Queen Geeks in Love

by Laura Preble

  “And so tonight, you’re supposed to have the Big Date.” She says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s nothing, like it’s having a pedicure or an orthodontist appointment. “Right? So, where are you two going?”

  I stare down at the floor, perfect and crumbless, unlike my life. “I thought we changed the subject,” I mumble.

  Becca grabs my chin in her monster fingers and tilts my head so I’m staring straight into her maniac eyes. “I know you. You are trying to sabotage this thing because you think you don’t deserve it or something.”

  “You’ve been sitting too close to your mom while she’s doing her weird psychic yoga,” I spit out, yanking my chin away. “All that far-out Far East stuff is fermenting your brain.”

  “So you can honestly tell me, after we’ve solemnly bonded over the sacrament of ice cream, that you are not planning to somehow ruin this evening and then blame Fletcher for it?”

  “Ha!” I laugh a little too loudly. “Fletcher is great. Why would I mess it up?” Even as I say it, an evil little voice behind my ear is whispering something about guys and control and heartbreak. “You are making way too big a deal out of this. We’re just going out for dinner, you know. Everybody eats.”

  “Ah, but not everybody eats at Old Sicily. And especially not everybody who can barely drive.”

  “How do you know where we’re going?”

  “Gotta pee.” Becca squeals as she jumps up and scampers to the bathroom down the hall. “But Old Sicily! It’s so exciting! I just know he’s going to do something special there. Oh, but I’ve already said too much…. Never mind!” The door slams and I’m left alone with my nagging, whispering evil twin behind my ear and a feeling of deep gray dread lumped in my stomach.

  Now, admittedly, most normal girls don’t flip out when they’re asked to dinner. But two weeks ago, I saw Fletcher at the graduation ceremony, the last big event for the school year (everybody goes, even if they’re not graduating). All of us were there, Becca, all our friends from school, and Fletcher and me. He and I sat next to each other in the hot sun, out on the football field, and he held my hand, and it felt totally normal. When I looked down at our intertwined digits lying innocently between us on the bleachers, I felt this cold fear, because I couldn’t tell which hand was mine. Well, I mean, I could, because I had on pink nail polish and stuff, but the point was that it felt like it was one big hand.

  So then Fletcher looked up at me, really serious, and he said, “There’s somewhere special I want to take you in two weeks. I mean, if you’re free. I’ll have the car! And I think”—he grinned then, and nodded knowingly, like I was supposed to understand some secret code of the hand stealers—“I think it will be well worth your time.”

  When guys say stuff like that to girls in public, it’s like all the other girls in a ten-mile radius suddenly pick up a signal, stop what they’re doing, and become huge ears with one solitary purpose: to butt in on your conversation and then gossip about it. Becca had immediately squealed and said “Where are you going? You’ve got the car!? Wow!” and then Amber and Elisa, two of our friends, picked up on it. Amber made a disgusting leering face and then graciously replayed our conversation with Elisa, sprinkling it generously with wet, disgusting kissy sounds.

  Becca returns from the bathroom, humming some ’80s love song (I think it’s Blondie, “Heart of Glass”. How appropriate). “Much better. Now. What time are you going out tonight?”

  “Seven. But listen. I don’t know if this is such a good idea. He shouldn’t be spending all his money on dinner at some fancy restaurant. I mean, he has to save for college and pay for his car—”

  “Right. One plate of pasta will probably keep him from going to Stanford.” She checks her watch. “Well, it’s four now, so we’d better get to your house so you can start getting ready.”

  “It’s three hours from now!”

  “I know. We should’ve started earlier,” she mumbles as she grabs my arm and yells for her mom, Thea, the only pierced parent at our school. Thea is also the only mother I know who is called only by her first name. It fits her, though; she’s like an artsy beatnik from the ’60s who got stuck in a time warp and doesn’t realize the years have marched on.

  Thea runs dramatically into the kitchen, blobs of blue and green paint covering her arms up to the elbows. “Mom, take us to Shelby’s. We have date prep.”

  “I’m right in the middle of Water Torture.” When I frown at her kind of strangely, she laughs and says, “No, that’s not what I’m doing. It’s the title of my piece. It’s for a client in Palm Springs.”

  “Well, that’s fantastic and all, but Shelby has the Big Date tonight, so Water Torture will just have to drip without you for a couple of minutes.” Becca is shoving her toward the sink so she can wash her art off.

  Thea frowns at me and then at Becca as she scrubs. “Is this a Big Date?”

  “The biggest,” Becca says, nodding.

  “Hmmm.” She wipes her arms with a towel, and then grabs her keys from a hook on the wall. “Well, love is almost as important as art. Let’s go.”

  All the time we’re riding in the gut-grinding bumpy Jeep, I’m wondering if my stomach hurts because of the ice cream, the bad suspension, or the nerves.

  We get to my house and thankfully Dad is not home. Euphoria, my robot, is home, though, and that’s almost worse. She hovers.

  “Oh, Shelby, this is so exciting!” She squeals as she rolls after us into my room.

  “Euphoria, could we be alone?” I ask. I immediately regret it, because if a robot had a face and that face could fall, hers just did. “Oh, never mind. Come on in.”

  She emits a high-pitched squeak-whine indicating, I guess, joy. “Can I help pick out her dress?”

  Becca rolls her eyes and throws open my closet door. “I’ll narrow it down first.” She swishes through my wardrobe, rejecting one outfit after another. “Too black, too old, too loose. We need something that says, ‘alluring,’ ‘unavailable,’ and ‘expensive.’”

  “Does your clothing talk?” Euphoria’s green face lights blink, puzzled.

  “No…forget it. Here.” Becca pulls a cobalt blue jersey minidress from the closet, then grabs a gauzy fitted bolero top in a lighter blue to go over it. “This will make your eyes like the ocean,” she says poetically.

  “Wet and polluted?” Euphoria pipes in, then snickers. Robots shouldn’t be able to make jokes. It should’ve been one of those prime directives or something.

  “Go dance with the lawnmower,” Becca snaps at her. To me, she says, “Now, try this on. I think it’s going to be perfect. Then we’ll worry about accessories, hair, makeup, shoes. Plus, we need to do your nails. Oh, and your toes! We should’ve scheduled a pedicure.”

  “I’ve got to take a shower first.” I grab the dress and jacket and stomp off to the bathroom. I don’t want to go on this stupid fancy date. I really prefer sitting at home with Fletcher, watching bad science fiction movies or eating pizza or playing games or something. I realize that any dream I never had of becoming a high fashion model is absolutely not going to happen. The fact is, I don’t like getting dressed up.

  After a long shower during which I fantasize about turning into a bug and disappearing down the drain, I start to turn pruny, so I get out and towel off. I pull the dress over my head, adjust it, then tie the little jacket. I look good, actually; the blue sets off my eyes, which look like dark-blue marbles with white swirls in the center. My hair needs to be brushed, but I figure I should wait or Becca will just do it over. She’s kind of a control freak.

  The clock reads 6:00. How did time go so fast? We just left her house. Sixty minutes until D-day. Why does it feel like I’m heading to prison or something? I must have some deep psychological issue. Anybody else would be excited and happy about it. I’m kind of excited, but I am not happy. I’m terrified. Why? What is my stupid problem?

  “Hey.” Becca knocks on the door. “Did you fall in?”

  “No, sorry.” I ope
n the door and smile weakly. “My hair looks like red seaweed.”

  “We can fix it, no problem!” She grabs my hand and pulls me into my room, where Euphoria is set up to be a hair dryer.

  “What’s this?” I tap on the chrome dome fastened to one of her inputs.

  “Surprise!” She sends off static. “We rigged this up just for tonight. I’ll dry while Becca styles. Isn’t that great?”

  “Great,” I mumble as Becca leads me to a bar stool they’ve dragged in for the great beautification ceremony.

  “Geez, you act like you’re going to a funeral or something,” Becca complains as she pulls a brush through my tangly hair.

  “Maybe I am. Ow! Euphoria, please don’t touch me with the metal parts. It burns!”

  “Sorry, honey.” She blips in remorse. “I’m still kind of new at this.”

  This torturous effort continues until my hair is done, my makeup is done, my jewelry is chosen, my nails are done, my toes are done, and I have shoes on. By that time, it’s nearly seven.

  “Wow!” Becca wipes sweat from her forehead. “Some effort, but totally worth it. Check it out!” She hands me a mirror, and I check it out.

  I am stunned. My hair is looping around my head like Medusa, and my makeup looks like a drag queen with palsy tried to make me the living image of ’70s Cher. “What did you do to my eyelashes?” They’re sticking together like centipede legs and I’m having a hard time opening my eyes.

  “Well”—Becca smiles apologetically—“I’ve never really done anybody else’s makeup. It’s kind of different when it’s another face.”

  “Well, this is definitely another face.” There is a big black spot on my chin. “Why is this here?” I ask, pointing to the big black spot.

  “It’s a beauty mark,” Euphoria says proudly. “I read some magazine about fashion, and all of them said a real beauty queen has to have a beauty mark.”

  “Yeah, what year were those magazines written?”

  “Um…” Euphoria whirs for a moment. “The 1940s.”

  The whole weird hairdo, makeup thing kind of makes me feel better, actually. Maybe I can pretend it’s somebody else having dinner with Fletcher. Cher’s 1940s male cousin who likes to dress in drag and pretend to be a dead Greek monster. Yep. This is surely a fashion statement that is going to work for me.

  2

  THE BIG DATE—PART II

  (or Pasta and Panic)

  The doorbell rings. We all freeze as if we expect the SWAT team to parachute in through the skylight.

  “It’s him,” Becca whispers, as if he might hear her.

  “I’ll get it!” Euphoria hums some formless tune as she rolls down the hall toward the front door.

  Becca sighs, smiles, then puts her hands on my shoulders. “Okay. Now, I know you’ve gone on lots of dates. But tonight is going to be different.”

  “Let’s not start this—”

  “No, hear me out.” She fluffs some of my Medusa bangs and squints at my eyebrows, then dabs a bit of spit on her finger and rubs.

  “Yuck! Don’t groom me!” I bat her hand away.

  “Just trying to help,” she mutters, a bit hurt. “Okay. Just stay cool, but also try not to insult him. You’ve been very difficult the last couple of weeks, and I know it’s because of this date. But listen, it’s not that major. You’re just going to eat dinner. Don’t get all worked up about it.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling just a tiny bit better.

  “And,” she says as I walk out of the bedroom, “if he asks you to get married or something, just tell him he’ll have to wait until you can drive.”

  “Not helping,” I yell back at her.

  He’s standing in the hall looking as awkward as I feel. Why? We’re never awkward together. We’ve had more than a month of great times, no stress, no pressure, just fun and games. Why is it suddenly so important? Why do things have to get messed up with seriousness?

  “Look, Shelby, your gentleman caller is here!” Euphoria practically bubbles with excitement. I’m afraid she might blow a gasket or something. Plus, with her faux-Southern accent (Dad programmed her that way to remind me of Mom, I think), she sounds like a community theater Scarlett O’Hara.

  “Hi,” Fletcher says shyly. Shy? He’s never been shy. God, this is torture. Maybe I can talk him out of it. Maybe I should tackle him. Maybe we could just go play Zombie Taxi Driver and forget about dinner.

  What do I say? “Hi.” Brilliant.

  “Ready?”

  “Yep.” Boy, this is going to be one sizzling evening of high-level conversation.

  “Bye-bye!” Euphoria shakes her claw at me as I follow Fletcher into the yard. “Don’t stay out too late!”

  “Nice to know someone will be waiting up,” he says as he opens the car door for me. He opens the car door. He has never done this. Sure, I guess that indicates that he has terrible manners, but it also indicates that he’s seen me as an equal, whereas now he sees me as somebody whose limbs don’t work, I guess. Or maybe he figures I’m not strong enough to open the door myself. Or—

  “You in?” He’s waiting to close the door now. I just nod dumbly.

  He goes around, climbs into the driver’s seat, and sticks the key in the ignition, flashing me a very empty grin in the process. I feel like I’m being sent on a robo-date with an android version of Fletcher. He looks the same: red hair, green eyes, handsome. For a nanosecond I consider that perhaps aliens have kidnapped the real Fletcher and replaced him with this super nice, considerate, traditional gentleman Fletcher, just to see what I’ll do. As he steers the car (a Volvo, a lot like my dad’s) onto the road and then smoothly glides into highway traffic, I sullenly stare out the window as if I’m being dragged to a dentist appointment. Finally, he says, “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Of course.” Except for the mind-numbing panic that is squeezing my stomach like an empty toothpaste tube.

  “Hmmm.” He sensibly settles into the pace of the traffic (again, something he doesn’t usually do), and I feel him glancing at me, puzzled. “You just seem distant or something.”

  “Do I?” I say distantly.

  “Yeah, you do.” He sighs heavily, then shakes his head. “I thought you’d be all excited about a real, formal date. I mean, all we’ve done so far is just watch movies and stuff at your house. If nothing else, I thought you’d be thrilled to be alone with me without your electronic surveillance system chaperoning our every move.”

  “Euphoria is not a surveillance system.”

  “Well, whatever. But this is about the first time we’ve really, truly been alone together, doing something without anybody else….” His voice trails off, and I imagine I hear the loud gong of realization whacking him in the head. “Oh. Hey, maybe you don’t want to be alone with me.”

  “That’s silly,” I say lamely.

  “Is it?” He laughs. Yes, I said he laughs. I’m in the middle of potentially the biggest crisis of my dating life, and this monkey is laughing at me!

  “What is so funny?” I snap at him.

  He is still laughing, almost to the point where I expect him to wreck the stupid car. I can see the headlines now: “Promising young adults become victims of excessive jocularity!”

  “Oh, c’mon, Shelby. That’s it, huh? You’re afraid to be alone with me. Wow.” He seems pleased with himself, which further infuriates me.

  “For your information, I am not afraid to be alone with you.”

  He snickers. “Right. Well, then why are you being so weird?”

  “It’s just a genetic thing, I guess. Weird is in my DNA.”

  We drive silently toward Point Loma, the part of town where the restaurant is located. It’s a gorgeous area, really, lots of swaying palm trees and a sapphire-colored bay with this sort of tiki-torch theme throughout. Old Sicily is on a side street, and Fletcher pulls his car into a spot right in front.

  “Let’s just try and enjoy a good dinner,” he says, neglecting this time to open my door. I’m secretly
kind of hurt by this. Why would I want him to open the door, but not want him to open the door? As I said, weird is in my blood.

  We go inside, and the place is dazzling. It’s decorated with elegant ivory-colored candles everywhere—in the chandelier, around the fireplace, in sconces on the walls, on the tables. The candlelight spreads in golden pools over everything, making even the little bottles of Parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes look elegant. “Wow, this place is a fire inspector’s nightmare, huh?” I say.

  Fletcher frowns at me, then shakes his head. “You really are a romantic at heart, aren’t you? Two, please,” he says to the hostess, a snooty-looking girl with that tri-toned hair that looks like somebody went nuts with a dye-filled spray gun. She marches us to a booth in the corner in the back in the dark; as I slide onto the leather bench, I feel that gurgling wave of dread rising up in my stomach. I immediately open the menu and prop it up in front of my face.

  Fletcher taps on it with his salad fork. I peer over the top of the daily specials. “Yes?”

  “Could you put that down, please?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to talk to you.” He slowly guides the menu back to the table. I’d really like to dive under the tablecloth, but I’m afraid I might tip over the candle and start a fire. Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be a bad way to get out of whatever conversation we’re going to have….

  “Shelby, we’ve been going out for about a month now,” he says, sounding like someone who is about to give a lecture. “I just think it’s time we talked about some stuff. Put some stuff on the table.”

  “What stuff do you want on the table besides silverware and sugar packets?” I ask calmly as I stack the pink and yellow and blue sweeteners. I can only stack about five before they slide off each other, but if I don’t use the actual sugar packets, which are thicker—