Prom Queen Geeks

by Laura Preble

  God, I so want to make a joke about it.

  Which means, I guess, that he’s right.

  For the third time today, he flicks the side of my head. “Hello? Anybody home?”

  “Stop it,” I say. My voice sounds flat, like a balloon with all the air blown out.

  Fletcher hugs me closer, and leans his head against mine. “Stop what, the flicking or the indecent emotional exposure?”

  “You made a joke.” I huddle into him, for the first time really feeling the soft-rubbed texture of his shirt, and the slightly scratchy stubble on his face, smelling the vanilla-flower musk of his skin, hearing a constant heartbeat that I’ve rarely been quiet enough to hear. Damn, it’s kind of nice when I shut up.

  For a change, I say hardly anything as we walk back down to the car arm in arm. Without my own constant chatter, I actually enjoy the sky, the birds, the skin-lacerating pine needles that slap me whenever Fletcher ducks under a branch and it flips back too fast for me to avoid it.

  “Can I ask you about something?” I say. He opens the car door and cocks his head at me, waiting. “It’s about my dad.”

  We get in and he starts the car, pulls out of the lot, and we wave good-bye to the beautiful beach. Then he says, “What about your dad?”

  “He’s in love, or in like or something, with Thea.”

  “Becca’s mom?” he squawks. “Wow. That’s kind of Twilight Zone. I mean, she’s a flaky-artsy-moon worshipper and he’s Mr. Science. How did that happen? Mind-altering mushrooms?”

  “It’s not funny. He really has a thing for her, and now she’s kind of back with Becca’s dad, Melvin, and Melvin’s probably just jealous because Dad showed an interest in his ex-wife. And now Becca’s all happy because she secretly wanted her family back together, even though she hated Melvin for choosing the art over her in a custody battle. And now Dad has no clue.”

  “Uh, neither do I,” Fletcher says, shaking his head. “I think you just read off the script summary for a daytime soap opera.”

  “I know.” I groan. “So much unnecessary drama! And aren’t parents the ones who are supposed to be sensible?”

  Fletcher shrugs as he guides the car into another lane of traffic. “I guess they’re just big teenagers.”

  “But what do I do about it? Do I just not tell my dad anything? Hope it will work out? Stay out of it? I don’t know what to do.” That’s an understatement. Not only do I not know what to do, I’m afraid if I do anything I’ll make things worse. If that’s possible.

  Fletcher squints into the sun and says, “Maybe Melvin will just go away. You said he was injured, right? He’ll probably have to go back home and recuperate.”

  “I guess.” Watching the blur of scenery outside the car window, I am reminded of the intense pace of my life: Here I am, sixteen (and unable to drive!), I’ve lost one parent, thought I was getting another one, then found out I wasn’t, thought I was getting a sister, now I’m not. Had a boyfriend, didn’t have him, had him again, distanced myself, got myself closer. If I could get frequent-flier points for my emotional mileage, I could probably go to the moon on the space shuttle. First class.

  When Fletcher pulls into my driveway, Dad is sitting on the porch, which sort of screws up my chances for a really good kiss. I just can’t suck face in front of my dad. Fletcher sees it, too, and shrugs his shoulders, satisfying himself with a peck on the cheek before getting out of the car. “Hey, Mr. C.” He waves as he comes around to my side and waits for me to get out, and then we walk up the steps together.

  Dad waves halfheartedly. I skip up and give him a kiss, but he doesn’t even react. “What’s up?” I ask, perching on the swing next to him.

  He gives me a sheepish grin, then shrugs back against the green wooden slats of the glider. “I’m a chump.”

  “Chump?” Fletcher parks on the topmost step. “Why do you say that?”

  Dad laughs, a melancholy, in-desperate-need-of-Prozac laugh, and says, “Thea. She’s had Melvin move in to her place.”

  “What?” I screech.

  “He’s living there?” Fletcher asks, shaking his head. “Aw, that’s bad.”

  Dad nods. Even his salt-and-pepper hair looks sad. “He’s hurt, you know. She said she felt obligated to nurse him back to health since her art knocked him over. But,” he says, wagging his finger, “I think there’s more to it than that. Euphoria thinks so, too.”

  As if on cue, Euphoria slams open the screen door and rolls onto the porch. Somehow, she’s gotten herself all decked out in black clothing—an oversized T-shirt, a black beret, and Velcroed armbands emblazoned with grinning white skulls. She presses a button on her midsection and the theme song from the 007 movies starts blaring. Then she says, “The name is Bolts . . . Jane Bolts.”

  Fletcher almost falls off the porch laughing, but I am more speechless than anything. “What happened to you?” I ask as I walk slowly around the travesty that was my robot.

  Euphoria beeps, then sends a thin, red laser light zapping against the white porch banister. “I’ve been upgraded,” she informs us.

  “Crap,” Fletcher mutters, moving a little farther away from the laser. “Is that thing loaded?”

  “No, no,” Dad says, keying in a sequence on Euphoria’s keypad (discreetly covered by one of the cute little skull bands). “It was her idea. I already told you, Euphoria, that there will be no covert operations.”

  If a robot can fume (I mean emotionally, not mechanically), Euphoria does it. “Mr. Chapelle, don’t stop me from fulfilling my true destiny. You need inside information. I can provide it. I promise, no one will know I’m there. I’ll be a flea on the wall.”

  Fletcher chokes off a laugh, pretending to cough. It’s not a good idea to insult a robot on a mission.

  Dad rubs the spot between his eyebrows, the spot where headaches are born. “I do appreciate it, really. But Thea is a grown woman. If she wants to get back together with someone who obviously has no regard for her happiness, and only wants to ruin whatever chances for a decent life she might have had, that’s her choice, isn’t it?” He pats Euphoria on the arm. “You’d have a little problem blending in, too.”

  “I’m sure I could hook up with a utility pole that could assist me.” Euphoria seems to nod knowingly. “I understand it’s a risk, but I’m willing to take it.”

  My cell chirps at that moment. “Spies R Us,” I say, but before I can laugh at my own lame joke, Becca is babbling in low, hushed tones.

  “Get over here,” she whispers.

  “What’s up?” I take a few steps toward the edge of the porch to pretend I have some privacy. “Why do I need to come over?”

  “Well, first of all,” she hisses, “Carl and I broke up, and second, Evie and I are planning the best way to fling all human males on a catapult to the sun.”

  “Ah,” I say, looking at Fletcher and Dad, wondering how they’d feel about a one-way trip to the center of the solar system. Probably not enough sunscreen for that, unless you ordered the swimming pool-sized bottles. “I could probably come over, but I’d have to get a ride from someone of the male persuasion.”

  “Just don’t let them get out of the car,” she snaps, then hangs up.

  Fletcher has been tracking my conversation while trying to look like he’s not listening. “So, who was that?” he asks as if he already knows the answer.

  “Becca,” I answer as if he already knows who it was. “Can I get a ride to her house?”

  Dad sighs, a big heavy outflow of breath spiced with disappointment. “Hope you have fun.”

  I give him a big kiss and hug. “Maybe I could make sure another fertility statue falls on his head.”

  He grins without much enthusiasm and swings listlessly as we skip down the stairs and to the car.

  Fletcher opens the door for me. “What’s up with Becca?”

  “She says she and Carl broke up.”

  He whistles as he backs down the driveway and into the street. “That’s going to make things to
ugh for you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think about it. Do you think she’s going to want you to be dating me if she’s not dating anyone?”

  “That’s pretty unfair,” I start to say, but then realize that he’s probably right. She did talk about hurling all boys/men into the sun, and I suppose that’s an indication that she will want her first lieutenants to be boy-free. But she wouldn’t ask me to simply break it off with Fletcher because of her dismal love life, would she?

  We travel in silence the rest of the way, and when he pulls into Becca’s circular driveway, I unbuckle my seat belt before he can kill the motor. “See you,” I say as I try to hustle out of the passenger seat.

  “Hang on,” he says, grabbing my arm. He pulls me to him, holds my face in his hands, and gives me a long, smoldering kiss that makes me forget about the sun, the moon, and any catapults that might be injured in the course of our activities. “All right then. Go on about your business.”

  I wave to him as he pulls away, feeling like a dopey Miss America winner minus the roses and tiara. Apparently Becca hears the motor, because she and Evie bolt out the front door, grab my arms, and drag me into the house.

  “I am able to walk, you know,” I sputter as I try to swat against them.

  “We’re going to my room and we’re staying there until we deprogram you,” Becca says resolutely.

  That doesn’t sound like much fun on a Saturday afternoon. Especially after a mind-warping lip-lock.

  9

  SILVER SCREEN SCHEME (or Fifty Feet of Celluloid Doom)

  When you are alone with your girlfriends, a couple of things happen pretty consistently. First, you always gripe about the boys in your life, and if you have no boys in your life, you complain about that. The second thing that is most consistent is the presence of chocolate, preferably dark.

  After Becca and Evie swoop into the yard and drag me up to Becca’s room, they shove me onto the bed. “Here,” Becca says, all business, as she tosses a heart-shaped box of truffles at me. “We already ate most of the good ones, but I did save you the coconut.”

  I peer into the box. “You already took a bite out of it,” I observe, hoping I don’t sound ungrateful. It is, after all, chocolate.

  “Well, how else would I know what it was?” Becca asks, clearly annoyed at my lack of understanding about her teeth marks on my candy. I eat it anyway.

  “Fletcher brought you over,” Evie states.

  I nod, unable to speak because of the gooey rush of sugar.

  Becca sits on the bed beside me and picks a half-eaten nut thing from its stiff paper nest. She crunches into it, rolls her eyes ecstatically, and leans against a fluffy pink pillow. “Carl and I broke up.”

  “Yeah, you just told me that. Want to give me some more details?” An orange cream calls to me, and I do not ignore it.

  Evie sits down on the rug, sighing. “It was kind of ugly,” she says slowly, her Australian accent slightly flavored with the scent of raspberry truffle. “He came over this morning, apparently, and demanded to know whether or not Becca intended to buy a dress, and if so, what color it was.” Evie looks horrified, as if Carl had asked Becca to loan him a vital organ.

  “And then,” Becca says, pausing for dramatic effect, “he informed me that he plans to wear a kilt to the prom. A kilt!” She shakes her head and reaches for another piece of chocolate.

  As for me, I am totally unsure of why any of this is a crisis, and I wonder if maybe the two of them have gone into a diabetic hallucination or something. “And you broke up with him because of a Scottish skirt?”

  “Well, it obviously wasn’t just that!” she spits. “He also told me that our Geek Prom was a stupid idea, and that he didn’t want to be involved, and that if I insisted on doing it, he’d never speak to me again.”

  “Uh-huh.” Now, I’m not a big expert on guys or anything, and I certainly don’t know Carl really well, but I can’t really see him pitching a fit about anything, let alone whether or not Becca would or would not do something. “Is there more to it than that?”

  “What do you mean?” Becca’s blond spikes poke at the wall behind her head as she stretches against the headboard.

  “I mean, what led up to that part of the conversation?”

  Evie, who has been studying me over the dark plastic frames of her glasses, speaks up. “Are you implying that Becca had something to do with it?”

  Hey. Who is she? I don’t remember anybody voting for her to be Becca’s watchdog and anti-boyfriend posse leader. That used to be my job, anyway. I don’t answer her.

  Becca watches the two of us with something like amusement. It sort of irritates me, actually; it’s like she enjoys seeing us squabble over who has more insight into her self-destructive relationship patterns. “What do you mean, Shelby? Do you mean, did I do something to make Carl run away with his skirt between his legs?” She stretches and reaches for another chocolate, then meets Evie’s gaze and giggles. “I guess maybe I did.”

  The two of them laugh, and in my mind, it sounds kind of maniacal, like the evil villains hanging out in the grotto below Gotham City waiting for Batman to get a run in his tights. Kind of mean. That’s probably just because I’m overstimulated by the candy, I suppose. “So, can you kind of tell me what the actual conversation was about?”

  Becca stops cackling long enough to sit up, tuck her legs underneath her, and get serious. “Okay, here’s what happened. He came over this morning, and Evie spent the night, so—”

  Hang on. Evie spent the night? I don’t even hear the rest of the story, because I’m engulfed in a roaring tide of insecurity. My best friend had someone else stay over? I realize this sounds like a huge overreaction, but high school is very competitive. And it took me fifteen years to find Becca, and she is the only best friend I’ve ever had, so realizing that this Australian dingo girl could be bumping me off the best friend roster . . . well, it’s just not something I can accept easily. Unfortunately, because of my momentary wave of paranoia, I miss most of what Becca says. Some best friend I am.

  “So, that’s what happened,” she finishes, sighing.

  Evie is watching me, looking for signs of weakness, I suppose. “What do you think?” she asks. Clever girl.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say, faking my way through the conversation. “I think it’s obvious. Don’t you?”

  Becca frowns at me, then looks at Evie. “Huh?”

  Damn. Now I’m caught. Better think of something noncommittal yet meaningful to say. “I mean, clearly he isn’t right for you on a deeper level.”

  “Yeah,” Becca says, squinting at me. “But how about what he said about Melvin and Thea?”

  Wow. I must have been gone for a while, mentally. I totally missed that part of the conversation. “Uh . . . I guess everyone has an opinion?”

  “Sure, but they’re not his parents,” Becca says snidely. “He comes from this perfect little two-parent home with no wrinkles and no problems and no dangerous art. But does that give him the right to criticize my mom’s weird relationship dynamics? It’s like with us—I’m your friend and I could totally tell you that your hair sucks, but I wouldn’t want some outsider telling you your hair sucks. It’s just wrong.”

  “Does my hair suck?” I self-consciously pull at a strand, trying to stretch it out so I can see it without a mirror.

  Becca sighs. “The point is, he doesn’t understand. That’s the bottom line. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t really get me.” She crosses her arms and leans back, as if that’s all settled.

  Evie grabs a clipboard and thrusts it at me. “Check this out.”

  On the clipboard is a chart. On the chart are many colors. Other than that, I’m not really sure why I’m looking at it. I squint at her. “Pretty?”

  “Don’t you know what that is?” she squeaks, indignantly retrieving the clipboard and chart that I so callously didn’t understand. “It’s a schematic.”

  “A what?”

  Evie
rolls her eyes as if I’ve just asked how to breathe. “Schematic. It’s a plan for how we’re going to network all the various Web proms so we can have the biggest virtual prom ever. See,” she says, pointing to a red bar floating under a blue sphere, “this is Scotland, and France is here, and New York is over here. We’re trying to get Japan, too, and of course, Australia. It’s not all settled yet, but it’s looking good.” She proudly points to a green column at the end of the chart. “This shows how we need to hook up our equipment in order to be sure we have enough power and bandwidth to receive all those signals at the same time.”

  She might as well be speaking Chinese. I’m not a total loser at technology, but my experience is pretty much limited to web pages and chatting and such. Becca starts yammering away with Evie about how they can effectively connect a designated server to be the master, and then make some slaves obey it. It just gets really confusing, and sounds kind of illegal, but I just nod and smile and pretend that I understand.

  “Your job,” Becca says, clapping her hands on my shoulders, “is to recruit people to attend.”

  “Oh, that’s great. I’m supposed to just go up to people and say, ‘Hey, want to come to this cool alternative prom? It’s cheap, and there will be computers!’ That does sound like a real appealing pitch.” I reach for another piece of candy. I hope I don’t get a zit, but at this point, it’s really the least of my worries.

  “It’s all in how you spin it,” Becca reminds me. “We just need to make it something people want to do. So we need to play up the strengths.” She looks at me, then at Evie. “So, what are they? Let’s make a list.”

  Evie whips open her laptop and starts to tap-tap it into submission. “Okay, go ahead.” She sits, poised to record any brilliant comments that fly out of my mouth. Unfortunately, I only manage to cough a little. “So? Strengths?”