Talk Nerdy to Me

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “I wish I could say yes, but someone’s already chosen it. No duplicates.”

  I stepped back like I’d been pushed, licking lips that moments ago had tasted of memories of mussels cooked in salt water.

  “Buuuut . . .” Ms. Gregoire drew the word out.

  Normally I tolerated her theatrics; this time I interrupted. “But you’ll make an exception?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t have it look like I’m playing favorites.” I recoiled from the suggestion—I already had enough accusations of nepotism. “But you could ask the other student to switch.”

  “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone,” I lied. There were so many other books I could choose from, but Anne made me think of my parents and happy times—it was an antidote to my Frankenstein anxiety.

  “Oh, I think this classmate would be delighted to be inconvenienced by you.” She drummed her fingers on the cover, right below the author’s name: Lucy Maud Montgomery. “I doubt he’s started yet.”

  “He?” I wanted to grind those two letters between my teeth, because I knew the answer before I asked, “Who is it?”

  There was only one student in school who seemed genetically engineered to cause obstacles and chaos with each breath. And he’d told me “I’m doing a book by a Montgomery for Gregoire’s project.”

  “Curtis Cavendish. Ask him, and see what he says. Regardless, let me know your new title when you’ve got it sorted.” She opened a notebook and struck through where Frankenstein was written next to my name.

  I didn’t trust my hands not to grab for that novel, so I curled my fingers into my palms and gritted out, “I can make Frankenstein work. Thank you anyway.”

  As I turned to leave, Ms. Gregoire said, “Eliza, sometimes we don’t ask for what we want because we’re scared of being told yes.”

  I nodded like her fortune-cookie philosophy made sense, but it was absurd. People sought out affirmation—they wanted positive responses. It was “no” that caused avoidance, not “yes.”

  Curtis went full dance mom at quiz bowl practice. He’d sought me out while I was shedding my winter layers, folding my gloves and scarf and placing them neatly on the lab bench beside Merri’s pile. I must’ve been more nervous than I realized, because I let him. “I’ve picked out a special buzzer for you. It’s a little more sensitive than the others. You’ve got this.”

  I reached into my backpack and pulled out the pencil he’d loaned me. It bothered me to have it as a stowaway among my own supplies. I was aware of it all day.

  He shook his head. “Keep it. And remember, the buzzer is your friend. No flinching, flincher.”

  “Shut it, Montgomery,” I answered, placing the pencil back in my bag. But it was impossible to inject those words with barbs while trying not to smile.

  “Good. I’m glad you’re together.” Bartlett’s stocky shoulder edged Curtis’s aside. He pointed a broad finger at me, but he spoke to Curtis. “You wanted her on the team, so it’s your responsibility to get her up to speed. We’re not a ship; we don’t need a decorative figurehead.”

  If this were a toss-up question, I’d be hesiflinching, because ouch. I wanted words as weapons and anger that made my tongue lethal, but instead I burned with embarrassment.

  Curtis rolled his shoulders back and lifted his chin. I always forgot how tall he was, because he was usually so languid. Now every muscle on him looked tight and intimidating. His cheekbones sharpened as he drew in a breath, and his voice was a low rumble. “It’s a good thing this isn’t a ship, because there’d be a mutiny.” Then his posture melted back to casual. He grinned as he saluted. “But, aye, aye, Captain.”

  The transformation had been so absolute and so temporary. I wondered if I’d imagined it, but Bartlett’s cheeks were as red as his freckles. He stomped off without replying.

  Curtis held his hand up for a high five, but I turned away. I wasn’t his responsibility. If I couldn’t prove my worth, I’d relinquish my spot. I didn’t need to owe him anything else—and I wasn’t asking for any more favors.

  “Eliza,” Merri called from across the room. When I reached her, she said, “Looked like you needed an intervention. You’re welcome.”

  “He’s so . . .” I wasn’t sure how to end that sentence. I let it trail off and trusted Merri to fill in the blank.

  She did, with laughter. “Don’t ever change.”

  I sat stiffly, because I had changed, and she hadn’t noticed. No one had. Even Curtis didn’t know how much effort I was putting into avoiding him. How much energy it required to find rage for my glares and blades for my words. Last night I’d spent an hour googling nonsense things like “skin tingles.” I’d ghost-browsed his iLive social profile—he apparently believed in aliens and UFOs, and that alone should’ve exiled him from my thoughts.

  A few hours at his house had stolen plates from my armor and compromised my emotional force field. I didn’t know how to change things back. Especially when he beamed like he had gotten a perfect SAT score the first time I buzzed and got an answer correct.

  I wrapped my legs around my stool and ground my teeth to keep from smiling back. It didn’t take much effort, because surprised silence had stretched between the moment I’d said “isobar” and when Dr. Badawi had blinked before saying, “That’s—correct! Well done, Eliza.”

  “Next question,” prompted Merri, and I readied my finger.

  At the end of practice I sent Merri to fetch our packets, because Dr. Badawi’s relief at my new proficiency was palpable and I didn’t want to discuss it or the science fair. She’d brought the Avery up in class the past two days—“I know those of you who typically participate have been at work for months, but the registration deadline’s approaching and I urge the rest of you to consider it too, if only for the opportunity to interact with such renowned judges.”

  Merri had shot me a we’re-going-to-talk-about-this-later look when Dr. Badawi named them Monday morning, but we hadn’t. I’d dodged, and she’d been distracted.

  Bartlett sauntered over. “I guess you’re not completely worthless. But keep practicing.”

  Lynnie rolled her eyes and offered me an exasperated smile. “Ignore him. You did well.”

  “Yeah,” added André. “Bartman needs to chill.”

  I bit back a smile, because Bartlett hated “Bartman” even more than “Barty.” Especially when Curtis inserted it into the Batman theme song. I searched the classroom for him. He was zipping up his backpack—shoving in a book that had fallen out. One with a familiar green cover.

  I turned away before he could catch me and misinterpret my expression. It was the book I was studying with such longing. Not the boy.

  13

  The anniversary of Sera and Hannah’s first date was Friday, and from the way everyone had been whispering about it all week, you’d have thought they were planning a surprise wedding—a task Merri was more than adept at, having organized her older sister’s elopement at the beginning of the month. Monday through Wednesday, I’d tolerated the conversations. I hadn’t participated, but I’d been a benign observer. But by lunch on Thursday their hearts-and-romance frenzy grated against every raw emotion left over from last night’s parental call. I wanted to muzzle them all.

  “Quick—Hannah’s in the bathroom, and Sera’s in line,” Lance said. “Does everyone know their job? I’ve got balloons for their lockers.”

  “I have a question about the cupcakes,” Curtis said. “Eliza, is there a version you’d actually eat? Or is getting you to ingest anything sugary a lost cause? My theory is you fear it’d sweeten your disposition.”

  I heard his words, but I couldn’t process them. My gaze was fixated on Merri’s neck. I blinked—my eyes puffy from crying and dry from lack of sleep—but it didn’t change what I’d seen. Merri had stretched her arms, and the action had momentarily exposed an inch of skin normally covered by her collar—revealing a purplish-red mark that hadn’t been there yesterday.

  I’d called her last night. Tw
ice. She hadn’t answered. During the drive this morning she’d paused in the middle of a story about Fielding’s dog to say, “Sorry I never called you back. I was busy. Everything okay?”

  It wasn’t. But the explanation was bigger than the remaining two minutes of our ride, so I’d brushed it off. I’d assumed she’d been busy at the store. Or with her sisters. I’m not sure why learning she’d been busy with Fielding was making my stomach twist, but I couldn’t stop staring at her collar.

  I’d needed her. My parents had called . . . and the cursed book . . . and I’d needed her.

  Victor had started building the monster a companion. I’d skipped the treadmill, turning pages while curled up in a chair, because my body felt tense and tight. I’d wanted to get in my car and drive across town and ask Curtis to trade books. I’d even checked my phone to see if I had his number. I didn’t. Maybe if I did, or maybe if Victor had kept his promise, my night would’ve gone differently. But once Victor saw the monster watching his progress in gleeful anticipation, he destroyed the female creature “on whose future existence [the monster] depended for happiness.”

  The monster howled. I might’ve too. Except that moment—when I was feeling isolated and doomed to loneliness—was when my parents had called.

  Either Dad had skipped a greeting or I’d missed it while pulling my mind out of Frankenstein. “You didn’t respond to our last email.”

  “I know.” Their postscript still rankled. I was supposed to acquiesce, but I doubted Frankenstein’s monster was going to shrug off Victor’s broken vow. He’d repay that act of betrayal in blood.

  “Excuse me?” Dad was nine thousand miles away, but sound waves had carried his disapproval to my ear in milliseconds.

  My free hand had curled into a fist. “‘Barbie doll in a lab coat’? How do you think it makes me feel when you say things like that about how I look?” I’d immediately regretted my phrasing. “Feel” wasn’t in my parents’ lexicon. They valued only one f word: “facts.”

  “Your appearance is not your identity.” I had practically heard the hand-wave Mom had executed as she’d dismissed me.

  “Yes, but—”

  “You’d be the same person if you were grotesque,” Dad had added. “We don’t want you to derive your value from the way you look.”

  “But I’m not grotesque,” I’d protested. “And would you say the same about intellectual capabilities? Would I be the same person if I suffered brain trauma?”

  “This conversation is not productive.”

  “This conversation is important!” I’d objected. “I’m sick of you making me feel bad. I only get one body to experience life through. This one’s mine. It’s not fair of you to expect me to constantly be at war with it.”

  “Oh. Oh!” Mom had sounded like she’d had a eureka moment, but I’d doubted her conclusion was the same as mine. She’d cleared her throat. “We understand you’re maturing and your body is being flooded with hormones that lead to sexual urges.”

  “Sexuality is a natural thing,” Dad had interjected.

  “But, this is why we have rules against dating. No birth-control method is a hundred percent effective.”

  “And within that margin of error is the difference between a GED and a PhD.” Dad had sounded particularly chuffed with this phrasing, but Mom had sighed.

  “Not that there aren’t young mothers who do go on to get PhDs or have academic and career success, but the odds are against them.”

  “What we’re saying is, in adolescence, your limbic system—which controls emotional receptivity—is very responsive. It often overrides the prefrontal cortex’s rational—”

  “She knows how the parts of the brain function, Warner. What Eliza needs is advice on dealing with . . . urges.”

  “No she does not!” I’d blurted out. “I haven’t even kissed anyone!”

  “This explains those queries in her internet search history: ‘frisson,’ ‘what causes skin to tingle,’ ‘scientific explanation for skin sensation,’ ‘somatosensory system’—I told you they were significant.”

  “You monitor my web browsing?!” But they hadn’t acknowledged my outrage.

  “We’re going to send you articles,” Mom had replied. “Some of them you’ve read before—but clearly you need a review. You’ve got too much potential to get trapped in codependency. You are a capable, independent, brilliant young woman. There’s so much you could achieve. The last thing you need is to lose your identity and goals in some fleeting adolescent relationship.”

  The call had ended without them hearing me. I’d just needed to be heard. And if not by them, and not by Merri . . .

  “Eliza.” Curtis’s voice was insistent. He picked up my banana from the lunch table and waved it in front of my face. “Hello?”

  “Give her a minute,” interjected Merri. “She’s having a think. You know a problem is complex if Eliza doesn’t immediately have an answer.”

  But I did have an answer; it was written in the way my stomach clenched with nonsensical jealousy when Merri put a hand on Curtis’s wrist to draw his arm back. Jealousy that roared irrationally when he smiled at her and said, “I’ll have to keep you around. You’re like an Eliza user’s guide.”

  She was dating Fielding. The proof of that was on her neck. Curtis only wanted her to decode me. Yet my churning stomach rejected these facts.

  “Did you break Eliza?” Toby asked him. Like Curtis was my spokesperson. Or had the power to break me. Like I was a thing that could be broken. Torn apart limb by limb like Victor’s female monster, who only almost existed to bring the male monster happiness.

  I closed my hands in fists and opened my mouth. “I don’t understand why we’re celebrating this. So Sera and Hannah have been coupled for a year—why are we pretending that’s a good thing? Girls in serious high school relationships have higher rates of depression and anxiety, lower rates of advance degrees, a greater risk of abusive partners. But, yes, let’s make cupcakes and celebrate our friends’ poor life choices.”

  “Eliza.”

  I ignored Merri. Ignored Curtis when he echoed her. Didn’t even stop when I looked up and saw Sera and Hannah standing at the end of the table. Sera’s mouth was gaping and Hannah’s eyes were wet, but their hands were linked as they walked away.

  “And you.” I pointed at Merri, who had stood up to follow them. “You used to be empathetic and compassionate—a good friend. Now you’re so busy chasing dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin that you don’t think of anyone but your boyfriend and the next time you can make out.”

  “Hey!” It was Toby who’d protested, so I turned on him.

  “Like you can talk. You substituted one Campbell sister for the other like they’re girl-shaped cogs to serve your need for hero worship.” I knew this wasn’t true—knew he cared for Rory—but I wanted it to be. I needed them to be wrong, for Frankenstein to be wrong and my parents right. My words felt unforgivable, but so did their happiness. So did the fact that I wanted to join them and that my eyes had strayed toward a certain tall, dark distraction.

  That direction would lead to my downfall. I had science on my side. They only had feelings. “It’s ignorant. Romance? Love? They’re not real. They’re hormonal urges, brain chemicals, traps. Everyone would be happier and achieve more if they were just . . . alone.”

  I choked on the last word, on the poisoned silence that followed. I wanted to take it back, carve everything I’d said from their prefrontal cortexes before it could be transferred to long-term memory. I wanted to cry, or apologize, or shut my eyes so I didn’t see the four of them staring at me with betrayal or remember Sera’s and Hannah’s expressions when they’d fled.

  “You know—” Merri’s lips quivered, and mine did too. “I thought I was immune to the callous things you say when your parents’ opinions come out of your mouth, but that hurt. And I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

  I wanted to respect that, to say, I understand, because logically I did. But it was
the emotional part of my brain—the limbic system—that formed the words, “For how long?”

  She shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. “I don’t know. But I love Fielding. And—” She stiffened and gave a laugh. “I do. I—I love him. And you know what? You’re not the person I need to tell that to. Excuse me.”

  I knew—Curtis, Lance, and Toby knew too—that she was going to march to Fielding’s classroom and tell him right now. Probably not in the classroom—they’d already done the public-declaration thing when she’d asked him to Fall Ball—but she’d convince his teacher to excuse him and tell him in the hall. In other circumstances the moment would be charming, and Curtis would be asking, “Anyone know what class he has so we can go watch this?” But now the memory would be tainted. By me.

  No one met my eyes as I repacked my lunch. I kept waiting for Curtis to break the silence. Instead he stared at the fork sticking out of his thermos like he couldn’t remember how to lift it.

  I stood, an apology stuck in my throat, my fingers shaking around my lunch bag.

  Lance dropped his sandwich onto his tray and whistled as he shook his head. “I’m not even dating anyone, but the hopeless romantic part of me is offended.”

  I nodded. And left.

  Merri didn’t look in my direction all afternoon. Not even when Ms. Gregoire stopped by Media class to ask, “I didn’t get your response journal last night. Did you turn one in?”

  I’d answered, “No, I’ll take the zero.” Because that hit to my average was less painful than the book.

  During Convocation, Merri sat with Toby, her sister, and Rory’s friends Huck and Clara. When I paused beside their row, Toby shook his head. I kept walking. Sera and Hannah were two benches up. They pretended to be engrossed in a conversation with Lance.

  I ground my teeth. I’d made it sixteen years without crying in public; I wasn’t about to start.