by Laura Preble
“First, we want to show you the promotional video that will air Friday on Panther TV. This is something Shelby and I put together, with help from Elisa, and it will kick off our Campaign for Calories. Elisa, do we have a designated modeling agency yet?”
Elisa is scrolling through her PDA. “I think I’ve narrowed it down to two. I still want to do a body-fat-to-height ratio analysis before I absolutely pin it down.”
“Okay, so without further discussion, let’s see the video!” My phone rings as Becca is messing with the VCR. It’s my dad, which is kind of unusual. He doesn’t call me at school unless it’s an emergency, so I step outside to take the call, just in case it’s something that will make me cry.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Shelby?”
“Uh, yeah. Nobody else answers my cell phone.” A pack of punk kids walks by, and one throws a cardboard boat of half-eaten nachos to the ground. I have to skip to avoid being splashed with liquid cheese.
“It’s lunchtime, right?” Dad sounds nervous, I think. It’s kind of hard to tell since the campus at lunchtime most closely resembles a shark feeding frenzy with a soundtrack of flushing toilets and heavy metal.
“Yeah, it’s lunchtime. And I’m in the middle of a meeting, so what’s up?”
“Oh, sorry. Well.” He clears his throat and says, “What?”
“I didn’t say anything! What is wrong with you?”
“Oh, never mind,” he mutters. “I’ll just talk to you at home.”
“Wait, Dad.” I switch the phone to my other ear to shut out the sound of two freshman boys fighting over a hot game of cards near the bathroom. “You must have something you need to say if you called during school. What is it? Did something happen?”
There is a pause that stabs at my heart. It reminds me of the way he told me about my mom three years ago. “No, nothing happened.” He doesn’t sound too sure.
“Well, then, spit it out!” I peer through the window of the classroom, and see that the video is running. The girls are laughing, which is good.
“Okay. Well, I want to be sure you’re home for dinner tonight.”
“Well, I usually am home for dinner. You aren’t.” I see Becca rewind the tape, and there is general chatter in the room. I missed the whole thing! “Why does it matter? Are you cooking?”
“No.” He clears his throat again. “We’re having a dinner guest. Somebody I want you to meet.”
I do something I’ve never done to my dad. I hang up on him. Calmly, quietly, I just shut the flip phone, set it to vibrate, and slip it into my pocket.
Inside, everybody is chattering. “Well, I think in a way it’s good that it’s sort of strange,” Cheryl Abbott is saying as she pushes her glasses up. “It will sort of act as a filter. Only the sort of intelligent people will get it. And isn’t that, sort of, who we want in the club?”
“I really like the science fiction element,” Amber says. “Especially the clips from the old movies.”
“And the cream-filling assault on that girl!” somebody shouts. Everybody hoots at that; girls like Briley are universally disliked by girl geeks, and I guess seeing her embarrassed by cheap snack food has high entertainment value.
“Okay, okay.” Becca tries to calm down the noisy chattering of the club. “Now, remember, this is funny, but we’re really trying to make a statement. We want other geeks to find us, and together, we can change the way things are done at school.”
“Yeah, no small order,” Caroline mutters.
“What?” Becca asks. “Go on, say it out loud. I know that somebody is going to disagree with me.”
“Well, I just think that we should keep to ourselves,” Caroline says as her sister, Claudette, nods in agreement. “Why do we need to force ourselves on everybody? I mean, I’m happy with who I am. I don’t care if all the cheerleaders and football players like me or not. So why this big need to make us so big on campus?”
“I get what you’re saying.” Becca nods and paces in front of the crowd as if she’s rehearsed it a million times, which I know she actually has because I’ve seen her. “All throughout time, geeks have kept to themselves. It’s a survival strategy, really, kind of like what animals do when bigger animals come out hunting. You just keep your head down and hope nobody will notice you, or hope that if a big old tiger comes along, he eats the kid next to you.”
“You’re mixing your metaphors,” Amber points out.
Becca ignores her. “But we’re not little bunny rabbits, are we? Aren’t we smarter and stronger and more on top of stuff than most of the other people on campus?” A couple of the girls are nodding. “So if that’s true, why aren’t we making decisions about stuff like student government and dances and fashion and trends?”
“Because we don’t care?” Elisa mutters snottily.
“No!” Becca wheels on her, eyes ablaze. “We don’t get involved because we’re still operating on the bully-taking-the-lunch-money mentality!”
“Huh?” Amitha frowns, puzzled.
“You mean like when they trick you into dropping your purse and then take all the change that falls out, and you can’t tell on them because they’ll come after you?” Cheryl squeaks. “Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Exactly!” Becca shouts. “And—”
“Or when they come after you with chloroform on a towel in the bathroom—” Cheryl goes on. “Or when they take tire irons out of their cars and—”
“Oh brother.” Elisa covers her head in her hands. “This is all sounding much too dangerous.”
“Wait!” Becca yells. “Listen to me! If we just keep letting ourselves be invisible, where does that leave us?”
“The emergency room?” Sherrie says. Everyone chuckles.
“No. It leaves us as victims. Is that who we want to be?”
“Well, at least I’m used to it,” Cheryl says. “I mean, if I never make waves nobody bothers me. I mean, most of the time.”
“Is that good enough?” Becca puts an arm around my shoulder. “Shelby and I don’t think so. We want to be the hunters instead of the prey.”
“Okay, all these analogies are making my brain hurt,” Amber says, shaking her head. “Can we just focus on what we’re doing and leave the philosophy for a coffeehouse? We only have about ten minutes left.”
“Exactly.” Becca fishes translucent mini-clipboards from her carpetbag, each fitted with several sheets of paper and a matching pen. “Here is your assignment for next week. I want you to talk to as many girls as you can. Ask them the three questions on the first sheet, and record their answers. If they answer yes to all three questions, get their name, grade, and advisory class.”
The other seven girls are reading the survey. I haven’t even seen it, so I grab one and read it out loud. “One: Do you think that writers should make more money than football players?”
“Two,” Becca continues. “Do you think that boys should be more interested in your IQ than your bra size?”
“I can’t say ‘bra’ to a complete stranger!” Cheryl mutters.
“Three: Do you believe in extraterrestrial life?”
“What will this prove?” Claudette asks.
“It will filter, like Cheryl was saying. Only people who answer yes will be the kind of people we want in the club.”
I decide to put in my two cents. “Okay, being devil’s advocate, what if someone answers no, but they have a good reason?”
“Like?”
“Like writers shouldn’t make more than football players because football generates more money than book sales,” Amitha pipes up. “That’s a good answer.”
“Okay,” Becca sighs. “Use your judgment. If the person answers well, you can put their name on the list. Then we’ll invite all of them to our event.” Everybody starts talking all at once, and then the bell rings for fifth period. Becca raises her hands again to get everybody quiet. “Okay, we’ll talk more about that next time. For now, if you could all just get names on the clipboard, as m
any as you can, that would be awesome. And Elisa, can you check and see if we can meet here every week?”
“I’ll ask.”
“Great.” All the girls gather their things to leave. Becca, a tornado of activity, shoves all of her stuff into her carpetbag, and then swoops the video out of Ms. McLachlan’s VCR. “Wasn’t that a great meeting?”
“Yeah.”
We move out into the human freeway of kids going to class and try not to get broadsided as we dive into the flow of traffic. “Are you okay?” Becca asks as she dodges somebody’s rolling backpack.
“Sure.” I feel Becca squinting at me sideways, trying to figure out what’s wrong even as she navigates the hyper waves of the sugar-fueled postlunch crowd.
“Okay, well, want to meet after school?”
“I have to go home.”
She pauses. We’re at the junction where we usually split off and I go to PE and she goes to math. “Yeah, I sort of figured you were going home. What’s the deal?”
“Dad’s having a dinner guest over tonight.”
I don’t even have to explain that comment. This is why it’s so great to have a friend, especially if you’re a geek. With most people, I’d have to go into some long explanation about why this dinner is a big deal, and why this means that my dad is bringing some stupid woman to our house, and why that is such an incredible insult to me and to my mom. But with Becca, I just have to say “dinner guest over tonight” and she totally gets it. Which is good, because if I had to explain the whole thing, I’d be crying all through PE, and not only is that embarrassing, it’s also potentially hazardous, especially if you’re trying to dodge a soft-ball.
Becca pulls me out of the stream of kids, and we’re sort of flat against the wall of the Foreign Languages building. “He is not.”
I nod. I am trying really hard to blink back those tears that are now rushing to jump out of my eyes like rats off a sinking ship. That thought makes me laugh, though, so Becca squints at me, confused. “What’s funny?”
“Never mind.”
She hugs me, which makes a couple of kids give us that dirty look and snicker that says ooh, two girls hugging, they must be gay because as everyone knows, touching someone of the same sex in any way (other than in sports) means you are absolutely and positively on the lavender end of the rainbow. “Listen. I’m coming with you. You shouldn’t have to face it alone.”
“Oh, yeah, that would go over great.” I’m wiping at my eyes, trying to pretend it’s a contact lens problem.
“Seriously. If he can bring people into your life without consulting you—”
“Well, he did sort of consult me—”
“—and just expects you to deal, then you deserve every possible support. I promise, I’ll be good. I won’t throw onion dip in her hair, or spill Kool-Aid on her white linen pantsuit.”
“Nobody wears white linen pantsuits.”
“This woman is dating your dad. We have no idea if she even shares our DNA, let alone what her fashion sense is. We must be prepared for anything. Library. After school. Be there.”
At least I go to PE laughing instead of crying.
We walk home after school again, and Becca is coaching me for The Dinner. “So, what is your ultimate goal with this dinner? Do you want to scare her away, or make her mad, or commit a felony?”
“Well, I think the felony thing is out. One more and I go to jail, you know.”
She chuckles, then stops walking, turns to me, and fixes me with this really serious expression. “This is the hard question. Do you want your dad to stay single forever?”
“Huh?”
“What I mean is, unless you want your dad to stay single forever, this date thing is going to come up. So you have to decide where you stand on it. Do you want him to be single forever, or do you think he, at some point, could or should find another woman besides your mom?”
“Geez, Dr. Phil. Why don’t you just say what you mean?” For some reason, this whole line of discussion is making me very angry.
“Okay,” she says, and continues walking. “Maybe you’re just not ready to think about it. But I guess your dad is, so you better get ready.”
The rest of the walk to my house, I say nothing. I’m ridiculously mad at Becca, and want to hit her. There is some part of me that realizes this is some weird psychological twist, but I still want to hit her.
Euphoria is buzzing around the house vacuuming when we get home. “Oh, Shelby!” she squeals in excitement. And by the way, if you’ve never heard a robot squeal in excitement, it’s something. It’s kind of like the sound of a diesel semi hitting an asthmatic duck. “We’re having a dinner guest! Isn’t that exciting?”
“Yeah,” I say as apathetically as possible.
“You don’t sound excited,” Euphoria says, puzzled. “Why not?”
“Listen, Shelby is just experiencing some technical difficulties with this whole dinner thing,” Becca says. “Could you leave her alone for a little bit? She’s processing.”
Euphoria harrumphs (again, a sound that has no natural equivalent) and rolls off to the kitchen to continue preparations for her gourmet meal. I wonder how Dad’s date will respond when she finds out her dinner was cooked by R2-D2.
“C’mon.” Becca nods toward my room, and I follow her. “Let’s take your mind off this subject. Let’s talk about the club.”
“Whatever.” I flop belly down onto my bed.
“I will ignore that poopy attitude and continue.” She sits on the floor so she’s eye level with me. “We need to make some posters for the Twinkie collection. I’d like them to look like the video, so I want you to do that because you’re so good on computers. Then, the next thing is our National Invisible Boy Day.”
“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that. Where did that come from?”
“Well,” Becca looks down demurely at the floor, innocently tracing her finger in a pattern on the rug. “I did it for you. You are obsessed about this Anders guy, and it’s not healthy.”
“Right.” I sit up and hug my pillow. “Did you ever think that maybe I like thinking about Anders?”
“Even if it’s making you miserable?”
“That’s what boys are for.”
She groans, exasperated. “No, no, no! You’re missing the whole point! The Queen Geeks are to help us forget about all these other dumb distractions that take away our time and energy. If you keep focusing on boys, where are you?”
“Hopefully at some expensive restaurant?”
“You are hopeless. If you weren’t my best friend, I would totally wash my hands of you.” Becca jumps up, grabs my hand, and yanks me off the bed. “Okay. I wanted to save this for later, but I can see that you are in dire need of distraction. Come with me.”
She grabs her backpack and rummages through the folders and binders until she finds a green piece of paper. “Here you go,” she says proudly, shoving it toward me.
At the top of the paper, the heading reads Green Pines Freshman Dance Committee. “This is supposed to cheer me up?”
“Keep reading.” She is practically bouncing with anticipation.
“Okay.” I scan the description of the committee’s function: to meet and discuss, plan, and implement the spring freshman dance. “Big deal. I probably won’t even go.”
“Do I have to do everything?” She grabs the paper and points to the bottom, where our two names are the last in a list of people.
“Why are our names on this paper?”
“We are on the dance committee!” She grabs my hands and starts whirling me around. “Isn’t that great?”
“Whoa, whoa.” I stop the dizzy spinning. “We are on the dance committee? Did it occur to you to ask me?”
She looks hurt. “Well, I just figured that if I wanted to do it, you would too. Don’t be mad.” She takes the paper from me and puts her finger on the names at the top of the list. “Look who’s on here. It’s all the class officers, the real movers and shakers. We can get on
here and really make a change. No more stupid DJs or crappy papier-mâché decorations. We can make this a dance to remember!”
“Really? And you think people like Briley and her crew are really going to let us just take over and change their precious event into something geeky?”
“Ah, that’s the beauty.” Becca’s eyes have that maniacal gleam that tells me it’s already too late to back down. “We will make them think it’s their idea. That’s how all great leaders fool people.”
“Okay, well, this has definitely cheered me up.”
The phone rings. I freeze, and my heart starts to thump in my chest like a jackhammer plowing through titanium. “Shelby, can you get that? My claws are full,” Euphoria calls from the kitchen.
It rings again. Becca silently motions me toward the phone, so I pick it up. “Hello?”
“Shelby?”
A male voice. With an accent. I think I will have a heart attack and die a virgin. Not fair, universe! I clear my throat and try to sound sophisticated. “Yes?”
“Oh,” the voice sounds relieved. “I’m so glad. I’ve been trying for days to get to you.”
“And you are . . .”
“Oh! Sorry. Anders. From the bowling alley.”
“Oh. Hi, Anders.” Becca silently screams and jumps up and down, then hops onto my bed and jumps up and down, pumping her fists in the air in victory. “How are you?”
“My foot’s much better.” He chuckles with that husky Norwegian laugh that melts my toes.
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
“Oh, it was worth it.” He pauses for a moment as I feel my way toward the edge of the bed so I don’t fall to the floor and faint from sheer ecstasy. “Anyway, I wanted to know if you’d like to go out. I’m so sorry I haven’t called earlier—Tim’s mom washed my pants and I couldn’t read your number, so I’ve been trying all the possible combinations of numbers that look like yours.”
“You should’ve tried the phone book.” I slap myself on the forehead. Duh! The guy tells me he’s been desperately trying to call me and I insult him! No wonder I’m single!
