The Nerdy and the Dirty

by B. T. Gottfred

  And for that first reaction, it was worth it. I knew it the moment our eyes met. Those intense, deep eyes of his widened to twice their size, and I could see in them—even though we were thirty feet apart—his brain try to process what he was seeing and what I was doing. Saying his jaw dropped wasn’t actually true; it’s more like his whole body rose up. His shoulders, his jaw, his eyes, his forehead. In every sense he had risen and I knew, because I know these things, that things I couldn’t see must have risen too.

  His sister mouthed, She’s so sexy, which made me feel almost as good as Benedict’s response. His mother whispered, “I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” which made me feel more like a whore than my mother actually calling me one.

  But then his dad, who I knew was sort of famous, said loud enough that I didn’t even need to read his lips because I’m sure the whole dining room heard it: “Is that who you were thinking about in the shower, Benedict?”

  * * *

  Oh-my-god. This sort of made me proud (and yes! Turned on! Because I’m the freakiest freak to ever freaking live!) but—oh-my-god—who says that out loud about their kid? My mom says crazy stuff, but, I don’t know, this felt worse for Benedict than any of her crap ever felt for me. Maybe, I don’t know. Everything in Benedict drooped; he bowed his head in shame so far I thought it might hit his plate. His sister yelled at their dad. His mom gave that disapproving-wife look. But I had to turn away. I couldn’t look at him anymore. I was mortified, like unable-to-walk-straight mortified, and I stumbled into another table before making my mom switch seats again so I didn’t have to look toward any of them.

  “What’s wrong with you?” my mom asked after she sat back down.

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you are admitting there’s something wrong with you?”

  “Mom, please, stop.” I said it quiet, but so pathetic that even my mom listened.

  * * *

  After we both ate pieces of bread in silence, her like a normal person and me like I should be in a straitjacket, my mom asked, “What about Paul?” She almost seemed concerned for me. Which my mother never seems.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I thought you said this boy was unpopular?”

  “He is.… I don’t like him.…”

  “Penelope, I know you think I’m an idiot, but please. No girl dresses like that in this weather unless they really like a boy.”

  “Paul broke up with me, I’m, I don’t know…”

  “Exactly, Paul broke up with you…” she started. Please, no. I couldn’t take any judgment of hers right now. My breath shortened, and I could feel another panic attack coming. Brace yourself, Pen, she’s about to say something horrible: “… so you like whoever you like. You’re a free agent. I’m sure this outfit will have this kid eating out of your hand for the rest of his natural life.”

  Wait.

  Huh?

  Did my mother just say something nice? Honestly, I needed to resay it in my head until I was sure. Yes, oh-my-god, she did. My body relaxed; my breath evened out. “Thanks, Mom.”

  My mother patted my hand, smiled, sort of, at me, but I could tell that was all the tenderness and understanding she had for right now. Which was enough. It was a lot for her.

  So I said, picking up the menu, “What are you having?”

  She got giddy because she loves talking about the food at Wild Wolf. “I’m getting the prime rib. And the mashed potatoes. And the strawberry shortcake. And maybe the soup…”

  * * *

  When Benedict didn’t stop by our table on his way out of the dining room, like he had at breakfast and lunch, I assumed he was too embarrassed by what his dad said to hang out in the Bear Room tonight. Or worse, his mom wasn’t going to allow him to hang out with the “slut in the short skirt” ever again. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. My plan to drive Benedict so wild with desire had totally backfired. Which was fine. I don’t even care. This whole thing was so stupid.

  While my mom ate her dessert, I texted Paul:

  ME

  Miss you

  Which wasn’t even true. I didn’t miss him at all anymore. But I felt like such a moron for dressing the way I did and then for Benedict to just leave … I, uh … I don’t even know who I am anymore or what I want or anything about anything.…

  39

  BENEDICT

  From the moment we sat down at dinner, I kept one eye on the dining-hall entrance waiting for Penelope to enter. I told myself not to look; I tried to listen to what my sister and parents were discussing. My father disciplining me over my time in the shower had left me feeling as if I had ruined my life. That every second that I spent thinking about Penelope was a second in which I was becoming a lesser person, a person my father would never respect. Thus I worked very hard to diminish our afternoon cross-country skiing. Yes, she said some kind things and she had looked at me with eyes that made my entire body excited. But nothing that happened would make me smarter, or a better student, or get me into a better college or get a better job, or I’m not sure what else.

  * * *

  So, yes, even while watching for her to enter, I believe I convinced myself that I shouldn’t waste any more time with Penelope, either in reality or in my fantasies. And then she walked in.

  I will try to replay the initial experience of seeing her. It’s very difficult. My mind is at war with itself and not just in the usual Good Benedict versus Evil Benny way.

  Because now there was Penis Benedict.

  Calling him Penis Benedict makes him sound like he’s dumb or ridiculous. Perhaps he is. I truthfully have no idea. That’s why all this is so confusing!

  Again, let me replay what I saw. From all three of me.

  Penis Benedict reacted first. He saw her tan thighs. Seeing tan thighs in the middle of winter, he said, was like seeing a drinking fountain in the middle of the desert. (I’m not sure why he’s speaking in metaphor since I frown upon it.) Then Penis Benedict noticed the swivel in her walk. It was very hypnotizing. In fact, if Penis Benedict was in charge, he said he would do everything Penelope asked him to do for the rest of his life. Last he noticed her eyes. They weren’t the lustful eyes like from the woods, but rather they were eyes that told Penis Benedict, “I know you like what you see and now you know I know you like what you see.”

  Penis Benedict was the only one talking until my mom and dad said what they said.

  After my mom said Penelope’s outfit was “not appropriate,” Good Benedict spoke up next. He said that looking at Penelope like that would only get me in more trouble. He said a girl who spent time making herself so attractive to boys probably did so because she didn’t think she had anything else to offer them. Good Benedict suddenly felt very confident in my choice to not speak or think about Penelope anymore.

  And then my dad, very loudly, asked if this was the girl I was thinking about in the shower.

  That’s when Evil Benny joined the battle. He said that Penelope was just bored and teasing me and had no real interest in me. But in the very next breath, he said if she was actually interested it was because she’s desperate and an idiot and a slut. Then Evil Benny said my dad would never look at me like I was his son again if I dated a girl like Penelope.

  * * *

  My mom and sister tried to make my dad apologize for saying what he said, which I knew he never would. He never apologizes about anything. He shouldn’t have to. He’s always right.

  As dinner went on, my sister and mother attempted to lift my spirits by asking me questions about school. (They knew better than to ask about my day with Penelope.) But the war waging in my head between the three mes left my vocal abilities paralyzed. I could only really nod and grunt.

  “Benedict,” my father said, halfway through the meal in which I had acted like a lobotomized monkey, “stop your pouting. I spoke frankly, which you should relish. Most parents lie to their children, telling them they are smart when they are not. Telling them they are talented when they are not
. This makes it impossible for children to honestly self-assess. Would you prefer I lie to you so you can have a deluded sense of yourself?”

  I found the words. “No, Father…”

  “Of course you don’t, because you’re my son.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “As for that girl, she is very obviously troubled…”

  “Samuel, stop right now,” my mom said.

  “… and I would be very disappointed in you if you wasted any more time in her company.”

  “Samuel, another word and I will leave.” Mom used this threat very rarely but it often was the only way to derail my father once he had gained momentum in whatever point he was trying to make. He didn’t say anything more about Penelope. It didn’t matter. He had said enough to convince me: I could never talk to or spend time with Penelope again.

  * * *

  Once back at the cabin, my family wanted to play the card game Kings in the Corner, but I said I was tired and retreated to my room.

  I was too defeated to even change from my clothes. I just lay on my bed and imagined what the night would have been like if my dad had never said any of the things he said.

  Perhaps I would have asked Penelope to play Ping-Pong again in the Bear Room, as we did last night.

  Though this time perhaps my sister would go back to the cabin before us and it would be just Penelope and me.

  Perhaps then we would have gone up to the loft area to watch television.

  Perhaps she would have sat close to me.

  Perhaps she would have looked at me again in a way that allowed me to believe she liked me in the way that girls like boys.

  And perhaps then I would have kissed her.

  Even though I had spent a great deal of time fantasizing about having sex with Penelope this afternoon, I didn’t think about sex at all. Only about kissing her. It would have been nice to get my first kiss before I turned seventeen tomorrow. Despite everything said by my dad, by my mom, by “Good” Benedict, and by Evil Benny, it would have been nice if my first kiss was with Penelope.

  If I wasn’t Benedict Pendleton, son of genius Samuel Pendleton, I think I would sneak out my window and go find Penelope. If I were the type of boy who disobeyed his parents’ wishes, I would go find the girl they had forbidden me from seeing and I would kiss her.

  40

  Penelope

  My mother wanted to play double solitaire at the cabin after dinner, but I just wanted to change out of my stupid slutty clothes and go to bed and wish I was a different person.

  “You better not be this moody for the rest of vacation or it’s going to ruin my vacation too!” she said as I disappeared into my room. I guess sympathetic, supportive mom was gone. It was nice while it lasted.

  * * *

  I put on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, got under the covers, prayed unsuccessfully to the internet gods that I could get service, and then read Millie Dragon on my phone. You know, Millie and her creator, Zelda Zowie, are my heroes, but I hated both of them tonight. Yeah, great, Millie is brave enough to tell everyone that there are demons hunting them that no one but her can see. But you know what we never wonder? If Millie is doing the right thing. We know she is. Yes, a lot of bad things happen to her in both dimensions for doing the right thing. But I guess it would be nice to know that Millie could screw up. That even heroes can make really shitty choices.

  Anyway, I had to stop reading. I wasn’t tired. Like, I was the least tired I’ve ever been in my life. Usually when I’m awake like this in bed, I feel like masturbating. In the past I’ve done it for hours. But it was the last thing I felt like doing. I felt so unsexual I might not masturbate ever again.

  So my life is basically pointless. I have nothing I want to do, no one to talk to or do anything with. I don’t even want to do anything with myself.

  It’s Benedict’s fault, right? I mean, if he wasn’t so weird and … oh, I can’t even lie to myself right now. God, I fucking like him. I fucking hate him for making me like him. I like everything about him. Is that even true? There are so many things about him that should make me not like him but right now all those things—like him being the biggest social outcast at school—only make me like him more.

  But I treated him like any other guy. Gave him my “fuck me” eyes, dressed in my “fuck me” skirt, and, yeah, it worked because it would work on all men but I don’t want Benedict to like me for that! Okay, maybe a little for that because I’m a freak, but not just for that. I want him to like me for the same reason I like him. For all the crazy shit in my head. No, I want for him to tell me it’s not crazy. If I had one more chance, that’s what I would do. Just tell him everything.

  But that’s never going to happen. Because I screwed it up.

  Oh-my-god, this sucks, this sucks that I’m stuck up at this lake with him, but now his family thinks I’m a whore and he probably will ignore me the rest of the week. I’ll just hide out in this room. I’ll tell my mom I’m sick. She’ll get me food. She’ll bitch about it, but she’ll do it. Or she’ll just say we could go home. God, that would be great. So much better than being stuck in this room, wishing I could be with the guy I’m also hiding from.…

  * * *

  There was a noise outside my window.

  Raccoon? Bird? Probably. Who knows. Don’t worry about it, Pen.

  But then there was more noise. Like someone climbing through the snow. Breathing heavily. Oh-my-god, it’s a murderer. There are all those stories I’d hear as a kid. Stories about Dwayne the Wild Wolf Killer. He’d snatch fishermen off their boats, he’d capture hikers in the woods, he’d take children from their cabins. As a kid, I always slept with my mom because I was so terrified of Dwayne the Killer. And now he was coming for me.

  “Pen,” he whispered. Pen? Oh-my-god. I leaped up, went to the window, pulled open the curtains in a quick flash, and …

  There he was.

  Benedict.

  Standing up to his waist in snow, his hand held up in a wave, the dorkiest smile in the history of dorky smiles. But man … man, oh man … this was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done ever. I hate romantic stuff, and if I thought Benedict thought he was doing something romantic I’d probably hate it, but he had no clue; he just climbed through waist-high snow because for some reason he thought it was worth it. Worth it to see me.

  What are you doing here? I mouthed super quietly because I didn’t want my mom hearing us. I knew why he was here, at least the big reason, but I couldn’t tell him I knew. I had to pretend I didn’t. I had to make him say it.

  “My father has banned me from seeing you…” he started. “I always do everything my father says because millions of people do what he says and I’m his son, so if millions of strangers listen to him, then I should. So my being here might be proof that I’m no longer making intelligent decisions—”

  He’d go on and on if I let him, so I said, “Benedict … meet me in the lodge in five minutes, okay?”

  “But … yes, okay … Yes.” But he didn’t move. So I closed the curtains on him. I had this fear he might change his mind and go back to his cabin. No, he won’t. No more stressing about stupid fears, Pen. Just go.

  I changed. I wore jeans this time instead of the skirt, but I put the tight white sweater back on. Meeting Benedict at the lodge wasn’t about seducing him, wasn’t about driving him wild with lust. It was about talking to him. Being real. Being my true self. But all that didn’t mean my boobs couldn’t look good.

  * * *

  Mom screeched as I rushed through the living room, “Where are youuuuuuu going?!” but I just ignored her, left the cabin, and ran to the lodge. Yes, ran. I never run anywhere for any reason. I even get out of gym with a semi-legit asthma excuse. But I was so nervous, and so excited, which made me more nervous which made me more excited. Wow, I was losing it. Didn’t care.

  Benedict was sitting on the same couch I was sitting on yesterday. He stood as I entered.

  “Pen, I’m…” he started a
s I moved toward him. I didn’t see socially awkward Benedict. I didn’t see handsome stranger Benedict either. But this third Benedict, this combination of both. Maybe I saw all of him for the first time.

  “Benedict…” I had all these things I wanted to say, about him, about me, about our situation. I wanted to ask him about what his dad said, tell him about my crazy mom. Tell him I loved him just how he was and I wanted him to love me just how I really was. And more, so many things … I HAD BEEN KEEPING ALL THIS CRAP INSIDE ME FOR SO LONG AND NOW HERE WAS THE ONE PERSON I FELT I COULD TELL IT TO, NOT JUST COULD BUT HAD TO and so—

  * * *

  I just fucking kissed him. Ignored my whole plan. Put my right hand around his neck, and because he’s six inches taller than me, I had to pull him down, and I just kissed him. And his lips were dry and rigid and I’m like, crap, I screwed up, I should have talked, he didn’t want me to kiss him.…

  But then he opened his mouth a little, which made his lips wet, and I wet them more with mine, and then his right hand scooped across my lower back and lifted me up—like in the air!—and my legs looped around him. And we just kissed, no tongue at first, just rapid mini-kisses, lips against lips, and, yeah, I could tell Benedict had maybe never kissed anyone in his life, but the passion in him was just erupting from inside and the combination of his passion and inexperience made each kiss feel special. Made it feel like each time our lips touched something unique was being said between us. I know that sounds like cheesy romantic bullshit! But it is what it was and it was so stupidly perfect that I cried. Again. Twice in one day! Who the hell am I?

  I guess the real me, the one I’ve been hiding all these years from everyone, is an emotional wreck. A romantic emotional wreck.

  41

  BENEDICT

  She kissed me.

  She kissed me.

  A girl kissed me.

  I always assumed my first time would be when I’d kiss the girl and then she would kiss me back. That I’d be the heroic gentleman who took a girl who admired me greatly and, with a strong sweep of my hands, pull her into my arms and kiss her. Like it happens in superhero movies.