Talk Nerdy to Me

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Sorry.

  I hesitated, then deleted those five letters. Replaced them with:

  I’m glad you’ll be home in three weeks. I miss you. I miss being part of a family. It gets lonely in this house.

  Before I could second-guess or go too far—if I hadn’t already—I hit Send.

  The time difference was plus eighteen hours—my five thirty p.m. Saturday would be their eleven thirty a.m. Sunday—but that didn’t signify anything. They tended to work and rest at odd intervals, exacerbated by the ever-present or ever-absent sunlight at the base station. I spent five minutes staring at the screen, willing an answer to appear. When one didn’t, I took a shower—then returned to stare. I made dinner and ate it at my desk, then picked up my laptop and walked downstairs.

  My parents’ lab was behind double doors just past Nancy’s office and the kitchen. Technically they called it “our lab”—but I hadn’t been in there since they were home at Christmas. They hadn’t assigned me any experiments since then—probably because they assumed I was working on my own for the Avery.

  Despite that, the epoxy resin of the lab table was gleaming and there wasn’t any dust in the sink or any crevices of the gas valve. My lab coat and safety goggles were on their hook, along with protective gloves and apron. There was the locked, fire-resistant cabinet for the more volatile chemicals, and regular cabinets for stable compounds. I opened one door—containers all in neat rows, labeled with contents and expiration dates.

  Nancy had taken meticulous care of the lab. She invested way more effort here than she ever had in me. But it felt eerie without my parents. Lonelier. Being in here, however, was a necessary first step in my plan to get them back. To stay.

  I opened all the cabinets and the lid of my laptop. I didn’t lack for resources: materials, equipment—if it wasn’t here, I could order it or call any of my parents’ colleagues to get access to it. What I lacked was time. There were three weeks until the Avery. I had to impress them. I couldn’t do that with quiz bowl losses or Bs on math tests. As much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t do that with the podcast.

  It was like that scene in Anne of Green Gables where she needs to apologize to the gossipy Rachel Lynde. Anne doesn’t want to, but since she has to, she makes it grandiose. I needed a new project—one so advanced and erudite that even my parents would be pleased. I might loathe every second of it, but like Anne said, “I’ll try to do and be anything you want me, if you’ll only keep me.”

  I had three weeks to pull off something amazing. Something that would win first prize, win Anne of Green Gables, win over my parents and convince them I was impressive, worth it. Convince them to stay.

  I spent the next two hours analyzing the projects of past winners, looking for commonalities. By the time I’d settled on my own, I felt slightly ill. It went beyond ambitious, to a point where I was questioning my sanity. Could I do months of work in twenty-one days? Did I have a choice?

  I’d gone back to where this all started, with Mr. Campbell’s question about CRISPR. But instead of explaining it, I’d be using it.

  I hit Refresh one last time before shutting down my laptop—the action more reflex than expectation. But at the top of my inbox was a response. Or rather, a word—since the whole email was just one.

  Noted.

  My parents had a strict rule about no eating in the lab. I obviously understood why—especially since I’d be working with bacteria—but this meant I had to leave the room three times on Sunday to eat, drink, and use the bathroom. Technically there was a fourth time when Nancy knocked on the door, but I’d just leaned into the hall and chugged the tea she’d made me without stepping fully out.

  I still had school and homework. Still had quiz bowl practice and trying to squeeze in runs with Curtis—runs where I often prioritized kissing over training—but it felt like every second I wasn’t bent over bacteria cultures working on DNA extraction was one I’d regret later.

  I wasted many, many futile moments refreshing my inbox, looking for an addendum to their one-word email. It didn’t come. And more than once I fell asleep on the lab bench while working late into the night—but I didn’t bother filling out sleep-disturbance paperwork when I woke up, or even trying to rig my iLive band so it looked like I was getting the right number of hours.

  Those lab-bench dreams were always nightmares. Ones where I transformed back and forth between Frankenstein’s monster, waiting to see if Victor would accept my heartfelt request for a companion, and Anne sitting anxiously in her bedroom at Green Gables, fretting about whether Marilla and Matthew would keep me. I blamed it on the fumes from the disinfectants I was using to maintain sterility or the white noise of the fan in the lab hood, but my waking worries weren’t that different. If I could pull this off, I’d definitely win custody of Anne’s book—and hopefully borrow the outcome of her story too.

  I managed to isolate the DNA of my targeted gene, but in doing so, I’d isolated myself as well. A week into my Avery sequester, Merri texted me: My best friend is missing. I need you to send me proof of life.

  I took off my latex gloves and snapped a quick picture of myself next to the thermocycler before I started the next round of polymerase chain reactions. I sent it with a brief explanation of the science fair bet and why I had to win to get Anne and escape Frankenstein.

  She’d written back, Totally get it. How can I help?

  I wished I could come up with any other answer but the truth. Be patient. It’ll all be over soon.

  Too soon. Because through all this and across two weeks, my experiment grew—both literally and figuratively—and the doctors Gordon and Fergus didn’t call or email. I’d gone back to the book I’d skipped, reading Anne of Windy Poplars on the bus ride to our next quiz bowl competition—which we’d won. But despite spending those hours reading Anne’s letters to everyone in Avonlea, I got zero inspiration from its epistolary format. If my parents weren’t writing to me, I wasn’t writing to them.

  I’d managed to insert the isolated genes into the DNA plasmid of the agrobacterium and then swab it across the shallow score marks I’d cut into my plants’ stems, but I hadn’t yet managed to tell Mr. Campbell about the project change. When he asked about our next recording session, I kept my answers vague. And when Toby sent me the final edited versions of the first four episodes of Science Party, I wouldn’t let myself listen. Mr. Campbell would forgive me—he’d be way more understanding than my own mom and dad, which almost made the betrayal worse. I started waiting in my car for Merri on school mornings, pulling out my laptop and working on my Avery abstract if she was running late.

  I was waiting—for a response from my parents, for the other shoe to drop with Curtis, for the agrobacterium to infect my plants and insert the foreign gene into their cells.

  For the first time in forever, I was looking forward to the weekend. Not because of fun plans—though Curtis and I had seven miles mapped out for Saturday afternoon—but because I needed the lab time. Friday night, as I was eating my dinner in big gulps while standing at the island, Nancy wandered into the kitchen. “You should probably slow down and chew. I don’t know if I remember the Heimlich maneuver from my seventh-grade health class.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was joking or not—I could never quite tell. Still, I swallowed. “Have you heard from my parents lately?”

  She blinked at me. “Of course.”

  I was unsurprised that she didn’t ask “Why?” Dad had told me privately that Nancy’s lack of curiosity would be her undoing as a scientist. She excelled at recording facts and compiling data, but there was a next step missing from her work—the step that came from questions and looking for more.

  But her lack of curiosity or interest meant I could drop my dishes in the sink and answer, “I’m headed into the lab.”

  She nodded. “I’ll bring you tea later if I make some.”

  I wanted to make a joke—something about tea not being a choking hazard or such—but my brain was too tired, so I no
dded. “Thanks.”

  Somehow by the time I looked up from my plant trays, it was already eleven p.m. The tea was long cold. I leaned against the doorframe and rubbed my eyes. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scrolled through the dozen texts Curtis had sent. They were all different versions of the same message.

  I made cupcakes if you want to take a break and come over.

  The twins want to play Mario Kart with you.

  Fine, just Win and me. Wink’s still pissed at you for rejecting me.

  But she might get over it if you come over?

  Never mind, she’s headed to her friend Reese’s house.

  All the more reason to come.

  I scrolled to the last one: I miss you.

  I missed him too. I missed everything about life outside this lab and resented every second I was spending bent over my laptop and under grow lights. But it didn’t change anything.

  One more week. After the Avery was done I’d have my prize, have my book, and hopefully have my parents’ attention and approval.

  One. More. Week.

  32

  By Saturday afternoon I was claustrophobic and restless from being trapped in the lab. It had warmed up to a balmy forty-eight degrees, which meant the ground had thawed to cold mud and our trail run had been a slippery mess. This hadn’t stopped us from revisiting the site of our first kiss and reenacting it.

  “Have you heard from your parents yet?” Curtis asked.

  In that post-kiss moment, I didn’t mind answering. “No. I’m not sure if I should be angry or scared.”

  “Be both?” Curtis suggested, his hand slipping around my waist. “What would you miss most if you were in Antarctica?”

  “Sunrises and sunsets.” I kept my gaze latched on the pink sky in front of me, because it was easier to be vulnerable when not facing him. “My dad missed the sunrise in September. He was in the middle of something and didn’t take a break. It had been dark for so many months, how could he not take a break?”

  “Wow.” Curtis was quiet. I assumed he was admiring the vista and the profoundness of my words, until he added, “I was expecting you to say me, but I’ll accept that answer.”

  I snorted. “People are a given. Merri’s not going anywhere, even if either of us do. I mean, geographically we may separate, but I’m not worried about that hurting our friendship.”

  “She’s your ride or die.”

  “I have no idea what that means, but it doesn’t sound pleasant.”

  “Would you rather ‘kindred spirit’?” he asked.

  “Yes. Anne had Diana Barry, I have Merri Campbell. Personally, I think I got the better deal.” I narrowed my eyes, daring him to disagree with me. He wisely didn’t. “Maybe I’ll write my Anne of Green Gables paper on that—after I win the science competition.” I gave him a shove and headed down the trail, his feet and laughter chasing me back to my car, where we panted, muddy and breathless.

  “So, we’ve done a seven-mile run. We’ve quiz-bowled. According to you we’ve ‘babysat’ my siblings—though if Win ever hears you say that, be prepared to go witness protection.” He paused for me to laugh, then added, “I’ve got an idea for what we should do next.”

  “More baking?” I’d noticed that our cupcake misadventures hadn’t made his list.

  “No, but hang on to that thought, because there’s a vegan bakery on our way home that Toby told me about; Rory’s a fan.”

  “I’m in.” I’d thought a lot about Curtis’s words regarding my attitudes toward food and what it was and wasn’t. This wasn’t a rebellion. It was a choice. I was choosing to make my own choices. I was choosing cupcakes. And Curtis.

  Even though I didn’t say any of this aloud, he smiled. “Good, but hear me a second. I think we should go on a date.” He watched me stiffen. “A real one—where we’re not in uniforms or running clothes. I don’t care if we have to go to a different town—we can go to a different state if you want—but can’t we have a night where we admit we’re real?”

  It’d been two and a half weeks since we first kissed. It’d be three weeks and one day on Thursday—Valentine’s Day. Was that the motive behind this? What if he did something thoughtful and sweet and I didn’t know how to reciprocate? I’d been hoping we could ignore it—smile politely and change the subject when our couple friends shared their plans.

  “You’re not happy with what we’re doing?” Those were the words I’d spoken, but the hidden question was, you’re not happy with me?

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” Curtis fiddled with the zipper on his sweatshirt, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “I want to go somewhere with you—on purpose, just us—without worrying you’ll flip out if anyone sees us together.”

  “I don’t flip out.” Except I totally had. “Do you think Huck suspects?”

  Curtis opened the passenger door. My car’s interior lights made me blink, and they illuminated rare impatience in his expression. Right. I guess we didn’t need to have this conversation in the rapidly darkening parking lot. I slid behind the wheel and admitted, “Fine, I might have slightly panicked when Huck said he saw us running.”

  “Much like you’re doing now?” grumbled Curtis.

  I glared at him as I fiddled with the heat vents. I wanted to be flirting, practicing quiz bowl questions—even discussing my parents’ silent treatment or answering more of his questions about Brazil would be better than talking about romance. I got enough of that at school, where the hallways had exploded with heart-shaped posters announcing MAKE YOUR VALENTINE FEEL SPECIAL—BUY THEM A CARNATION & SUPPORT THE PROM COMMITTEE!

  He was asking for more than I could give him. I’d been crystal clear from the beginning that we were not- dating, which included the words “not” and “dating”—and should make the answer to his date-request pretty obvious. He’d asked anyway and was waiting for me to give him an answer—one that would only upset us both. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “‘Heck, yes!’?” he suggested. “I’d even settle for an ‘I guess so.’” He sighed. “But you’re not going to, are you?”

  I studied the tiny flecks of mud that stood out against my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and shook my head.

  The dashboard clock counted up two minutes before he spoke, quietly, slowly—the type of voice a person would use with a wild animal they were trying not to spook. It didn’t fully mask the hurt in his voice. “Fine. I rescind the offer—for now. Real date is temporarily off the table.” He reached over and touched my cheek—he might’ve been wiping off mud, but it felt like a caress. Either way it was achingly gentle. I searched his face, trying to decode which emotion was beneath his weak smile as he added, “But you’d better believe I’m going to be coming in hot about stopping for cupcakes.”

  I couldn’t give him a date, but I could handle baked goods. “Then let’s get you some.”

  Curtis seemed fine on the drive to the bakery. He joked with the baker as he picked out cupcakes. “You know, I could make the flavors punnier. If you’re ever looking for a cupcake titler, give me a call.” My mouth twitched as I tried to imagine what he’d come up with. He was still pointing in the display case. “And let’s take another half dozen. How about one of each of your gluten-free flavors.”

  Did he notice the paper hearts taped beside where his fingers rested? Or the streamers and cupids dangling from the ceiling? The cozy couples seated at the tiny café tables? It made me conscious of how far apart we were standing. Of the fact that our hands weren’t clasped. We didn’t have a song, or a couple name. He’d given himself a pet name—but I’d never called him “cupcake.”

  The bakery air was hot and sweet, but it made my stomach turn. I shoved my credit card into the chip reader. “My treat. Hit the buttons when it asks. I’m going to wait outside.”

  His forehead creased. “Sure, okay. I’ll be right there.” He turned back to the baker. “I guess pack them to go.”

  That he’d even considered staying ma
de my forehead prickle with sweat. We didn’t belong in there. We’d be imposters in a sea of authentic couples. Couples who knew what they were doing and were allowed to date . . . and not terrified of it. Because if I was honest, it was equal parts rules and fear that had made me reject Curtis’s offer of a “real date.”

  He caught up with me in the parking lot. I was leaning against my car, my hands pressed against the cool metal as I breathed in deep gulps of cold air. He handed me my credit card and the receipt. “Thanks. Are you okay?”

  “It was hot in there,” I lied. “Maybe I’m having low blood sugar.”

  “Luckily we have plenty to replenish you with.” He lifted the bright blue bakery bag. “Want to head to my house for a Mario Kart and nosh? We’ve got enough to share with Win and Wink.”

  I shook my head. Since the brunch debacle where I’d rejected her brother, Wink had stopped being friendly. Curtis must have forbidden her from interrogating me, but I could hear the unasked questions in her suspicious glances. It made me so aware of the answers I didn’t know. Mario Kart would become Mario Massacre.

  As long as we didn’t go into the lab, as long I didn’t have to even think about the work waiting behind those double doors . . . “We could go to my house. No one is home.” I hit the Unlock button on my car, then paused. Those words might imply something different coming from any of the coupled-up people in the bakery. “I don’t mean that how it sounds. I do mean no one is home—Nancy’s looking at apartments for her old roommate—but I’m not implying anything. There’s no subtext.”

  “Relax, Firebug.” Curtis tugged my ponytail. “I’d love to see your house, but whatever makes you comfortable. We can eat these in your driveway if you want.”

  I normally loathed when people told me to relax, but normally it was laced with impatience or annoyance as the person speaking tried to police my reactions. Curtis meant every word he’d said—and I could picture that cold-pavement picnic he’d offered.