by Laura Preble
I mean, guys are nice, and they’re people too, but I like my independence. I don’t want all my thinking muddled by a pretty face or a nice set of forearms. Or the smell of sandalwood. I make a vow to myself that I will be very cautious with regard to this guy, Fletcher. I’ll be civil to him, but I won’t fall for him, because even if he is a great guy, I am my own person. And I have the Queen Geeks to think about! I mean, I don’t have time to—
The doorbell rings. What? I glance up at the clock again, and it’s five. How did that happen?
“I’ll get it!” I scream, tearing out of my room.
Euphoria is already rolling toward the door. “Where’s the fire, honey?”
“No fire. Just trying to be polite. Could you go hide in the kitchen?”
“That’s nice. What am I, chopped liver?”
“Have you ever even seen chopped liver, Euphoria?” She ignores me and grumbles away. I take a deep breath, open the door, and there is Fletcher Berkowitz. “Hey,” he says, a little awkwardly. “Thanks for inviting me over.”
“It’s purely work. Plus, you invited yourself.” I sound very cold. That’s good. “Come in, please.”
“You look great.” He walks by me a little too closely, and I catch a scent of something kind of musky, but subtle. The smell is always the first thing to make you stupid.
“Thanks. Let’s sit down in the living room.” He follows me, and I can sense that he’s watching me walk. I feel hot all over.
“Want something to drink?”
“Sure. Soda’s good. Regular, though. No artificial sweeteners.”
“Health nut, huh?”
“Not a nut, really. I just don’t want brain tumors.”
I press the intercom button. “Euphoria, could we have two regular sodas, please?”
“Coming.”
I sit on the velvet sofa, right in the middle, so he can’t really sit next to me without it looking weird. He takes the hint and plops down on the loveseat.
“You have a maid?” He looks surprised. Wait’ll he sees her.
“Kind of. My dad made her, though.”
“Is your dad Dr. Frankenstein or something? Spare body parts in the garage?”
“Oh, no. You gotta keep the spare parts in the freezer.”
She rolls in, and I watch Fletcher for a reaction. Nothing. He takes the soda from her claw, sips it, and says, “Thanks.”
As she rolls away, I’m puzzled. Why no reaction? Does everybody he knows have a robot? “So you want to talk about the tropical island thing. As I said, I think it’s a dumb idea, and I don’t think there’s any way we could really pull it off. Think about it—mist, sand, trees, water. To do it right, we’d have to make a huge mess. Plus, the school won’t want the liability, and—”
“Okay, hang on. First of all, the school has insurance. Think about football. If they let kids do that, why would they object to a little water? Second, I think we can do this, on a small scale of course, without it being dangerous at all, only fun. Let’s go online and I can show you what I mean.”
“Uh . . .” My brain and my mouth suddenly aren’t speaking to each other. The computer is in my bedroom. The thought of Fletcher going into my bedroom causes massive panic, and I feel myself going all red. “We’re not online.”
“You just e-mailed me directions to your house!”
“Yeah, but it went down right after that.” Lame, but workable. “Why don’t we just stay here and talk?”
“Fine.” Fletcher sips his soda and stares at me over the rim of the glass. His highly annoying yet beautiful green eyes remind me of a cat’s, and somehow I feel like the mouse. “I found a site based in Florida where they actually do these huge themed party events with weather and everything. So if we have the right equipment, I think we could do it.”
“What’s the right equipment?”
“Wind machine to create a tropical breeze, a sprayer for the rain forest mist, some kind of liner so we could pour sand in the gym without it getting everywhere. Then of course, for effect we’d want lights and sound. I was even thinking of big tropical fish tanks, but that’s mostly just window dressing. I think we should work it like a haunted house, with pirates and scary stuff in the rain forest. You know, the haunted Isle of the Panther People or something. Becca says her parents have connections with people in the movie industry, so I think we should take advantage of that, of course.”
“So you have it all planned out, huh?”
“Not totally.” He sets his glass down on a coaster, then smiles. “There’s still the matter of that date.”
“I am absolutely not going out with you.” I take a gulp of my soda, choke on it, and gasp for air. Nothing like a near-death experience to encourage romance. Fletcher, alarmed, catapults off the couch and savagely beats me on the back, trying to force the killer soda to leave me alone. “I’m okay,” I finally croak, swatting at him.
“Sorry. I thought you were dying or something.” He retreats to the loveseat, his territory, leaving me to recover any shred of dignity I may have pretended to have when he walked in. “If I’d known the mere mention of a date with me would kill you, I wouldn’t have said anything.” He grins wryly. “I just have that effect on women, I guess.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I almost pick up my glass for another drink, but since that’s proven to be nearly fatal, I can’t use it as a prop anymore. “We should probably talk about the other stuff at the dance too, like decorations and advertising and music.”
“We can go over all that with the committee tomorrow.” An awkward silence fills the room, and we both stare at the carpet. “Okay, well, it’s obvious you are not interested in me as a date. How about as a friend?”
This throws me off guard. Honesty! Tricky! “I don’t see how we can be friends, Fletcher. You’re a guy.”
“So you don’t think guys and girls can have relationships other than romantic ones?”
“I highly doubt it.”
“Bet me.”
“What?” This guy is insane. Good. One more point against him in my big running potential-boyfriend score-board. “Bet you? What would we bet?”
He pauses, and then, with a self-satisfied smile, says, “If you will try to be my friend, and only my friend, I will bet you a hundred dollars that we’ll be able to do it, no strings attached, no romance. I’ll bet I can be as good a friend as Becca.”
“A hundred? What, are you made of money? I can’t afford a bet like that!”
“So you’re saying you expect to lose, expecting that we can’t be friends. Does that mean you think we’ll get romantically involved, so you expect to lose the bet? Or would you win?” His eyes twinkle in that way that makes me want to slap him.
“No! I’m not saying that at all!” Infuriating! I cannot wait to take his money. It will so prove to him that women are smarter than men. And that is clearly something I need to prove to Fletcher Berkowitz, who thinks he is being so clever in manipulating me to go out with him. Pathetic! Still, I have to give him points for being original. I stand and offer my hand. This is sure to be the easiest hundred dollars I could ever earn. “We’ll see if you can be as good a friend as Becca. We absolutely cannot share clothes, though.”
“Fair enough. Some ground rules. First, you do have to spend time with me, or the bet won’t be valid. I mean, we need to prove that we aren’t romantically involved and that we are friends, and we can’t do that if we never see each other. Second, the time frame. I think this will all be sorted out before summer, so if by the time school’s out we aren’t romantically involved and we are friends, I win the bet. Deal?”
I know he’s trying to trick me, but the great thing about being a Queen Geek is that I know he’s trying to trick me. And because I know this, I can double-trick him. And get rich in the bargain. I almost feel sorry for him.
“Deal,” I say. And, might I add, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, Mr. Fletcher Berkowitz. No idea.
After Fletche
r leaves, I immediately call Becca. “So?” she asks.
“What?”
“So? How was it?”
“Fine.” I am doodling in the margins on my homework again, only this time I’m doodling dollar signs. I tell her all about the bet, and about how he played right into my trap, and about the hundred dollars. She laughs. “What is so funny?”
“Nothing. I just think it’s great how you two work together. It should be an interesting dance committee meeting tomorrow.”
“Well, if he can help us achieve greatness with this indoor haunted pirate tropical island thing—”
“And he knows how to do it?”
“He says we need some stuff from your parents’ friends, but yeah, he seems to have a good idea. He’s done some research.”
“Great. Oh, I’m faxing the press release tomorrow before school, so hopefully we’ll get some TV crews here for the big Twinkie send-off on Wednesday.”
“Okay. Well, I gotta go. If I don’t get some homework done, I may not even be allowed to go to the dance.”
After I hang up, I consider Becca’s obsession with television reporters. I think she’s seriously overestimated the media’s interest in what high school kids do in their spare time, even if it involves supermodels and snack food. I guess compared to all the other things we do in high school, it’s more interesting, but that’s not saying much. I hope she won’t be disappointed when the world yawns over our monumental effort.
I pack up my books at about ten-thirty, and unfortunately, none of the algebra problems solved themselves. All I have to turn in to Mrs. Pettinger is a tattered piece of graph paper with dollar signs and violently erased versions of Fletcher’s name.
I pretty much go through the morning unconscious, which actually makes it much easier. I highly recommend it if you’ve never tried it. The only bright spot is a card waiting on my desk in first period English. The front features a panicky cat hanging by its claws to a high limb on a tree, and inside, the card reads, “Can’t wait to hang out with you!” Oh, we’ll be hanging out, I think. It almost seems unfair to play poor Fletcher, but money is money, and guys deserve all the knocking down they can get, I figure.
Finally, lunch comes and it’s dance committee time. The meeting is in the ASB room, which usually looks like a tornado came through and rearranged everything. A sweatshirt hangs from the fluorescent-light fixtures, and several pencils are sticking suspended from the spongy ceiling tiles. I guess ASB gets boring if they have time to throw pencils in the air. No wonder the school activities are crappy.
Several kids with perfect teeth and that carefully put-together look that looks like it’s not put together are milling around near the whiteboard, while several other less god-like kids are sitting uncomfortably on folding chairs. Becca is milling with the popular crowd, which for some reason bothers me. Fletcher walks in just behind me and gives my arm a squeeze. “Hey, did you get my card?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Thanks for that. I always like to start my day with a little animal cruelty.”
“Uh—” He is speechless! It’s a miracle!
“Okay, everyone.” Superblonde Samantha Singer, one of the dance committee hotshots, claps her hands and motions for everyone to sit down. “Thanks, everyone, for coming today. We have a lot to talk about, so let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves!”
Becca scurries over to sit next to me, eyes Fletcher on my other side, and then arches her eyebrows. When it’s our turn, Becca goes first. “I’m Becca Gallagher, and my friend, Shelby, and I are here representing the Queen Geek Social Club. We have a lot of ideas we think will—”
“Thanks,” Samantha stops us with her blindingly perfect smile. She totally skips over me, and points to Fletcher. “And of course, we have Fletch Berkowitz—” Fletch? “—and you all remember his amazing fall football season. So good to have you here with us, Fletch.”
“Thanks, Sam.” Sam?! He’s one of the pod people! I had no idea. Now I think maybe he’s hanging out with us to eat our brains or something. “I did want to bring up an idea. I’ve been brainstorming with some people, and we think it would be cool to have a haunted tropical rain forest at the dance. Since it’s Caribbean and all.”
Dead silence fills the room. “Could you explain that a little more?” Samantha blinks, trying to comprehend an idea that doesn’t involve chicken wire and papier-mâché.
“Sure.” Fletcher stands up and easily takes charge. “Instead of focusing on the whole Caribbean thing, like with the pineapple drinks and hula skirts, it would be cool to do something totally different. We’ve researched it, and it is possible, with some donations and some funding, to set up a haunted island paradise, and to decorate the gym like it’s a beach, with maybe some pirate stuff thrown in since Johnny Depp is so huge right now.”
Becca squeezes my arm so hard I think she’s going to cut off the circulation. “He’s stealing our ideas!” she hisses.
“Well, maybe we can get together later and you can show me the plans,” Samantha purrs smoothly. “If it’s doable, it sounds like a real selling point. Any comments?”
The conversation veers off toward talking about expensive hair extensions getting drenched, and several girls complain that wet taffeta doesn’t wear well. But when Samantha points out that this is to be a more casual dance, not a formal, and mentions that one-piece bathing suits would be appropriate, a lot of the guys especially seem very enthusiastic.
Chatter starts to heat up about pirate décor, and Becca finally does interject with Elisa’s idea of hiding chocolate gold coins for prizes, so it’s a treasure hunt. Samantha sort of stares through her until Fletcher pipes up, “I think that’s a great idea!” and then Samantha magically thinks it’s great too.
With five minutes to go before the end of lunch, the meeting breaks up, and everyone drifts out into the commons to grab something resembling food. Except that neither Becca nor I can eat anything, because we are both consumed with fury. “How could he do that?” Becca keeps saying over and over.
“I don’t know. I guess I shouldn’t have told him so much.” Now I’m sort of wishing I’d beaten him senseless with that pillow.
Fletcher trots to catch up to us as we steamroll out of the ASB room. “Hey!” He matches strides with us, unaware that he is courting death by being within arm’s distance. “Wasn’t that great? They loved your idea!”
Becca stops dead in her tracks, turns slowly to face Fletcher, and says, very evenly, “Yes, Fletcher. They loved our idea. So why did you feel the need to present it as if it were your idea?”
The smile drains from his cute, freckly face as he becomes aware of his monumental boo-boo. “Oh.” I see him working it out in his mind, trying to figure out how he dug himself into this hole. “But I thought if I brought it up—”
“You thought if you brought it up, Samantha Singer would just fall at your feet and lick your shoes,” I spit out at him. “Nice. So you stole our plans so you could impress Malibu Barbie, huh? Well, that’s a great start to our friendship, isn’t it? I guess neither of us is going to win that bet, because at this point, I don’t see us being friends, and I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last guy on earth.”
He grins sheepishly. “Even if our dating meant repopulating the earth for all humanity?”
“Especially not then!” Becca and I hustle off, leaving Fletcher in a confused cloud of boy-dust.
“Amazing.” Becca, furious, practically runs toward her next class.
“I cannot wait for National Invisible Boy Day,” I mutter as I follow her.
Wednesday, the day of our Twinkie send-off, dawns with a steady rain, something we don’t see too much of in Southern California. Because of this, I think most people who live here get brain stall when there is moisture; it certainly explains the high number of traffic accidents and detentions on rainy days. It also explains, I guess, why my high school has no sheltered areas and why we all look and smell like wet dogs whenever it even sprinkles.
Despite this, we all drag in at lunch to Ms. McLachlan’s room (thankfully unlocked and empty) and wait for Elisa to show up with her report. I’m happy to see large cardboard boxes filled with the clown-colored cartons of snacks, and as more and more girls come into the room, the boxes stack higher and higher. Elisa finally races in, huffing and puffing, and flings herself into the nearest empty desk.
“I cannot believe it!” she wheezes. “We must have collected, like, three hundred Twinkies. At least!”
We are, in fact, surrounded by golden cream-filled goodness. Since I’m in a bad mood, I figure I’ll be the bearer of bad news: “How are we going to pay to ship all these things to that modeling agency?”
Silence. No one thought of that, I guess. Becca, who usually has an answer for everything, stammers, “Well, I thought—I mean, couldn’t we—” and before she can finish, the door opens again and a tall, pantyhosed stranger enters.
Everyone knows when someone doesn’t belong in the high school environment. Only certain adults fit there: the worn-out, grumpy, exhausted teachers with their ties or tasteful pumps, tired of being talked over every day; the parents, who usually look nervous and scared and unsure of themselves or angry to the point of exploding; the administrators, either cocky, threatening or cool, but with that air of mystery that comes with an office and a nameplate. This person is none of those three. She is perfect.
“Hi,” she says, her voice deep and friendly. Definitely not a teacher. “I’m Chantal Nelson from Channel Ten News. I got your press release.”
The room goes totally silent for half a second, and then everybody is chattering. Becca tries to get everybody to calm down, but finally has to resort to a wolf whistle. “Hi,” she says, flashing her best public-relations smile. “I’m Becca Gallagher. I sent the press release.”
