Geekhood

by Andy Robb

  “Good, Archie. That’s really good. Now I want you to rock gently from side to side.”

  IM: You know how stupid you look, don’t you?

  As I rock, I can hear Sarah breathing in and out deeply. It’s horribly sexy, but the fact that I’m wobbling like a nodding dog seems to take the erotic charge out of it for me.

  I wobble and she breathes for what seems like an eternity, until finally Sarah tells me to open my eyes. When I do, it’s to find her staring at the space round my head, heartbreaking concern written all over her face. I raise my eyebrows in a silent query.

  “Well,” she says, looking a little brighter, “you’re very healthy, physically – although the Cava has dulled your psychic abilities. You should be careful of drinking too much; you’re a little out of alignment.”

  Feeling a little out of alignment, I nod. Slowly.

  IM: I think you’re being told off for last night’s fisticuffs.

  “But it’s obvious that you do have some psychic abilities. The yellow colouring tells me that you’re a perfectionist and too self-critical. You should cut yourself some slack. There’s a lot of red, which says that you have a great inner strength and that you’re very passionate.”

  IM: Ker-ching!

  “You’re sympathetic and reliable. But there’s a lot of dark blue, which tells me that you feel misunderstood. You don’t communicate easily with the rest of the world.”

  IM: OK, this is getting weird.

  “But there’s a lot of black, Archie. Almost all of your colours are surrounded by this black…” She searches for a word. “…halo.”

  For a moment, my ego awards itself a series of medals; I like my newfound position as a Dark Angel. It feels cool. But the expression on her face tells me that that’s not a good thing, so I break my silence.

  “What does that mean?”

  Sarah searches my halo before answering. When she does, she looks straight into my eyes.

  “It means you’re hurting, Archie. That you’ve developed a protective shield against the world – like a mask, or armour. It means that you don’t really show your true feelings to people because you don’t want to get hurt any more. But you’re paying a very high psychic price for that shield.”

  This is starting to feel a little too close for comfort. On one level, I’m really enjoying being so close to Sarah and getting a foot inside her world, but something in her words is appealing to something inside me that I’d rather not think about.

  IM: Because she’s right. You are hurting.

  My EM gets the fidgets and I start scratching behind my ear, even though there’s no itch. It’s like she’s pressed the button marked “Do Not Press”. The one that sets everything off. The one that opens doors that ought to remain shut. I can feel an unfamiliar pressure building up in my head and chest and my EM fidgets more; I sit back, resting on my hands and breathing hard.

  IM: You’re losing control…!

  I grit my teeth together and force another breath out through my nose, like a poor impression of a hunted dragon.

  “What is it, Archie? Why are you hurting?”

  I scowl at the floor, trying to pull my EM back into alignment, but it’s no good; my fingers clench into fists and back again.

  “It’s…uh…It’s nothing.” But my voice is thick with yearning confession. Sarah’s hand on my ankle does nothing to draw me out of my scaled-down breakdance.

  “It’s OK, Archie. It really is.” Her voice is heartbreakingly soft. “Is it your stepfather?”

  IM: Self-destruct sequence initiated: Five – Four – Three – Two…

  In a final act of betrayal, my EM shuts down completely, leaving my face to tremble and crack into tears. Instinctively, I lurch forward and wrap my arms round my shins and thrust my head between my knees, silent, seething sobs escaping between ragged breaths.

  And then it all comes out.

  I tell her everything: Tony, the divorce, my dad leaving, how much I love my mum, how I’m a Geek, Tony, how weak I am, how I don’t really talk to anyone, my IM, the Gargoyle, the Dream; the whole lot comes out in a big, wet, snotty, snivelling mess. And then I’m silent, exhausted, plagued only by trembling, weepy sighs. I don’t even notice Sarah’s arm round my shoulders until I’ve managed to regain some sort of control over my spasming lungs.

  “It’s OK,” she says gently. “I can help you.”

  “Can you?” I moan hopelessly from between my legs.

  “Yes. But you’ve got to trust me.”

  Sarah helps me to my feet and points me in the direction of the bathroom, where she leaves me to splash my face with water. I look in the oval mirror above the white, glistening basin to see my mismatched eyes rimmed with red and a nose that wouldn’t look out of place on a certain reindeer. I can’t believe I’ve done this. I’ve wept like a snivelling child in front of the girl I love. Any chance I had with her is now melting like a snowball in Hell.

  But I’m tired. Too tired to be cross with myself for breaking like I did. Too tired to try and get my shields back online. Too tired to try and plug my IM back into the grid.

  I feel empty and exposed, but too tired to care.

  After a final splash, I go back into Sarah’s room with an apologetic half-smile on my face. The curtains are open and she’s sat on the end of her bed, a bright smile glittering in the light.

  “OK?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble. “Sorry about all that.”

  “Stop being sorry!” I can’t tell if she’s cross or putting it on. I feel like I’m back in primary school. “You’ve been strong for too long, Archie – it’s time to stop.”

  “OK. So… What do we do?”

  “We talk. Properly.”

  Because I seem to have nothing left to say, Sarah takes the reins.

  “Have you ever wondered why you were drawn to that Gargoyle in the first place?”

  “I just liked it,” I manage dumbly.

  “Just like you liked the amethyst. It goes a bit deeper than that, Archie. When I read your aura, I could tell that you’ve got psychic abilities, but they’re being suppressed by your shield – your armour. Yet they’re still trying to find a way to leak out – to communicate with you. Your dream is your subconscious trying to make contact, but you keep pushing it away; you don’t want to hear what it has to say.”

  “Which is what?”

  “That you’re far more powerful than you think. You can change things, Archie – you can make your life what you want it to be.”

  “Can I? How?”

  “The Gargoyle in your dream represents your subconscious. It’s your Psychic Self trying to talk to you. You have to embrace it. Your Internal Monologue is part of your shield; you need to shut it out because it’s made up of fear and hurt. You need to start listening to your Psychic Self.”

  Despite the fog that has descended over my senses, this seems to make sense. My IM has always been the voice of doubt; that thing that has stopped me from taking any uncertain steps. Perhaps Sarah’s right, perhaps there is more to me than meets the eye.

  “What do I do?”

  “We need to give you some exercises to help you develop your psychic awareness.”

  We spend the next half an hour going through some “alternative” books that Sarah’s got on her bookshelf. Right now, I wouldn’t really care if she told me to go and boil my own head. She really seems to understand me and she gives me a series of exercises that she says will help me embrace my Psychic Self, something to do with Positive Visualization and chatting to myself in the mirror. My IM remains in exile; I trust her. I have no doubts. I can change.

  “Take this – it’ll help.” She presses a thin, dog-eared paperback into my hands.

  “Thanks.” I smile. “I guess I need all the help I can get.” I’m sitting next to her on the bed and we enter one of those silences where I don’t know if I should be doing something or not. I guess I’ve got a lot to learn. I think it might be time to make a graceful exit; I don’t
want to make any more of a fool of myself than I already have.

  “I’d better go,” I say, looking at my watch. “Stuff to do.” It’s a generic answer that suggests I won’t be sitting around thinking about her and nothing else for the rest of the day.

  “I’ll see you out.”

  As we walk downstairs, I check my reflection in any surface that will bear it; I think I look OK. In fact, I look considerably better than the blonde lady that Sarah’s mum is helping out of the room opposite the kitchen. Judging by her puffy eyes and her luminous hooter, I reckon it’s fairly safe to assume she’s just had her aura read too. What have I stumbled upon? A suburban coven? Sarah opens the door and I step out of the sanctuary of her home.

  “OK … well … thanks. And sorry about earlier…”

  “Stop it!” Sarah scolds, before joining me on the path and fixing me with a determined stare. “It’s all going to be OK, Archie.”

  And then she kisses me on the cheek.

  My head detonates with pure, crystal-clear joy. I am flooded with energy, bright, fizzing power, and I want to laugh out loud. Instead, I hang on to what’s left of my self-control and walk to the gate.

  “See you Monday,” I say, grinning, and head for home, ten foot tall and bulletproof.

  Even running the last five minutes back to my house doesn’t help me get rid of the superhuman feeling that has flooded my system. But I don’t want to wear it like a badge; for the moment, this is my secret. Not that it’s going to become a major concern for the FBI or anything. It just feels that talking about it will somehow diminish it. There’s a warm glow in my stomach and I want to keep it that way.

  But I’m also determined not to suffer any more of Tony’s insensitive cracks. I can still hear my IM chattering away in the back of my head, but I’m pushing it away, ignoring its self-conscious babble. I’m going to find a new voice and I’m going to start now – strike while the iron’s hot.

  Mum’s in the kitchen, making a cup of the predictable.

  “Tea?” she asks.

  “Yeah, please. Where’s Tony?”

  “He’s just nipped out. Be back in a bit.”

  There’s a lull while Mum presses a teabag against the inside of the cup, getting the most for her money. In goes the milk and sugar, and then I’m presented with my tea and a twinkling smile.

  “So. How’d it go?”

  IM: With a snivel and a kiss.

  Mum’s excitement is almost palpable and, ordinarily, I’d feel pressed into giving some immediate answer. But this time, I take a moment to consider how I want to play this. I don’t have to tell anyone anything; I can make my life what I want it to be.

  “Yeah. It was cool. She’s a nice girl.”

  “Good.” The subtext in that one word tells me that she wants more information. She tries a different tack. “And? Do you like her?”

  I allow the silence that would usually make me so uncomfortable. Instead of looking for the answer that suits everyone else, I look for the answer that suits me.

  “Yeah. She’s cool.”

  Even the way Mum sips her tea is riddled with frustration; it’s all lemon-sucking lips and a tightening round the eyes. But I maintain my Zen-like composure. She’s got to let me grow up.

  “And does she like you?”

  My mind does a slow-motion action replay of the kiss and I purse my lips, as if in contemplation.

  “We’ll see.”

  Mum mock-glowers at me; I haven’t delivered the goods – but I’m not going to feel guilty about it. For the first time in my life, I’m starting to do things my way.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I announce. “Stuff to do. When’s lunch?”

  “We’ll see,” comes the wry answer, but we both laugh knowingly; there’s a game being played and we’re both playing by the rules. “Five minutes.”

  IM: And she just lost.

  In the hallway, I bump into Tony as he squeezes in through the front door.

  “Aha!” he declares, pulling a cigarette out of his mouth. “The wanderer returns!”

  With no IM to muddy the waters for me, I trust in my instincts. And it’s an interesting experience.

  “I do live here, Tony. In case you hadn’t noticed.” My delivery is perfect; it’s not aggressive, just a clear statement of fact, delivered with a non-committal smile. I can virtually hear Tony’s certainty crack beneath his nervous chuckle.

  “Yeah. So – how was Sarah?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Great. You want to get her round for dinner one night?”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  I leave him, wreathed in smoke and obviously confused, and walk calmly upstairs to my Lair.

  Dumping myself on the bed, I pull out Sarah’s book from my back pocket. It’s entitled We Are All Our Souls and has a picture of a feather and an egg on the front.

  IM: Puh-lease!

  I make a conscious effort to ignore the cynical rantings of my underdeveloped psyche and give the pages a cursory flip: there are various chapter headings along the lines of “Allowing Yourself to Be You”, “The Higher Resonance of Intention” and “Awakening to Grace”.

  IM: Depends if Grace is worth waking up to…

  “Shut up!”

  Great – I’m talking to myself now. Out loud. I obviously need this book more than I thought.

  But Mum’s got other ideas and I hear the Summons for Physical Nourishment. Once in a blue moon, Mum decides to get all creative in the kitchen and pulls out a recipe book she’d forgotten she owned. Today is that day. While the food’s always great – and today’s curry is no exception – it does mean that me and Tony are subject to a long description of what ingredients are used and how they work together, peppered with the intermittent question: “So, what do you think?” At this point, we both know that a simple “yeah, it’s great” isn’t enough and we have to qualify our approval. But, today, this suits my needs; I don’t really have to fully engage with Tony or discuss what’s going on in Archie WorldTM. Between mouthfuls, I offer up my theories about the taste of fresh herbs, go “mmmm” a lot, and then leave the table to continue my spiritual journey.

  I go back to the book and rattle through the pages until I hit on the heading “Dreams and their Meanings”. There’s a list of subjects in alphabetical order and under the letter “G”, I find the word “Gargoyle”. A quick read reveals that, apparently, I’m suffering from “hidden and embarrassing fears over secrets you have not shared with anyone”. Page thirty-three of the Next catalogue springs to mind. Chugging through the list of dream topics, the word “Beard” catches my eye. It seems that dreaming of growing a beard signifies “growing spiritual awareness”.

  Caught by a sudden flash of inspiration – or perhaps a message from what Sarah calls my Psychic Self – I charge to the bathroom mirror: there on my chin are a few straggly hairs, whilst my upper lip coyly displays something that could be mistaken for a shadow.

  What if I grow a beard?

  IM: Please remain seated, everyone. Do not panic. We’ll let you know what the problem is as soon as we have identified it.

  My IM is trying to gain ground, but I’m already seeing a pattern; it kicks off in moments of self-doubt and uncertainty, feeding on my insecurity like a vampire.

  “Shut UP!”

  Using my mental Photoshop, I replace my teenage tufts with a thick, blond beard – probably a bit pointy to highlight my rakish charm. It’ll make me look older. It’ll make me look more devilish, give me a certain edge. I’ll look more intelligent.

  IM: You’ll look like a gnome crawling out of a bear’s arse.

  And it’ll make me more attractive to Sarah. If she’s into all this spiritual stuff, then what could communicate my buying into it more than a lustrous piece of face furniture? A touch of the warrior, a touch of the wizard and a prime example of my spiritual development.

  If I’m going to grow some proper facial hair, I’m going to need a shave.

  IM: What
you need is a psychiatrist.

  But I’ve got no razors and no money with which to further my spiritual quest. I charge downstairs as casually as possible.

  I breeze into the kitchen, my Tosser TrackerTM on full power, sweeping the terrain for any indication of Tosserish activity. No signs of life; Tony’s either hunkering down in his study or disappeared off to his other favourite place in the world: the toilet. The length of time that man can spend in there beggars belief. With no danger of my plans being scuppered by his inane trumpeting, I mask my designs with an air of innocence and creep up behind Mum, giving her a hug.

  “Oh, hello, love! What was that for?”

  IM: The dance begins.

  “Nothing. Just wanted to give you a hug. What time’s tea tonight?” It’s a poor attempt at a smoke screen, but it’s all I’ve got.

  “Not for a while.” She cocks her head slightly; she knows me too well. “Why?”

  “Just wondered. Have I got time to nip to the shop?”

  “I should think so.” Another flash of her probe. “What d’you need?”

  I could lie at this point and come up with something about pens or something to do with school, but she’d see through that;Mum knows that the only shop I’ve got any interest in is the Hovel. A better option is to tamper with the truth and hope that she doesn’t know too much about the effects of testosterone on teenage boys’ facial hair.

  “My face is itching.” I back this up with a scratch to the chin and neck. “It started a few days ago. I think I need a shave.”

  I can virtually see Mum’s brain weighing up this information with what she knows about young males. She fixes me with a stare that’s trying to search out a lie, but is obviously confused by the symptoms I’ve thrown at her.

  “Let’s have a look.” My neck and chin undergo the sort of intense examination that only a mother can give. “Well … it is a bit red…”