by Laura Preble
“Why is that good?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s only the cutest sophomore guy in school, and he’s on the academic decathlon team, and he’s the student producer for Panther TV.”
“Sounds like somebody has a crush.”
“Well, all this drooling over a guy is great, but we need to get to business,” Amber says, sounding bored. Maybe she has a Fletcher Berkowitz obsession too.
“I suggest we get smoothies before we start doing any hard work.” Elisa adjusts her backpack, which seems to be a permanent part of her body. “I’m hot and thirsty.”
“Juice Ranch,” we all say in unison.
Juice Ranch has any kind of fruit imaginable in any combination with frozen yogurt. And you can kind of pretend it’s healthy, which is nice. The only thing I don’t like about it is that it’s got this cheesy Western motif, and all the decorations are lassoes and pictures of cowboys and stuff. Even the cups have little cartoon ropes painted on. Anyway, we get our drinks and sit in a booth underneath a sad-looking deer head mounted on the wall.
“That creeps me out,” Amber says, gesturing to the trophy. “It looks really depressed.”
“You’d be depressed too if somebody took off your head, stuffed it, and mounted it on a wall,” Becca says.
“Hopefully, we’ll never know.” Amber takes a noisy sip from her Raspberry Round-Up. “So, what’s the latest Queen Geek adventure?”
“Twinkie collection is going well,” Elisa reports, consulting her Palm Pilot. “We have thirty-two boxes and several dozen loose Twinkies.”
“Loose Twinkies,” Amber snorts, choking on her smoothie. “What, do they put out on the first date?”
“I’m ignoring you.” Elisa shakes her head, then continues. “I think we should wait for maybe another week, then get all the stuff together and send it. And we should do something to let the TV stations know we’re doing it.”
“Becca’s all on that,” I say. “She’s the mistress of press releases.”
“My parents worked in films,” Becca says matter-of-factly. “So, I have lots of experience.”
“Lots of experience with what?” Amber laughs at her own lame joke. I’m noticing this is a pattern.
Becca continues. “National Invisible Boy Day will be coming up soon too, so we need to get on that. Since all we have to do is ignore people, it shouldn’t be that much work.”
“T-shirts?” Elisa fishes a pencil from her backpack and draws on a napkin. “I had a great idea. We draw a girl next to a boy, and he’s like, half disappeared because she’s ignoring him!”
“How do you draw something half not there?” Amber asks.
“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”
“I write poetry.”
“That’s artistic.” Elisa has pursed her lips and she and Amber are having a stare down. The forlorn deer head looks on, dejected, as if to say Can’t we all just get along?
“T-shirts might be tough. Expensive too,” Becca says. “Why don’t we just make signs? Or maybe bumper stickers? You can do those right on your printer.”
“Sayings?” Elisa is ready to jot down anything brilliant that comes out of our mouths.
Nothing comes out.
“Okay, we’ll think about that one.” Becca sucks the last drops from her Banana Bronco and crushes the cup. “The dance. We still need some amazing ideas.”
“Pirates of the Caribbean,” Elisa offers, ever mindful of any way to connect to her almighty Johnny Depp.
Amber drums her fingers on the red-checkered plastic table. “Maybe we could do something with pirates, but with other stuff too. What do you associate with islands and the ocean?”
“Seasickness,” Elisa blurts out.
“Oh, that’ll bring people in.” Amber throws a straw at her. “I meant something positive.”
“How about the rain forest?” Becca starts talking faster.
“Yeah. We could create this huge canopy of trees, and get bird sounds, and make the gym into a forest—”
“Putting aside the fact that it took hundreds of years for the rain forests to grow, how do you think we could afford to do it?” Elisa shakes her head. “I still like Johnny Depp.”
Amber laughs. “Oh, and he’s not expensive.”
“Well, we can’t really get him,” Elisa replies. “I just mean that type of décor. Maybe pirate games.”
“What? Walk the plank into a tank of sharks for a dollar?”
“Stop being so negative, Amber!”
“Hey, hey! Peace!” Becca has to practically throw a smoothie on them to cool them off. Who knew something as meaningless as a high school dance could fuel a civil war? “Let’s concentrate.”
“Why not a tropical rain forest island with pirates?” I slurp loudly on my smoothie. “Gilligan’s Island, Survivor, Lost. Tropical rain forest islands are hot.”
“We don’t want to just follow a trend,” Becca says hesitantly.
“If we combine two trends, is that following a trend or creating a whole new trend based on existing trends?” Elisa asks, cocking her head to one side and staring absently at the deer head.
“That gave me a headache,” Amber mutters. “How could we do something like that? We don’t have the money to do anything that elaborate.”
Becca is warming up to the idea. “It’s not a formal, so we could do a costume thing. Everybody could wear beach wear, waterproof stuff. We could have a hula lesson!”
“We could hide gold doubloons all over the gym! I mean, you know, those chocolate coins, not the real thing,” Elisa says, still stuck on her pirate fantasy. “And if you find one, it’s a free soda or something.”
“Back up,” Amber says, waving her hands in the air so vigorously that all her silver bracelets jingle. “How can we make an indoor tropical island?”
“Oh, that was a stupid idea.” I swirl the stuff at the bottom of my cup so I won’t have to have eye contact with anyone. “Sorry I brought it up. It just sort of popped out—”
“It’s exactly what we need.” Becca has a look of determination on her face that I’ve seen before. I know it means we will create an indoor tropical island, no matter what. “No one’s ever done anything like this. It’ll be an accomplishment that people will be talking about for the next four years! It will put us on the map!”
“And how do you propose we actually make it happen?” Elisa asks.
“There might be a reason no one has ever tried it before,” I offer. “Big trees, sand, rainstorms, man-eating plants—”
“Details, details,” Becca says, brushing off our concerns with a smile and a wave of her hand. “Man-eating plants could be optional. This can be worked out. Shelby’s dad is a scientist, and my parents have worked with people in movies for years. I’m sure we can get some special-effects stuff together and make it happen.”
“Your parents were in movies?” Amber asks, more excited than I’ve ever seen her. “Do they know Johnny Depp?” So she’s a Depp worshipper too.
Becca ignores her. “Okay, so we all put our fantastic brains to work figuring out what the mechanics are of creating a lush tropical paradise, and I’ll put my parents on it too.”
I’m just wishing I’d kept my brilliant mouth shut.
The conversation dissolves into more typical high school topics: boys, teachers, projects none of us have done, reading most of us have skipped. I have to admit that since I met Becca and we started this whole Queen Geek Social Club thing, my schoolwork hasn’t been as good as it was. It’s really hard to concentrate on things that don’t matter in life when you have exciting stuff like guys and indoor tropical islands to worry about. Algebra just doesn’t cut it. I make a mental note to put in some time on schoolwork tomorrow.
“Our first dance committee meeting is on Monday,” Becca says as we clean up our table and get ready to go. “We have to convince everyone else that this is a great idea.”
Elisa slides out of her chair and hitches up her backpack in one move. “Who
else is on this committee anyway?”
“Well, we know for sure that Fletcher Berkowitz is on it,” she replies, winking at me.
“Don’t start.”
“Huh?” Elisa frowns at me, then Becca. “What’s that about?”
“Fletcher joined the committee because Shelby is on it. I think he has a thing for her.”
Amber snorts as she follows us out into the mall. “Great. What happened to the Swedish dude?”
“He’s Norwegian,” I say through gritted teeth. “And he is a jerk.”
Silence follows. Sometimes other girls know when you don’t want to talk about it. It’s the unspoken girl code: If someone hurt you really badly, it takes a while before you want to tell that story over and over again. Eventually, you do, but when it first happens, you just want people to leave you alone with it. How we are all able to figure this out, I don’t know, because we can’t even seem to talk to our own parents about the simplest things without having a fight with them. Must be hormones or something.
Amber and Elisa split off from us and decide to go to a movie, but Becca and I go outside in the cool spring afternoon to wait for my dad to pick us up. Sitting on a bench near a water fountain, she kicks her legs mindlessly against the seat. “Maybe you should give Fletcher a chance.”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with guys right now.” I’ve started kicking the bench too, but not gently. “I want to be single and not tied down. Guys are stupid.”
“That may be true. But they look good in pants.”
“That is one of the dumbest things you’ve ever said.”
“Oh, just wait,” she grins. “I’m sure I’ll come up with even dumber stuff than that.”
After a moment, I ask, “So, this indoor tropical island thing. I have no idea where that came from. I think we should just stick to the pirate theme, that’s cool. But this is just too complicated.”
She shakes her head. “Shelby. You know what they say? If you never shoot for the stars, you’ll always end up with your head in the sand.”
“Who says that?”
“Somebody. Anyway, I know a way to do it already. We just need some specialized help from some friends of my parents, but it’s not all that hard.”
“So you’re going to try to get the dance committee to agree to it, get the school to agree to it, and then find some way to get the mist and sand and trees inside our gym?”
“First of all, it’s not that I am going to try anything. It’s we. And as Master Yoda says, ‘there is no try, there is only do or do not.’”
“Thanks, Obi-Wan. I’ll remember that when we’re getting expelled.”
12
DANCE COMMITTEE FEVER (or The Confusing Cloud of Boy-Dust)
Sunday is devoted to homework, which, because I haven’t really been paying attention for several weeks, is harder than it needs to be. I get through it with only minor interruptions from my dad, who keeps poking his head in to see if I want to talk, which I don’t. Euphoria, on the other hand, cannot take a hint.
“Shelby, I wish you’d let me help you with this,” she whines as I struggle over some complex graphing problem. “This is like the alphabet to me.”
“But then I wouldn’t learn how to do it, and you won’t be there when I take my finals, will you?” I erase yet again, cursing the flimsiness of graph paper.
“That’s a good point. But I hate to see you struggling. Still, maybe I can make you something to eat.”
“Sure,” I say, mostly to get rid of her. “How about a sandwich? Egg salad?”
“I’m on it.” She rolls away, humming the Star Wars theme. I cannot get away from that stupid movie.
Just as I’m really starting to make some progress on the algebra (that is, I’m not erasing everything I write), the phone rings. “Hello?”
“Shelby?” A male voice. My fists clench involuntarily. “Hey. It’s Fletcher.”
“How did you get this number?”
“Calm down. Becca gave it to me.”
“Becca?!” That rat! “Hmmm. So what do you want?”
“Wow, nothing like the little pleasantries of conversation for you, huh?” He chuckles, a deep kind of manly chuckle that I sort of like despite myself. “Don’t get all upset. I’m not calling to ask you out. You’ve been real clear with your opinion of me since we met.”
For the first time I feel sort of guilty about hitting him with the pillow. But then angry Shelby comes back, pummels nice Shelby on the head, and shoves her into a closet. “Well, I’m glad you picked up on my subtle signals. Good for you. What are you calling for?”
“Yeah. Well, I talked with Becca about the dance committee, and she told me about your idea, about the island thing.”
“Yeah, that was stupid. I don’t know why she’s so fixated on it now.”
“I think it’s brilliant.” He coughs uncomfortably, as if he is choking on the compliment. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be nice to you. This is really a business call. I want to talk to you about the nuts and bolts of the whole thing, assuming we can get that through the dance committee.”
“Uh-huh.” I continue erasing my graph paper, look down, and notice that I have doodled Fletcher’s name in the margin! Is he practicing mind control? I must remember to severely punish my right hand with a paraffin wax dip and a dose of toxic green nail polish.
“So anyway, I wondered if maybe I could come over and we could talk about it today, before the meeting tomorrow.” He sounds tentative. “Of course, if you’d rather not let me see your home, I’d totally understand.”
“What does that mean?” I snap my pencil in half.
“Oh, I just know how it is sometimes. With parents and . . . um . . . alternative living arrangements. You might be sensitive about it, that’s all. So, we could meet—”
“No. You come on over. I have nothing to hide. What, do you think we have trained monkeys flinging their poop around our house or something?” Trained monkeys? Poop? Clearly I’m dehydrated.
He laughs, a full-on belly laugh with a tiny squeak in the middle, which is sort of charming. “No, no. I just mean that Becca told me about your living situation, and—” Becca again! I’m really going to have to think of something good, revenge-wise.
“Just hurry up and let’s get this over with. I’ll e-mail you directions and my address. What’s your e-mail?”
“FBInvader at nerfnet dot com.”
“I’ll send it to you. Can you be here in an hour?” I carefully tear the piece of paper with his name on it from my homework and rip it into teeny-tiny bits.
“Sure. I’ll bring my research.”
“You’ve done research?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s what I do. Bye, C-Shel.” He laughs again.
“That’s my screen name! How did you—”
“Like I said, it’s what I do.”
“I don’t like you.”
“I know.”
I hop on my computer, fire off an e-mail (complete with insults), and then jump up and immediately begin primping. I just want it known that I’m only primping in self-defense. What I mean is, the better looking a girl is, the more influence she can have on dumb, clueless boys, so it’s in my best interest to look devastating.
Euphoria comes in with my sandwich and asks, “What’s going on?”
“Somebody’s coming over. A kid from school. We’re working on a project together.”
“Oh. Should I make another sandwich?”
“God, no. If you feed him he might never leave.”
“A he? Really?”
“Don’t get your circuits in a twist. He’s a total jerk. I’m only seeing him so we can work on this project for the dance committee.”
“Hmmm.” She sets the plate down. “That’s not what I’m sensing.”
“Go away.”
“Higher-than-normal perspiration rate, pulse elevated, and I think I smell perfume.”
“Please go build a friend with spare parts and leave me alone.”
/> She sniffs indignantly. “That’s the thanks I get for making you a sandwich.”
After I’ve changed clothes three times, curled my hair and then straightened it, and applied and wiped off several shades of lipstick, I feel ready. My next order of business is to chew out Becca.
“Hi there,” she says as she answers her cell. “So? Anything new?”
“As if you didn’t know, traitor.”
“What?” She plays innocent. “I don’t know what you mean!”
“Fletcher.”
“Yes?”
“He called me. You gave him my number.”
“Did I?” She pretends to think about it for a second. “Oh, wait. Maybe I did. It seems to me a young man did call asking about you. Was that Fletcher? I’m shocked.” She yawns.
“Okay. Just be warned. This is not the last you’ve heard about it.”
“Oooh. I’m trembling. When’s he coming over?”
I check the clock. Only thirty minutes left? I’ve been primping for half an hour? “Pretty soon.”
“So, do you look ravishing?”
“Flawless. Want to come over?”
“I wouldn’t want to butt in. You go it alone. But you have to call me after he leaves.”
“I just want you to know that the only reason I got girled up is because I want him to be even more painfully aware of what he can’t have.”
“I believe that.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Anyway, enjoy. Call me later.” The phone goes dead.
I’m left alone with a warm egg salad sandwich, wads of lipsticked tissues, and an internal struggle. I am, despite my mean attitude, kind of intrigued by this Fletcher guy. I mean, don’t you have to be pretty confident to ask a girl out after she’s assaulted you? Well, confident or just plain dense. Hard to tell.
I try to work on my algebra again, which is pointless. I keep glancing up at the clock, and every time I look, it’s only five minutes later than the time before. I realize that this is a sign of obsession, and since I’ve just recently been obsessing about Anders, I’m starting to think maybe there’s something seriously wrong with me. I’ve always treated boys as a hobby, sort of like collecting baseball cards or rocks. But a disturbing trend is beginning to become clear: I’m starting to participate in this boy thing with more than a casual interest. I am not at all comfortable with this.
