Queen Geeks in Love

by Laura Preble

  I get to the Rock after school, and as I sit there watching the streams of kids go by, I see Fletcher approaching from my left and Becca approaching from my right, and my immediate thought is “there is going to be a horrendous collision.” They reach me at the same time, and each starts talking.

  “We need to spend the entire weekend working on GeekFest,” Becca says decisively, while Fletcher says, “There’s a party on Saturday. It’s an all-day thing, and my friend’s counting on us to help set up.” Each seems surprised by the other’s presence. They frown at each other, then both look at me.

  “Uh…” Again with the monosyllabic response. It’s becoming a habit. Maybe I have permanent hormone-induced brain damage.

  “Well?” Becca stands with hands on hips, daring me to defy the edict of the Queen Geek.

  “Shelby?” Fletcher crosses his arms, shifts his weight to one foot and fixes me with a quizzical stare.

  I shift my focus from one to the other, unable to respond. As seconds tick by, I can tell they’re both getting really frustrated. So, I do what any sensible girl would do: I run like hell in the other direction.

  11

  BOYFRIENDS AND GIRLFRIENDS

  (or When in Doubt, Run)

  I actually run all the way home. Isn’t that insane? I realize two things: One, I am in terrible shape. And two, I have an issue with conflict.

  After falling up the porch stairs, I scramble through the front door, slam it behind me, and lean against it, as if I will be able to single-handedly stop the onslaught of disappointment that will be washing up any minute. Both my best friend and my boyfriend now think I am an unfaithful, untrustworthy, unreliable chicken, and they are right.

  Euphoria rolls in, claws poised in a fighting stance, red lights flashing. “Oh,” she says, relaxing her arms. “It’s you. I thought someone was breaking down the front door.”

  “Just me.” I’m still panting, trying to catch my breath.

  “Why were you running? Was something chasing you?” She scans my vital signs. “Your respiration rate is very high, and your adrenaline levels would give a gorilla a heart attack! My goodness, come sit down! I’ll get you some water.”

  She rolls toward the kitchen as I collapse onto the living room sofa. What was I thinking? Running away isn’t going to solve anything, and I know it. They’re probably both going to come to the house, arguing, and then they’ll break into my room at night, and they’ll try to kidnap me, but it will all just result in a tragic rubber band fight that leaves one or more of us minus an eye. “Lock the door!” I yell to Euphoria.

  As Euphoria fetches me a glass of water (after locking the door), Dad comes in from his workshop. “Hey, Shelby,” he says, waving absently in my direction.

  “Mr. Chapelle, your daughter is having an episode.”

  “Hmmm?” He stops in midstep, reroutes himself, and comes over to the couch. “What episode?”

  “I think it’s the one where the girl pisses off everybody she knows and dies a hopeless, lonely old maid with no friends,” I say, covering my face with my hands.

  Dad arches an eyebrow and sits next to me. “Euphoria, could you give us a few moments alone?”

  Euphoria snorts indignantly (which sounds like a coffee grinder grinding rusty bolts), and exits toward the kitchen.

  “Now,” Dad says, turning to me. “What is going on? You’re all red.”

  “I ran home from school.” I gulp the water to buy some time.

  “Why?”

  Before I can answer, I hear scuffling on the porch, and the rise and fall of argument, and then a loud, forceful pounding. I say, “Let’s pretend we’ve moved.”

  More pounding. “Shelby! C’mon! Open the door!”

  “Is that Fletcher?” Dad asks. I nod.

  “Seriously! We just want to talk to you!”

  “And Becca?” Dad crosses his arms in front of him. “Sounds interesting. I think I saw this once on a soap opera.”

  “You’ve never watched a soap opera in your life.” I stand up, finish the water, and take a deep breath. “This is going to be tough, but I have to face it.”

  “Did the three of you have a fight?” Dad stands too, ready to intervene if things get ugly. Or uglier, I guess I should say.

  “Kind of.” Continued banging on the door, yelling, and a sound like somebody trying to pick the lock come through the wall. “Better let them in before they break something.”

  Dad slowly unlocks and opens the door. Fletcher and Becca are still arguing, unaware that the door is open. “She doesn’t belong to you,” Becca snaps.

  “And you don’t just get to order her around like she’s your maid or something either!” Fletcher snaps back. They both seem to sense that they are being watched, and turn toward us. “Oh, hey, Mr. Chapelle,” they say in unison.

  “Hi, kids. What’s up?” He leans against the jamb and crosses his arms. “Anything I can do for you?”

  Becca spots me over Dad’s shoulder. “We just need to talk to Shelby. Nothing important.”

  “Nothing important!” Fletcher sputters. “What do you mean? It’s absolutely important.”

  Becca starts chattering at him and he chatters back, and finally Dad has to do his coach whistle to get them to shut up. “Hold on!” He does the time-out hand gesture. “Why don’t you both come in so the neighbors don’t think you’re a pair of rabid magazine salespeople?” They just keep chattering away. “Stop it!” Dad finally yells, in that way that only dads can do. It automatically silences all chattering teenagers and puts fear into the heart of anyone within earshot. “Let’s all sit down like rational people and discuss whatever the problem is.”

  Dad marches us into the living room. Euphoria rolls in silently, claws clicking in idle frustration. She really hates conflict.

  I am careful to sit in an armchair by myself, so nobody thinks I’m taking sides. Fletcher notices this, and since he can’t sit with me, he leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. Becca sees it, growls, and drags him to the couch. Dad sits on an overstuffed footstool, staying as far away from us as possible while still remaining in the room. I get this weird mental image of him in a lion tamer’s costume with a shiny whip and a waxed moustache.

  “Now,” he says reasonably. “Let’s figure out what the problem is. You three don’t want to spend your time fighting, right?” As everyone starts to argue, he yells, “Okay, okay. One at a time! Becca, go first.”

  She smiles at Fletcher in a snotty, superior way. “Well, I’ve just been trying to get some time with Shelby so we can plan our club events for the year. This weekend is critical. We had plans, Fletcher decided to lay this big heavy guilt trip on her so she wouldn’t be able to do anything this weekend, and—”

  “Hang on,” Fletcher interrupts. “I never said anything about guilt.”

  Dad shakes his head. “No interruptions. Go on, Becca.”

  She leans back into the couch and stares at the ceiling. “I guess I’m just a little hurt that I’m not more important than some guy.”

  “I’m not ‘some guy,’ Becca!” Fletcher actually sounds hurt. “I’ve supported your club, and I’ve done a lot to help, with the dance last year, with the website, all of that. That makes me just some guy?”

  Becca doesn’t answer. She just sits with her arms crossed, staring at the ceiling.

  Dad turns to Fletcher. “Okay, so what’s the issue, in your opinion?”

  He glances at me, and I can see that he’s actually hurt by this whole thing. “I…I just want to spend some quality time alone with Shelby, without all her friends hanging out. I don’t think that’s weird, and I don’t think it means that she can’t have friends. Like I said, I’ve done a lot of stuff with her friends. This weekend was the first time I’ve ever asked her to do anything with some of my friends, and it becomes World War Three.”

  Becca snorts, and glares at a patch of ceiling that’s as far from Fletcher as possible.

  Dad sighs, and finally comes to me, w
hich I have been dreading since we all sat down. “So, Shelby. What do you think?”

  Becca stops her ceiling gazing and looks toward me. Fletcher turns and also waits for my amazing comment. Nothing comes out of my mouth.

  “Shelby?” Dad waves at me. “You’ve heard what they said. What do you think?”

  In my mind, it’s like I’m on some crazy game show. The clock is ticking, and that annoying game show music is tink-tinking behind my brain, getting louder and louder. Whatever I say will be the wrong answer. There is no way to win the washer and dryer; I probably won’t even get a can of dog food as a consolation prize. In fact, it’s very possible that I’ll be taken out, tied to a tree, and covered in fire ants instead.

  “Uh” is all I manage to say. Everyone seems very frustrated and disgusted with me. Even Euphoria seems to bleep disapprovingly.

  “We need a little more than that,” Becca snaps. She bounces up off the couch. “Look, if you’d rather spend time with your boyfriend than with your friends, I understand. But we have to go on without you, you know.” She points at Fletcher. “He wants to keep you for himself, but we want to use your talents to help make the world a better place. Which is more important?”

  “Oh, come on!” Fletcher jumps up too, and because the two of them are both pretty tall, it looks even scarier from my safe little armchair. “You act like this is about the club, but it’s about you. You just like to control everything and everybody you come in contact with. All I want is a normal relationship with her. I don’t want to control every minute of her life, and I don’t make her feel bad if she wants to just have fun instead of wanting to change the world and all that crap.”

  “Great.” Becca smirks at him. “Yeah, I can see how going to a party with your friends is so much better than changing the world, Fletcher.”

  Dad has kind of given up on this, I guess; he’s just sitting there, his head bobbing back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match. Fletcher finally turns to me and says, “Okay. Do you want a relationship, or not? If you do, we have to spend time together alone.”

  Becca turns to me and says, “Or are your real friends more important than your hormones?”

  Which leaves me back where I started. Except that it’s very hard to run away from your own living room.

  “Couldn’t I spend most of Saturday with Becca and then go to the party Saturday night with Fletcher?” I ask hesitantly.

  They both look at each other, and at Dad, and then finally at me. “Uh…yeah, I guess that would work,” Becca says, the wind out of her sails.

  “That’s it?” Dad says, annoyed. “That’s all it took? Couldn’t you all have done that without the drama?”

  “Mr. Chapelle,” Euphoria pipes up, “they are teenagers. Drama is what they do.”

  Fletcher turns to me and gives me a lopsided grin. “So? Spend your day with Becca and the girls, and then I’ll come get you at seven. Does that work?”

  I nod, disbelieving that it could be that easy. Why do we always blow everything out of proportion and make it seem like the end of the world if a hangnail sticks out? Geez. Maybe Euphoria is right. Maybe we’re just programmed to make it difficult for ourselves.

  There’s an awkward moment when we all go to the front door, and it seems like another battle is about to brew over who leaves first. Since they both walked to my house, the question now is whether they’ll both walk back to school. Dad figures this out and offers to give them both a ride. As he grabs his keys from the hall table, he kisses me on the forehead, and whispers in my ear, “Now you can be alone for a while before your social calendar starts to rev up again.”

  So, with all this opportunity for reflective time, what do I do? I turn on the TV and watch Outer Limits all night, pausing only to thank Dad in a monotone voice for being my mediator, and to eat a quart of ice cream before passing out on my bed.

  Saturday I keep waking up, ever though I’m exhausted. After a call from Becca, I eat and wait for the other Queen Geeks to show up for a marathon planning session. Euphoria once again criticizes my choice of cereal, chides me for drinking coffee, and mentions that I don’t seem to have slept very well. Big shock.

  We crash in my living room for the planning session. Amber has somehow grown more goth over the last day, and is wearing the long, black trench coat, black leggings, and a T-shirt that tells the world, “My Prozac Fits in My Pez Dispenser!”

  “Yeah, nice shirt, Amber,” Elisa says, downing a Diet Pepsi. “Are you trying to depress people by your mere presence? Isn’t your poetry depressing enough?”

  Amber swishes her long, dark hair from her face, revealing some seriously thick black eyeliner and electric-blue eye shadow that make her look like a drugstore geisha. “It’s really not supposed to be depressing.” She reaches for her ice water with a twist of lemon. She’s on a cleansing diet too. “It’s kind of a humorous comment on the random use of antidepressants in our consumer culture. We treat them like candy.”

  “Yeah, I guess if you cram them into your Satan Pez dispenser, people might think that you’re not taking your mental illness seriously.” Elisa rolls her eyes and reaches for a handful of cheese crackers from a bowl Euphoria has set out for us.

  Becca frowns at a clipboard full of notes and says, “GeekFest. When? Where? What do we need?”

  “Well, we need talented geeks,” Amber offers. “And people to watch them.”

  Elisa whips out Wembley and starts to punch buttons. “We also need to decide if we sell tickets, how much they’ll cost. And if we want to outlay cost for refreshments and such.”

  Becca scribbles furiously. “All right. It’s September. If we plan for right before Thanksgiving, we could pull that off, and we could have money for next year. So, Friday we start getting people to commit to developing acts for the show. Amber, you know the drama director?”

  She nods. “He’s really sweet. I’m sure he’ll let us use the space, as long as we promise not to mess anything up. We might be able to get some of the tech guys to work the lights and stuff too.”

  “Hmmm,” Elisa says, stroking her chin, “who do we know who’s a tech guy in drama?”

  “Okay, okay, Jon’s in it,” Amber confesses, smiling slightly. “That’s not a bad thing. He can help us.”

  Becca stops scribbling for a moment and folds her hands on the clipboard. “Okay. First of all, we need to be clear on something: We have to be careful about getting guys involved in the club. This is Queen Geeks, and guys might mess things up. Just think about the dance last year! That had the potential to be a disaster, but we pulled it off. I don’t want another near miss.”

  Amber shrugs her shoulders noncommitally. “Anyway, I’d be happy to read some of my poetry. I’ve been working on a multimedia interactive video thing to go with it.”

  “Does it involve Pez or Prozac?” Elisa asks, eyes twinkling.

  Before you know it, it’s five and it’s time for me to get ready for the party with Fletcher. Thea comes over to pick everyone up, and as they leave, Becca gives me a big hug. “Sorry for all the issues,” she says, smiling slightly. “Have fun tonight.”

  Two hours to get ready, and I feel like I’m barely awake! But I somehow manage to throw together a decent outfit, brush my hair, do my makeup, and I’m sitting on the sofa when Fletcher arrives at seven. Dad is on hand to grill him.

  “Make sure you’re back by midnight, no later,” he says, wagging his finger. Like that ever has any effect.

  “No problem,” Fletcher replies, slipping an arm around my shoulders. “It’s not even very far away.”

  Dad kind of shifts from one foot to the other and acts like he has something else to say. “Okay, then. Have fun.” He doesn’t move.

  “Dad,” I ask, “is there something else?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You seem kind of preoccupied. Is there something else?”

  “Oh.” He makes a funny face, sucking his upper lip into his nostrils so he looks like a mutated duck. “Just w
anted to remind you not to drink or anything.”

  Drinking! Ah. We actually haven’t talked much about that one. In fact, we haven’t had too many actual direct conversations about any of the established teenaged evils: smoking, alcohol, and sex (except for that one awkward birds and bees thing). Drugs kind of fit into those categories too, I guess, but those are the biggest three, probably because parents figure that if you don’t smoke or drink, you’re probably not going to skip straight to narcotics. If only they heard what I hear in the girls’ bathroom at break. Probably better my dad doesn’t hear it, actually.

  Fletcher smiles and shakes Dad’s hand. “You don’t need to worry about that. This is not that kind of party, and Carl’s parents will be there too.”

  “Carl?” I just now realize that we’re attending a celebration at the house of the giant. “We’re going to a party at Carl’s house?”

  “Yeah.” Fletcher waves to my dad, grabs my arm, and hustles me out the front door.

  I stop on the porch. “I wish you’d told me it was his party. I don’t even know him!”

  “This is a great way to fix that.” He’s already opened the car door and looks like a doorman waiting for a tip.

  “I don’t know if I want to fix that.”

  He marches back to me, all patience and understanding. “Hey, I know he’s not your friend, but you’re doing this for me, remember? Just be a good sport. He’s actually a really cool guy if you take the time to get to know him.”

  I reluctantly get into the car (the old beater again) and wonder if I will be able to get some time alone at the giant’s house so I can hunt for the magic beans.

  We drive in silence for a while, during which time I get to reflect on why exactly Fletcher is absolutely wrong for me. Anyone who would force me to go to some dumb party is really not someone who has my best interests at heart, right? I mean, if he really cared, he would have just said, “Oh, never mind about the party then. We can go to the movies or something. I wouldn’t want to put you in an awkward situation.” But no. Instead, it’s “hey, you’re supposed to do this for me, remember?” It’s all about him.