Geekhood

by Andy Robb

  IM: Don’t fancy your chances in a rematch?

  I don’t. Maybe Mum talking to Mrs Holly will keep him off me for a while, but no matter how much of an eye the school says they’ll keep on him, he’ll be back, I just know he will. His is the Way of the Warrior.

  IM: Yours is the Way of the Worrier.

  After chasing a few scenarios round in my head – all of which involve my untimely death – I decide to try and forget about it. I’ve got other things to think about; I’ve walked along Davenport Road many a time, usually on my way to Matt’s. But today, it looks different. Even the air feels different.

  IM: SHE lives here.

  As I walk along the pavement, I’m suddenly aware that these are the sights she sees every day – the parked cars, the lines of trees, the other houses – this is her environment. This must be how Frodo felt when he was walking through Lothlórien to meet the Queen of the Elves. Everything seems brighter and more profound; every leaf, every padding cat, every child on a bike – they’re all somehow inextricably linked to Sarah, and have some meaning in her life, no matter how small. I soak it all up, sensing the differences between her life and mine, trying to figure out a bit more about her. And, like Frodo, while I’m aware of the sense of supernatural beauty of my surroundings, I’m also apprehensive of meeting my Queen, feeling unworthy of her presence.

  IM: And thank God that she can’t read minds like Galadriel could.

  Number seventy-eight appears on my right and I take a moment to drink it in, scouring it for any clues that might tell me more about the girl who, whether she knows it or not, has captured my heart. Number seventy-eight is a modestly-sized, semi-detached house with a small gravel path leading to the green front door. Some sort of climbing plant has swathed the brickwork in purple blooms, giving it the appearance of a country cottage.

  IM: And it was the colour you chose for Nox Noctis. Maybe it’s a sign…

  Maybe there is some sort of link between us. Again I think back to our meeting outside the shop.

  I push open the gate. A fluffy black and white cat bowls over to me from the small front lawn. I crouch down and give it a stroke, feeling it push its head against my fingers. Could this be Sarah’s cat? It seems appropriate that it would be.

  IM: Only one way to find out – brace yourself!

  I stand, take in a deep breath and crunch my way to the front door. The cat does figures of eight between my legs as I walk, meaning that I have to stride with my legs apart in case it trips me up. But it likes me; could this be a sign?

  IM: Here goes…

  For a second, I stand on the doorstep like an idiot until I realize that the iron door knocker right in front of me probably wasn’t put there for decorative purposes only.

  IM: Take two.

  With my heart pulsing in my throat, I knock on the door. Only twice. And trying to make it sound as casual as possible.

  A moment passes and nothing happens. Then, through the front door’s frosted glass, I see a distorted shadow moving and hear the scuff of feet on floorboards. The door opens and I’m given a glimpse of the future.

  My dad always used to say that he knew that Mum would always “be a looker” because of the way her mum, my nan, aged.

  I am confronted with what Beggsy would describe as a MILF. Crude, I know, but Sarah’s mum definitely falls into that category: the same crystal-blue eyes, Cupid’s bow lips and midnight hair. A leak in the old EM allows a little blush through the net and all the moisture leaves my mouth.

  “Hello,” she smiles. “You must be Archie.”

  “I am. Yes. Hello. I’m Archie.”

  IM: Right words. Wrong order.

  For some reason, I offer my hand out in a handshake which Sarah’s mum takes. She then responds with another melting smile and I counter-respond with another hello. For fear of being stuck in some sort of vocal loop, I manage to throw in a “How are you?”

  “Very well, thanks. Come in, Archie. I’ll call Sarah down.”

  I step into the house and my senses go into overdrive, taking in pictures on the wall, the sage-green paint and the vase of flowers on the hall table. Something else hits me: a smell, a faint smell, which takes me a moment to search through my memory banks and identify.

  IM: Incense!

  Incense. I’ve never been so grateful for a smell in my life. It tells me that I got something right last night; that I’ve edged a little closer to finding out what it is that makes Sarah Sarah.

  Sarah’s mum goes to the bottom of the carpeted stairs and calls her daughter’s name. There’s a vague thunder of activity from somewhere upstairs, which Sarah’s mum pretends not to notice.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, or a cold drink?” she asks.

  My IM flips through its underused Etiquette Files and I go for a cup of tea; it feels a bit like having a security blanket with me. Just as she turns to the kitchen, Sarah’s mum looks intently at my face.

  “That’s a nasty bruise,” she says. “Have you put anything on it?”

  “Peas.” I blurt out, embarrassed. “I mean cold ones. Frozen ones.”

  IM: The name’s Bond. James Bond.

  “Have you tried arnica?”

  My memory banks are unfamiliar with this, so I respond in the negative.

  “It’s a cream; very good for bruising. And it’s all natural – no chemicals. Would you like some?”

  IM: OhChristwhatdoIsay?

  “Um… Yeah. OK. Thanks.”

  Sarah’s mum takes me into a small, quaintly decorated kitchen and tells me to sit on one of the chairs. Once again, vampire-like, I suck as much detail from the surroundings as I can: photos of Sarah when she was younger, small knick-knacks lining the window sill and a cat flap in the back door. Sarah’s mum reaches into a cupboard behind her and produces a small tube of cream.

  “This won’t hurt,” she says, squeezing a blob on to her middle finger. “It’ll bring the bruise out quicker.”

  She leans in close to me and rubs the cream on to my cheekbone in gentle, soothing circles. My EM has a complete power failure and my IM has taken a brief vow of silence; all I can do is stare ahead, like a broken android.

  “Look up.” The soothing circles go under my eye.

  “Look down for me.” The soothing circles go under my eyebrow.

  IM: Eep.

  Eep indeed. I can see right down the front of Sarah’s mum’s loose jumper.

  IM: Bra alert! Bra alert!

  Quickly, I shut my eyes.

  “Sorry, did that hurt?”

  “No, no. I’m fine.” I manage, still with my eyes closed, trying to force the image of Sarah’s mum’s bra out of my mind. “I think I can feel it working.”

  IM: Well covered.

  “Mum! What’re you doing?”

  Sarah’s voice snaps me back into reality and I open my eyes to see her standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing a punk-style T-shirt and black jeans. I try and ignore the flash of black bra strap on her left shoulder. I’m surrounded by bras. It’s a bra carnival.

  IM: A Mardi Bra.

  “Just treating Archie’s bruise,” Sarah’s mum trills. “It’s a nasty one.”

  “Yes, well I’m sure Archie doesn’t want you poking about with it,” Sarah replies tersely.

  “No… It’s fine… I’m OK…” I mutter, like I’ve just learned how to talk.

  “There, you see.” Sarah’s mum smiles, triumphant. “Why don’t you two go on up and I’ll bring you some tea in a minute. Do you take sugar, Archie?”

  “Two, thanks.”

  “Come on, Archie. Let’s go.”

  With a feeble smile and a muttered thanks to Sarah’s mum, I begin the ascent to A Girl’s Bedroom.

  As we approach the landing, I half expect to see Gandalf leap out, shouting “You shall not pass!”. Instead, the black and white cat appears from nowhere and starts figure of eighting round my legs again. I half stumble up the final stair.

  “Oh, Aslan; leave him alone!”


  “Aslan?” I try to keep a chuckle out of my voice.

  “Yeah, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. It was one of my favourite films when I was little.”

  With some horror, I realize that she’s just named one of the few sword and sorcery films that I don’t actually like.

  IM: It could be worth re-watching…

  “Yeah. It wasn’t bad. Hello, Aslan.” I give the cat another stroke, hoping that my action will be taken as some sign of approval. The smell of incense beckons like an invisible finger from behind a door at the end of the long landing. As we walk towards it, I’m transported back to the Shop of Unrequited Love, experiencing that strange, otherworldly feeling. It’s as though I’m experiencing things for the first time; everything seems unfamiliar, no matter how ordinary it might be: the pale landing carpet seems to absorb our footsteps, the walls seem almost to be watching us and the closed doors hint at parts of Sarah’s life that I have yet to see. Only the smell of incense is familiar, although not necessarily comforting.

  “Come in.” Sarah pushes open the door and steps inside. I give the cat one last pat – just for luck – and follow.

  Sarah’s bedroom somehow isn’t what I expected – although I’m not sure what I expected. The walls are a sunshine yellow and adorned with a few framed pictures. A star-shaped crystal on a chain, which I presume to be a rainbow maker, hangs in front of an old-fashioned, criss-cross window, below which is a small dressing table and chair. Her bed is white and there’s a delightful absence of cuddly toys from it; TV and stepsisters tell you that all girls have cuddly toys on their beds. On one wall is a freestanding bookshelf, quite tall, and crammed with books of all sorts: big ones, small ones, hardbacks, paperbacks – it’s amazing what you can take in when your future depends on it. And there, on the bedside table, is Nox Noctis. I try not to announce that I’ve noticed by not doing anything.

  IM: Do something! Say something!

  “Nice room.” I stand, jamming my hands in my pockets and turn slowly on my heel, like I’m in an art gallery. “Yeah. Nice.” I throw in a sage nod or two for good measure.

  “It’s OK.” She smiles. “Not as nice as yours, though.”

  An alert runs through my system as my brain tries desperately to figure out whether there is any hidden meaning to this statement. Does she like my room because of its size, its decor, because it’s mine, because she’d like to be in it? A thousand possible meanings present themselves in an instant – is it a compliment just about my room or is it somehow about me as well? Thankfully, Sarah’s mum walks in with a tray carrying tea and biscuits, otherwise I’m sure her daughter would be able to hear the page-flipping going on in my head as I mentally scour my copy of the Female Phrasebook. There appear to be a few crucial pages missing.

  “Tea?” Sarah’s mum asks, as though I might have changed my mind in the minutes since I last looked down her top.

  “Thanks, that’s lovely.”

  IM: You sound like a plumber.

  “I gather you’re a bit of an artist, Archie. Have you seen Sarah’s paintings?”

  IM: So – she’s spoken about you.

  “Mu-um…” Sarah’s voice is enough, but her beautifully arched eyebrow sends her mum out of the room, apologies echoing in her wake.

  “Paintings?”

  “Oh, I like to paint a bit in my spare time. They’re silly, really.”

  “Let’s have a look.” I’ve got that coy, slightly teasing tone in my voice that I hate when I hear other people do it.

  Sarah gestures casually to the pictures on the wall, but I’m sure I can see the beginnings of a smile on her face, almost as if she’s pleased that I’m showing an interest. I decide to pursue it.

  “These? Here?” It’s a fairly fatuous question, but helps propel me across the room, tea in hand, to look at the pictures in question.

  IM: Zoinks!

  They are pictures of fairies. But not your common or garden, tutu-wearing fairies. These are Sexy Fairies. Once I get past the fact that most of them appear to have little or nothing on, I can see that she’s used the paint with stunning ease, creating an effect that suggests that each fairy is luminous, so bright in fact that their light obscures any of the really naughty bits. They’re all in different poses, and each is a different colour, but all of them have the same knowing look on their faces. It’s a gallery of erotic Tinker Bells.

  Whilst my EM has a stiff word with the Blush Department and puts extra sandbags round the pores, I realize that I’ve got a slight problem on my hands.

  IM: What do I say?

  If I show too much appreciation, it might suggest a pervert in sheep’s clothing. Too little and I’m going to come across as arrogant.

  IM: Go for “nebulous”.

  “I’ve never seen fairies like these before!” I accompany the statement with a little laugh that could be interpreted as both surprised and/or cheeky.

  “I’ve always thought that fairies were too girly in books. I always thought they’d be a bit sexier.”

  “Well… They are. They’re really good.”

  A bit too good, actually. My own painting skills suddenly feel a bit primitive.

  “Thanks.”

  Fearing an awkward silence, I take a little tour of her bookshelf and see that it’s lined with lots of different-coloured crystals of varying shapes and sizes. Being a Geek, I’ve got a vague knowledge about such things and pick one up that I recognize.

  “Amethyst,” I announce, confidently. “I like amethyst.”

  “Interesting you should be drawn to that one.”

  “Is it? Why?” My EM is caught off guard and I look up too quickly, feeling like I’m under the microscope.

  “Amethyst is a healing stone. You can use it to help you sleep or cure headaches, but its greatest power is to heal emotional wounds.”

  “Oh. OK.”

  IM: We are now entering uncharted space. Please remain calm.

  I sip my tea and then grin inanely.

  “Well. I like amethyst.”

  IM: There’s only so many times you can say this before you start to sound like a madman.

  “You’re hurting, Archie.”

  “No, I’m fine. Honestly. Your mum put some cream on it.”

  Sarah laughs; a delicate, silvery sound, which only adds to my feeling of unease and confusion.

  “Not your eye.” She smiles. “You. You’re hurting inside.”

  IM: Eh?

  “Eh?”

  “Come and sit down.”

  Another problem and another absent page in the Female Phrasebook. Does “Come and sit down” mean “Come and sit down by me” or “Feel free to be seated anywhere in this room, but not necessarily by my side”?

  IM: Maintain standard orbit.

  I opt for the chair.

  “Do you remember when we met outside the shop?”

  Although the scenario is branded into my memory, I go through a very amateur pantomime of trying to remember.

  “Yeah, Jason Humphries was giving you some hassle.”

  IM: Which is no longer a problem, ma’am.

  “I could tell you were hurting then. Do you remember I said so?”

  “Yeah. Sort of.”

  “I knew it when I touched your hand. It felt like an electric shock.”

  Sarah looks at me very intently and then a decision works its way across her face.

  “Archie, have you ever had your aura read?”

  IM: Man battle stations! We are under attack!

  Sarah gets up from her bed and closes the curtains.

  IM: Doors to manual…

  “Put your tea down and come and sit on the floor.”

  I oblige, trying not to show fear. I’ve heard that girls can smell it.

  “Do you know what an aura is, Archie?”

  “Uh… Isn’t it a light or something that surrounds you?”

  That gossamer laugh floats through the darkened room.

  “Sort of.” Sarah settles, cross-legged in
front of me, fixing me with her eyes, which look almost translucent in the half-light. “Everything living has an aura. They’re energy fields and they can reflect how you’re feeling.”

  “So – how am I feeling?”

  IM: You want to start praying that this is inaccurate…

  Sarah laughs again; I seem to be good at making her do that.

  “It’s not that easy! Shall I read yours? Mum says I’ve got a gift for it. She’s taught me loads.”

  “What is she? A witch or something?”

  “No! She’s a psychic practitioner! Come on – are we going to do it or not?”

  IM: If only.

  The earnest expression on her face and the want in her voice are impossible to resist. This is one of those “Now or Never” moments.

  “Yeah, OK.”

  Whether I believe in this or not, I still feel a thrill of excitement, coupled with a sense of dread. What if she is able to read my aura? She’ll know just how deeply I feel about her. Is there any way I can hide it? Should I push those thoughts to the back of my head or focus on them, in the hope that she gets the message loud and clear?

  IM: It would save you having to ask her out.

  “OK, then. First I need you to relax. Close your eyes.”

  I do, but am unable to prevent a self-conscious grin from escaping.

  “Come on, Archie. Stop messing about. Just relax.”

  IM: In for a penny…

  I take a deep breath and try to relax. While my body seems to welcome the opportunity, I can feel my mental shutters going up as a just-in-case and all my other senses kick into overdrive. There’s a scent of whatever soap or shampoo she uses; I can practically feel her presence and her voice seems to melt through me.

  “Breathe in, Archie. And out. And in. And out. Now focus on your muscles and try and relax them. Let’s start with your toes; feel them relax and go limp…”

  Sarah takes a tour of my body, so to speak, telling me to concentrate on each area and let the tension go. Everything’s fine, until she says the word “buttocks”. At that precise moment in time, I become convinced that if I relax that particular region, I might fart. To cover the fact that my buttocks are now rock solid with tension, I expel another deep breath – in keeping with the spirit of things. Finally, we reach my shoulders, neck and head and I allow my cast-iron backside to sink a little deeper into the carpet.