The Queen Geek Social Club

by Laura Preble

  In the Volvo, Dad plays some really weepy old music and doesn’t say anything, which is totally unlike him. Becca and I sit in the backseat and chatter the whole way, and he doesn’t even try to interject comments like he usually does. We get into the copy place, get the lavender paper, and Dad just sort of trails along like a bewildered puppy.

  “Dad. Check it out. Look what Becca made!”

  “Well,” she interrupts hastily, “we made it together.”

  He takes the flier and examines it, frowning. “Hmm. Funny,” he says and gives it back.

  “O-kay.” I feel his forehead. “You feeling all right?”

  Waving my hand away, he says “Fine, fine.”

  Becca and I find an empty copy machine, load the lavender paper, and begin copying our masterpiece. “What is with your dad?” she asks. He’s leaning against the counter, looking at greeting cards, but not really reading them. In fact, the one in his hands is upside down.

  “Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe it’s male menopause or something.”

  “Yuck.”

  The Xerox machine is spitting out lavender papers and I must admit they look fantastic! “I cannot wait to put these up at school,” I tell Becca. She gives me a wide-eyed, crazy nod, and after we print a hundred, we stop.

  “Okay, Dad. Ready. Can you pay for them? Please?” I sidle up to him and give him the puppy-dog eyes that always work when I want something.

  “Hmm.” He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, takes the papers to the clerk, and gives her the cash without saying anything to me.

  “Whoa. Did you get a bad report card, or barbecue your dog or something?” Becca frowns as Dad gets his change from the clerk.

  “I don’t have a dog. And I usually get straight As, so I don’t think that’s it.” Dad walks right by us and out the door, and says nothing. We just follow him, exchanging puzzled glances. Parents. They are so moody.

  When we get home, Dad gets out of the car and barely acknowledges that we’re in the backseat at all. He’s clutching my lavender posters against his chest. “Umm. Dad? Can we have the fliers?”

  “What? Oh.” He realizes he’s got them, and chuckles a little. “Here you go. Sorry about that. I’m not with it tonight.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  Becca, who’s always nervous around my dad anyway, bolts like she got hit with a jolt of lightning. “Gotta use your bathroom!” she shouts as she scurries toward the front door.

  Dad says nothing. He looks up at the stars, sighs, and puts an arm around my shoulder. “Sorry, Beebee.”

  He hasn’t called me Beebee for a very long time. I barely remember it at all, but once he says it, I get this rush of heat and sadness rolling through my middle like a tidal wave. I start crying, and I don’t even know why. “Sorry, Dad,” I mumble, wiping away a couple of tears dampening my face. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. Isn’t that weird? Must be hormones or something.”

  “Night. Love you.” He hugs me, then goes into the house, leaving me looking up at the stars with wet cheeks.

  In my room, Becca is organizing our materials for tomorrow. She’s chirpier than usual, probably because of my dad’s weird state. “So, we have our posters, we have our clipboard. Now we just have to figure out the plan of action for Campaign for Calories. Should we designate certain types of food to collect, or specific foods, like Twinkies?”

  I’m happy to forget the thing with my dad and to just sink into the excitement of the Queen Geeks. “What are we going to do with all this crap once we get it? Are you seriously going to send it to some supermodel agency?”

  “Of course. That’s the point. But it’s only the beginning.” Eyes shining, Becca grabs my wrists and guides me to the floor, where we both sit cross-legged. “We get the food, we identify some agency to send it to. We send it. But here’s where things start to work: We advertise what we’re doing, we let people know, like newspapers and television stations.”

  “Why do we do that?”

  “It’s all about public relations. If we want to be accepted, I mean really accepted, which means envied, then we have to get people to notice.”

  “Envied?” I shake my head. “No. I don’t care about being envied.”

  “Please. What about Jasmine what’s-her-name in the bathroom at the movies? You don’t want her to envy you? Just a little?”

  “No. I don’t care what she thinks. If she thinks.” To be honest, though, that’s not quite true. In the back of my mind, way back between the insecurities and the phobias and the memorized Trivial Pursuit answers, there is a tiny part of me that would love for Jasmine Jesperson to envy me, just a little. But I cannot admit it to anyone, even to Becca, because then—well, there must be some reason I can’t admit it, but I can’t think of it at the moment.

  “So. Food. General snack or specific?” Becca has clicked a pen and is poised to write in her notebook, which is color-coordinated to the periwinkle clipboard.

  “I say specific. Much easier, and more control of product.” Becca scribbles furiously. “I am in favor of Twinkies, pork rinds, Ding Dongs, and Scooter Pies.”

  “Do they still make Scooter Pies?”

  “Don’t know. I just like to say it. Scooter Pie.”

  “Scooter Pie. Scooter Pie!” We both start yelling “Scooter Pie” as loud as we can. This is probably an indication that it’s time to go to sleep. Instead, Euphoria rolls into my room, tsking and whirring her disapproval.

  “Miss Shelby, I believe it is time for you to be catchin’ your forty winks, and time for Miz Becca to head on home.”

  “Becca’s sleeping over, right, Becca?” I give her the conspiratorial look to communicate that she should act like the plan is already a given.

  “Oh. Sure. I’m sleeping over.” She pantomimes that she needs to call her house.

  “I ain’t blind. I can see what you’re doing.” Euphoria sighs (which sounds sort of like letting the air out of a compressor). “Just call your mama right now so she don’t worry. It’s time for bed, though, so I don’t want you two hens stayin’ up all night squawkin’ about whatever you’re doing. Is this a school project you’re working on?”

  “You could say that.” I nod. Becca picks up my phone and keys in her number. Euphoria sighs again and rolls back into the hallway.

  “Hey, Euphoria,” I call after her.

  “Hmm?”

  “What’s up with Dad tonight? He was really weird.” I follow her down the hall toward the kitchen, which is scrubbed clean and lit by just a tiny light over the stove.

  “Don’t you remember?” she asks softly.

  “Remember what?”

  “What day this is?” Her green lights blink judgmentally, I think.

  I try and remember what it might be. Father’s Day? Dad’s birthday? Guy Fawkes Day? I have no idea. “I give up. Is it some new national holiday?”

  She rolls away from me. “Not exactly. It’s the anniversary of your mother’s passing.”

  Becca can’t figure out why I am crying, and I can’t tell her. Her mother says she can’t stay, and it’s ten o’clock, so she’s driving over in her purple Jeep to get her, and I wish I were dead.

  “Sweetie, can’t you tell me what it is?” She has her arm around me as I’m sobbing on my bedroom floor.

  “I can’t. I can’t.” We’re sort of rocking like a mama and baby, and that makes me cry even more. How could I forget something like that? I must be the most self-centered, spoiled, stupid, forgetful person on the earth! Who forgets the day their mother died? Nobody. Not even Hitler, I bet. I mean, that makes me worse than Hitler, and he was like, the devil. Which makes me what? Devil spit?

  I hear the Jeep’s nasal honk outside. I am suddenly really angry at Becca’s mom for being alive. I’ve never even met her, and she doesn’t seem to care at all what Becca does, which seems really unfair since my mom cared a lot and she’s not here. “I want . . . to . . . meet . . . your mom,” I stutter in between sobs.

&
nbsp; “Uh, I don’t think that’s a great idea.” Becca kisses my forehead and springs up from the floor. Standing above me, she looks even taller than usual, like Alice after the EAT ME cake. “She’s really cranky when it’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow. Do you want to postpone our meeting?”

  “No, no.” I wipe the tears from my red eyes. “I’ll probably look like a lobster instead of a geek, but we should go ahead. I’ll be okay tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Well.” Awkwardly, she grabs her stuff and opens my bedroom door. Her mom honks again, and her Jeep sounds pissed off, if that’s possible. “See you tomorrow. Lunch. Don’t forget the fliers. Should I take them?”

  “Yeah, that would be better.” I stand up and hand her the stack of lavender paper. “Sorry. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

  She nods, smiles sort of halfheartedly and bolts for the door. I get my flannel pajamas on, crawl into bed without washing my face or brushing my teeth, and leave the door open for Euphoria to come in. As I start to drift off, I hear her mechanical wheels whirring on the carpet, and hear her roll into my room humming some old lullaby that makes me feel better and worse all at the same time.

  When I wake up the next day, I have a splitting headache and I immediately feel that I’m being punished for something awful. So I do what I always do when something is unpleasant: I pretend it does not exist. To accomplish this, I get dressed and leave the house without eating or saying good-bye.

  That morning at school is torturous; Becca and I have to sit through first period English and yet more disgusting decay in Lord of the Flies, all on an empty stomach; then I go on to other equally uninteresting subject matter just waiting for lunch to happen so we can have our meeting. Finally, the bell rings, and I dash out of fourth period Life Management (where I endured Mrs. Johnston’s laughable comparison between premarital sex and an undercooked Thanksgiving turkey—and in order not to ruin future holidays for you, I won’t go into the details of how stuffing and cranberry sauce factor into this disgusting analogy). Becca is already at the telecom benches, and she’s setting up her periwinkle clipboard and she’s taped the fliers all around the benches so there are multiple images of the mad housewife in lavender. I am very disturbed to see that she has also changed out of her jeans and is wearing a lavender dress with a matching apron, pearls, and heels. Even her little hair spikes match.

  “Are you excited?” she whispers as I set my books down. “I hope we get a lot of people.”

  “Don’t expect too much.” I scan the grassy commons area for potential Queen Geeks. “Nobody at this school wants to stand out. They all want to be just like everybody else. Which is totally hilarious because they all think they’re totally original. Speaking of, did June Cleaver drop acid and throw up on you or what?”

  “Wow. Somebody got a visit from the negative fairy.” She continues to flit around the papers as the army of lavender housewives flutters in the breeze. “Let’s be optimistic.”

  “Hi. Is this where the meeting is?” a dark-haired girl with braces asks timidly.

  “Queen Geeks? Yes! Take a flyer and put your name on the clipboard.” Becca practically swallows the girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Elisa Crunch.” She waits, I guess for somebody to tease her. “Okay. So, no jokes about the name. I’ve already heard all of them.”

  Two more girls walk up to the table, chatting happily to each other. Eventually, we have a total of six, in addition to Becca and me, and other kids nearby glance over, curious, but then go back to eating their lunches.

  “Okay, well, let’s get started.” Becca’s violet apron flutters in the breeze as she absently smoothes her blond-violet spikes. “Welcome to the first meeting of the Queen Geek Social Club. I’m Becca Gallagher, and this is our co-founder, Shelby Chapelle.” She motions graciously to me and I smile, sort of. “If you could all look at the mission statement . . .”

  Huh? Mission statement? I don’t remember doing a mission statement . . . but looking down, I see it on a white piece of paper, the mission statement of the Queen Geek Social Club:

  To gather and empower all the Queen Geeks

  in the immediate area

  To accomplish tasks that only Queen Geeks can

  (and want to) do

  To recruit new young Queen Geeks

  To take back the rightful leadership role of the geek

  in high school society

  Pranks, bowling, and other social causes

  “Let’s introduce ourselves quickly, and then tell why we’re here. I’ll go first. Becca, freshman, and I’m here because I’m tired of feeling like the only person on campus who’s like me.” She beams at the other girls, who nod knowingly. “Let’s go right. Elisa, wasn’t it?”

  Elisa Crunch recounts her unfortunate name and the fact that she wants a community of people who won’t look at her as simply an opportunity to compare her to a candy bar.

  A girl with long black hair that hangs in her face speaks next. “Amber Fellerman, sophomore. I’m here because I write poetry and everyone thinks I’m weird.”

  Two tall, rangy black girls with cornrowed hair look awkwardly at each other, then the taller one says, “I’m Claudette and this is my sister, Caroline, both sophomores. We’re here because the announcement was funny.”

  A very tiny girl with thick glasses who barely speaks above a whisper says, “Cheryl Abbott, freshman.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose nervously and looks around. “I got kicked out of Chess Club because I beat everybody else.”

  The last person was a girl I would never have guessed would be interested in anything labeled “geek.” She is athletic, tanned, and blond, and has perfect teeth. I can’t understand why she’s here until she says, “I’m Samantha Singer, senior. I thought it said Queen Greeks, and that it was, like, a group talking about sororities or something. Sorry. Do you want me to leave?”

  “You can stay if you want,” Becca offers. “Okay, and this is Shelby Chapelle. Why are you here, Shelby?”

  Many answers compete in my head and fight to get past my lips. I’m here because I’m really an undercover cool person trying to bust you all for excessive lameness! Or Becca is paying me to be her friend. Or My dad said that if I didn’t join a club he’d sign me up for tango lessons. Instead, what comes out is, “It’s Becca’s idea. I’m just helping.”

  She looks at me sort of shocked, but it doesn’t rock her pearls-and-heels composure.

  “Now. Our first task, as you know, is the Campaign for Calories. I’d like Shelby to fill you in on just how this campaign will run.”

  “Oh, you go ahead, Becca. I’m sure you know all the details.” I sound much more mean than I intend. But it sort of feels good.

  Again, she flinches slightly as if I’ve slapped her, but she doesn’t lose her cool. She only has about twenty minutes left to hook these girls, so she has to make it count. “Okay, Campaign for Calories. We want to start a movement where we collect specific snack foods and then send them to a modeling agency famous for its starving, anorexic-looking meat puppets.”

  “Meat puppets?” Samantha asks, surprised. “Is that some demeaning term for women? I think that’s offensive.”

  “No, it’s a term for fashion models,” Becca answers.

  “Oh, then I guess that’s okay.” Samantha smiles. “Go on.”

  Becca continues. “Okay. Anyway, Shelby and I have narrowed the focus of our foods to those on this list.” She hands out a half-sheet of paper with the items in bold. “And we have a two-week window in which to collect them. In the meantime, we’ll do some research about the absolutely most offensive modeling agency, and get their address so we know where to send the stuff we collect. I’ll also be asking you to put up fliers in your classrooms and to make announcements to your classes personally about this.”

  Mousy Cheryl Abbott raises her hand and Becca points to her. “We have to get up in front of people and talk?” She sounds terrified.

  “Well, that’s the idea. Of course, if y
ou’re not comfortable with that—”

  “I get a really bad rash,” Cheryl says, her voice quavering.

  There is murmuring among the other girls, which Becca, a slight glimmer of panic in her eyes, tries to squelch with a perky, “Okay, ladies. Hang on.” They all stop and look at her, anticipating. “Listen. I know that most of you don’t like the spotlight, right?” They all nod. “You don’t have to be in the spotlight. That’s why I’m here. I’ll be the face of the Queen Geeks, you just do the work that makes it happen. I’ll be doing an announcement on Panther TV to let people know about our campaign, but you’ll do the actual collecting. And remember—we’re in this to show everybody that it’s Chic to be Geek!”

  “Sheik? Like in Arab?” Samantha Singer pipes up. She just sits there, fascinated, with the look of intense concentration on her face that kids have when they get their first ant farm.

  “No,” Elisa Crunch snaps. “Chic, c-h-i-c, it’s French for ‘in style.’ Don’t your people read?”

  “No,” Samantha snaps back. “You guys are weird.” She jumps up from the bench and wiggles off into the thick of the lunchtime crowd.

  “Okay, so are you all in or not?”

  Everybody kind of nods, confused, and Becca passes around the clipboard and pen, then reaches into her carpetbag and passes out Twinkies to everyone. Elisa pulls an electronic organizer out of her backpack and waves the stylus at Becca. “Okay. So, if I’m going to be committed to this cause, I’ll need to know schedules.” She furiously taps on the surface of the device. “Meeting times? Dates? Locations? Events?”

  “Uh.” Becca stalls in the face of such organization. “We’re sort of working out all the details, Elisa. But by next week, we’ll know more.”

  “So, I should just schedule you in for lunch on Wednesday? Location to be announced.” She nods and taps with passionate efficiency. “Excellent. I’ll see you then.”

  The lunch bell rings a few minutes later, and all the fledgling Queen Geeks take their Twinkies and disperse, leaving me and Becca alone. “So, how do you think it went?” she asks.