, man, you’re what we all want to be.”

  As soon as I finished talking, I tried to go back in time and not say it. I don’t talk like this! It was like I just made my soul naked and now it was about to freeze from the exposure. What the hell, Pen! Oh-my-god, I’ve got to get away from him. So I pushed back and skied past him. I skied like I knew how to ski. And I didn’t fall. I went fast even. Maybe because the universe knew I needed to get away from Benedict, it granted me sixty seconds of athletic ability. It knew I couldn’t look at him one more moment. I couldn’t be so close to him for one more breath. Not just because I wanted him to kiss me more than I have ever wanted to be kissed in my life, but because I had just said all this stuff. All these words. It’s like my mouth threw up sentences I didn’t even know were inside me. It felt so, so, so uncomfortable to have my thoughts out of me, out in the world, for other people to judge.

  So I push faster on the skis, faster, and faster. And there’s a hill. And I think Benedict’s yelling at me. But I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. I want to go so fast that everything I’m feeling, everything I said, falls behind me and can never catch up. So I just go over the hill and it’s bigger than I thought, like the size of a school bus on its end, and straight down. Or close. And I’m going so fast now. So, so, so fast. And now the speed is not me, it’s nature, it’s hurling me downward and there’s a curve and I can’t turn. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m going to crash into a tree. I’m going to crash into a tree and I’m going to die … and as much as I hate that I said all that, I’m glad I said it before I die. I’m glad I was real at least once.

  33

  BENEDICT

  After Penelope said the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, I entertained the possibility that she was lying or, worse, trying to fool me. (Evil Benny certainly voted for this possibility.) But no, I don’t think so. I really don’t think so.

  I think … yes, perhaps …

  I’m not sure. I’m very confused. A week ago, I was very confident that I was the smartest person in the world, with the possible exception of my father. Yes, Evil Benny tried to undermine this. But I always put Evil Benny in his proper place. Then Robert dumped me as his friend, and I got beaten up by Paul and his friends, and my father wanted to fire me as his son. And then I believed I was the opposite of smart. I was the weakest, dumbest person in all of school.

  Then, last night, I was on the brink of losing my mind, so I admitted what I had long denied: that I had social problems. Except now one of the most popular girls in the junior class was telling me I shouldn’t change. That I should be exactly the way I had always been.

  But before I could ask her to explain further what she meant, or say thank you, or say anything because it’s nice to acknowledge someone who has spoken so eloquently and kindly, Penelope pushed past me and skied ahead. Skied very well, I must say. I determined she wasn’t going to fall again. She suddenly looked like an Olympic skier! Not precisely, but it was faster than I could ski. Was she trying to get away from me? Because I hadn’t said anything?

  “Pen!” I yelled after her. Again and again. But she kept skiing and we moved deeper into the woods. I was getting better, faster. I must really want to catch up to her to be learning so quickly.

  That’s a hill ahead, I believe. I really don’t want Penelope going over that hill. “PEN!” But she didn’t stop and so I didn’t stop. I was descending, plunging, down the hill. Were my skis even on the ground? They must be. But it felt as if I might be flying. My stomach rushed upward into my lungs and exploded. Not literally.

  Pen was going to crash and I didn’t want her to crash alone, so I followed her right into the tree.

  34

  Penelope

  The pine tree that I was sure was going to kill me had a large hole around it. Not a hole, more like a deep bowl of snow. Anyway, the bowl’s edges collapsed and sucked me downward, flung my skis up and my back down into the snow. That sounds bad, but it was a lot better than smashing into the tree.

  Which, two seconds later, Benedict did. Oh-my-god. The whole pine shook and every branch dumped on us. I wiped the snow from my face because it was freezing but also because I had to find him.

  “Benedict!” I screamed, and I never scream at anyone except my mom but he had just bounced off the trunk and spun face-first down into the snow. Only the back of his hat and the back half of his skis weren’t buried.

  He’s dead.

  He’s totally dead.

  If he’s not dead, I’m going to kiss him.

  What a stupid thing to think when someone’s probably dead. I couldn’t really move because the skis had me lodged in place, but I twisted, then crawled enough that I could reach him … but all I could do was take off his hat, which wasn’t very helpful. But then he turned his head toward me. Which was nice. It meant he wasn’t dead.

  “I think I broke my face,” he said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, though I may be paralyzed.”

  “Benedict…” My brain went numb. I, uh—

  “I was making a joke, Pen.”

  “Oh.” I was mad at him, sort of, but also, I don’t know, charmed. I wasn’t going to let him know that.

  “You didn’t think I knew how to make a joke, did you?”

  No, I didn’t. Stop being charming; it’s distracting me. “Benedict, seriously, you’re not moving. Are you okay or not?”

  He wiggled a bit. “I think my skis are stuck, so I am stuck facing downward.”

  “Give me a second. I think I can get out of my skis.” I had to crunch forward, like the hardest sit-up ever, but I did it and unlatched my shoes. Scooting over to him, I undid his skis, which allowed him to turn over onto his back.

  So with the branches over us, and him lying on his back in this small snow bowl, and me sitting there, I don’t know, it’s almost like a canopy at a beach. Except for it being cold and in the woods, but you get it. Like, if we were together, I could lean over and kiss him right now. I know I said I would if he wasn’t dead. But that was me being an idiot.

  He sat up before I could do it. I mean, I suppose I could have done it still, but I was never going to do it, so I don’t know why I kept thinking these thoughts. Get me out of my head! Please!

  So I said, “Are you sure you’re okay?” Just because.

  “Yes, are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Suddenly you became a very good skier.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know.”

  Then we both sat there, under this snowy tree canopy, saying nothing. Not really looking away, but not able to look at each other either. Wait, he’s totally looking at me. Of course he is. Because he doesn’t understand how weird it is to stare at a girl in a moment like this! Then he said, “Thank you for helping me out of my skis.”

  This felt like a delay by him. Wasn’t it? Like something a boy would say before they worked up the guts to kiss you? So I said, “Thank you for crashing into the tree with me.” This was the cheesiest crap I’ve ever said in my life. But whatever. I was doing my part. Giving him the time to find the nerve. Then I looked at him. Not with my “fuck me” eyes. That would be so wrong right now. But with eyes that said “KISS ME, BENEDICT!” I think they did anyway, in a desperate, pathetic way but whatever.

  “Pen,” he said, the way a boy does righ
t before he kisses you.

  “Yeah?” I said, the way a girl does to let the boy know it’s okay for him to kiss her.

  And then, and then … he talked again. Fucking Benedict. My whole body is beating with my heart and my heart is going to blow up and he’s talking again! “I know you have a boyfriend who is very popular. And Robert is in love with you. Robert’s my best friend. I shouldn’t have said he was in love with you, but I cannot not say it right this second. I’ve always told Robert you were unattractive because I knew you would never like a dork like him. Or a dork like me. And before five days ago, I think I would insult people in my mind because I thought they’d insult me to my face. But before you skied like an Olympic skier and crashed into this tree, you said the best thing anyone has ever said to me. And every time I am near you, my brain stops functioning properly because of your smell. And you look at me the way girls look at boys in movies, but I think I just don’t understand how girls look at boys because I am socially awkward.”

  And …

  And …

  AND

  I should kiss him. If I was bold, if I was even half as cool as Benedict thinks I am, I would kiss him. It would answer everything he just said. It would be magical, wouldn’t it? But, like, oh-my-god, my eyes are tearing up, what the … what’s wrong with me …