Queen Geeks in Love
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
The Queen Geek Social Club
“A fine coming-of-age tale…Shelby is delightful.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Give the nerd in you a chance to get up and shout.”
—Girls’ Life Magazine
“The Queen Geek Social Club was a fantastic read that was a definite page-turner…. A coming-of-age story that not only sparks the mind but also strikes a spot in your heart. The Queen Geek Social Club is a novel that should be on everyone’s must-read list.”
—TeensReadToo.com
“The Queen Geek Social Club is the perfect book for any girl who never fit the cookie-cutter image of Barbie.”
—LibraryThing
“A thoroughly enjoyable story…vibrant and out-of-the-ordinary characters keep the plot moving…Readers will be inspired by their antics and wish to befriend the Queen Geeks.”
—Kliatt
Berkley JAM titles by Laura Preble
QUEEN GEEKS IN LOVE
THE QUEEN GEEK SOCIAL CLUB
QUEEN GEEKS
in Love
Laura Preble
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
QUEEN GEEKS IN LOVE
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2007 by Laura Preble.
Cover photography copyright © Frank Herholdt/Taxi/Getty Images.
Cover design by Erica Fusari.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
BERKLEY® JAM and the JAM design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Preble, Laura.
Queen Geeks in love / Laura Preble.—Berkley Jam trade pbk. ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In the Queen Geek Social Club, boys have always been strictly secondary to the goal of spreading “geekiness” to every corner of Green Pines High School, until sophomore Shelby is swept off her feet by the karaoke stylings of a boy named Fletcher, and Becca and Amber fall for an artistic computer genius.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0615-7
[1. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 2. Clubs—Fiction. 3. Best friends—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. High Schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction. 7. San Diego (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7. P9052Qw 2007
[Fic]—dc22
2007027184
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
1
THE BIG DATE—PART I
2
THE BIG DATE—PART II
3
POST-DATE FALLOUT
4
THE LOVE RHOMBUS
5
THE GEEKTASTIC FOUR
6
HERO SANDWICHES
7
RABBIT DROPPINGS
8
PLEASE, NOT THE TALK!
9
BACK TO SCHOOL
10
RETURN OF THE QUEENS
11
BOYFRIENDS AND GIRLFRIENDS
12
BREAKING FREE
13
THE CULT OF THE EXPIRED SOUP
14
PARTY OF ONE
15
FRESH-SQUEEZED FESTIVAL
16
SILLY RABBIT, TRICKS ARE FOR GIRLS
17
LOVE IS NEVER HAVING TO WEAR A SARI
EPILOGUE
ALWAYS SOMETHING THERE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Great love and thanks to:
• my parents, Richard and Therese Preble, first and foremost, for leaving an indelible mark on my world. I miss them every day.
• my California parents, Helen and Manny Klich, who adopted me and understand the burden and responsibility of graduating from a school with a poisonous nut for a mascot.
• my husband, Chris, and my sons, Austin and Noel, for giving me time and space to write, loving me when I’m cranky, and providing nonstop support.
• my friends (especially Becky and Stacey) for constant inspiration and encouragement. Also my sisters, Linda, Barb, and Ann, for making me laugh so hard I can’t keep my Kewpie down.
• the fantastic staff at West Hills High School, where the best teachers, administrators, classified staff, and counselors work.
• Laura Rennert, Jessica Wade, Jennifer Puma, and all the people at Berkley JAM who help make my work the best it can be.
• my students, current and former, who constantly challenge me, inspire me, frustrate me, and remind me that teaching is the most important job in the world next to parenting.
1
THE BIG DATE—PART I
(or The Drag Queen Medusa)
I’m staring into the glass-smooth surface of my best friend’s swimming pool. It is June, the most wonderful month of the year, the month in which school stops and summer begins. June, best friend, swimming pool. How could anyone possibly have a problem?
And yet, I do. And the problem can be summed up in one word: boyfriend.
Let’s examine the word boyfriend. What are its major components? “Boy”—an immature, underdeveloped youth of the male persuasion—and “friend,” a word used to describe a companion, somebody with whom you share mutual affection and trust. Can those two things truly blend together?
Unfortunately, I am starting to find out. But let me start at the beginning: I am a self-described geek, I live with my dad (a Star Trek geek and scientist), and I was totally happy to keep to myself, play with my robot, and date any cute boy who thought he could talk me into sin. Most of them figured out that I was better at talking than they were, so the sin didn’t happen, which was very frustrating for them and led to some hot rumors about me being a lesbian. This was mostly because I started to hang out with Becca Gallagher, a new girl who spikes her hair and tweaks the nipples of any guy who gives her grief. But the lesbian thing is not true, as my current boyfriend, Fletcher, will tell you. And there’s that word again.
In our freshman year, Becca came to Green Pines High School, home
of the Puking Panthers football team. I suspected that Becca was unique the minute I saw the huge dragon tattoo that covers the outside of her entire left calf, and I wasn’t wrong about that; we started the Queen Geek Social Club because she wanted to “find others of our kind.” Why? Because Becca has a thing for global domination, and she thought that if we started a club, we’d be able to amass enough girl bodies to storm the White House and effect great social change—okay, really, it was all about Twinkies. We collected Twinkies to send to super skinny super models, this got us on television, and from there we sort of took over the school dance, which went from being a lame event with papier-mâché palm trees to an unforgettable night of piracy, plunder, and one of those kisses that is simply etched in your memory. The kiss belonged to me and to Fletcher, the aforementioned boyfriend.
I should clarify that the boyfriend thing didn’t happen right away. Our relationship actually started with me beating him about the head and shoulders with a pillow. I know that sounds kind of mean, but actually, in context, it makes lots of sense. I had met a Norwegian guy at a bowling alley, dropped a ball on his foot, thought he liked me, but then, when we went on a date, he brought a girl. Fletcher happened to be in the car with all of us; he was just one of those casualties of war they’re always talking about. I don’t think the pillow thing inflicted any permanent damage, although he does twitch when we sit on the sofa.
My trauma involving the word boyfriend begins today, two weeks after senior graduation, two weeks into the official start of my official sophomore year. Becca and I are at Becca’s mansion (and I’m not kidding about that), lounging around her pool as the late afternoon Southern California sun peeks out from behind a cloud. It’s really too cold to be swimming, but it’s the principle of the thing. It’s summer vacation. We’ve gotta swim, even if we look like we’re wearing goose pimple bikinis.
“If you want my opinion—” Becca starts.
“I don’t.”
She ignores me as if her heavy-duty sunglasses block sound as well as light. “If you want my opinion, I think you’re afraid.”
I rub suntan lotion on my pasty legs even though I feel like I should be looking for a parka. “Afraid of what?”
She takes off the sunglasses, sits up in her lounge chair, and fixes me with an “oh, please” stare. Her short-cropped, bleached hair stands up in lots of individual spikes, and the tips are currently dyed royal blue, one of our school colors. “Afraid of actually being with someone who might be right for you.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I mutter, trying to distract myself by vigorously rubbing lotion between my toes. Has anyone ever had sunburned toes?
“No?” She stretches and squints sideways at me. “Here’s what I think. You like being a loner. You don’t want some perfect guy messing that up.”
“Perfect!” I snort. “He’s about as far from perfect as—well—as anyone.” I don’t know how anyone can be expected to defend bad dating choices while wearing a bikini in sub-Arctic weather. Instead of listening, I decide to count the number of tiles on the bottom of her pool.
Becca knocks on my head with a toy shark grabber stick. “Hello! Are you paying any attention?”
“Sure I am.” That’s a lie. I’m desperately trying not to pay attention, actually. Why would I do this to my best friend? Because I don’t want to have this conversation.
Becca grabs my shoulders and makes me look her in the eye. “Where are you guys going on your Big Date?”
I don’t answer.
She gives my shoulders a little shake. “C’mon, I know it’s tonight. Don’t pretend it’s not important. You have given me absolutely no details on this. Cough it up.”
“What are you, the Spanish Inquisition?” I manage to shrug out of her grasp and think about diving into the pool, but I’m afraid I might hit a layer of ice and break my nose. “I don’t have to answer any of these questions. It’s none of your business.”
“It is my business.” She huffs back to her lounge chair and plops down in it, disgusted. “This whole Big Date thing has distracted you for two weeks, and I have things to do, and I need you, and you’ve just been this big, quivering ball of…of…”
“Sorry if I’ve put a dent in your fabulous life,” I snap at her as I bounce indignantly off the chair.
Becca has given up on the weather and has pulled on a sweatshirt; she tosses me one too. “So, what’s your strategy?”
“I don’t have a strategy.”
“Let’s eat ice cream.”
Becca is freakishly tall, and can eat pretty much anything without gaining weight. I, on the other hand, have always been pretty thin, but since I’ve been hanging out with her, I’ve noticed some unwelcome blobs of fat setting up camp in my butt, so I have to be careful about eating like a giant. “I’m not hungry,” I lie. I actually could eat a Baskin-Robbins, all thirty-one flavors plus the ice cream cakes.
She throws a towel at my head and trots into the house, snorting in disgust. She’s right. I am pathetic. I always vowed that I wouldn’t let a guy ruin my life, no matter what; I did fine too, until I met Fletcher, and then I broke my own rule and now I’m obsessing about him, the very thing I said I wouldn’t do. Maybe Becca is right. Maybe creamy fat-induced avoidance is the way out. I follow her into the massive kitchen.
“So, let’s decide what our strategy is with this Fletcher Big Date thing,” she says as she lifts a gallon bucket of ice cream from the walk-in freezer. Seriously, it’s like they have a meat locker next to their fridge. When I first saw it, I asked Becca if they had Walt Disney’s head in there, and she actually got the joke, which again cemented our friendship. (And if you don’t know, Walt Disney supposedly had his head cryogenically frozen and stored in case he had to come back and sue Mickey Mouse for breach of contract. So far, it hasn’t happened. But I’m watching Becca’s freezer very carefully.) “Get the chocolate sauce,” she says as she dishes out massive scoops of butter pecan into little delicate china dishes. “We really need bigger bowls.”
“We shouldn’t eat like this.” I take the first bowl from her, pour a river of chocolate onto it, and begin to dig in. “Starting tomorrow.”
“Sit.” She pulls a chair out from the cherry wood table, sits, and scoops spoonfuls of ice cream into her mouth all at once. “Sho, whasch you gonna do about Fletsher?” she asks, her words distorted by creamy goodness.
I shrug, mostly because my mouth is crammed full of butter pecan. “Let’s talk about something else,” I finally manage to say.
She studies me for a moment, the way a cat squints at a mouse to see which hole the little vermin is going to run into. I feel like the vermin, and there is a distinct lack of hidey holes. “Change of subject.” She puts her feet up, crossed, on the edge of the table and leans back in her chair. She cradles the gallon of ice cream in her lap and attacks it with her spoon. “We need a summer project.”
“Besides eating ice cream?”
Licking her spoon, she nods. “I don’t think this will keep us occupied for long. Not at the rate we’re eating. Nope.” She throws her spoon defiantly onto the table. “We need to create something. We need to branch out.”
“No. Not this again.” All last year, Becca insisted that we find other kids at Green Pines who were like us: weird, cool, funny. That’s why we started the club. But even then, I could sort of sense in Becca this desire to conquer the world, something I do not share. I just want to conquer my own little corner of it, not the whole thing. Who has the time?
“I know, I know.” She tilts the ice cream container toward me, and I signal I don’t want any more, so she jumps up and heads for the meat locker. “You don’t want to keep the club going, do you?”
“Yeah, sure I do,” I lie. Actually, I would be happier if it just sort of faded away, which sounds weird, I know. I mean, we got lots of attention, and I met Fletcher, but besides that, I got to thinking that I wasn’t cool enough for Becca and her big ideas. I was hoping the whole thing wou
ld sort of go away over the summer, and we could just be normal friends. What was I thinking? Besides, I have a robot and a mad scientist dad, and Becca’s mom practices weird Eastern religions and her dad is a movie producer. Could we ever have a normal friendship? About as likely as me eating one helping of ice cream.
“So, I’ve been thinking.” Always dangerous. “And here’s my plan. We create a website.” Her eyes widen as she waits for me to jump up and down in ecstasy. I don’t. “Let me say it again: We create a website!”
“Yawn.”
“What? Websites are it. Look at MySpace.com. Everybody goes on there. We could be the next MySpace!”
“Great. So we spend the whole summer cooped up in your room or mine, designing a website? Gee, that does sound fun.”
She smiles slyly. “Of course, we’d need help.”
“Oh no. I see what you’re doing—”
She grabs my shoulder. “But he’s perfect! Fletcher knows all about computers and web design stuff. You don’t have to marry him. Just ask him to help us design it!”
“Listen.” I carefully place my spoon on the tabletop and align it so it’s parallel to the napkins. “Fletcher and I—we’ve had a great time since the dance.”
“Right. You’ve been together almost every weekend, he calls you when he says he will, and he can even help you with homework. And now it’s summer, and you know what that means!”
Oh boy, do I. That’s the problem. Summer. That’s when the dating thing that starts in high school either flops totally or becomes totally entrenched, like a virus that cannot be killed. Either way, it’s deadly. She does not understand this. To Becca, having a boyfriend like Fletcher is the ultimate fulfillment of destiny, right up there with being famous or having a sandwich named after you. She’s really independent, of course, and being a Queen Geek, knows that boys are merely a distraction most of the time, but when it comes to a “serious” relationship, Becca totally does a 180 and sounds like somebody’s matchmaking mother. She buys into this whole idea that a guy can be your partner in life, despite the fact that her mom and dad are divorced and spent more time arguing over who got custody of the Warhol prints rather than who got custody of Becca.