Geek Abroad

by Piper Banks

  “I know,” I said sadly. “I just really thought he liked me.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t, there must be something wrong with him,” Sadie said.

  “Of course you’d say that. You’re my mother.”

  At this, Sadie looked surprised. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind to your faults.” To prove her point, she began to tick them off on her fingers. “You can be obstinate, a bit of a smart-ass, grouchy when you first wake up. . . .”

  “Talk about the pot and the kettle,” I grumbled.

  “. . . And you suffer from low self-esteem,” Sadie finished.

  “I do?” This truly surprised me. I’d never thought of myself as having a poor self-image.

  “You do. Of course, it’s not your fault. It’s practically pathological how low self-esteem is at your age. You young girls spend all your time worrying about boys and whether or not you look fat in your jeans. . . .”

  “I never worry about whether I look fat in my jeans!” I exclaimed.

  “That’s because you don’t have a spare ounce of fat anywhere on your body,” Sadie said, looking me up and down. “It’s your metabolism. I was the same way when I was your age. I could eat anything I wanted and never gained a pound. Just wait until you turn thirty. . . .”

  “I know, I know, then it will all catch up with me,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Well, it will. Anyway, where was I?”

  “You were talking about my low self esteem. Right before you told me how fat I’m going to suddenly get when I turn thirty.”

  “Oh, right. No, darling, your only problem is that you don’t appreciate all of the wonderful and unique characteristics that make you you,” Sadie said. “You don’t see yourself for the lovely, personable, intelligent young woman you are.”

  I thought about this. Could it be true? Was it possible that I was really drop-dead gorgeous and just couldn’t see it through the veil of my low self-esteem? I turned to look in the large ornate mirror that hung on one wall of the living room, the glass of which was smoky with age, and studied my reflection.

  The large nose was still there. Ditto for the frizzy hair, today in extra-bushy condition since I hadn’t bothered to brush it. So, okay, my eyes were a nice enough shade of brown. My chin wasn’t so bad, and my skin was relatively clear. Overall, I was . . .presentable. Maybe even cute on a good-hair day. But gorgeous? No way. Not a chance.

  “A late bloomer,” I muttered aloud, remembering something my father had said.

  “What, darling?” Sadie asked.

  I turned away from the mirror, back toward her. “Oh, nothing. It’s just something I overheard Dad and Peyton talking about one night this fall. They said I was a late bloomer. Actually, Dad said I was a late bloomer. . . . I think the word Peyton used to describe me was odd.”

  Sadie doesn’t get mad very often, but I could tell that this revelation had truly angered her. The color drained away from her face, her eyes narrowed and flashed, and her lips pursed so tightly they were white at the edges.

  “That woman called you odd?” she asked slowly, carefully enunciating every word.

  I nodded, and wished I hadn’t said anything. I hadn’t meant to upset Sadie; I just wanted her opinion on whether or not she thought it was true.

  “Sorry, forget it,” I said quickly.

  “I will not forget it,” Sadie thundered. She stood and paced around the living room. “Where’s the phone? I’m going to call your father.”

  “You can’t call him now. It’s four in the morning in Florida,” I protested. “You’ll wake everyone up.”

  “Your father will be lucky if that’s all I do to him,” Sadie muttered ominously. “How dare he let that woman talk about you that way?”

  “You don’t think I’m odd?” I asked hesitantly.

  “No! Absolutely not!”

  Her absolute tone relieved me more than her answer. I knew Sadie would disagree with Peyton on principle, but surely if I really was an oddball, Sadie wouldn’t be so vehement in her denial.

  “How about the part about me being a late bloomer?” I asked.

  Sadie stopped her frantic and as of yet fruitless search for the phone, and turned to look at me. She sighed. “Would that be such a bad thing?” she asked.

  “So you do think I am a late bloomer!” I exclaimed, my voice getting shrill with despair.

  So that was why Dex had dumped me. Laughing Girl probably wasn’t a late bloomer. If anything, she was probably an early bloomer. The type of girl who started wearing a bra at the age of eight, and by sixteen was drinking martinis and getting Brazilian bikini waxes.

  “I think you’re you,” Sadie said enigmatically. She crossed the room toward me and enveloped me in her arms. “And that’s the most wonderful thing in the world.”

  Now that I was no longer looking forward to returning home to Orange Cove and Dex, the last nine days of my London vacation flew by, the way time always does when you least want it to. Sadie and I spent time together, visiting museums, eating out at sleekly modern restaurants furnished with lots of stainless steel and dark wood, and going to the West End to see live productions of The Lion King and Mary Poppins. I came up with a great idea for a short story about a teenage actress starring in a big-budget musical, who’s also trying to have a normal life outside of her job. The story flowed so easily, I had to write like crazy, scribbling away in one of my journals, as I tried to get it all out before I forgot something.

  On the days when Sadie worked, Henry and I spent time together. Sometimes we went sightseeing; other days we’d catch a movie or hang out at his house, watching bad but oddly addictive British television. Despite how often I was seeing Henry, I was pretty sure we’d downshifted into friend status. It was probably sensible, considering I was going home in a week, but I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of discomfort. It was just further proof that I was actively repulsing boys. Every guy who had ever shown the slightest bit of interest in me was suddenly backpedaling away as fast as his legs would carry him.

  Now when I opened up my e-mail program, I did so with the heavy certainty that my in-box would be a Dex-free zone. I did get other e-mails. My stepsister, Hannah, wrote once. She was visiting her dad and stepmother in New York City. It sounded like she was having the time of her life, between the nonstop shopping and attending a series of glitteringly sophisticated parties.

  My stepmother said there’s no reason why I couldn’t be the next Hilton sister. You know: famous for being famous, Hannah gushed. I got the feeling that this was meant—and taken—as a compliment, not an insult.

  Charlie wrote, too, although not as often as she normally did when one of us was away. When she did write, her e-mails were always the same: Mitch, Mitch, and more Mitch.

  I wasn’t the only one to notice the drastic change in my friend. When Finn wrote, it was to complain bitterly about how annoying he found this new, smitten Charlie.

  To: mirandajbloom@gmail.com

  From: finn@finnsgames.com

  Subject: annoying much?

  It’s not just that Charlie talks incessantly about her stupid boyfriend. It’s the way she talks about him. She calls him Mitchy. Blech. I almost hurled right then and there when I heard her. It’s like the real Charlie has been taken over by the Pod People.

  It has given me an idea for a new computer game: an updated Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Extra points if you can blow up the Pod Girl’s putz boyfriend.

  Finn sounded unusually ruffled; normally nothing gets to him. Seriously, he’s the only guy I know who relishes the idea of being expelled from school. (Finn is a genius at creating computer games. He made his first million when he was twelve, so it’s not exactly like he has to worry about getting into a good college as a route to securing a future job.)

  But I’ve always had the feeling that Finn and Charlie have stronger feelings for one another than they’ve ever let on, not that either one of them would ever admit to it. Now that Charlie had fallen head over heel
s in love with Mitch, a romance blossoming between her and Finn seemed even more unlikely. I just hoped that it didn’t ruin their friendship.

  “Happy New Year!” Sadie crowed, as Henry’s mom opened the black lacquered door to the Wentworth home. It was a tall, graceful white town house that stretched four stories high.

  “Sadie! It’s so wonderful to see you!” Henry’s mom said. She beamed at us. Beatrice Wentworth was plump with brown curly hair, a warm smile, and the dark blue eyes that Henry had inherited from her. “Hello, Miranda, how are you? You look lovely.”

  “Thanks,” I said shyly. Since I hadn’t brought any dress-up clothes with me to London, Sadie had dragged me out the day before on a shopping expedition. Normally, I hate to shop, but I had to admit, it was fun trying on all the exquisite dresses for sale in the little jewel box of a shop Sadie had taken me to. As soon as I’d tried on the silk beaded slip dress I was now wearing, Sadie clapped her hands decisively and announced that I had to have it. The dress was a soft rose color, and shimmered in the candlelight as I slipped off my coat. “And thanks for inviting me,” I added.

  “We’re delighted to have you,” Beatrice said. She turned and called out, “Henry! Miranda’s here!”

  Henry must have heard her somehow, even though the party was already in full swing and the house was alive with the din of talk and laughter. He materialized out of the crowd, grinning down at me, his dimples appearing.

  “Henry, you look divine!” Sadie declared, causing the tip of Henry’s nose to turn pink.

  She was right: Henry looked very handsome in his blue blazer, white button-down shirt, and gray wool trousers.

  “I’m glad you’re here. My parents’ daft friends keep cornering me. If one more person asks me where I’m set on going to university, I’ll go mental,” Henry told me.

  Beatrice rolled her eyes. “I hope that’s not what you told them,” she said, attempting to sound stern, although a smile was twitching at her lips.

  “Nah. I told them I was skipping college to embark on a career of petty crime. A few burglaries, maybe a bank job or two,” Henry teased.

  “Oh, you,” Beatrice said, playfully whacking her son in the arm. “Go on and get Miranda a Coke. Ah, here’s Giles. Giles, dear, will you get Sadie a drink?”

  As our parents headed off into the crowd of partygoers, Henry and I retreated to the big, cheerful kitchen at the back of the house. The caterers, all wearing long, starched white aprons, were gathered there, assembling trays of bite-sized food and goblets of champagne. Henry grabbed two Cokes and a handful of canapés from the fridge.

  “Come on, let’s go to my room,” he said, grimacing. “Before someone finds us and starts asking how school’s going. Or makes you calculate sums.”

  “Good idea,” I said, following him up the back staircase.

  Henry’s bedroom was on the top floor of the house, in a room with sloped ceilings and a round window on one wall. He had a plaid comforter on his oak bed, posters of soccer teams tacked up, and a big desk and bookshelf unit along one wall. The shelves were crammed with books and magazines, and a small television hooked up to play video games. It was a very masculine room, and I suddenly felt awkward being there, all dressed up in my pink sparkly gown. Henry looked a little uncomfortable, too. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers and averted his gaze. For the first time since we’d met, neither one of us could think of anything to say.

  Then I spotted a familiar-looking box on the shelf.

  “Is that Grunge Aliens?” I exclaimed, recognizing the ugly mustard yellow extraterrestrial cartoon on the video game box.

  Henry brightened and nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, it is.”

  “My friend Finn designed that game,” I said.

  Henry’s expression turned to awe. “Are you serious?”

  “Yep! That’s his best-seller, too.”

  “It’s a brilliant game,” Henry said reverentially. “I can’t believe you know the bloke who invented it. And he’s our age?”

  “Uh-huh. He goes to school with me. We’ve been friends for ages,” I said.

  “Wow. He must be a genius,” Henry said. “What’s he like?”

  I paused to consider this question. “He’s brilliant, yes, but in a twisted evil genius sort of way. Actually, you’d probably get on great. He’s big on practical jokes, too.”

  “You think?” Henry said, his eyes shining with hero worship. Which was seriously deranged, because who would worship Finn? He’s a total goofball.

  “Do you want to play?” I asked, nodding toward the game.

  “Yeah!” Henry said. “Are you any good?”

  “I can hold my own,” I said modestly.

  I wasn’t much of a gamer, but Finn had sweet-talked me into being a tester for Grunge Aliens, so I’d logged some considerable hours on the game. It was a fantasy-action game that put the players in the role of space explorers and pitted them against a series of increasingly ugly and hard-to-kill extraterrestrials. In vintage Finn style, when shot each monster exploded with a dazzlingly gory display of blood and guts.

  Henry popped in the game and handed me one of the controllers. We sat side by side, cross-legged on the bedroom floor—me in my dress, Henry in his jacket and trousers—and began blowing up aliens.

  I impressed Henry by knowing the location of several Easter eggs—secret treasures that Finn had hidden in the game and that you could only get if you knew where they were. Henry was especially pleased when I showed him the nuclear bomb blaster hidden in the stomach of a certain monster. You had to kill him and slice open his corpse to get it.

  “Brilliant!” Henry kept exclaiming.

  Henry was a lot better than I was, but I held my own, especially when it came to the Toxic Waste Ogres—monsters who developed evil powers after being raised in swamps of industrial intergalactic waste. I seemed to have a special talent for slashing the ogres’ throats with my laser sword, sending their glowing, decapitated green heads bouncing off the screen, while their headless bodies writhed about at my feet.

  “I worry about Finn. How does he come up with this stuff? It’s seriously twisted,” I said as I rapidly punched the buttons on my controller to escape the meteor spray Henry’s space ranger had just thrown at me. “Ha! Missed me!”

  “I think it’s brilliant. And I think the excessive violence is meant to be a postmodern comment on the current state of international unrest,” Henry said with relish.

  I let out a snort of laughter. “Um . . . no. I know Finn. Trust me, this isn’t a political statement. He just likes to up the gore factor. Oh! You killed me!” I exclaimed.

  “Ha!” Henry said. “Take that!”

  I dropped my console in disgust. “You play dirty,” I announced.

  “How do you figure that?”

  “You distracted me with your commentary,” I complained bitterly.

  “It’s not my fault you’re so easily distracted,” Henry said. “Shall we play again?”

  “You’re on,” I said, taking a sip of my Coke before retrieving my gaming console. “This time, I’m taking you down.”

  “Big talk from the little lady,” Henry said. “Game on.”

  We were so intent on blowing up space aliens and each other that Henry and I lost track of time. We took a break once to run down and retrieve dinner, and then again to get another round of Cokes. But we quickly reconvened to the floor of Henry’s bedroom to do battle. Over the course of the evening, Henry shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. I envied him for this. My dress wasn’t a comfortable lounging outfit. Maybe that’s why Henry was able to beat me in game after game.

  “Argh,” I said, tossing aside my controller after Henry had killed me yet again, this time with a nuclear grenade. “I give up. This is a stupid, stupid game.”

  Henry did a little seated victory dance. “Say it,” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “That was our deal. . . . You have to say it,” he crowed happily.
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br />   I sighed, puffing out my cheeks in exasperation. “Fine. You are the golden god of Grunge Aliens,” I said in a disgusted monotone. “Happy?”

  “Ecstatic,” Henry replied. He cocked his head to one side. “Do you hear that?”

  I listened. From three floors below, I could just barely make out the sound of a crowd chanting. They were counting down.

  “Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven . . .”

  Henry glanced at the clock. “It’s almost midnight,” he said.

  “How did it get so late?” I asked, bewildered.

  “It’s easy to lose track of time when you’re fighting space aliens,” Henry said with a grin.

  “Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen . . .”

  “We should probably go downstairs,” I said. “Sadie will want to leave soon.”

  “Let’s wait until the countdown’s over,” Henry suggested.

  “Good idea,” I said.

  “Twelve, eleven, ten, nine . . .”

  I felt Henry’s eyes on me, and when I turned to look at him, he didn’t look away. Instead he smiled at me in a way that made my toes tingle.

  “Six, five, four . . .”

  Henry leaned forward toward me. He reached out and took my right hand in his. His skin felt cool and dry against mine. I fervently hoped he didn’t realize how sweaty my palms were.

  “Three, two, one . . . HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

  Henry kissed me. His lips pressed gently against mine, and I could feel the soft warmth of his breath. I opened my eyes, but then saw that his were closed—and very, very near—so I quickly closed mine. The thing was . . . the kiss was really nice. Really, really nice. But it was hard not to compare it with the amazing kiss Dex and I had shared right before I left for London. Which just reminded me yet again of Dex, and how he was probably now—maybe even right this minute—kissing the Laughing Girl Charlie had seen him at the movies with. Or, if not now, he would be later on, when the New Year rolled around in that time zone. This realization was like a gut punch that sickened and saddened me at the same time. . . . And made it really hard to focus on how nice it was to be kissing Henry.