Dating on the Dork Side

by Charity Tahmaseb

  Randall, being a jock and a player, recognized an opportunity to score a few points. “Want to go get a drink in the caf?” he asked.

  Prudence dropped her violin into its case and they left the music room together. I started to follow them, but a twinge shot through my knee. I clutched the back of a chair to support myself. Minus the crazy fall I’d taken in front of Sophie, my knee had been behaving for weeks. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe I was just reacting to Randall’s talk about football and the pileup.

  The thing was, I’d lied to Randall. On the day I got hurt, we were playing a team from another league. The game wasn’t a really big deal or anything, but you couldn’t tell that by the way some of the parents were acting.

  It was hot, and I pulled my helmet off. Most of the time, I didn’t do that. Like I said before, I wasn’t the only girl who played youth football, but there weren’t very many of us. It was easier to hide behind the helmet than to let your girl-ness be known. Someone on the other team always had something to say about it, and that something was never especially nice. But with the air so humid and thick that day, it felt like I could barely breathe. So I risked it.

  It was a mistake. The next time I took the field, a mom from the other team stalked the sidelines. She followed every move I made, yelling the whole time, “Get her! Get her! Come on, boys! Get! That! Girl!”

  Youth League Football is mostly a running game. If the quarterback can throw, and that’s usually a pretty big if, the receivers still need to be in the right place to catch the ball. Even though a lot of people call football players dumb jocks, it’s not a very easy sport to learn. It takes most teams a few years for everyone to get the hang of it. But our team had Gavin. And even back then, he could throw. Sometimes, when Coach let him throw to me, I actually made the catch.

  No way would Coach let it happen that day, not with all the “Get her!” attention on me. But then someone fumbled on the snap. Gavin got the ball, but only barely. He had to scramble to keep the play alive. I ran into position and waited. It looked like Gavin might carry the ball himself but, just in case, I tried to keep eye contact with him. At the last possible second, he launched the football. It came across the field, heading straight for me.

  I guess if you have to have a career-ending play, it might as well be a good one. I caught the ball and thought I saw a path through the defense. I’d made it halfway to the goal line when I felt a hand on my thigh. I tried to slip away, then I just tried to stay on my feet, but that wasn’t happening. I was already falling when Randall reached us to throw a block. And, yeah, he really was showing off that day.

  The hit Randall made was huge. It knocked my tackler off balance and caused the kid to grip my leg even tighter. He stretched it, pulled it, and, at exactly the worst possible moment, he twisted it. It was almost like he was offering my knee as a sacrifice. The four of us tumbled to the ground, the football and me on the bottom. The kid who was tackling me hit next. Then came Randall. I heard a loud pop and a scream when his extra weight landed on the pile.

  The popping sound was the ligament in my knee tearing in half and letting go. I still don’t know where the scream came from. Maybe it was my mom. Maybe it was me.

  All I wanted was for everybody to get off of me so I could get away from the field. I didn’t know how long I could go without crying and I didn’t want anyone to see me do it.

  Here’s the weird thing about that: Boys cry too. I’d seen every kid on my team cry at some point. Really. Some of the biggest tough guys in school were the biggest bawlers on the field. They cried when they were hurt. They cried when they were frustrated. Sometimes they even cried when they were happy. By middle school, though, the tears had started to dry up. By high school, they were gone.

  Sometimes I still wonder if that was a good thing.

  I remember sinking back into the grass and waiting—for the boys to finally sort themselves out, for the referee, coach, and EMT guy to come dashing over, for someone to help me up. That someone turned out to be Gavin, who pushed his way through the adults. Between him and the EMT guy, I hopped my way to the sidelines. I saw my mother’s crumpled face, and the worry lines on my dad’s. Beneath all his equipment, I felt Gavin heave a sad sigh.

  I barely heard the applause.

  Chapter 15

  ALL THAT DAY and the next, I looked for evidence of Rhino’s “grassroots” campaign. I didn’t see anything, anywhere. When I caught him texting with Elle, I wondered if he was really doing something for Sophie, or if he’d gone secret double agent on me. If Rhino wasn’t really going to help, I’d have to do something myself.

  Thursday morning, I came to school armed with all the pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters I could find. My haul was pitiful. I think Dad had already raided the usual sources. The only things left for me were my piggy bank and what I could scrounge up from beneath the couch cushions.

  My search for change had been a waste of time, though. When I walked into homeroom, Mr. Moore had already packed away the homecoming canisters for Clarissa, Elle, Mercedes, and Sophie. He was holding one of the few “Camy” canisters I’d managed to put together.

  He cleared his throat dramatically. “I suggest we all exhibit a little homeroom solidarity and vote for Miss Cavanaugh,” he said, also dramatically. He shook the can and began walking up and down each aisle with it.

  All the blood in my body rushed to my cheeks and I thought I might faint. I probably would have, too, if I didn’t think that would call even more attention to myself. Instead, I stared at the spot on my desk where someone had tried to carve their initials. I didn’t look up, not even when I heard coins begin to drop into the can. Not even when Mr. Moore gave the container a final shake and it sounded nearly full.

  “Best of luck, Camy,” he said, squeezing a little bit of extra drama into his comment. Then he dropped my canister into the box with the rest of them.

  Two student council members appeared at the classroom door. They were pushing an AV cart loaded with boxes just like the one Mr. Moore handed them. When they rolled the cart toward the next classroom, I sighed and closed my eyes.

  They were still closed when something brushed against my head. I hoped it was a ladybug. I wasn’t sure if they really were lucky, but the way my plan was going, it sure couldn’t hurt. I patted my hair but I didn’t find anything.

  The kid across the aisle from me shook his head and pointed to the floor. I followed his finger but all I saw there was a Minnesota Twins pencil eraser. I don’t know why he thought it was mine. He rolled his eyes, reached down to pick the eraser up, then jerked his head to the other side of the room.

  I looked left and caught a hint of Jason Abernathy’s goofy grin. A second later, he flashed a note at me.

  Hook me up?

  I shook my head. Nuh. Unh.

  “Come on,” he mouthed. Jason gave me a classic puppy-dog look, all big eyes and pout. Did that really work on girls? I was pretty sure it didn’t, at least not on any girl who’d read the wiki. I looked away. A second later something hit my cheek. Another note from Jason, this one folded into a paper football.

  Pleez????? it said.

  There were three kinds of warnings at Olympia High School: tornado warnings, blizzard warnings, and Babette “Bing Bing” Riley warnings. In case of a tornado, we all hid in the hallways. In case of a blizzard, we all hurried home to hide out there. And in case of Bing Bing (an unfortunate nickname left over from grade school), we all just hid. Period.

  It’s not like Babette was unpopular, but I’m not sure anyone really liked her, either. I guess the best way to describe her is … dangerous. She was the editor of the school newspaper and her best friend ran the yearbook. Nothing happened without Bing Bing knowing about it. It was a miracle she hadn’t already figured out the whole boy boycott thing. And when she did finally hear about it? I was already bracing myself. I’d probably find my picture on the front page with a finger up my nose.

  If a Bing Bing warning had gone out,
I hadn’t heard it. If others were ducking their heads, I hadn’t noticed. But when Babette Riley slammed my locker door shut at lunchtime, she sure got my attention.

  “So what does a girl have to do to get her own Hottie McHottie Pants?”

  “What ... who?”

  “Look, I know you hooked up Prudence,” Babette said. “She told me all about it. She also told me Randall asked her to the dance.”

  “That was fast.”

  “No kidding. And then there’s Dalton, and Tim Lansing, and who knows who else. All of them have one thing in common.” She stared at me over the top of her librarian glasses. “So, I’m back to my first question. How does a girl get her own A-lister?”

  “Um, well, I have this spreadsheet,” I said. It was no use lying to Bing Bing. She’d find out eventually, and the punishment would be even worse.

  “Great,” she said. “Who’s still available?”

  “Did you have someone in mind?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  I waited, wondering if she’d make me guess.

  Instead, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “I want to go to homecoming with Jason Abernathy.”

  She wanted to ... what? “You want to go with The Ab?” I said, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

  “Yep. I do. But here’s the deal. He has to dress up the same way he would for Clarissa Delacroix.”

  “Why would Jason dress up for Clarissa?” I said.

  Bing Bing gave me a Where have you been? look and went on. “He has to agree to have one of those homecoming photos taken, too.”

  “You’re going to memorialize the big night?” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The whole idea of Bing Bing and The Ab arm-in-arm under a crepe paper arch was just too ridiculous.

  “Oh, I’m going to memorialize it, all right. It’s going to be the center photo in the spread the newspaper is doing on the dance. It just might make the frontispiece in the yearbook, too.”

  Rarely does one encounter such pure evil genius. Babette could give Rhino some serious competition.

  “The only way that could be any better,” I said, “is if you went to homecoming with Aiden.” I still considered him my main suspect as the wiki’s mastermind. Attending homecoming with Babette would be a fitting punishment.

  Babette made a face. “Right. One, I can’t stand being in the same room as that piss snake. Two, he’d never agree to do it. And three…” Her mouth turned up into a smile. “Jason is going to look really good.” She touched her side. “Right here.”

  I felt sorry for Jason then. For about three seconds. Then I remembered the wiki, and the spiky paper football hitting my cheek. Maybe he deserved to spend a night as Bing Bing’s arm candy.

  “He’s in the class next to me last block,” I said. “Meet me in front of Mr. Moore’s before the bell. He’s never early, so we’ll have to work fast.”

  “See you then.”

  She breezed off down the hall, pulling a stylus from her bun and making a note in a tablet she’d taken from her book bag, no doubt penciling in her dream date with Jason.

  Even though he was one of the boys who, according to the list, would be willing to dance with a flagpole, I couldn’t arrange this match on my own. I’d need Gavin to pull it off.

  I looked for him everywhere that afternoon but never found him. Finally I pulled out my cell phone. They weren’t allowed on in school. If you got caught, it meant a trip to the vice principal’s office, where Mr. Jourdan would confiscate your phone and keep it until your parents came in to get it. I usually had mine in my bag but I was too chicken to start it up. Until now. I crouched in a bathroom stall and pecked out a text:

  I need to talk to you right away. I have an idea for your flagpole dancer, the “stomach” problem. She’s front page news, if you know what I mean.

  I hit “send” before I could change my mind, or change the message. All afternoon, I searched for signs of Gavin, while trying to avoid both Jason and Babette. But eventually final period rolled around and I couldn't avoid the situation any longer. When I turned the corner I found Bing Bing standing by the door to Mr. Moore’s room. I didn’t think there was a chance I could slip by her without being seen, but I gave it a try.

  “Well?” she said when I tried to sneak past between two pom squad girls.

  “Well,” I said, and I kept on going.

  Babette held out an arm to block me. “He doesn’t know yet, does he?”

  “Well ...” I said again. I glanced down the hall toward Jason, who was walking as if he didn't have a care in the world. He held up a paper football and smiled. I looked back at Bing Bing. I wondered if she already had something stored away to use against me. The look on her face made me think there were several exceptionally mortifying options she was considering.

  Gavin skidded around the corner just as the bell sounded. “Mr. Moore, I need Jason and, oh, hey, Babette, you too, down in the gym for homecoming rehearsal.” He gave me a grin. “You, too, Camy.”

  I checked in and out of my own classroom, then the four of us walked down the hall toward the lobby and gymnasium. Gavin took a few steps in front of us, then turned around. He walked backward as he spoke. “So, Jason, I’d like to introduce you to your date for the homecoming dance tomorrow night.”

  “All right! Who’s the lucky lay-day?”

  “It’s someone you’re, uh, pretty close to.”

  Jason threw out the names of a few girls, starting with Clarissa Delacroix. Maybe Bing Bing was right about the two of them. I’d have to mention it to Elle.

  “No, it’s someone you’re physically close to,” Gavin said. “Like right now, here, walking next to you.”

  “Camy?” Jason’s goofy grin spread across his face.

  “No!” Gavin, Babette, and I all shouted at once. It’s a good thing the theme song for the school-run afternoon TV show was playing, or we probably all would have earned detention.

  Jason looked around, like some other girl might teleport in at any moment. When that didn’t happen, he screwed up his face and said, “Bing Bing?”

  “Bing-o,” Gavin said. “Now for the rules: Jason, you will not disrespect or ditch your date. The only time you can leave her side is to perform your duties as homecoming escort.” He turned to Babette. “Jason owns exactly one suit jacket, but I heard that he was slipping Swedish meatballs into the pocket of it at the country club a few weeks ago, so—”

  “Dude. How’d you know that?” Jason interrupted.

  “I have my sources. Anyway, Bing Bing, knowing that your date may smell like a month-old buffet, and considering the school only requires boys to wear a shirt with a collar to the dance, what is your preference?”

  “I think I’ll go with the shirt. But he has to wear a tie. A nice one. And I want a corsage.”

  “The dance is tomorrow,” Gavin said. “It may be too late for flowers.”

  She sighed. “Okay. No flowers. But I require photographic evidence of the event.”

  “Huh?” Jason said.

  “We’re having our picture taken.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “So we have a deal?” Gavin asked.

  They both nodded.

  In the gym, student council members were working to staple blue and silver fabric along the edges of a big, temporary stage. Babette left to check the progress on the photo backdrop area. Jason sprawled across the bottom row of bleachers and closed his eyes. I took a seat beside Sophie while Gavin climbed past me to sit with the rest of the guys.

  Ms. Pendergast came in a minute later. She clapped her hands together a few times, then called out, “We’re going to run through the entire ceremony, from grand entrance to crowning. This includes all five girls and their escorts.” She aimed an extra round of clapping at Jason until he finally sat up.

  “I really got the prize when they handed out escorts,” Sophie said.

  “It could be worse. You could be stuck with Aiden.”

  She leaned in closer.
“I heard about Prudence and Randall. Did you do that?”

  “Actually, I didn’t have to do anything. I just got them in the same room.”

  Sophie glanced toward Kevin Orrs, who was busy checking the audio equipment, and smiled.

  “Sometimes that’s all it takes. Speaking of which.” She nodded at Gavin. “Any more visits to the boys’ bathroom?”

  She said it quietly, but I swear Gavin heard. He turned away from Aiden and toward us.

  Before Sophie could say anything else, Ms. Pendergast resumed her instructions. I swear, I’d never been so happy to hear her voice.

  “When the music starts, you will enter, taking slow, elegant steps up the ramp. You will continue to your spot on the stage. And boys, no rushing. We’re not going for any forward passes here.”

  The girls giggled. The guys groaned. Ms. Pendergast cleared her throat. “All right, ladies,” she said. “Get ready.”

  I stood and started toward the gym doors, but when I got halfway there, I realized I was alone. I turned to find Mercedes, Elle, Clarissa, and Sophie all sitting on the first row of the bleachers. They had all pulled out shoeboxes. And they were all slipping on the shoes they would wear tomorrow with their dresses. I studied the Chuck Taylors I’d pulled on that morning.

  “Camy?” Ms. Pendergast said. “Don’t you have your shoes? It was clearly stated in the packet that I gave to all of you girls.” She flipped through the pages on her clipboard, then held it up. She stabbed at a section of the paperwork with her pen. “It’s even in bold. Practice Thursday, last block. BRING SHOES.” The words came out of her mouth in capital letters.

  I’d been so busy tracking comments on the wiki, matchmaking, and trying to turn the homecoming queen contest upside down that I hadn’t paid much attention to the homecoming event itself. I’d barely managed to produce any canisters for my campaign, and I hadn’t looked at Ms. Pendergast’s calendar for more than a week.

  But the truth is, even if I’d studied it that morning, I probably wouldn’t have understood the significance. BRING SHOES? I still wasn’t sure I understood it then, not until Ms. P made it horribly clear.