We were so close for so long. We shared opinions, thoughts, and conjectures on the universe. Hell, I even talked to him about my view on sex. Granted, that took place a while ago, but my view hasn’t changed. And what he did with that information is abominable. For someone who used to bitch about the inanity of popularity, he sure was quick to embrace it. It wasn’t even a gradual change. One day, he was excited about LARPing and choosing which Sonic Screwdriver to buy, the next he was bro-hugging his fellow teammates and pretending like he had no idea how to do algebra because, “When are we ever going to need to know how to do this crap?” Probably every day for the rest of your life, Dan, or that’s what you used to say.
Beth pokes her blond head in the door. “Doing okay?”
I nod just before Miss Carrie slaps an ice pack onto my face. I lay back and stare at the ceiling. It’s one of those where they used putty to make a texture. I’ve spent many an afternoon analyzing this ceiling. It usually calms me down, as I try to find images in the random way the putty was smeared onto it. There’s a gnome holding a balloon right there in the center. Over by the wall above the window is the profile of a woman crying. But my usual favorites seem to be turning on me. The gnome morphs into Dan’s stupid, smug face in my head. He palms a basketball with a look of glee. Of course he’d ruin this simple little relaxation ritual for me.
He has seriously messed up this time. I’m not going to let this go unpunished. He’s unleashed the tiger, heaven help him.
The problem, I quickly realize, is that Dan is smart, even if he pretends to be otherwise. He wouldn’t fall for most of my dastardly plans like, say, Greg Donovan would. Dan Garrett would know what was going on. I have to think of something truly cunning, something inventive, if I want to remind him that he was once just like us. Just like me: a lowly nerd trying to navigate high school without losing my mind.
Miss Carrie finally releases me, so Beth and I head out of the empty school to her car. Poor Beth tries to cheer me up with small talk, but I’m having none of it.
“He stopped by, ya know?”
“Who?” I ask.
“Dan. Wanted to check on you.”
Check on me? Yeah, right. He just wanted to see what he’d wrought. Like a murderer returning to the scene of the crime.
“But I was a good guardian.” She puts on her atrocious British accent. “Sent ’im on his merry way, I did.” She looks at me expectantly because she knows her British accent always makes me giggle. It’s a testament to how pissed I am that I don’t laugh.
“Thanks. He was probably just coming around to gloat, the jerkface.” I pull on the car door handle, trying to punctuate my sentence with an angry gesture, but it’s locked.
“Jerkface?” A voice comes from the other side of the vehicle parked in front of Beth’s. I should have realized whose it was, but I was too busy focusing on the throbbing in my nose, I guess.
Dan walks around to the back of his enormous, hideously overpriced truck/Range Rover thing. “That’s a colorful description. I kind of like it. It’s a little juvenile, though. I’m sure you can do better, Zelda.” His weirdly perfect lips quirk up on the right, causing smile wrinkles by his eyes. I mean, seriously, who has smile wrinkles at seventeen years old? Then he cocks his head to the right in a silent challenge.
The logical part of my brain is screaming for me to ignore him because if I take the bait, I’ll set myself on a path of never-ending annoyance that will last until well into the early morning hours. But the pissed-off, just-got-clocked-with-a-basketball part of my brain wrestles Miss Logical Brain to the floor.
Challenge accepted, sir. “How about douche canoe? Assbutt? Bane of my existence? Sign of the imminent apocalypse? How do those work for you?” I pull on the car door handle again and, blessedly, it opens. I get in without giving him a chance to respond with some charming insult because I know that’s his mode of operation: being a jerk to a person without that person even realizing it until later when she’s in the shower or something, going over the conversation. Did you know squeezing the shampoo bottle in a fit of newly realized rage causes it to squirt quickly and directly into one’s eyes? Well, it does, speaking from experience.
Beth gets in, cranks the car, and we’re off, leaving Dan-the-Bland in the rearview mirror. Damn it, I should’ve used that one.
Beth puts on that British accent again. “Well, you showed ’im. Ee’s such a twat.”
I give her a noncommittal shrug and stare out the window.
She accepts defeat after that. If the accent won’t work after being utilized twice, there’s nothing that can be done for my mood. She drops me off at my house, throwing a “Hope you feel better” out the window as she pulls away. After a nice, long shower and a surprisingly short conversation with Mom during which she barely acknowledges my swollen nose—not because she doesn’t care but because, well, this is me we’re talking about—I settle down in front of the only thing that really understands me: my laptop. Tumblr is on fire tonight because of a short trailer that was released for The Super Ones movie. I try to switch on fangirl mode, but I’m still pissed about Dan. I shouldn’t be, I know. I shouldn’t let him get to me, but, dear Lord, how he gets to me! We used to be friends. He got me into LARPing, for goodness sake.
I’ll admit, I had a slight crush on him back then, before he slimmed down and grew a few inches. I know quite a few girls who have a crush on him now. I’ve heard them in the halls or the bathroom, always discussing his dreamy eyes and luscious hair. Luscious. Oh, how I hate that word. But if I’m honest, there’s no better word for it. It’s got a slight wave to it and it’s a honeyed brown. “Dreamy” is a good descriptor for his eyes, too. Bedroom eyes, concerned eyes with an edge of calculation. But those are both things he had before. I noticed them first, along with the other more important things. For example, once upon a midnight nerdy, we had a cult horror movie marathon. We stayed up until the wee hours of the morning wallowing in the epic awesomeness of Johnny Depp in Nightmare on Elm Street, the ultimate creep-level of Pennywise the clown in the IT mini-series, and the always present stupidity of girls in most scary movies.
“It’s a shame, really,” he’d said that night, nodding to the screen. “Here’s an opportunity for Hollywood to show feminine strength and what does she do? She hides under the bed.” He shook his head and munched on a cheesy puff.
I got a wiggly feeling in my stomach. “My thoughts exactly.” There’s nothing sexier than a guy who believes girls are actual people with intelligence and worth. I guess, for some weird reason, that’s why I find his nerdom betrayal so horrific. He had so much potential and he let popularity dig its professionally manicured claws into him.
Again, my thoughts go back to getting even with him. And suddenly it hits me. What’s the best way to defeat a foe? Know thy enemy.
Oh yes, Google will be my friend.
The first few results when I Google Dan Garrett are pretty standard. There’s a mention in the Natchitoches Times about the basketball team getting to the finals. There’s Dan’s long-abandoned LiveJournal page, which boasts a very whiny, horribly written poem. I tuck that away for later. And there’s a mention of him in an interview with his dad, who’s a local celebrity known as “Taxidermy Todd.” I don’t even click on that because everyone knows everything about Taxidermy Todd. He’s the hometown boy who made it big a few years ago by being one of the nation’s leading taxidermists. He even starred in a reality show on TLC. It was just a pilot episode—the series didn’t get picked up—but it was the biggest thing to happen to Natchitoches since Steel Magnolias was filmed here. And it boosted Mr. Garrett’s business so much that he doesn’t even need to do it anymore. He’s still involved in it, goes to conventions, speaks with up-and-coming taxidermists, that kind of thing, but no more preserving poor, beautiful animals some rich asshole shot on safari. He might do a favor for someone like Old Lady So-and-So who lost her beloved, so-old-it-was-blind-and-deaf cat, but other than that, he’s done.
It’s toward the bottom of the page that I find pure gold.
Oh yes, Dan Garrett needs to be taught a lesson, and school is in session.
Chapter Two
Dan
Maddie rolls her eyes so hard they probably have a fantastic view of her frontal lobe. “Dan, are you seriously complaining about being popular?”
I should’ve known better than to say anything to her. She doesn’t understand. “Well, I—”
She straightens the comics in the H-section of The Phoenix as she bitches me out. “I mean, you do realize there are people with far worse problems than being popular, right? Some people have to walk five miles just to get water every day. Some people don’t know how to read. Jeez, some people died today.”
“Yeah, I understand that and I’m sorry for their pain, but… Never mind. Forget it. Excuse the hell out of me for thinking you might actually be able to help me with something, that I could actually confide in you without my balls being busted.” I turn to leave her to her OCD ways.
She stops me by putting a hand on my shoulder. “Wait, wait, wait. I’m sorry, okay? Of course you can confide in me. Let’s start over. So, why don’t you like being popular?”
I give her an “I don’t quite trust you, but I’m going to give it a shot” eye squint because if anyone knows about being in the “It crowd,” it’s Maddie. She spent most of her high school years around these people. “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t believe in the concept. It’s like, who gives a flying rat’s ass what people think of you, ya know? Their approval isn’t going to do anything for you in the future. Unless they’re, like, Bill Gates’s nephew or something and you want to build computers or robots who wash your socks. Man, wouldn’t it be great to have a robot sock-washer?”
“Uh, hasn’t that already been invented?” She taps a finger on her chin in fake thought. “Oh yeah! It’s called a washing machine.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. Very funny, cheerleader.”
She takes a dramatic bow. “Thank you! You’ve been a wonderful crowd. I’m here all week, tell your friends.”
I scoff. “Yeah, sure.”
“What is it with you and socks anyway? It’s like you’re obsessed or something.”
I shake my head in pity for her tiny, tiny brain. “The right socks are like a hug for your feet that lasts all day. It’s the little things that make life bearable.”
“Weirdo,” she says, then looks out the front window dreamily. “Seriously though, I’d prefer a robot homework-doer. I have like three papers due next week. And they’re all for classes where the professors are meanies.”
And there’s the college talk. It’s all Maddie and her boyfriend/my hetero life partner Logan discuss now. That and each other. A couple of years ago, all kinds of stupid drama-rama went down between them. They started out as star-crossed lovers with her being the quintessential popular cheerleader and him being the king of the nerds. But I took it upon myself to make sure those two crazy kids lived happily-ever-after and all that other junk. The number of times I’ve seen them do that cute, cuddly, kissy stuff is truly appalling. I’m not jealous at all… Okay, maybe a little. Or a lot. But it’s still gross to see, since I think of them both more like siblings now.
Normally, I’d just be bored by the college talk, but at the moment, it’s another topic that goes into the “things I’m jealous of” category. It must be heaven to be out of high school. “And by meanies, you really mean that they don’t fall for your made-up excuses, right?”
She sticks her tongue out at me and we make our way to the checkout counter of the store. “Anyway, what specifically don’t you like about having people like you?”
I shrug. “It’s such a hassle. I have to be, like, nice to them. It makes me very uncomfortable, as you could imagine.” She nods in the affirmative as I continue. “And it’s not just my aversion to being nice to people, ya know? It comes with responsibilities and obligations I just don’t want or need in my life. Plus, these people, dude, they’re straight-up horrible.”
She laughs. “I can see how that would make you, Craytor of the ‘every-dwarf-for-himself’ clan, uncomfortable. You’re not exactly a people person. And I knew my share of the holier-than-thou crowd, so I get that.”
I can’t hold in a long sigh. Craytor, my poor LARP (which stands for live action roleplaying for those who aren’t cool enough to know) character. I had such big plans for him this year, but I have no time to even go to the games. Not to mention my dad has strictly forbidden anything and everything game related. Come to think of it, he’s kind of forbidden everything that gives me joy. It has a lot to do with him wanting me to be the best I can be, to get into a good college and be friends with the “right people,” whatever that means. But that’s a pity party for another day. Right now I’m more depressed over the fact that even Maddie’s little elf princess thing could take on Craytor because I’ve missed out on a butt-ton of experience points that I could’ve used to make him even more badass.
I give one of the shelves a good kick. “Don’t even bring up LARP of Ages. It makes my heart hurt.”
“Sorry.” She pats me on the back, completely serious. Even despite their college workload, both Maddie and Logan have been able to make it to every game. “So what are you going to do? If it makes you this miserable, you should remedy the situation, right?”
I run my fingers through my hair, which always makes it stick up a little. “You think I haven’t tried? I thought if I was a jerk, maybe all these cheerleaders and football players and cool kids and other stereotypes would stop asking me to hang out and stuff, but it’s like that makes them want to hang out with me more. What sort of messed-up world do they live in, dude? And sometimes…” I shake a finger at her so she realizes the severity of what I’m about to say. “Sometimes, they just show up at my house.”
Her eyes go wide. “Noooo…”
“Yes.”
“You don’t let them into your inner sanctum, do you?”
That question goes to show how well this simple former cheerleader has gotten to know me.
“Of course I don’t let them into my room. There are too many valuable treasures in there. Could you imagine if one of those muscle-heads were to pick up my limited-edition Mace Windu lightsaber? He’d probably crush it with his big, meaty paws. No, they do not come into the inner sanctum. I usually just give them a towel and point them in the direction of the pool.”
She lets out a relieved sigh. “Phew, thank goodness. I might start to feel pushed aside if you let someone other than me in there.”
“You’re only allowed because of the ‘friend’s girlfriend’ clause, so don’t go and get a big head about it.”
Her mouth drops open in a mock-offended manner and her hand covers her heart. “You wound me, sir.”
I wave off her dramatics. “Anyway. What am I supposed to do?”
“Sounds like you’re just going to have to grin and bear it.” She shakes her head, her blond ponytail, which now features a streak of hot pink, swinging back and forth.
“Well, aren’t you just super helpful. Oh wait, did you hear that?” I hold my hand up, listening.
She frowns at me. “Hear what?”
“That severe note of sarcasm in my voice. Because you’re not being helpful at all. Let’s be honest here, you’re like the expert on identity crises, so where are the pearls of wisdom? Where are the nuggets of simple yet strangely accurate advice?” I grab a stack of comics that need to be shelved. Maybe if I help her get work done, she’ll be more inclined to take me seriously.
“But is this really an identity crisis? You of all people know who you are, in my opinion. Why don’t you just tell all these guys to leave you alone? I mean, I don’t really advise it because that would be mean, but that sounds like something you’d do.”
I pause in the middle of straightening the Batgirl comics because she makes a good point. Why am I indulging them? I ask myself. Immediately, an image of my dad’s satisfied face pop
s into my head. He looked so happy when Douchebag Donovan showed up with at least ten other people in tow for a surprise pool party. I don’t mention this to Maddie, though, because I know what she’d say. It’d be something Confucius-like that doesn’t help me fix my main problem at all. “You can’t live your life for someone else,” or some such lame thing that’s easier said than done.
In the end, I just tell her I’m probably overreacting and change the subject because my brain is tired of thinking about important stuff and not getting anywhere. It’s much more at home thinking about which new title to add to my pull list.
Zelda
Ah, Sundays. The best day of the week. Sundays have been dubbed cosplay day by Beth and me. We’ve decided to go out on a limb and create costumes for The Super Ones midnight premier at the theater. This will be the first film based on the über-popular comic book series, so we want to do it up right. We both wanted to be Bright Frenzy, the main mammajamma, but Beth made a very good argument with the fact that she’s taller than me by a couple of inches and BF is one of those floaty, willowy types. I’m cool with being Frenzy’s awesome sidekick Finity Girl, since I ’ship her and the Young One so hard.
We’ve been doing tons of research online on how to make capes and realistic-looking armor. Finity Girl has this short, satiny black cape and shiny black armor. Plus, I’ve already bought a blond wig that’s perfect.
I plop the fabric for my cape on Beth’s dining room table then pull out my laptop from its bag. Beth’s older sister, Cara, has given in to helping us with the sewing, since she’s a fashion design major. She’s this ultra-chic, homemade-clothes-wearing woman, and I kind of have a lady crush on her. She “customized” her sewing machine by using different colored duct-tape to create all these geometric shapes. It’s a freaking work of art.
Romancing the Nerd Page 2
