“Okay,” I replied.
He smiled.
Well, what was I supposed to do? He’s my father.
“When?” he asked.
“Three weeks after my twenty-fifth birthday, I have an opening for lunch. But just a sandwich, not like a full sit-down meal.”
His smile grew. “You always were the funniest in the family, dimps.”
Well, maybe I didn’t want to be funny. Maybe I wanted to be alluring or talented or exotic or glamorous. Screw funny. But, of course, how would he even know that, considering he’d been out of my life for, oh, like practically all of it?
My shoulder muscles got tighter and tighter.
“Maybe there’s a question you want to ask me?” he asked.
A question?
“G’head,” he said. “I can take it.”
“Here? Now?”
I peeked back at the girls. The ThreePees harrumphed, getting more and more annoyed that I was wasting their time. Q and Beanpole, however, looked more and more concerned for me.
“Really, I can take it, dimps,” he said. “You know, holes to fill.”
For the record, I officially hated how he called me dimps. I mean, what kind of stupid nickname was that to give a person, anyway? And why did he feel he was even allowed to give me a nickname? Maybe he could have started with giving me something a bit more practical, like bike-riding lessons or help with my math homework or…
I stopped, my entire body rigid. The anger in me was growing, and I hated when I felt like that. Being angry angered me, if that makes any sense, and the only thing I knew was that I didn’t want to think about or talk about or deal with any of this stuff anymore.
Especially with him. Why did he even have to come back?
“Okay, I have a question,” I said, an obvious edge in my voice. “Are you going to hurt Mom?” I glared. “Again?” I added.
Whoa. I could tell he hadn’t been expecting that one. He ran his fingers through his hair and took a moment before answering.
“I’m going to try not to,” he said.
I waited for more. There was no more. That was it. A moment later, I shook my head and started walking back to the table.
“Hey,” he called. “Where are you going?”
“Date’s off.” Hopefully he had brains enough to figure out why. Trying not to hurt Mom wasn’t good enough. He had to not hurt Mom.
I walked over to the study table without looking back, but I could feel my father’s eyes following me. After I sat down in my chair, I stole a small glance in his direction.
But he was gone.
I scanned the room. Nothing.
I looked toward the front entrance. A blur of his green shirt caught my eye as the door closed behind him.
Yep, he was gone. Maybe forever. Maybe not. What did I know?
“Can we please get back to what we were doing?” Kiki yipped, as if she had about a thousand different places she’d rather be.
Beanpole stared at me compassionately. “You okay?” she asked, rubbing my back.
“I need chocolate,” I said. “Large amounts.”
“Trust me,” Kiki answered. “No, you don’t.”
We’d barely survived two weeks of intense studying with the ThreePees.
“I hate them. I seriously hate them,” I said as we sat in Beanpole’s bedroom on the Sunday before the Septathlon. “It’s only twenty-four hours, but I don’t know if I am going to make it. In fact, I don’t even know how I made it this far.”
“We should invite them over and pull out their toenails,” Q said, sitting in the corner like a mouse.
“I already did,” Beanpole answered.
“What?” I exclaimed.
Beanpole flipped through the mountaineering section of her closet, seeking out a lightweight polyurethane jacket suitable for modest precipitation. “I invited them over,” she repeated, like it was no big deal.
“You invited them here?” I asked. “When?”
“Any minute.”
“Excellent,” Q said. “It’s toenail time.”
“Stop that, Alice,” Beanpole said. “It’s not nice to be not nice. We’re a team, remember?”
I rolled my eyes. Uh-oh, here we go, I thought. Time for another cheer.
“We’re the Aardvarks,
The mighty, mighty Aardvarks!
We’re the—”
“Enough. We get it, Beanpole,” I said, cutting her off. “And they agreed to this?” Something smelled fishy.
“Well…not exactly,” Beanpole answered. “But Sofes has a plan.”
“Did you say Sofes has a plan?”
The doorbell rang.
“That’s them.”
“Can’t wait,” I said. “Maybe we’ll celebrate with hemlock.”
“Or at least make them drink it,” Q added. “I bet you…” She stopped to cough. “I betya I could sneak some into their energy drinks.”
She reached for her scuba tank to absorb some inhibitors. Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh.
“Be nice, you two,” Beanpole said. “They’re our guests, remember.”
“That’s what the people at the Last Supper said about one of their guests, too,” I remarked.
Beanpole pretended not to hear and disappeared downstairs. Q lowered her inhaler but still coughed.
“You okay?” I asked as she struggled to catch her breath. She’d been carrying this barking camel in her throat for more than a week now.
“I’m fine,” she replied, taking a swirly-straw sip of her thingamajiggy juice to clear her windpipe.
“You don’t look fine,” I told her. “In fact, you look kind of haunted-housey.”
“Just the rain,” she said. “When the wetness mixes with the cold, I—” She coughed.
And coughed and coughed. She could barely catch her breath.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “Maybe I should call your mom so—”
“I’m fine!” she snapped. But clearly she was not fine. I grew more concerned.
“You know she’d want me to,” I said. Ever since I had become tight with Q, I felt that I owed it to her mother to let her know when her daughter wasn’t doing well. With all we’d been through already this past year, I just felt like it was kind of expected of me to look out for her.
But of course, Q’s whole goal was to reduce her dependence on her mother, not increase it, and even the suggestion that I might get her mom on the phone caused her to shoot daggers in my direction.
“Just zip your”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh…Q struggled to take a slurp off her scuba tank—“lips,” she finally said. I watched as she wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m calling,” I said. “You look like you’re about to faint.” I reached for my cellie.
“Don’t!” she ordered. We heard the rustle of the girls coming up the stairs. “And don’t say anything in front of the”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“witches, either.”
I stared at her, phone in hand.
“Got”—Cough-cough—“me?”
Reluctantly, just as the footsteps were getting ever so close, I put my phone away. “Yeah, I got you, Miss Stubborn.”
“Look who’s talking,” Q replied.
Is there anything more frustrating than wanting to strangle your NFF? Beanpole entered first.
“Come in, come in, there’s plenty of room for everybody,” she said with a bounce. Clearly, having this many people over to her house was the thrill of a lifetime for Beanpole.
The ThreePees entered slowly, cautiously. Kiki and Brattany gazed around, uncertain looks on their faces as they took in the wholesome pictures of sunflowers and the fluffy mint green pillows that complemented the room. Sofes, however, sported a pleasant, warm smile.
Kiki caught sight of Q. “She gonna yak?”
“Yeah,” Brattany said, turning her shoulder away as if she didn’t want to breathe in the same air. “Freako looks ready to go
all projectile on us.”
“She’s fine,” I said, dismissing their concerns. Why I was standing up for her instead of getting her home, or even to a doctor, was beyond me. I mean, where was the line between being a friend and, well…being a friend? “All right, let’s get to it, already,” I said, changing the subject. The ThreePees had only been in the room for thirty seconds, and already I was looking forward to the moment that they would leave.
“Yes, let’s,” Brattany said, reaching into her purse. Beanpole closed the door as Brattany raised her cell phone camera.
Raised her cell phone camera? Was she preparing to film something?
“Okay…” Kiki said, looking at me, waiting.
“Okay what?” I said.
“Okay…forfeit,” she said.
“Forfeit? What are you talking about?” I said. “We’re not forfeiting.”
“Of course you are,” Brattany said from behind her camera. “Why else would we be here other than to hear you say you quit so we don’t get into trouble with Mr. Moron?”
“I wouldn’t quit if you”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“set my hair on fire,” Q declared through a cough.
“Give me some matches and I’d be glad to do the honor.”
“You want a match, Brattany? My butt and your face,” I said.
“Oh, yeah?” Kiki said. “Well, let me tell you something, skinny-chubby. I’ve had just about enough of…” Suddenly Kiki stopped talking and spun around to face Sofes. Her eyes blazed. “You said they were quitting,” she said.
“Welllll…”
“Well what, Sofes?”
“Yeah, like why are we here?” Brattany asked, lowering her camera.
“For uniforms?” Sofes answered. “I thought we should, you know, wear uniforms for solidarnity.”
“She means solidarity,” Beanpole said. “You know, so we can be a team. I mean, did you see how great Saint Dianne’s looked? We need to be able to match up with them on every front.”
“You mean you knew about this?” Kiki said to Sofes.
Sofes averted her eyes and quietly nodded. She and Beanpole had conspired to try to bring the groups together. She had gotten Kiki and Brattany here by telling them the Nerds had decided to forfeit.
“Has the last brain cell in your mental boat finally abandoned ship? I mean, you know how I feel about—”
Suddenly, there was a voice from outside the door.
“Who’s ready for a snacky-wacky?”
Department Store Mom, her timing perfect as usual, entered carrying a tray filled with homemade raspberry tarts. “They’re scrumalumptious.”
Kiki’s jaw practically dropped when she saw Beanpole’s mom. A red-checked apron. A matching red-checked hair band. A smile that looked as if she were ready to sell home appliances in a 1950s magazine. The expression on Kiki’s face said it all:
You can’t be serious.
Oh no, I thought, shaking my head. Here we go.
“I made treeeee-eats,” Department Store Mom said in a bubbly voice.
“Yay! Friendship tarts,” Beanpole exclaimed, taking the tray of goodies from her mother.
“And I’ll be back in a flash with the other stuff,” Beanpole’s mom said as she exited the room. “Jeepers, I’m practically tingling.”
“Thanks, Mommy.” Beanpole, smiling from ear to ear, began explaining the theme of today’s treats as she held out the silver serving tray for all of us to see. “Six girls, twelve hands, all joined together and cherishing the oneness of Aardvarkness.”
“The oneness of Aardvarkness?” Kiki asked.
No, I thought. No.
“Did you really just say ‘oneness of Aardvarkness’?” Kiki inquired.
“Yep,” Beanpole replied, with extra perk on top. “It’s today’s motif.”
“Hey, Keeks…” Brattany said, picking up a tart.
“Hold on,” Kiki responded as she stared in disbelief at Beanpole.
“No, Keeks, really,” Brattany said. “You gotta see this.”
“One sec, Brit,” Kiki told her. “I’m still dealing with this whole ‘oneness of Aardvarkness’ thing.”
“You mean theme,” Beanpole said, correcting Kiki. “Putting themes in the food is a way of making sure all our efforts have a centralized pattern. I eat motifs all the time.”
“Um, Kiki…I think this pastry is supposed to look like you.”
“Huh?” Kiki turned and picked up a tart.
It did look like her. Matter of fact, for a baked-food item, it was a pretty good replica.
“You can’t be serious,” Kiki said, mortified by the pastry in her hand.
I lowered my eyes. See, in life, there are some swimming pools you have to enter from the shallow end, because jumping right away into the deep water might be overwhelming. That’s how it was with Beanpole’s house. Kiki needed to have started with something like a sip of iced oolong tea, or maybe taken a trip to the bathroom, where the toilet paper was folded into elegant, symmetrical triangles. But to dive right away into oneness-of-Aardvarkness-themed pastries that looked like her? Well, I could see why she was struggling.
“And they’re made with one hundred percent organic ingredients, too,” Beanpole added. “The berries are from our garden.”
Kiki set down the tart. “Why are we here?” she said to Sofes.
“For the uniforms,” Sofes answered. “You said yourself that at the talent show a few months ago the Nerd Girls looked pretty stylish. Barbara’s mom made them.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to join the doofwad parade,” Kiki snapped.
Brattany couldn’t take her eyes off the tart that had been fashioned in her image. “She made a piece of food that looks like me. That’s, like, creepy.”
“I think it’s nice,” Sofes said. “I mean, your mom gives us snacks when we go to your house, Brit.”
“Yeah, but she does what normal moms do; she buys them from the store. This is what stalkers who plan to eat their victims do,” Brattany replied.
“Knockitty-knock.” Department Store Mom reentered, carrying a box. “Oh, you girls are going to love what I have done with the uniforms. Trust me,” she said, looking at Brattany. “You’re going to look dee-licious.”
Brattany edged backward, the look on her face saying it all:
Don’t eat me.
“Now, I guesstimated your blouse sizes based on your yearbook pictures, but I want to make sure that they fit properly, because first impressions always count.” I could tell by the mile-wide grin on her face that Department Store Mom’s perk-o-meter was cranked to full throttle. If ever I wondered where Beanpole had gotten her bubbles from, this was proof that they were woven into her DNA.
Kiki and Brattany hesitated, unsure of how to respond. However, Department Store Mom had plenty of experience in dealing with reluctant, snooty customers from back in the days when she worked in a retail store, so she handled the snobbery and standoffishness like a first-class pro.
“This will up your chances of winning a lot,” Department Store Mom informed them. “Look good, feel good, project confidence, be confident, that sort of thing. Plus, you girls are so pretty,” she said, speaking especially to Kiki and Brattany, “I’m sure you’re just going to wow the entire television audience once you hit the stage.”
Mentioning TV and appealing to their sense of vanity was smart. I could tell by the way the snobs were listening that the strategy was working.
“What do you say?” Beanpole’s mom continued addressing Kiki specifically. “I mean, for a clothing designer, creating an outfit for someone with, how should I say this…with your athletic form…Well, I bet you could wear a tablecloth and make it look good.”
Department Store Mom reached into a box and held up a long-sleeved black top that looked unlike any other piece of middle-school clothing I’d ever seen. Blazed across the front was our mascot, the Aardvark. Of course, normally, our mascot was the most pathetic creature ever invented. I mean, how many kids in
this world are jealous of schools that have mules or earthworms for mascots? That’s how bad it was for us at Grover Park. Our Aardvark was the saddest of the sad in a world filled with sad and bad.
But this Aardvark was growling.
And muscle-bound.
And had a look of fiery determination in its eyes. It was the most ferocious Aardvark I’d ever seen. Instantly, I loved it.
Two minutes later, Kiki was in the bathroom changing her clothes. When she walked out, I couldn’t help saying, “Wow.” I mean, if there had been a contest for best body in the school, Kiki would have won hands down.
“Talk about form-fitting,” I said.
Kiki looked at herself in the full-length mirror, checking herself out from every angle.
“When you’ve got the form, it doesn’t just fit, Nerd Girl,” she said, making no attempt to hide how impressed she was with herself. “It purrrrs.”
Brattany and Kiki smiled at one another. Their arrogance was unreal. But the outfit looked so good on Kiki, she decided to keep it on. Especially because any little help she could get to beat, or at least intimidate, Wynston Haimes and the snoots from Saint Dianne’s was something she was going to seize.
“And now for these.” Department Store Mom held up the pants she’d made to go with the top. They had a streak of fire running down the leg.
“Amazing, Mommy!” Beanpole said as she held the clothing up to her body.
“I didn’t even think it was possible to make an Aardvark outfit look cool,” I commented as Department Store Mom passed us our uniforms.
We took turns dashing into different rooms—the other bedrooms, the bathrooms—to get changed. The plan was that once we were in our uniforms we’d meet back in Beanpole’s room so that Department Store Mom could inspect each of our outfits to figure out what slight adjustments were needed to get everything to look perfectly tailor-made.
Q disappeared into the master bathroom. When she came out, she looked transformed.
“Entirely nerdvarkian,” she said through a cough.
“Fits great,” I confirmed as I looked at myself in the mirror. This was a huge statement for me, because hating my body and hating the way I looked was pretty much how I always felt whenever I put on new clothes. After all, round is a tough shape to love. It was like there was a recording that always played in my head: I would look so much better if only I lost a few more pounds.
A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions Page 12
