Talk Nerdy to Me

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Inside my house might not be cozier . . . but at least it’d be warmer. I exhaled slowly and leaned toward him. “Let’s go to my house.”

  33

  Standing in my kitchen watching Curtis take in the stainless-steel appliances, neutral, empty countertops, and drab, utilitarian furniture was torture. It must’ve been how he’d felt the day I’d scrutinized his home. But his had personality—photos and knickknacks to analyze and help me learn more about him. We had the bland furnishings that came with the house. The only thing that made my house unique was down a hall and behind a set of double glass doors. Most families had a living room where they watched TV and lounged; we had Bunsen burners, an emergency eye-wash station, and acids and elements my parents needed special permission to keep in a private home.

  “Wow.” He gave a low whistle.

  “‘Wow,’ what?” I demanded. “Context, please.”

  “Wow, my house must seem very small and loud to you.” He opened the fridge and looked at the organized shelves of produce and glass storage containers. “I feel like I’m in an appliance showroom. Or a health spa.”

  “The most impersonal, boring spa ever?”

  He laughed and set the bakery bag on the counter. “But, hey, at least the spa now has cupcakes.” He took off his sweatshirt and slung it onto the back of a kitchen chair. Two minutes here and the house already looked brighter and more lived-in from his presence.

  I got us each a glass of water, since the only other thing in my fridge was almond milk, and according to him, calling it “milk” was sacrilegious. “Can I ask you something?”

  He clinked his glass against mine. “Sure.”

  “Why me? I—I believe you, that you like me, not just the way I look.” Those words were harder to say than I’d expected, but the freedom I felt on the other side of them was emboldening. “But what do you get out of skulking around with someone who makes everything so difficult?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “I like that you challenge me. And you’re smart. I like that I can be smart around you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a goof—”

  I poked his arm and smiled. “That’s one word for it.”

  He winked. “But . . . you’re a place I don’t have to be. Around you I can be brainy and understood, and no one feels threatened by it.”

  Win’s words from a few weeks back flashed in my mind. “Feats heroic, academic, or athletic,” I whispered.

  “Yeah.” He drained half his water. “Hero High is my . . . haven. Dr. B lets me spend extra time in the bio lab. Last year’s chem teacher does too. I try not to bug them—but it’s a place I can talk science without anyone feeling like I’m targeting or insulting them. My parents try, but they’re busy and it’s not interesting to them. So I’ve got Hero High . . . and I’ve got you.”

  I turned away, looking for something to clean or fiddle with. An excuse to hide how flattered I was by his words. I settled on paper towels, tearing off two in case we needed them. “And next year the twins might be at Hero High.”

  “Yeah, if they get in and we can somehow afford it.” He groaned. “Does it make me a bad person if I don’t want them to come? At least not Win. But that’s worse, because he’d be crushed if Wink left him behind.”

  I didn’t have solutions for sibling dynamics, but the idea of sanctuary resonated like an electric current. I reached for his hand. “How about, no matter what happens with the twins and school, I’ll be your ‘smart’ space—if you’ll be my ‘wild.’” His face lit up so brightly that it set off warning bells, and I dropped his fingers and picked up my glass. “Just don’t take it too far—I’m talking cupcakes and trail runs, not turning into an adrenaline addict.”

  “But—” His grin grew impossibly larger. “You realize you’re talking about next September. As in, seven months from now?”

  I hadn’t. My skin itched at the permanence that suggested. There was no way we could be stealthy until them—but how long was too long? And when I thought of the alternative—ending this—my stomach soured.

  “Stop overthinking it, Firebug,” he said. “Let’s eat some cupcakes.”

  “Explain that nickname first,” I countered.

  He dragged a hand across his face. “I knew you were going to ask eventually. Here goes: You light up when you talk about things you’re passionate about—science and causes and social justice. Things that matter.”

  “You said you think ‘Firebug’ is cute . . .”

  “Not ‘cute’ in any way that’s demeaning. But freaking adorable in a way that, like, I . . . adore you.” He blushed. “I mean, I adore the way you think. I just want to follow you around and listen to you say things that are important. If you made a newsletter, I’d be your first subscriber and memorize every word.”

  “You’re making fun of me.” Wasn’t he? Or had he found out about my former science fair project and “newsletter” was his code word for “podcast”?

  “I’m not.”

  I frowned. Mr. Campbell had said the same thing—that I glowed when I talked about my interests, that he was glad I was pursuing that project because clearly my whole heart was in it.

  I’d corrected him that it was my brain, thank you very much. The memory made me wistful—I missed every part of podcasting.

  “When you get angry—” Curtis sucked in a breath.

  “It’s cute?” I lifted my chin and propped my hands on my hips.

  “Noooo! It’s very scary. But it’s also awesome. The things you get mad about—they matter.”

  “Oh.” I looked down at a pile of paper-towel confetti. I hadn’t realized I’d been shredding it.

  “Also, Lampyridae are about the most gorgeous creatures on this earth. Bioluminescence—I know science has an explanation—but every time I see it, I forget what it is. Every time I see a firebug, it’s like a demonstration that magic exists.” His smile was equal parts sheepish and vulnerable. “Every time I see you, I feel the same way.”

  I’d told Merri a million times that magic wasn’t real—but those weren’t the words I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking in words. I was just . . . floored. And frustrated I couldn’t communicate how keenly I felt this or how much I liked what he said. I awkwardly patted the hand he had resting on the counter. “Um, thank you?”

  He flipped his palm over and twined our fingers, using his other hand to take the plastic cupcake tray out of the bakery bag. “Is now when you explain why you call me ‘Cupcake’? It’s because I’m sweet and decadent, right?”

  I shouldered him out of the way, dropping his hand so I could have both free to select—white chocolate with raspberry frosting. “I’ve never called you that. You call yourself it.”

  “You should.” He selected his own, and half of it disappeared in a bite. “Try this chocolate-cookie one. It’s amazing.”

  “Why gluten-free?” I asked, relieved we were back on safer, endearment-free topics.

  “I wanted to compare them. These are pretty great. I bet you couldn’t tell the difference.”

  “I bet I could,” I snapped back—foolishly. I’d had exactly one and a quarter cupcakes in recent memory. I barely knew what gluten-filled tasted like. But he’d posed it as a challenge, and I wasn’t backing down.

  “All right, blind taste-test time. Shut your eyes and I’ll feed you bites.”

  “No way.”

  “You don’t trust me?” He pressed a hand to his chest and made puppy dog eyes. “It’s not like I was going to smear frosting on your face or feed you Cheetos instead.”

  I snorted. “Good luck finding Cheetos in this house.” I let my eyes slowly drift over his body. Beneath his sweatshirt he’d worn a red dry-fit shirt that teased of the muscles beneath. His joggers weren’t as fitted as my running tights, but I could see the outline of his phone in his pocket. He definitely wasn’t hiding any bags of chips anywhere.

  Curtis grinned at my scrutiny—fine, my admiration—and did a slow spin. When he finished, he lifted an eyebrow. “Like what you se
e?”

  I laughed, then reached for the hem of my oversized, extralong pullover. Since that stupid first day on campus, he hadn’t ogled me—hadn’t made me feel like “arm candy” or decoration. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to—that I didn’t want him to—find me attractive. I took a deep breath and removed my pullover, taking down my ponytail too. I smoothed my hair and tucked it behind my ears, fought the urge to cross my arms over the front of my fitted shirt. This was me. This body was mine. I tossed the pullover to him and he caught it.

  His eyes were still glued to mine, waiting for my permission. I nodded. I wasn’t going to strut or spin like he had, but I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from lifting as I watched his gaze grow dark and hungry. We each took a step closer, crossing floor-boards and personal barriers.

  Curtis’s voice was husky when he asked, “So what you’re saying is you don’t trust me?”

  I blinked, confused—because that was the opposite of what I’d meant to communicate. I began to cross my arms, then saw where he was pointing—at the gluten-free cupcakes. I’d forgotten they existed. Instead of answering in words, I slid the tray over a foot and boosted myself up beside them.

  “Counters are the perfect height,” I reminded him, beckoning with one finger.

  “I heard that somewhere.” He stepped closer, until his pants were grazing my knees, the fabrics catching in a thousand tiny sparks. “Remind me again: For what?”

  I shut my eyes and tilted my head back. “Taste tests.”

  His laughter danced across my lips. “Firebug, for all your talk about not knowing how to flirt, you’re killing me.” His arm brushed my leg as he reached across me. I heard the plastic tray crinkle, and the scent of chocolate grew stronger. His thumb grazed my bottom lip, painting it with frosting. “Open your mouth—and don’t bite me.”

  “I make no prom—” I laughed around the bite of cupcake he’d pressed between my lips, cutting off my words. I chewed slowly, and swallowed.

  “Gluten, or no gluten?” His nose brushed against my jaw as he touched his lips to my neck.

  I frowned. I hated the words I was going to have to say—but they were in the way of what I wanted, so I spit them out. “I don’t know.” I twined my arms around the back of his neck. “Now kiss me.”

  There was frosting on his hands—I only realized this when they cupped my face . . . and I couldn’t have cared less.

  He kissed his way across my cheek, and his teeth nipped my earlobe. I shivered as he whispered, “It was gluten-free.”

  My laugh was a goose’s honk, loud and wild. I smacked his shoulder. “Seriously? You’re still thinking about baked goods?”

  “Are you critiquing my sweet nothings?” He grinned and I mirrored it, but it wasn’t facial mimicry; it was a moment of shared emotion—of kindred spirits.

  “Keep practicing, Cupcake.”

  I hadn’t known it was possible for a smile to be that radiant. That I could make someone so happy with three words and, in turn, their facial expression could light up my insides like one of those simple circuit boards I’d done in preschool. I’d lived sixteen years in this body—but it felt newly mine. And by claiming ownership, I earned the right to these sensations. How had I never known what it felt like to have someone twirl a strand of my hair around their finger? Or rest a hand on my shoulder while their thumb stroked the bare skin above my collarbone? And now that I’d experienced his mouth against mine, how could I ever let that go? Answer: I couldn’t. I pulled him closer, kissed him again.

  It was a scientific fact that when the brain is deprived of one outlet of sensory input, it will compensate by developing stronger sensory pathways for others. In those who can’t see, the visual cortex is used to process objects by touch and sound. I knew this was true—I’d read the studies on neural pathways and sensory deprivation experiments.

  But despite that—despite the fact that my eyes were closed—my auditory processing didn’t compensate and pick up the sound of a key in the lock or the kitchen door opening.

  It wasn’t until I heard a scandalized “Eliza!” that I pushed Curtis away and opened my eyes.

  “Mom! Dad!” I raised horrified hands to cover my mouth—smearing the frosting on my cheek. “What are you doing here?”

  34

  Dad dropped his suitcase with a thud.

  “What is going on here?” Mom demanded.

  Everyone looked at me, but I was still trying to process their presences and believe they were real. Dad looked thinner, Mom’s hair was longer. I wasn’t sure it suited her. Their subzero parkas were as red as my face. Their fur-lined boots were laced as tight as the invisible bindings on my mouth. They were cradling military-grade, latched containers—these held lab equipment or computers—which dictated they be set gingerly on the table before they crossed their arms. Dad slowly panned the scene before gasping. “Are those cupcakes?”

  “I know dinner first would be more appropriate, but we just completed a grueling run, so a cupcake appetizer or three is warranted.” Curtis was probably seeking a retort, but I was a statue, my knuckles white around the edge of the counter so I didn’t give in to the urge to shove the cupcake tray off the other side—like that would somehow make the evidence disappear. He rested his hand on my knee. I stiffened. He flinched from my recoil.

  Dad focused on me—he pointed to my iLive band. “Seven miles. It seems your endurance and speed have improved dramatically—but have your hands suffered some grievous injury that prevents you from typing up your log?”

  I shook my head. I’d quit logging days ago. In my mind it was a game of chicken, seeing if I could provoke them enough to talk to me. But I’d been aiming for an email, maybe a phone call. This was . . .

  “I, uh, tried to talk her into coming to my house for a video-game showdown, but now I’m glad we didn’t miss your arrival. Welcome home.” Curtis wiped his fingers on the remains of my shredded paper towel before extending his hand, completely unaware of the combustibles he’d thrown on the situation. “I’m Curtis Cavendish, by the way. I’m sure you’ve heard lots about me this year. Only believe the things that are good.”

  “Actually”—Dad drew out the word while continuing to stare at the tableau of all my lies—“I’ve never heard of you.”

  Curtis dropped his hand, hurt blatant on his face before he covered it up. “Well, I’m the guy who’s—” He turned to me, and I could see how fake his smile was, but I couldn’t add his expectations to those piled on me. “What word do you prefer: ‘smitten,’ ‘enamored,’ ‘besotted,’ ‘mesmerized,’ ‘enchanted’?”

  I looked away.

  Later I’d think about what it meant to have those words used about me, but at the time I could focus only on my parents’ reactions to hearing them. I wanted to shove him too. But like the cupcakes, instead I pretended he wasn’t there, studying my thighs and fingers and the floor.

  “But don’t worry,” Curtis added. “It’s entirely one-sided. So the best description for me would be ‘fool’ or ‘shameful secret.’”

  “Yes, well . . .” Dad trailed off. There was sympathy in his voice, but I didn’t look up to see if it was in his expression too.

  “The cupcakes are mine. Though not entirely illicit. Spoiler: It’s part of my research for the Avery Competition. I suppose you’ll see my project there.”

  “As judges, I suppose there’s no avoiding it.” Mom’s voice was brusque.

  Had I always had a freckle on the back of my hand? Or was it chocolate? Mud? No, the mud on the hems of my leggings was an ashier color. I liked it better. Chocolate was the color of Curtis’s eyes, and I didn’t know how I’d ever meet them again. What was wrong with me? At least when Rory had been little and played “You can’t see me” she’d pulled a blanket over her head. I was seated on the counter like some blasted centerpiece, and wishful thinking was not going to make me disappear.

  “You know what, you guys have a lot to catch up on . . .”

  “Ye
s, we do.” Dad unzipped his parka, like Curtis’s words had reminded him that this was his house, no matter how little time he spent here.

  “And I’m in the way, so I’m just gonna leave—” Curtis paused. This conversation was full of invitations for me to join and make things better. Merri would’ve slid in like an expert, defusing tensions, making introductions, smoothing things over. I could barely look up from my socks. Curtis slowly retrieved his sweatshirt from the chair, his whole body angled at me—waiting. “I guess . . . I’ll call my parents to come get me. Or I can walk.”

  I felt like a tiny woodland creature—one that was caught wide-eyed in the headlights of an oncoming car. Not the kind that dithered—dart a few steps left, then a few steps right—trying to decide which route was best. No, I was the type of small-brained mammal that thought if it stood still, it would be safe.

  “Good idea.” Mom opened the door and practically shooed him out, along with the bakery bag she’d hastily repacked. “You should take these with you.”

  I dared to meet his eyes as the door was closing. Just a microsecond of contact before it shut, but the hurt in his was palpable.

  “Eliza—” My parents said it together, then stopped and looked at each other, both indicating with pointing and head-shakes that the other should speak first. Mom lost the battle of gestures and willpower. “Didn’t you read the studies we sent you on adolescent dating? Were our rules not clear?”

  “I did and they were.” I could’ve taken the moment to tell them I knew—I knew how flawed that research was and how biased and cherry-picked the material they’d shared had been. I could’ve countered with studies of my own. But none of that was important right now.

  What had I been thinking, letting him leave?

  I hopped down from the counter.

  “Well, at least she’s being honest, Warner.”

  “Yes, but—”

  I pushed between where Mom and Dad were trying to communicate their confusion to each other—without making it overly clear to me—to my muddy shoes resting by the door. I shoved my toes inside, not bothering to lace them, not bothering with a coat.