The Nerdy and the Dirty

by B. T. Gottfred

  Our house is an old farmhouse in an unincorporated part of Illinois north of Riverbend. My dad made it three times bigger, though, so actually it’s just a new house. It has ten acres of land, but only my mom and sister ever walk around it. My dad and I are too busy inside studying and working to walk around the yard. My dad didn’t want me to go to Riverbend High School. He wanted to send me to Phillips Exeter, a private high school in New Hampshire, because he thought Riverbend wasn’t good enough for me. But I wanted to go to high school with Robert. And not be far away from my dad. He yelled at me when I told him I wanted to stay. He said I was making the biggest mistake of my life. Now that Robert and I are no longer friends, it turns out my dad was right. He always is.

  When I went into our house, I looked for my dad in the living room. Sometimes he would read there and eat cereal. But he wasn’t there, which meant he was in his office, which was in the basement. The whole basement. I knocked on the door to the stairs. “Dad?” There was no answer. I knocked again. “Dad? Can we talk?” But there was no answer again. My dad ignored us if he was working. He was very disciplined. But I really needed to talk to him, so I knocked again. “DAD!” But there still wasn’t an answer.

  My mom leaned into the hall from the kitchen. “Benedict. Your dad is working.” He had been working a lot recently on his new book. All day and night. He would sleep in the basement often because he was working so hard. His next book was going to change the world, he said. It has been eight years since Being a Perfect Person was published.

  “I know but I need to talk to him.”

  “Why don’t you talk to me?” she said.

  “You’re not as smart as Dad, Mom,” I said, then turned and went upstairs to my room.

  * * *

  Evil Benny said I shouldn’t have said that to my mom. Evil Benny said that a person who can’t even be nice to his mom would never know how to be nice to anyone.

  “But she’s not as smart. She wouldn’t want me to lie,” I said out loud to Evil Benny, which I shouldn’t have done. Evil Benny then said I was going crazy if I was talking to voices in my head.

  * * *

  My mother didn’t have a job. She was just a mom. She was Polish but looked Asian. My dad said she probably had Mongolian in her, but my mom never talked about where she was from. She was very beautiful. This was not just my opinion. She had been a model at the auto show and other events when she met my dad.

  When I was thirteen, my dad said to me, “You are developing into a good-looking boy. I was worried when you were younger that you would stay awkward. But I shouldn’t have worried since I am distinguished looking and your mother is genetically very attractive. So your good looks are because I chose her as your mother. I didn’t choose her for her brains. Obviously. I’m smart enough to make up for her shortcomings. But you should know that since your mother is not an intellectual you don’t need to listen to her on certain topics.”

  Since my dad told me that, it has been hard to talk to my mom about anything. She used to be good for consoling me, but my dad’s book said people should be able to console themselves. My dad’s book says the most important part of becoming a perfect person is not needing other people who are, obviously, not perfect. Thus talking to my mom about Robert was not an option. She would just try to make me feel better. I didn’t need to feel better. I needed advice on how to avoid this mistake in the future.

  There was a knock on my bedroom door. I jumped up, very fast, and opened it. It had to be my dad. I would have been so happy if it had been my dad.

  But it was not. He must still be working. It’s okay. He is writing important things.

  It was my sister, Elizabeth. She’s in eighth grade. She’s not as smart as me, but she’s pretty smart for a girl. I’m not sexist. I just know girls aren’t as smart. My dad said it’s because they can’t always think logically. Logic is the most important skill one can have to succeed in life.

  “What do you want, Elizabeth?” I said. My sister walked past me and sat on my bed. She didn’t say anything. Elizabeth is very tall, almost as tall as me, which is very frustrating. She also has long black hair that hangs down to the middle of her back. She is objectively pretty, which is good because pretty girls can marry more successful men than non-pretty girls. She has a boyfriend—his name is Derrick and he is black—but I wasn’t allowed to tell my dad because he would yell at her. Not because Derrick is black. My dad said we should both marry people from different races because our children would benefit from genetic diversity. He would yell at Elizabeth because she wasn’t supposed to date until she was sixteen. I had listened to him. But I was smarter than Elizabeth.

  “What did you say to Mom?” my sister said after not saying anything for almost thirty seconds.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why is she so sad now? I was in the kitchen with her and then you said something and now she’s sad.”

  “Elizabeth, I told her I needed to talk to Dad and she tried to talk to me but I told her she was not as smart as Dad because she’s not.”

  “You’re such an asshole,” Elizabeth said, then left.

  “I’m telling Dad you cursed,” I said after her even though I wouldn’t tell him. I used to tell my dad every wrong thing my mom or sister said or did, but then he told me it bored him when I told him these things, so I stopped.

  * * *

  I slammed my bedroom door so that my sister would feel bad about calling me an asshole, turned on my computer, and opened up my email. There was no email for me except spam. Robert usually sent me an email after I dropped him off. Usually some funny YouTube links. But I guess I won’t get those links now since we’re not friends anymore. It’s for the best. I was getting too old to waste time on silly videos.

  Usually I did all my homework as soon as I got home so that I could then play StarCraft, which is a strategic video game that I am very, very good at. My username is MaximumAwesome. I am ranked highly if you want to go online and see. But instead I decided I would make a list of the girls at Riverbend that I would consider to be my girlfriend. Since I didn’t have Robert anymore, it was even more important that I get one.

  Before I listed the names of actual students, I listed necessary qualities a girl would need to be my girlfriend:

  1. TOP 25 IN GPA BUT NOT JENNY GOLDBERG. JENNY WAS RANKED NUMBER ONE IN OUR CLASS. I WAS SMARTER, BUT SHE WOULD THINK SHE WAS SMARTER.

  2. SOPHOMORE OR JUNIOR. NO FRESHMEN SINCE THEY ARE IMMATURE AND NO SENIORS SINCE OLDER WOMEN WHO DATE YOUNGER MEN ARE DESPERATE.

  3. A VIRGIN. I WAS A VIRGIN. IN FACT, I HAD NEVER KISSED A GIRL. IT WOULD BE BEST IF THE GIRL HADN’T KISSED ANYONE EITHER.

  4. SHE KNEW HOW SMART I WAS. (*SEE JENNY GOLDBERG NOTE.)

  5. SHE WAS SO ATTRACTIVE THAT OTHER BOYS WOULD BE JEALOUS.

  I stopped at five because five is my favorite number. For the next two hours, I went through the yearbook from last year and considered any girl that met my five listed parameters. (Though I could not be assured of their being virgins, any girl that had a boyfriend longer than three months, like the otherwise parameters-approved sophomore Carolina Fisher, was eliminated from being a consideration.)

  In the end, I was left with only two girls until allowing women in the top fifty in GPA brought my list to my preferred number of five.

  I considered emailing all five in a group email but instead sent the same letter to the five different girls though Facebook. It stated that I, Benedict Maximus Pendleton, was interested in their becoming my girlfriend and I would like to go on a trial date to see if I enjoyed them in person.

  I had not heard back from any of the five girls after doing my homework. Nor after dinner. Nor after my fifty push-ups. Nor after playing StarCraft. Nor after playing StarCraft an hour longer than usual.

  * * *

  Getting into bed, Evil Benny said I would never have a girlfriend and that I would die a virgin. He said I was a friendless loser who would be alone forever.

  I tried
to argue with Evil Benny, but my dad had taught me not to argue with facts.

  10

  pen

  After we left school, Paul drove me to my dad’s pizzeria. Which was normal. Neither of us said anything. Which was also normal. But the way we didn’t say anything was different. Felt like there was a bomb in Paul’s head. Tick, tick, tick. It was going to explode any moment and, shit, I don’t know what would happen. Even if it never exploded, I could hear that tick, tick, tick in my head and it was driving me cray-cray-cray-zy.

  After he parked in the restaurant lot, I said, “My mom wanted me to ask if you were coming to Wild Wolf again this year for Christmas break?” Wild Wolf was this lake/resort place up in Wisconsin my mom had taken me every winter since I was a kid. My dad has never come because he always works. Wild Wolf was fun when I was little, before my mom and I realized we hated each other, and then it was torture for like five years yet she still dragged me there anyway. Freshman year she told me to invite Paul, he came, and he made it bearable for both of us. Even fun again as long Mom and I weren’t left alone too much.

  Paul said, “You don’t want me to come?”

  “Of course I want you to come,” I said, quiet because I always have a quiet voice, but inside I was screaming. I cannot imagine being stuck alone with my mom in a cabin in the middle of the woods and snow. I might kill myself. I’m not kidding.

  “Then I don’t know why you even asked. Of course I’m coming. We’re getting married.” Paul always talked about us getting married. And he said it most often when I knew he was mad at me. Like he was telling himself he just had to put up with me, no matter what. To be real, I think Paul feels he has to marry me because we’ve had sex. I’d be lucky if he married me. Even if it’s only because he thinks he’d go to hell if he didn’t.

  Paul took my face in his hands, pulled my chin close. His eyes were so close to mine it was like our eyeballs had left our heads so they could be right next to each other.

  He said, “I love you, Pen.”

  “I love you too.” I always said “I love you” after he did. I said it first once and it weirded him out. So I say it second. Always.

  * * *

  My dad’s restaurant is called Penelope’s Pizzeria. It’s named after me. Which sucks because I feel like I’ll have to work there until I’m dead.

  Besides the terrible name, the pizza is great. Really great. My dad is the chef and, really, it’s the best in all of Chicago. Yeah, I’m his daughter and biased but only a little. The pizza really is so good and it’s normal pizza, thin crust, not the thick stuff that the rest of Chicago likes. He grew up in Brooklyn and only moved here, to Riverbend, because my mom made him. It’s a long story and really boring. The short version is that my dad hates it here and my mom hates that he hates it here. They have fought about it every week or more since I can remember. All parents fight, I’m sure, but it still su-u-ucks.

  I work the cash register at the restaurant four or five nights every week. It’s cool. My mom complains that I work too much, but I’d rather work than do homework. My mom says that’s why my grades suck. She doesn’t use the word “suck.” She says “my grades suffer.” She says no college will want me. My dad tells her that he didn’t go to college and he’s very successful, and my mom then explains that owning one pizzeria does not make him “very successful” and then he tells her she should get a job if she thinks she could do better and then she says she stopped working to raise me and then they fight about all that. It’s boring when they fight and even more boring thinking about them fighting.

  “You’re late,” my dad said as I walked into the kitchen. He said it loud, over the sound of Frankie doing the dishes and Juan folding boxes. They worked almost as much as my dad, which was every day. Every day except Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the Fourth of July. My dad’s a large guy. Yeah, maybe fat. Like his second chin is bigger than his neck. But anyone who worked in a pizzeria all day and made pizza as good as my dad’s would be fat. I try to tell him he’s got to lose weight and he always says, “I know, I know,” but he doesn’t really listen.

  And I wasn’t really late. I was never late. I have this strange thing with being on time, actually. But my dad liked to say I was late because he just likes to say things. Especially in front of his other employees, always proving I don’t get special treatment because I’m his daughter.

  “I’m on time, Dad.” I kissed his cheek and messed up his hair. He likes when I do that. He’s really just a big kid. Which is great, right?

  “If you’re not early, you’re late,” he said, and then he turned his back to me and sank his hands into mozzarella under the hot water. Most people who put hands in water that hot would go to the hospital. Not my dad.

  * * *

  After we closed at ten, I swept the dining room and then sat at a table and almost started reading a book that I was supposed to read for English class but instead I texted with Iris about how Stacy was doing and how Paul and the boys wanted to beat up Benedict but we had to stop them. Iris agreed with me, but she’d probably agree with Stacy if Stacy tells the boys to really beat up Benedict.

  Since my dad’s gotten into two accidents in the past ten months from falling asleep at the wheel, I always drive home. I actually have a car—a silver Beetle—but my mom drives me to school and Paul drives me to work so I can drive my dad home. It’s not my dad’s fault he crashed. He works too much. He’s the hardest-working person I know. The hardest-working person anyone knows.

  * * *

  Our house is part of an old development by the grade school. It was the nice part of Riverbend before they built Covered Bridges. My mom bitches about the snobs in Covered Bridges, about the trees they cut down to build it. But my mom just wishes we could afford to live over there.

  After I parked the car in the driveway, my dad made himself a plate of cheese, went to the living room, and got into his La-Z-Boy in front of the news. He loves watching CNN. He has CNN on all day at the restaurant and all night in the living room. If the news isn’t on, he’ll talk about it as if you didn’t watch the same segment he just did. I love my dad, so it’s almost cute. He’ll fall asleep in the La-Z-Boy as soon as he’s done eating the cheese. He only goes up to bed after the sunlight wakes him in the morning.

  * * *

  After I kissed my dad good night, I went up the stairs to the bathroom. My mom was watching TV in her bedroom with the door closed. She actually likes all the good shows, the same shows I watch, but we never watched them together or talked about it. I tried to be quiet walking past her door, but she heard me and yelled, “Don’t forget to wipe the sink, Penelope! I saw toothpaste in there this morning!”

  I ignore her when she calls me Penelope. I fucking hate my name. She loves it. That about sums up my mom and me. Not really.

  After peeing, I brushed my teeth, left the toothpaste there for a second in the sink, but then cleaned it. Better to just do what my mom says sometimes or else I’d go crazy. I already am crazy. But I’d go the kind of crazy I couldn’t control.

  Then I went to my bedroom, locked the door, and turned on Pandora. I don’t like music with words. I like some of it, I guess, just most of the time I like to listen to really experimental, trippy stuff by artists no one else has heard of. It just lets my mind leave my body and then my soul leave my mind. That sounds cheesy, but I’m being real.

  After I texted Paul good night, I got under my covers, took off my underwear, and then put a pillow between my legs. I can orgasm about fifty different ways—with my fingers or the faucet in the tub or even just rubbing my legs together if I concentrate—but using a pillow is my favorite.

  I don’t like looking at porn. Not real porn anyway. Sometimes I’ll look at magazines like Vogue or the Victoria’s Secret catalog. I’m not a lesbian. Lesbians are cool. I’m just not one. See, I don’t imagine doing anything to another girl. I imagine I am that girl, that beautiful model, and how sexy everyone thinks I am. Imagining everyone finds me sexy turn
s me on more than anything.

  Once in a while, I’ll think about a boy when I masturbate. Never Paul. I made myself do it once, but I couldn’t orgasm. This makes me feel like a terrible girlfriend, but how can I tell my body to get turned on by something if it doesn’t?

  I can’t even tell my own head some of the boys I’ve imagined. Like I know I’m a freak, but I should be put in jail for having some of these thoughts in my head. Teachers and Iris’s dad. Shit. I can’t believe I admitted that. Like, if they tried to kiss me in life, I would cry and report them to the cops. But sometimes when I’m masturbating, faces just come into my head and my body just shakes and I don’t stop it. After I orgasm, even I want to go confess I’m a sinner. Then I realize I could never tell anyone any of this.

  I’m.

  Such.

  A.

  Freak!

  Really. Shit. It’s okay. It’s not okay. But I can’t be different, I’ve tried, so even though I’m not going to tell anyone—not ANYONE—about what goes on in my head, I’m not going to hate myself anymore. Well, at least not hate myself as much as I usually do.

  (Okay, I know I said I didn’t but as long as I’m admitting everything, there have been a few times I’ve thought about being with a girl. Usually that androgynous girl Zee in my class. It’s hard to explain. All of this is hard to explain.)

  * * *

  As I was lying there on my bed, thinking all this, the music playing, pillow between my legs, I started to imagine Benedict. Fuck. See? I just can’t stop crazy things from happening in my brain. Why would I think of him? He’s such a dork and so awkward. But not awkward like Robert or like I was. Or am again. But Benedict, he’s awkward like he doesn’t belong here. You know, among normal people. But he doesn’t seem to care he doesn’t belong. Everyone else, me, Paul, Stacy, Robert, and everyone, we all care about belonging. I care so much I’m willing to spend my life pretending to be someone else.