The Queen Geek Social Club

by Laura Preble

  After a few sips of coffee, I feel I can join the land of the talking. “All right. So what got you up so early?”

  “I am inspired.” She leans forward, nearly knocking over her cup. “After your date disaster yesterday, I’ve really gotten excited about Queen Geeks. I see this as a way to change dating forever.”

  “Wow. Glad you’re not trying to do anything too difficult.” I drain the coffee from my cup and reach for the black thermos Meredith left on the table. “Changing dating as we know it. Yeah, start small.”

  She ignores my amazingly funny sarcasm. “National Invisible Boy Day. It needs to be what it says: national.”

  “Okay, so if you’re talking about national as in the whole country, that isn’t starting small.”

  “I know,” she says impatiently. “But what kind of impact will we make if it’s just at our school?”

  “But how do you expect to get a whole country to do something if you can’t even get the whole school to do it?” I’m thinking about when I first met Becca and joked with her about wanting global domination. Now I think maybe it wasn’t a joke.

  “I know, I know. But listen. My parents have done all kinds of stuff to get attention for their art. I know how to do this. We start at school, and that has to be really big, but then we get the local TV stations to cover it, and then get other schools to do it too. It’s not that hard.”

  “And you think you’ll still have time for homework?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Let’s get to work.”

  After swigging the rest of my coffee, I follow the whirl-wind that is Becca to her room, and by the time I get there she’s already saddled up at the computer and typing furiously. “Check this out. Here’s my press release to the local media. I’ll read it.” She clears her throat and her voice changes so she sounds like one of those plastic anchor-woman news clones. “ ‘Dateline: April 24. San Diego. Headline: Teen Girls Vow to Ignore Boys! An upstart new club, the Queen Geek Social Club, has started a movement that is growing all over the country.’”

  “That’s not true!” I sputter. “You can’t just lie!”

  “It’s not lying. It’s public relations.” She continues. “‘The movement, called National Invisible Boy Day, encourages girls everywhere to take one designated day—’” Here she stops and looks at me. “I haven’t figured out the date yet—‘one designated day, May the whatever, to totally ignore all boys. When asked why this is the focus of the club, spokesperson Shelby Chapelle said—’”

  “Hey! What do you mean, spokesperson Shelby Chapelle?”

  Becca sighs, exasperated, and looks up at the ceiling. “I can’t do everything! You’re much better to be a spokesperson. Of all of us, you seem the most normal.”

  “Well, thanks a lot!”

  “Anyway, here’s your quote, and we can change it if you want. ‘It’s not that we don’t like boys, we just want girls to be able to really focus on what they want without thinking of boys.’ Okay. Don’t you think that’s great? And then I just put in stuff about our school and where they can reach us to do interviews.”

  I say nothing; I stare at Becca in what I hope is stony, disapproving silence.

  “What? You want to change the quote?”

  “Do you know what will happen to me if this gets out? I’ll never go on a date again!”

  “And is that a big loss? Think about the Anders incident!”

  I have to admit that she’s got a point. All in all, when I look at my dating life from the bigger perspective, it pretty much sucks. If it were a bar graph, and each guy were a different colored bar, and the side of the graph measured things like stupidity, lack of consideration, and overpowering lust, the colored bars of all of the guys I’ve dated would crash through the top of the graph and rocket skyward like a testosterone-fueled rainbow. Not to mention that many of them (not Anders) smelled bad.

  “Shelby?” Becca waves a hand in front of my face. “Are you still with us?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Okay, I’ll be your spokesmodel.”

  “Spokesperson.”

  “Spokesgeek?”

  She smiles from ear to ear, turns to the computer and types frantically.

  We work on our campaign all morning, surfacing only for sandwiches and more coffee, and for the occasional bathroom break. By noon, we have the press release finished, a logo and T-shirt design (groovy clip art of a ’50s housewife with a book and a crown), and a plan of action for school. This includes posters, announcements, and fliers passed out at lunch to inform everyone of N.I.B.D. (National Invisible Boy Day).

  “How do you think the boys will take it?” I ask Becca as we wait for her printer to spit out a hundred posters on cherry-pink paper.

  “If I were a guy, I’d be flattered. I mean, if they weren’t important, why would we have to make a special day just to ignore them?”

  “Yeah.” I remember that I absolutely have to see my dad today, not that I want to. If he tries to swap date details with me, I will surely lose my lunch. “Hey, so I have to go home at some point today, to talk to my dad. Want to come with me?”

  She makes a face that tells me she doesn’t really want to (and who would, with a house like this?), but she agrees. She finds her mom (who is in the art studio breaking cheap dishes to use in a ceramic mosaic of vegetables commissioned by some farm bureau) and she reluctantly agrees to give us a ride to my house. “I need to get on the road. Remember, I’m going to L.A. tonight for the gallery opening. But the eggplant is really speaking to me right now,” she says. “I need to get back before I lose the inspiration.”

  “Never get between a woman and her vegetables,” Becca mutters as we climb into the Jeep.

  When Thea drives up to our house, I notice there are about a dozen big cardboard boxes parked out front. My first thought is that Ms. Clarke has moved in while I’ve been away. Or that Dad has moved me out.

  Thea waves to us and speeds away, in a big hurry to get back to her eggplant. “What’s with the boxes?” Becca asks as I unlock the front door.

  “Guess I’ll find out.”

  Inside, I hear Euphoria’s tinny voice humming some Rolling Stones song (Dad programmed her for oldies) and I find her in the kitchen chopping lettuce. “Well, well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter!” She whirls around, lights blinking merrily. “I missed you! What’s going on?”

  “Going on bad dates, hating boys, eating chocolate,” I say, grabbing a shiny red apple from a bowl on the counter. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Garage.” She lines up a tomato and slices it perfectly. “He’s been cleaning stuff out all day.”

  Becca’s eyes meet mine, and I know we’re thinking the exact same thing. Without a word, I rush out the back door and dash around to the garage with her right behind me. Dad is there in a grungy pair of jeans and a T-shirt, perspiring as he hoists a huge cardboard box from a high shelf.

  These are the boxes that hold most of the stuff that belonged to my mom. This is why I’m so freaked out. “What are you doing?” I yell as I slap his hand from the box he’s holding.

  He looks surprised, and I’m surprised too. “Just cleaning up,” he says, confused.

  “Your idea of cleaning up is to just throw out Mom’s stuff? Like she never existed?”

  “What?” He glances over at the spilled box that is leaking papers, photos, and brown bags full of who-knows-what. “You think I’m throwing out Mom’s things?”

  “Aren’t you? So your teacher friend can just move right in and take her place?” I’m beyond making any sense now. I’ve passed into some realm where the part of me that actually sometimes makes sense has been locked in a closet in the back of my mind. I hear myself babbling on, and even though I hate myself for saying the things I’m saying, I can’t seem to stop.

  “Am I next?” I scream. “Will you just kick me out to the curb like yesterday’s trash, and wait for somebody to pick me up so you can clear some personal space in your life?”

  “Shelby—”

&nbs
p; “I guess I thought maybe Mom meant more to you than that.” Now I’m out of control again, and I have to tell you, I’m really getting sick of it. Becca puts a hand on my shoulder, and I shrug it off.

  Dad turns away from me, puts a hand on his forehead, and kicks the box on the floor. “I’d never throw out your mom’s personal stuff,” he says finally. “These things are just papers, bank records, and office stuff from where she worked. She wasn’t about records and papers. She wasn’t that kind of person. So I think I can get rid of these things without it being an insult to who she was, or to you.”

  “Uh . . . I think I’ll go see if Euphoria needs a tune-up or something,” Becca mumbles, then ducks out of the garage.

  “Shelby, I know losing your mother was hard for you.” Dad’s eyes are half-closed, like he’s trying not to look at me. “But I lost my wife too. Don’t forget that.” He finally looks at me directly. “I could never replace her. Never. I don’t want to.”

  Why am I such a jerk? I’m thinking about myself, how I feel, and my dad is suffering just as much as I am, if not more. Is that just a teenager thing, or am I just an exceptionally awful person? All I say is “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  He smiles then, breaking the tension, and grabs me in a big, tight hug. “I love you, sweetheart. And even if I do occasionally have a date, I’ll never be able to replace your mom. She was one of a kind. And to be honest,” he pulls back and kisses my forehead, “I’m not ready yet either. I realized that the other night.”

  “Dad, I don’t want you to go through your life all by yourself. I mean, except for me, but I mean without a . . . a . . . companion.” That sounds so stupid, but I have no idea how to express to him that I understand his need for female company. It’s just not something a teenager should have to do: counsel a parent on his or her love life. It totally goes against the laws of nature. But this is our situation, so I guess I’d better adapt. “I mean . . . what I mean to say is . . .”

  “I think I get it.” He mercifully turns back to the cardboard boxes. “Now, you want to help me sort through this old box of books? We brought them from the other house and I have no idea what’s in there.”

  “Well, actually, Becca’s here, and we were going to do something a little more normal, like go to the mall. Is that okay? And can you drive us?”

  He laughs, and shakes his head, which I guess is a good sign. “I can’t blame you there. Clean out the garage or go shopping? Hmm. Yeah, go get me my keys.”

  Dad drops us at the mall; Becca doesn’t say anything until he’s already pulling away from the curb. “So? What was up?”

  “He was just cleaning out old junk. Not my mom’s stuff, just papers and tools and books. I just freaked out for nothing.”

  As we walk through the massive glass doors to the Temple of Stupid Spending, Becca says “Oh, I called Amber and Elisa too. They’re coming over in about half an hour.”

  “I hope we’re not just going to talk about club stuff. I’d like to do something purely fun for a change.”

  “Then let’s go to GameRage.” GameRage is the store for people who like challenges of all kinds: trading cards, board games, video games, everything. So far, my excitement has been limited mostly to the board games, but I could easily see myself getting addicted to some of the RPG (role-playing game) stuff.

  “Where are they meeting us?”

  “GameRage.”

  “Of course.”

  Since it’s Saturday, the mall is crammed with kids. I wonder, what did teenagers do before malls? I guess there were shops and stuff, but they were all spread out, so where did they all go to hang out in the days before shopping became a national pastime? Maybe they just sat on porches and drank lemonade or something, like in the movies, but I have a feeling they must have been bored to death. Or maybe they just walked around and traded their old stuff to other people for new stuff. That’s almost like shopping, I guess.

  GameRage is, of course, packed. Almost every kid I know plays some sort of game, whether it’s on a handheld or a home gaming system or a computer, and the select bunch of supergeeks who play chess and RPG mingle with the kids who learn about how to carjack a Cadillac and pick up prostitutes in the comfort of their living rooms. It’s kind of a strange mix, like one of those suicide sodas you make from putting every drink from the beverage bar into one cup.

  “Hey, check this out!” Becca excitedly waves me over to the board game part of the store. She’s holding up this retro-looking box. “Mystery Date! My mom told me about this. She used to play it when she was a kid.”

  I read the back of the box. “So the idea is you just open this plastic door and get a date with whoever is on the other side? Where’s the strategy in that?”

  “It’s just for fun.” She puts the box back on the shelf, disappointed at my lack of enthusiasm. “Well, what about this one? Star Wars Monopoly.”

  “What do you buy for properties?”

  “Planets.” She’s reading the sleek black packaging. “And I think if you land on Chance, Yoda tells your fortune or something.”

  “That’s okay. After last night, I’ve had enough Star Wars to last me for quite a while.”

  “Shelby?” It’s a guy’s voice, vaguely familiar, but when I hear it I get this stabbing pain behind my right eye. “Hey, Shelby!”

  I turn and it’s Fletcher, the guy I assaulted with the Padres pillow. What a coincidence. It’s like the universe is making sure I don’t forget the excruciating humiliation of my date with Anders. Nice job, universe. “Hi, Fletcher.”

  “How’s it going?” Becca has seen him, and she’s ducked over into the next aisle, the coward.

  “Oh, okay I guess.” I am trying very hard to ignore this guy without being rude, which is really a science all by itself. “Just hanging out.”

  “Yeah.” He acts like he’s reading the games on the shelves. “Oooh. Star Wars Monopoly. That would be cool.”

  Please, I think for what must be now be the tenth time, please let the earth open up and swallow me whole. As usual, the earth does not comply.

  “Uh, Shelby. I was wondering. Are you going to the spring dance?”

  “I’m on the dance committee.”

  “Oh.” He isn’t sure if that’s a signal to go ahead or to get lost. It’s my own fault. If I just had the guts to say something compassionate but direct, like Leave me alone, moron, then I would get much better results.

  However, I am unable to be this cruel, having recently been the victim of cruelty myself. So, instead, I say, “Dance committee members aren’t allowed to have dates.” Lying is always preferable to uncomfortable truth, right?

  “That’s stupid.” He’s squinting at me, all the freckles on his nose lining up in such a way that I want to grab a pen and connect them to see if a pattern will form.

  “Yeah, it is kind of dumb,” I agree. “Of course, since we have so many responsibilities, it kind of makes sense. We have to be free to fix any problems, you know.”

  “Problems with what?” Becca chirps over my shoulder.

  “Oh, Shelby was just telling me about the dance committee thing.” Fletcher brushes his unruly Ronald McDonald hair out of his eyes. “You know, how you all can’t have dates?”

  “What? I never heard—” I’m staring daggers at her at that moment, and sending brainwaves toward her at light speed: agree, agree, agree. She finally gets it, pauses and then says, unconvincingly, “Oh, yeah. Well, maybe we can get the rule changed.” Oh well. Close enough.

  “Maybe. I was just asking Shelby to go with me. But,” he smiles, green eyes twinkling, “since I’m on the dance committee too, maybe they’ll let us go together.”

  “You’re . . . you’re . . .”

  “Yeah. I saw you were on it, so I volunteered too.” He leans against the shelving, with his arms crossed, an insufferably smug look on his face. “So, guess we’d better get together. To do some planning.”

  “I wish I’d brought a pillow, so I could whack you again,” is a
ll I say as I storm past him. Becca follows me, trying really hard not to laugh. I jog-walk out of that store, out into the stream of humanity flowing through the mall, and I try to get lost. But it’s never that easy.

  “Oh my God! That was awesome!” she squeals as she prances next to me. “Can you believe that? He’s as smart as we are!”

  “Yeah, great. I just made a total fool of myself.”

  She calms down and I finally stop jogging when we get to the opposite end of the shopping center. I feel flushed and out of breath.

  “Want to sit for a while? I don’t think he’ll follow you,” she says as she slides onto a worn park bench. “Okay, but you have to give him credit. That was pretty slick.”

  “You’d better text Amber and Elisa to let them know where we are.” Becca flips her phone open, quick-keys them, and waits for a reply.

  “Oh. They’re already over there. I’ll go get them if you want. So you won’t have to face your secret admirer.”

  “More like a stalker. Yeah, okay. Go get them.”

  Becca grins and jogs toward GameRage, leaving me alone with my thoughts. What is with this Fletcher guy? Why would he in any way think that I’d be interested in him? I replay the scene in the van, the one where I was so mad at Anders, and hurt, and how that stupid Fletcher said something about me being on my period. What a dork! Come to think of it, I’ve seen him around school. He’s older than I am, so we don’t have classes together, but I’ve seen him during lunch. Where else? Maybe in gym? There are a lot of guys doing gym when I have my class. Or maybe he’s in a sport. Didn’t somebody say he plays football? No, doesn’t seem the football type. He’s built too slightly, sort of thin but muscular. He has nice forearms. Maybe he plays tennis. His hair is that coppery new-penny color, which I’ve always liked, not really Ronald McDonald red. And he has really nice green eyes, almost transparent, like sea glass. But still, he’s a total dork. I want nothing to do with him.

  Becca comes bopping around the corner, with Amber and Elisa behind her. “Oh my God,” Elisa squeals, which is very unlike her. “I cannot believe it. Fletcher Berkowitz asked you to the dance.”