Talk Nerdy to Me

by Tiffany Schmidt

  I reviewed my notes. I was absurdly glad about spending time with someone who cared more about my happiness than my GPA.

  “I get to study paintings to my heart’s content,” Rory told us as Toby fiddled with settings. “He’ll be busy—the gallery owner hired him to play background music on the piano.”

  “That’s awesome,” I said, and Toby nodded. Whether it was to acknowledge the meaning of my words or the way they’d registered on the recording, I wasn’t sure. But then he turned to me. “Do you have a title yet? It needs one.”

  “Oh, um.” This was the sort of thing Curtis would’ve been perfect for—if it weren’t for the bet. “I was thinking Science Party? Because the point of the podcast is everyone’s invited and can understand.” Six eyes blinked at me. Eight if you included Gatsby’s. “That bad?”

  “No,” said Toby. “That good. Say that whole thing again into the mic. I’ll record it and add it to the episodes.”

  “You’re sure?” Since when did I need Toby’s validation? Still, I held my breath.

  “Yeah. I’ve listened to each episode a few times while editing.” I was glad he turned back to the computer so I had space to react when he added, “They’re good. You’re really creative.”

  “Creative?” I laughed and pointed to Rory. “She’s creative. And Merri.”

  Toby didn’t look up from the screen. “Apparently you are too. Deal with it.”

  Rory crossed to stand behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I want to listen. When can I?”

  “After the Avery?” I said. “I might put them up in case anyone else wants to hear them.”

  “Hello?” Rory waved her hand. “I just said I did.”

  Mr. Campbell chuckled. “I’m going to want to hear them again too. Lots of people will.”

  Their reaction matched the overwhelmingly positive feedback I’d been getting from the podcasting forum where I posted—anonymously—asking for advice. But I shrugged. “It’s not a typical project.”

  Toby stood from his crouch. “I know nothing about science fairs, but like we’re all saying, these are good. Besides, can’t you win this sort of thing in your sleep?”

  I blinked slowly—his expectations weren’t that different from my parents’, but they diverged on discernment. I swallowed down my growing uncertainty—was this project good enough to win the bet? Could I handle Frankenstein if it didn’t?

  It felt important—it was important—but would the judges agree?

  “I guess we’ll see,” I mumbled.

  Toby reached for Rory’s hand. “Click here when you start and again when you’re done. Then I’ll splice it down.”

  “Thank you.” I was still astounded that he and I were at a place where I could ask him for favors and he’d say yes without any coercion from Rory or Merri.

  When the door shut behind them, Mr. Campbell set two mugs on the table. “Ready? Because I’ve got a question for you.”

  I pointed to the mic. “Go for it.” If I didn’t know the answer, we could address it on the next episode. In the meantime, I was excited about what I’d prepared for today—having a frank conversation about the ways “science” was used to shut down debates or exclude people. I had tips for discriminating between serious studies and pseudoscience. Advice on how to ask for clarification when being railroaded with “facts.” Mr. Campbell would love it.

  Next week I wanted to talk about the opposite: how to use true scientific facts to disprove false beliefs—e.g., “the earth is flat” or “vaccines cause autism.” I already knew what my conclusions would be: You can have all the data in the world and explain it calmly and clearly, but there’s no magic trick for making people listen or be logical.

  Mr. Campbell cleared his throat. “How do I explain to a customer that global warming is a real thing? Just because this January the snow reached their Marshmallow’s knees and last year it only covered his paws doesn’t mean it’s ‘fake news.’”

  I grinned and leaned toward my mic. “‘Global warming’ is just one aspect of climate change. Those terms are often used as synonyms—but they’re not the same. It’s like—say climate change is ‘pasta,’ then global warming is ‘manicotti.’ If a store temporarily runs out of manicotti, it doesn’t mean they don’t have pasta. Let’s break this down . . .”

  27

  I’m nervous. Typing those words on Saturday morning felt reckless. I was creating a permanent record of my vulnerability. I could scarcely look at the screen as I added, And I’m scared Merri will guess.

  Telling her meant saying I was wrong about romance, admitting I was scared. It meant this thing with Curtis was real. But not telling her felt like a betrayal. I left the message unsent as I began the short drive to her house.

  She’d seemed plenty suspicious last night when she came back from hanging out with Sera and Hannah and Fielding—crashing my podcast party as we were packing up, then going into interrogation mode. “Something is up with you—I just can’t figure out what. You’d tell me, right—if something was going on?”

  I’d stared at her, willing her to guess. When she didn’t, I’d told her “of course”—lie number two. It weighed on my conscience as I pulled into her driveway. But if I didn’t tell her, I needed to warn Curtis to be wary of her. So I pressed Send. Merri bounced out of the house, her uniform skirt floating over red and navy plaid tights, her eyes on her phone and her expression confused.

  “Hey.” I pointed to the two pink Cool Beans cups I’d picked up as penance. Hers was a mocha-sugar-whipped something. I’d said, “It’s for Merri,” and they’d known what to make. Mine was a small half-caff with almond milk. I was trying this coffee thing again—but easing in.

  “Thanks.” She buckled her seat belt, then waved her phone at me. “But what are you scared I’ll guess?”

  I slammed my foot on the brake. Since we were still in her driveway, still in reverse, the only consequences were the coffees splashing out their sip holes and Merri’s bewildered “Are you okay?”

  I grabbed my phone. The text hadn’t gone to Curtis—I’d sent it to her. And judging by the arch of her eyebrow, my explanation needed to be bulletproof.

  Blast! This was why I’d bought the freaking burner phone. It worked great for whispered late-night calls where Curtis and I quizzed each other and bickered and found our own strange form of flirting, but since I was spending the day with Merri and Curtis, I’d left it home.

  I eased my foot off the brake and offered Merri an eye roll that would’ve made Win proud. “That’s the last time I use the AI text function. It was supposed to say, ‘“Are you scared?” send Merri this text.’”

  She laughed. “Gah, I guess ‘guess’ and ‘text’ sound alike to a robot.” She picked up her coffee and I exhaled, though the muscles of my shoulders stayed tight. “And, no—I’m not scared about anything but you and Curtis.”

  “What?” The traffic light was newly yellow, but I braked abruptly.

  “That you two might kill each other midcompetition?” She patted my arm. “You’re really jumpy. Want me to drive?”

  “You don’t have your license.” Otherwise, I might’ve. “And you’re not wrong about the chances of murder.” Because I was suddenly angry with him for putting me in a position where I had to lie to her. Yes, the lies were my idea, and yes, this was a trap of my own making . . . but he was the one who’d made them necessary. Him and his stupid feelings and flirting. Life was simpler back when I actually hated him instead of pretending to.

  “He’s not a bad guy. He’s smart and nice and kinda cute.” Merri’s voice was a hesitant mouse squeak.

  “Excuse me?”

  Her face pinched as she tried to figure out which statement had offended. “He’s not classically gorgeous like you or Fielding, but he’s not unattractive—”

  “Curtis has good bone structure and strong features. He’ll be undeniably handsome once he grows into them. He’s already attractive. People overlook that with his behavior.” I huff
ed. “Not that it matters to me.”

  “Right, of course.” She was saying the correct words, but her expression turned suspicious. “But maybe let’s talk about this when you’re not driving. Did you notice the car behind us is beeping? Because the light just turned yellow again—we missed an entire green.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” I said, jerkily accelerating to get through the intersection before it went red.

  Merri’s “Uh-huh. Sure.” was definitely knowing. If I’d been looking at her and not the road, I’m sure she’d have paired it with a wink.

  We were early—a full four minutes before seven thirty. Just because we were the last to arrive didn’t make us “late,” no matter how much Bartlett wanted to pretend it did.

  Dr. Badawi was behind the wheel of the white minivan with “Hero High” emblazoned on the side above our school emblem. Curtis, Lynnie, and André were crammed in the back row.

  “Get in,” Bartlett ordered. “So we can leave.”

  I followed Merri to the van. She climbed into the middle row behind Bartlett. That left me with shotgun, and it quickly became clear why the veteran team members had chosen seats as far from Dr. Badawi as possible. Despite the map on her phone screen and the volume of the navigational system being turned up high, she didn’t seem capable of following directions.

  Each time it said, “Recalculating,” she sputtered, “Oh dear, was that the turn?”

  By the time we arrived, my fingers were cramped from gripping the armrest, and Merri was clutching her stomach and had turned an alarming shade of carsick green. After checking in at the lobby, Dr. Badawi herded us into the auditorium, but then everyone scattered: bathroom breaks, coffee cart, off to greet parents or friends from other teams. I was fairly confident Merri had dashed off to vomit. She wouldn’t want an audience but would feel better afterward. I fished a mint out of my bag for when she returned.

  I turned to inspect the stage. It was set with two tables, each with five chairs, five microphones, five buzzers. Both tables were angled at the audience so they resembled a V, with a podium and smaller table at the point—presumably for the moderator and judges.

  Around me people were talking in groups. Normally Merri would be with me, chatting and introducing me to every living being in the room, two-or four-legged. But she hadn’t returned from the bathroom, and I felt conspicuous.

  Why had I worn my hair down today? Blow-dried and brushed it and stood in front of the mirror, feeling ridiculous when I told myself, “You’re allowed to feel pretty.” Pretty foolish. Ugh, this wasn’t as dramatic a mistake as when Anne Shirley had accidentally dyed her hair green—but I understood her regret. I hadn’t even let myself bring a hair band. Past me hadn’t planned for present me’s cowardice.

  I ground my teeth and scanned the auditorium for Merri. The rear door opened, and a familiar face appeared within the frame. His eyes met mine, and my expression transformed to match his wide smile. For the first time since I’d stepped into this room, I felt my chest relax.

  I didn’t run to him. It wasn’t necessary. Curtis made his way over to me. “Hey, ace navigator.”

  “I don’t know how to use those buzzers.” I pointed at the stage. They weren’t the type you held in your hand. They were small black boxes that sat on the table. On the top was a green light and a red button. Presumably the first lit up when you pressed the second, but what was optimal hand positioning? How sensitive were they?

  “Breathe, Eliza.” He touched my hand quickly, lightly, but it was enough to distract me from the tightening of my throat. “That’s better. Now I want you to picture everyone in here with their IQ tattooed on their forehead.”

  “Isn’t it supposed to be ‘in their underwear’?”

  “Eh, that’s always creeped me out.” His hand skated across mine again. “Plus, the point is to make you feel better. Wouldn’t seeing their IQs make you realize how much you don’t need to be worried about this?”

  I rolled my eyes. “The only thing an IQ test measures is your ability to take an IQ test.” Granted my ability was astounding, but still.

  “There’s my firebug.” He grinned. “You’re ready.”

  28

  Our match wasn’t first. Or second. I sat in the audience pressing an imaginary button on my knee as I listened to other teams’ questions, keeping a mental tally of the ones I could’ve answered. When the match before ours ended, Dr. Badawi said, “You’re prepared and capable. Now go take your seats.”

  I wanted to pause the moment, nominate Curtis to give a real pep talk. One that ended with us laughing. But Bartlett was already herding him up the steps and to the far end of the table. No! I’d been counting on him sitting next to me so he could squeeze my hand or bump my knee beneath the table. Instead I was sandwiched between André and Merri.

  The team across from ours wasn’t wearing uniforms. They were from the public school Win and Wink attended. Emma Williams was on it. She had a bright smile that I caught in flashes as she pivoted from the teammate on her left to the one on her right. Her whole team seemed relaxed, jocular. They were chatting and sharing lip balm. Wasn’t that distracting? Shouldn’t they be focused and silent like our side of the stage? I wiped my hands on my horribly unabsorbent skirt and only realized it was my turn to introduce myself when Merri stepped on my foot.

  The moderator went over the same rules as before both prior matches. It was a good thing I’d listened then, because all I could hear was the pencil Merri was rolling across the green tablecloth and André taking deep, meditation-style breaths.

  I leaned forward and looked down the table. Curtis was already turned in my direction. He nodded. One chin tilt up, chin tilt down—but it was enough. I sat back, exhaled, then poised my hand on the buzzer, just in time for the moderator to announce, “Here’s our first question—”

  Eleven toss-ups and eleven bonus questions later we had a four-minute break before the second half. “After this, how do they decide which winners play against which other teams?” Merri asked.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Bartlett was angry we’d hesitated when the moderator asked us to name our team captain—the only player allowed to buzz and answer bonus questions. “This is a single-stage tournament. After this, we’re done. So keep it together.”

  I glowered at him. We were doing fine. We’d taken possession of six of the eleven toss-ups and also captured the one they’d missed. We’d gotten most of our bonuses correct. As long as we didn’t flub it, we could use the second half to expand our lead.

  “Time,” said the moderator.

  Except we did flub it. André got a toss-up wrong. Bartlett didn’t buzz in fast enough on two bonuses. Merri exceeded the time limit to answer a computation problem, though she’d had it right on her notepad. I hesitated on a question I knew. We also had questions correct, but our lead went from comfortable to nonexistent. And with only one question left, all ten players were sitting forward, hands trembling over buzzers.

  “This author of twenty novels and more than five hundred short stories was the first Canadian female to be made a fellow of the Royal Society of the Arts. Though not an orphan herself, Lucy Maud Montgomery”—my eyes shot to Curtis, but his were already on me, his mouth set in concentration, his eyes bright—“is best known for her series of novels about a red-haired orphan girl, set in the Canadian provin—”

  Bzzzzt!

  I wasn’t sure if Curtis had delayed because he had expected me to take it, or if I’d hesitated waiting for him to buzz in. But despite both our thumbs being smashed on red buttons, the light that lit up wasn’t either of ours.

  The moderator pointed to a boy on the other team with dark skin, clear-rimmed glasses, and a popped collar. He cleared his throat into the microphone. “That would be Prince Edward Island.”

  I couldn’t hear the applause because blood was pounding in my ears. But I didn’t need to hear the moderator tell him he was correct or see the points awarded. I dropped my chin, not wanting
to watch the bonus. I’d already done the math. We were ahead prior to this question. Now we’d lost.

  The others pushed back their chairs. They were standing to cross the stage and shake hands. Doing what Bartlett had referred to as “The losers’ walk of shame.” I’d told him that was rude—but smugly, because I’d never expected to be doing it.

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t unbend my finger, and it wasn’t until I heard the low chime and saw everyone turn toward me that I realized I was still jamming down the button. The moderator must have reset them after the last answer—the one I should’ve gotten.

  “Hey.” Curtis’s voice was quiet. He unplugged the buzzer’s cord before gently prying my finger from the button and setting it on the table. The noise stopped, and chatter and congratulations rushed in to fill the silence. “You’ve got to get up. Go shake some hands. Fake a smile. You can do this.”

  I followed his instructions. Crossed the stage. Forced the corners of my mouth up. Extended my hand for shaking.

  “Eliza Gordon-Fergus, right? Our parents are friends.” Superficially Emma resembled me—blond, blue eyes—although her hair was short and her eyes were warm and inviting. I’d bet my parents’ Nobel that she’d never been called “Ice Queen.” “I’m Em. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  They flashed the auditorium lights in a five-minute warning, and I blinked—claustrophobic on a stage that was filling up with people getting settled for the next match. I needed my hair up off my neck, because it was suffocating me, slipping over my shoulders as I nodded. It wanted me to shake my head—deny my name, reject her words—so it could fly outward in wild strands.

  “My parents are here. They’d love to meet you. I’ve heard so many fun stories about your dad—like the time he tried to use my dad’s DJ turntable as a centrifuge.” Emma laughed, but I had no idea what she was talking about.