Prom Queen Geeks
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1 - PROM IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD (or High Heels Aren’t for Sissies)
Chapter 2 - BREAKFAST SERIAL (or Pancakes and Panic)
Chapter 3 - PARENTAL MISGUIDANCE SUGGESTED (or The Frisbee of Destiny)
Chapter 4 - CRUSHED BY A CRUSH (or When Hormones Collide)
Chapter 5 - ATTACK OF THE TEENAGED LUST MONSTER (or Three Shelbies and a Spiderweb)
Chapter 6 - SOUL-SUCKING DEVIL DADDY (or Foolish Film Folly)
Chapter 7 - THE COW JUMPED OVER THE MELVIN (or All Is Dangerous in Love and Art)
Chapter 8 - INSIDE JOKES (or How to Keep People Away with Humor)
Chapter 9 - SILVER SCREEN SCHEME (or Fifty Feet of Celluloid Doom)
Chapter 10 - AN EASY LESSON IN CLONING (or How to Be Your Own Twin)
DRESS TO CONFESS (or The Secret Lives of Liars)
Chapter 12 - ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DRAMA (or World Wide Web of Deceit)
Chapter 13 - DRIVING MISS CRAZY (or A Girl and Her Robot)
Chapter 14 - PROM QUEEN GEEKS (and The Boys Who Love Them)
PRAISE FOR The Queen Geek Social Club
“A fine coming-of-age tale . . . Shelby is delightful.”
—Midwest Book Review
“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
“Give the nerd in you a chance to get up and shout.”
—Girls’ Life Magazine
“[A] fantastic read . . . 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.com
Berkley JAM titles by Laura Preble
PROM QUEEN GEEKS QUEEN GEEKS IN LOVE THE QUEEN GEEK SOCIAL CLUB
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
PROM QUEEN GEEKS
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 © 2008 by Laura Preble.
All rights reserved.
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BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
BERKLEY® JAM and the JAM logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
eISBN : 978-0-425-22338-3
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to all my students at West Hills High School, and at Mar Vista High, Granger Junior, and all those teenagers who, over the years, have inspired me and made me crazy. (This includes my son Austin’s very strange geek posse, all of whom seem to show up in my books although I’d never met them before this year.)
Thanks to all my new friends at Monarch School, Santana High, El Cajon Valley High, and to the mighty librarians Sue Arthur, Nancy Magee, and Steve Montgomery.
Thanks, as always, to my husband, jazz great Chris Klich; my sons, Austin and Noel; and my California mom, Helen Klich. (And to Father Richard, Mother Therese, and Opa . . . I miss you.) To my sisters Linda, Barb, and Ann, who always turn my books face out whenever they go to a bookstore. Also, to my great friends Becky, Becca, Kym, Stacey, and Glenn, who support me in my artistic endeavors and often watch my kids so I don’t totally lose my mind.
Thanks to Laura Rennert and Jessica Wade for publishing and editing expertise.
Thanks to Julia Wouk at Booth Media, and Author Marketing Experts for helping me get the word out on the impending geek groundswell.
Thanks to Sam at Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore, a place you should definitely visit.
Thanks to all the readers who’ve e-mailed and told me that I got it right. And to all of you who have formed your own Queen Geek Social Clubs, I hope you take over the world one day.
1
PROM IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD (or High Heels Aren’t for Sissies)
The movie theater goes dark. Becca Gallagher, my best friend, and I munch on popcorn like rabid chipmunks. The music swells, all screechy, tense violins peppered with vocals by what sounds like tight-pantsed choirboys. The title fades in: The Scent of Evil. And then in the middle of a black screen: Directed by Melvin Gallagher boldly assaults our eyes.
“Boo!” Becca screeches. People, startled, turn to stare at her. “He’s a moronic reprobate!”
“Nobody even knows what that means,” I whisper to her. “Shut up or they’ll throw us out.”
“Well, that’s what he is,” she whispers back with malicious glee. The music, punctuated with thunder-loud cathedral bells, continues as Becca hisses in a more subdued way.
Melvin Gallagher, the guy who directed the movie, is Becca’s dad. She doesn’t like him. I’ve never met him, so I have no real opinion, other than the fact that I know he ditched Becca and her mom, and quarreled over who got custody of the Warhol prints, but not over who got custody of Becca.
Becca stands up and grabs my arm, pulling me out of my seat and toward the exit. “What are you doing?” I whisper as loudly as possible.
When we get outside the theater, she shovels a handful of popcorn into her mouth and tries to talk around it. “I don’t want to see the movie, I just wanted to see his name and boo. Let’s go see something good.”
“Like what?” I snag some popcorn before she eats it all.
“I think there’s actually a good horror movie where a bunch of unsuspecting teenagers go to the movies and wander around looking for something good to watch, then eventually they turn down the wrong corridor, and with only the butter from their popcorn to sustain them, they try to survive in a parallel universe.”
“No more for you,” I chuckle, grabbing the snack bucket.
We settle on a generic boy-gets-girl movie that has already s
tarted. Snuggly couples occupy all the seats in back, so we’re forced to find a spot in the middle, much to the dismay of a few older ladies who shuffle impatiently like a bunch of hens whose nests have been disturbed when we sit in front of them. With Becca’s platinum-colored, spiky hair and my dangerous, spylike auburn tresses, we frighten people, and besides, nobody wants to sit by us rude teenagers.
Becca munches loudly on the last dregs of the popcorn as I try to figure out what the story is about. An English girl is in love with some guy she works with, but he surprises her by announcing his engagement to someone else, and then the English girl quits her job, shaves her head, and becomes a monk. A monkess? I’m not sure what the proper term is. Anyway, she doesn’t look very happy in her new scratchy robes. And I’m sure once your hair started growing out, it would itch like crazy.
“This movie sucks!” Becca hisses. “It’s worse than my dad’s movie, if that’s possible!”
“We didn’t even see your dad’s movie.” One of the hen ladies shushes us. I throw her an apologetic glance.
“I know this has to be worse. Come on.” Abruptly, Becca stands up, sending a shower of napkins and popcorn kernels onto the floor. The hens cackle indignantly as I follow her into the lobby.
“I don’t know why we bother buying movie tickets,” I say. “We never seem to watch anything all the way through.”
“I’m extremely picky.” Becca struts into the lobby and approaches the snack counter. Oh no, I think. Not this again. Every time we go to the movies, it’s the same thing. I should just stop going with her. I never learn. “Sir?” she says to a fat, pimply boy behind the concession stand. He wears an oversized button that says, “I Heart Anime,” and he’s anxiously poring over a graphic novel full of big-boobed cartoon girls.
“Large or small?” he asks, positioning his popcorn scoop strategically so he can serve us as quickly as possible and then go back to dreaming about his pen-and-ink girlfriends.
“No, we’d like a refund.” Becca leans against the counter, bored. “Hurry, please. We have appointments.”
Anime Boy doesn’t know what to do. I suppose very few people ask for refunds from movies; I mean, once you’ve seen it, you can’t really put it back or anything. He scurries away toward the almighty ticket booth and comes back with a manager in tow. “May I help you?” the manager asks, clearly communicating that he doesn’t appreciate being called away from his important work.
“We’d like a refund.” Becca stands taller, almost nose-to-nose with the manager. “The movie stinks.”
“Could I see your tickets?” He holds his hand out, palm up, waiting.
“I don’t have them anymore.” Becca grins at him. “Sorry.”
“Then no refund. Sorry.” He turns to go, but Becca taps him on the shoulder.
“I really think you should reconsider.” Anime Boy is staring at her as if she is a comic book girl come to life. “I’d hate to have to tell people that this movie theater takes advantage of innocent youth. I was in an R-rated movie, you know. Nobody even asked for my ID.”
The manager’s ears start to turn bright red, and his little brown mustache begins to twitch. “I suppose you want two free tickets?”
“That would be fine.” Becca smiles her sweetest smile at him. Anime Boy tries not to laugh at the skewering of his boss.
“Well, I’m sure it would be, but it’s not going to happen. Why don’t you two run along before I call your parents?” He turns away, and I take a few steps back. I’ve known Becca long enough to know that when she’s crossed, it’s best to stay out of the way.
Just as the manager reaches his office door, Becca wolf whistles from the glass top of the snack counter, where she’s standing like a semi-punk Statue of Liberty. Anime Boy, I notice, is getting a very nice view of her legs. “Attention! Attention!” she yells. Of course, people look. “I just want to let you know that the manager of this movie theater allowed both my friend and myself to see an R-rated movie, and when we saw the filthy content and language in the movie, we tried to get our money back, and he refused.”
A small knot of people nearby murmurs. A couple of kids point at her and laugh. The manager turns, his lips pursed in a frozen expression of rage. Becca stands, arms crossed, on the snack counter. No one is buying anything.
Manager Mustache marches back. “Get down from there,” he hisses at her even as he smiles at the gathering crowd. “I will call security.”
“He’s trying to have me arrested for standing up for my rights!” Becca screeches. “Are you going to stand by and let me be taken away in irons?”
“No!” Anime Boy shouts hoarsely, his voice cracking. He climbs awkwardly onto a stepstool, but can’t quite make it up to the counter, so he lamely pumps his fist in the air. Manager Mustache drills him with a red-hot laser beam glare of disapproval, and he dismounts, coughing.
Manager Mustache makes the mistake of grabbing at Becca’s leg. “Ouch!” she screams. “He’s touching me!”
Now several parent types are approaching the scene, and Manager Mustache sees that he is outplayed. He puts on his best customer-is-always-right smile, and puts his hands up in the same gesture people use when trying to calm wild dogs. “Okay, let’s all just take a breath,” he says. “Could you please come down from there, young lady? I’m afraid you’ll hurt yourself.” A vein in his neck is throbbing like a Red Hot Chili Peppers bass line.
Becca reaches toward Anime Boy, who scrabbles to take her hand and help her onto the stepstool. Like a film star descending an elegant staircase, she gracefully lowers herself to the floor.
With everyone watching, Manager Mustache furiously yanks a form from his breast pocket, thunks it onto the glass counter, scribbles as if he’ll wear a hole through the Milk Duds in the display case, and hands it to Becca. “Please accept my apologies, and do come back for another film as our guests.” He turns on his heel, marches back to his office, and I suspect he will be dipping into his no-doubt extensive supply of pain relievers.
The crowd disperses, and Becca walks around the counter, waving nonchalantly at Anime Boy. He gazes at her in loving admiration.
As we walk out of the theater, she murmurs, “I really need something to do.”
Last year, Becca and I started the Queen Geek Social Club at Green Pines, our high school. This happened mostly because Becca, who is freakishly tall with a dragon tattoo on one leg, generally has trouble making really close friends, and she wanted to find others of her own kind. It worked out great, because we found each other and became best friends.
We met some other fantastic people too: Amber Fellerman, Elisa Crunch (please, no candy bar jokes), and our various boyfriends. For me, that meant Fletcher Berkowitz, a football player (I know, I know . . . but he’s smart, too!). He and I had a rough patch earlier in the year, but somehow karaoke brought us back together, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
Becca met a guy as tall as she is, someone I nicknamed Carl the Giant. He’s into particle physics. The four of us (as well as Amber, Elisa, and their boys-of-the-moment) hang out, watch science fiction movies, eat pizza, and talk to Euphoria, my robot. A typical teenage lifestyle.
Except Becca has sort of an addiction. She craves global domination; she believes that everyone who’s anyone should be a geek, and that it’s only a matter of time before her geek army takes over the world. Because of this addiction, Becca sort of flips out if she doesn’t have an impending mission. Last year, it was collecting Twinkies to send to skinny supermodels. Then it was hijacking a school dance. Then we stormed Comic-Con, started a website, and put on GeekFest, a huge celebration of the strangeness that is us. That last one helped pay for a juice bar on campus, so we sort of became local heroes.
But since that happened, Becca’s been adrift. We haven’t had a focus in Queen Geeks, and that’s led to some problems. She’s crankier than usual, she has no patience with her boyfriend, and she pulls random stunts like the showdown at the Cineplex.
L
ingering over Pecan Turtle Madness sundaes at the ice-cream place (we eat a lot, too, when we’re bored), she says, “That was kind of over-the-top, huh?”
I lick my spoon and nod. “Yes. Even for you.”
“Well, at least we got free tickets,” she says brightly, patting her purse.
“You almost gave that poor guy a stroke. But I bet you’ll get free popcorn for the rest of your life. That snack jockey looked at you like you were a goddess.”
“And why not?” She digs down into the layers of caramel, frowning, deep in thought. “But still, I think we need to get moving. We’ve just been sitting around . . . well . . . happy.”
“Oh, yeah, we don’t want that. Happy is bad.”
“You know what I mean.” Leaning her head in her hands, she gazes longingly through the sun-drenched windows. “I just want to create chaos. Is that so wrong?”
“Do you have something in mind?”
“Actually, I do.” The door swings open, and our boyfriends, Fletcher and Carl, stroll in looking smug. Unfortunately, since Fletcher has walked into the store, a distracting buzziness begins around my belly button, and little crazy bees seem to hum inside my head. This has been a common occurrence lately; whenever he’s within a few feet of me, some physical impulse takes over, effectively putting my mind into a headlock, literally. All I can think of is how much I want to knock him down and rub my face in his shirt. Instead, I just blush violently and preoccupy myself with arranging napkins on the table, hoping Becca won’t notice.
Fletcher laughs maniacally and squeezes my shoulder. Whenever he touches me, my tummy starts doing little flips-flops, and the brain bees begin to hammer at my ears, asking to be let out. Today is no exception. I use a trick to help me focus: I concentrate on the least sexy thing I can think of, which usually turns out to be images of unattractive, wrinkly old people doing household chores in their underwear. “So, we found you!” he says dramatically, as if he’s been searching the Amazon rain forest for years.