Prom Queen Geeks

by Laura Preble

  “Not a lot of glaciers in Southern California,” he points out sensibly. “We could go to my house.”

  I’ve only been to Fletcher’s house a few times, mostly on our way to somewhere else, never as an end destination, really. Today, the idea really spooks me. “Your house?” I squeak.

  “It’s cheaper than the mall.” We’ve never walked to his house; he steers me toward a side street that I haven’t traveled down before. “Nobody’s home, anyway. We can hang out undisturbed.”

  All kinds of thoughts are fighting in my head, and the battlefield is crowded and getting bloodier by the second. In my mind I see Becca, hands on hips, glaring at me as if I’ve betrayed her. Then I see my dad shaking his head as if I’m really stupid to even think of going to a guy’s house with him when no one is home. Then I see Euphoria working her claws up and down like the old robot on Lost in Space, yelling, “Danger, Shelby Chapelle!” My mental self confronts the three of them. “Danger? Absurd. Fletcher’s about as dangerous as dryer lint.”

  “Hmmm?” Fletcher murmurs. “Did you say something about dryer lint?”

  “Huh?” I hadn’t realized that my psychotic mental images had worked their way out through my mouth. “Dryer lint? That’s silly.”

  We walk for maybe ten minutes, and then he stops in front of his nice, yellow one-story house with a well-trimmed yard and a big oak tree in front. “Not exactly Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, but we can probably get at least an hour of peace before anybody else shows up.”

  Inside, my eyes adjust to the dimness: I have time to actually check out the rooms instead of just rushing through or waiting in the front hallway like I usually do. As usual, the place is neat, full of dark wood antique furniture, and the room smells of lemon wax. Parked near a sliding glass patio door, an ebony grand piano crouches like an oversized black lab waiting to fetch a ball. Although it’s been there every time I’ve visited, I’ve never bothered to ask why. “Who plays piano?”

  “I took lessons for about five years.” Fletcher sits at the bench, pulls me down next to him and begins to caress the ivory keys, picking out a pretty tune. The warmth of his arm where we touch seems to leave a mark on me.

  “Wow, you’re pretty good.” I marvel at the way his slender fingers glide over the cream-and-black field of piano keys, but he abruptly stops playing and closes the lid.

  “I’ve never given you the official tour,” he says. “I guess we’ve never really come over here without rushing off to somewhere else, huh? Now you can see everything more clearly.”

  What I see clearly is that Fletcher and I are alone, and that thought keeps pounding against my brain like one of those paddle balls on a rubber string. “How long will we be alone?” I ask, sounding like Little Red Riding Hood confronting a hungry wolf. What is wrong with me? I think I must be the most paranoid person ever born. Fletcher, the kindest and most decent guy I’ve ever met, would never do anything but respect me. So why do I feel shaky about being alone in the house with him?

  “I don’t think anybody else is here at the moment.” He checks the dining room and listens for a moment. “Nope. Mom’s gone, Dad’s at work, and my sister has practice. It’s just us. Are you hungry?” He heads for the kitchen.

  “Uh, sure.” If we’re eating, he can’t really try anything, right? I imagine us dunking cookies and milk, and him lunging across the table at me, crumbling innocent Toll House yummies and spilling milk everywhere.

  Fletcher is submerged in the refrigerator. “Diet Pepsi?”

  “Sure.” At least that won’t really leave a sticky spot if we spill it, I figure. The paddle ball continues to thump incessantly in my brain.

  He hands me a can of soda and pops one open for himself. “Chips?”

  I nod. He pulls a crinkly bag of potato chips from a cupboard, pours a bunch into a green plastic bowl, and motions for me to follow him. Down a dimly lit hallway, he points to several doors. “That’s Mom and Dad’s room, the bathroom, Denise’s room, my room—” Does he pause when he says “my room”? Is there some dramatic message I’m supposed to get from that?

  “It’s nice” is all I say after I take a swig from my can of Pepsi, and we head back to the living room.

  He motions to the sofa, a green tapestried thing with overstuffed cushions. I sit as far to one end as I can.

  “Do I smell bad or something?” He sits next to me, and I feel even more nervous. Those images of my dad and Becca and Euphoria pop up again, all giving me disapproving looks. What am I thinking, being alone in this guy’s house with him? They all shake their heads at me, and Euphoria holds up a photo of me, pregnant.

  “Ah!” I scream and jump off the couch as if I sat on an electric eel. I spill the Pepsi all over my lap and on the nice silver carpet. I’m an exceptional houseguest, especially if you’re looking for someone to begin demolition for a remodel or something.

  “What happened?” Fletcher darts into the kitchen and comes back with two towels. He hands me one, and gets down on his hands and knees and starts dabbing at the carpet with the other. “You acted like somebody stuck you with a tack or something.”

  As I stare at his curly red hair and watch his muscular arms dabbing away at my soda stain, I realize suddenly why I am afraid of being alone with him. It’s not because of him. It’s because of me.

  I lower myself to the floor and catch his hand as he dabs. He looks up, surprised. “What’s up? Am I doing it wrong?”

  I just put a finger to his lips, lean in, and kiss him. Blue electricity courses through my body, like someone just threw a switch and all of the nerves that had been asleep are suddenly awake. He mumbles feebly in protest, but I just keep lip-locking him, pull him to the floor, and—with a hand on each of his shoulders—I drag him down so he’s lying flat on the floor and I’m sitting on top of him. We’re not just kissing, we’re practically exchanging respiratory systems. He clutches my back and pulls me toward him, so now we’re horizontal, my face buried in the musky vanilla scent of his neck, his face, his chest. His hands are caressing my back, slowly, gently, almost hypnotically, and suddenly, all I hear is a rushing wind, some thunderous pounding of blood blocking out any other sound, any sense—

  Now, as this happens, there is a part of me screaming and jumping up and down. I see her clearly in my mind: She’s scared and lonely, and wears baggy pajamas all the time. Her hair is never combed. Even as I search Fletcher’s mouth hungrily, this other Shelby is pounding on the inside of my head, telling me that I’m stupid and too young, and that boys all want one thing, and that everyone will know if we do anything.

  As I watch this melodrama behind my eyes, another Shelby shows up. She’s wearing fishnet stockings, a black leather mini, and high heels. Her midriff shows, and her breasts are encased in a fire-engine-red halter top. Her hair is even redder than mine, and her makeup is more expertly applied. She simply kicks the pajama-wearing Shelby behind the knees and shoves her aside. Grinning, she says, “Go for it, girl. You’re only young once.” Sexy saxophone music starts to pulse in my brain, with a hypnotic electronica beat, and my mental Shelby starts to dance a sensuous belly dance.

  “Shelby?” Fletcher’s muffled voice brings me back to reality. He’s got me by the wrists, and he’s holding me at arm’s length. “Uh, what are we doing?”

  “Hmm?” The music in my head abruptly scratches to a stop, like the needle being pulled from a vinyl album on an old turntable.

  I focus on Fletcher and notice that I am sitting on top of him. In my skirt. Which is hiked up almost to my tummy. I am officially a slut.

  I jump off of him as if I’ve been touching a live wire in a full bathtub. “Hey,” I say weakly.

  Fletcher looks stunned and confused. “What—” he starts to ask, but the front door opens and his sister, Denise, clumps into the house.

  I pull my skirt down so it looks more respectable (although I don’t deserve respect) and I smooth out my wild hair (although it doesn’t deserve to be smoothed). I don’t e
ven know what to say.

  “Hi, Denise,” Fletcher says too loudly. His sister, who’s ten, glances at us, grunts, and heads for the PlayStation parked in front of the television. “Shelby, can we go outside for a minute?”

  I nod numbly. I pack up my crazy pajama Shelby and my fishnet slutty Shelby and the three of us walk out the front door, embarrassed beyond belief.

  Fletcher discreetly waits until we’re outside before he addresses my obvious insanity. “What were you doing?” he says, half laughing. Scratching his head in bewilderment, he chucks me on the shoulder like a buddy. “Not fair, you know. You’re too sexy to try stuff like that as a joke.”

  “I wasn’t joking,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Geez, even with three of me I can’t stop from saying stupid things.

  I see the smile fade from Fletcher’s face, and in his eyes I see that he gets it. He understands that I was serious. “Oh.”

  Words tumble out of my mouth. “I know what we said, that we wanted to go slow and everything.” I stop and breathe, kind of choking on it. “But lately, it’s like I can’t stop touching you, I can’t stop thinking about you, about how you smell, how you look, your arms, your hands. It’s like I’ve got some disease.”

  “Thanks, that’s very flattering.” He sits down on a red porch swing, stares at the well-manicured lawn, and kicks against the banister. “A disease, huh? You do know how to make a guy feel good.”

  I flop down next to him on the swing. “No, I didn’t mean . . . well, I did sort of, but what I meant was that lately, with all this stuff about the prom and deciding who to stand by, I can’t stop thinking about you, about us. It’s confusing me.”

  He turns and arches a red eyebrow at me. “Confuses you?”

  “I just always felt like I could stop caring about you whenever I felt like it. But lately, it’s like there are three of me, and one is afraid of you, and one wants to do awful, wonderful things to you, and then there’s me. And I don’t know what I want.”

  “Maybe I could just have a meeting with the one who wants to do the awful, wonderful stuff with me,” he muses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. I slap him on the arm. “Ow.”

  “I’m serious!”

  He laughs, puts an arm around my shoulder, and then gets quiet. “I know you’re serious, Shelby. I do understand how you feel, too. I’ve felt like that about you since we met. But . . .” His words trail off, and he swings gently, staring out at the street again.

  “But what?”

  Fletcher sighs heavily, as if I’ve just placed some incredible burden on his shoulders. “But I don’t want you to . . . to make a mistake for the wrong reason.”

  “What would the wrong reason be?” I ask, feeling my face getting hotter. Slutty Shelby stands, hands on hips, defiant.

  He doesn’t look me in the eye, but studies his tennies. “It feels like this sudden change in temperature is due to the fact that you don’t want this conflict between you, me, and Becca. So, you figure if you do something really drastic, that will take care of it. You won’t have to choose. The choice will be made for you.”

  Pajama Shelby throws her hands over her head in a victory gesture, dances around in bunny slippers, and throws a bucket of cold water over slutty Shelby’s head. I, meanwhile, choke back tears. “So, what are you saying?”

  Fletcher closes his eyes, hits his head against the back of the porch swing numerous times, and then says, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think we should wait on anything physical until you’re sure about why you want to go there.”

  “Why I want to go there?” I screech. I jump off the swing, a woman scorned. “I guess it doesn’t occur to you that I just want you, does it? Or maybe you don’t want me. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re just trying to find a kind way to let me know that you like me, but not that way.”

  “Hey.” His head snaps up, and he puts one hand up in a calming gesture. “Wait a minute. I never said—”

  I kick at the swing and march off the porch, tears stinging my eyes. “Just leave me alone.”

  “Hey. Hey!” He runs after me, trying to catch up to me as I dash down the path and out to the street. His legs are longer, and despite the fuel of intense embarrassment, he outruns me within a few paces. He grabs my shoulders, turns me around, and peers into my face. “You think I’m not attracted to you?”

  I don’t say anything. What other answer could there be? I practically throw myself at him in the heat of passion and he doesn’t take advantage of me. Obviously, he isn’t interested.

  “Could it possibly be that I respect you, and don’t want to take advantage of you in a weak moment?” he asks, touching my cheek to wipe away the dampness.

  “That’s what guys say when they just aren’t interested,” I mumble, turning and marching toward the street.

  “Shelby. Shelby!” he calls after me. I hear him groan in frustration, and I feel him watch me as I clomp away in a big huff. After a few seconds, I hear his door slam shut.

  Well, congratulations, all the Shelbies say. You’ve managed once again to screw everything up for all of us.

  It takes me about twenty minutes to walk home, and the whole time I can feel my face glowing red hot with embarrassment. I wonder if anyone has ever caused a car accident because of excessively bright blushing? People could see me and think I’m some sort of radioactive material, or an emergency vehicle with a silent siren. An emergency vehicle wearing a skirt.

  Obsessive, stupid thoughts actually occupy your mind pretty effectively as you walk, so I’m home in no time. Becca and Evie are sitting on my porch swing drinking iced tea.

  “Hope you don’t mind. We kind of invited ourselves over,” Becca says. Euphoria whirs out onto the porch with another frosty glass of her brew, and waits for me to take it.

  “Don’t mind at all,” I say casually, hoping the stain of my intense blush isn’t still lingering on my cheeks.

  “Took you a while to get home,” Becca observes as she sips from her glass. I grab my own tea, and lean against the white banister in front of them, trying to look like I’m not lying, which I am about to do.

  “I had to get some tutoring.” Duh! I really need to practice lying. That was not a good one.

  “Tutoring.” Becca’s eyes narrow slightly; she’s a lie-detecting cat and I’m the pants-on-fire mouse. “In what?”

  To buy some time, I take a big sip of tea and then pretend to choke on it. Neither Becca nor Evie looks particularly concerned. Some friends they are; I could’ve died. After I’ve milked the fake choke as much as I can, I reply: “No, I was tutoring.” Good save! I did do tutoring last year, even though I was a freshman. Maybe Becca won’t remember that I absolutely refused to do it again this year since it mostly amounted to kids wanting me to do their homework for them.

  “I thought you quit tutoring.”

  I look to Evie for some sort of support, but her face is a blank canvas. Finally, she says, “Good tea.”

  Becca jams the swing to a stop with one lime-green Converse-covered foot. “Stop the crap. I know you were at Fletcher’s. I saw you walking to his house. You were in enemy territory.”

  “He’s not the enemy.” I feel my jaw set defiantly. Who is she to decide who is the enemy and who isn’t? “And why shouldn’t I go to his house?”

  “Maybe I should just go . . .” Evie says timidly. Obviously, she isn’t keen on being in the middle of a Queen Geek civil war. Neither am I, actually.

  “It’s okay. Stay.” I sigh heavily, take another drink of tea, and rub the cool condensation from the glass on my hot forehead. “Here’s the thing: I just attacked Fletcher. I mean, I practically assaulted him. I was like a she-devil of lust angling for fresh meat.”

  The jaws of both girls drop simultaneously like something from an old Looney Tunes cartoon. If their eyeballs could zip out on little springs, they would.

  “She-devil of lust?” Becca asks, all trace of resentment gone. Juicy gossip is much more fun than an internal feud.
“What happened? Did he start it?”

  Evie shakes her head, and shifts uncomfortably. “Maybe I really should go. I don’t think I’m old enough for this conversation.”

  “Nothing happened!” I screech, a bit too loudly. “But that wasn’t because of me. I jumped him and had him in a lip-lock that could’ve bruised his tonsils!”

  Becca shakes her head and eyes me quizzically. “You attacked him? At his house? This just doesn’t sound right.”

  I explain to them about the theory of the three Shelbies, and how the one in the fishnets was really the one who did all the lusty pouncing.

  “I don’t think having multiple personalities is going to be a form of birth control or anything,” Becca says dryly. “Even if it was that other girl’s fault, it’s your body. I’d suggest you gag her and put her in a closet somewhere.” She pauses and sips. “But was it good?”

  I can’t deny it. “It felt like blue electricity was zipping around my arms and legs and head, and even though my brain knew that it wasn’t a good idea, something inside me just kept pushing. If he hadn’t stopped me, I don’t know what would’ve happened. And then he totally insulted me. And I left.”

  This gets Evie’s attention. “He insulted you? What did he say?”

  I explain Fletcher’s theory of how I jumped him just so I could have some decision made and some choice taken away or something. “Isn’t that stupid?”

  Becca shakes her head wisely. “Ah, Grasshopper, not so stupid. I think he might be right. But we can’t simply discount the fact that your hormones have a mind of their own.” She stretches her long legs and says, “Let’s go in the house and forage for food. And go over our plans for Operation Spiderweb.”

  Anything that begins with the word “Operation” always makes my stomach churn. It means that whatever plan we were working on just got bigger. By bigger, I mean that there are large pieces of paper (like the kind on easels at business meetings) with elaborate charts in various serious-looking colors. The dining room looks like the central staging area for the rebel attack in Star Wars, minus the talking aliens.